“He just likes scaring people. He likes to watch ‘em cringe, that’s how he gets his kicks. His shtick is to always take offense no matter what you say.”
“I’m not talking about that guy. I mean what’s wrong with Carl, bringing people like that around?”
“I guess you’ll have to ask Carl that,” I said. Then I nodded a silent good afternoon and left the store before Dean could come out and find me there.
Out on the street I stopped for a minute and took stock. A dark mood followed me down the block and into the same café as before, where I sat at the same window so I could look back at the block and the bookstore. I ordered a light lunch and took stock again. The last time I had backed away from a bully like that I had been in grammar school, about to learn one of the great guiding lessons of my life: never blink first, never let the bastards intimidate you. But I hadn’t come all the way from Denver to get in a deadly brawl at Treadwell’s on my first day in town.
Deadly was right. You don’t take on a guy like that unless it’s for keeps. And once it starts, you’ve got to be willing to do anything.
Dante.
You and I will see each other again, Dante.
I hoped not. But I had a hunch.
I ate my sandwich, then went to the phone booth and tried calling Koko Bujak. No answer. I went back to my table for some real coffee, strong and black, none of that decaf crap after the night I’d had. I sipped my way through three cups, took stock for the third time, and pronounced myself okay.
Business at Treadwell’s had improved by early afternoon and now they had a steady stream of book-toting traffic going in and out. A bookscout with a heavy backpack came out with his load no lighter. Things were the same all over.
Dean appeared at two o’clock. He stood on the street and scratched his balls for a moment; then he came on down the block, passed my window, and hustled himself across Broadway. I left three dollars on the table and hustled on after him.
He walked north a couple of blocks, went west on Gough, and on into a lively section of Italian restaurants and bars. He turned into one of the bars. I waited outside but that soon lost its charm so I went in, lingering in the dark place just inside the door. The room was crowded with afternoon boozers and I didn’t see Dean anywhere. I started to move deeper into the room, but suddenly I stopped and jerked back against the wall. I had seen someone sitting at a table just a few feet away, someone who couldn’t be here but was, who would know me on sight. I eased myself out and took another quick look.
It was Hal Archer.
CHAPTER 15
I had to move away from the door. People were now coming in a steady stream, so I walked behind Archer to the end of the bar, where I could hopefully blend into the heavy afternoon crowd. I had just taken the last available stool when Dean came out of the John, went over to Archer’s table, and sat down. They had a long powwow that ran into the happy hour, through half a dozen beers for Dean and two slow-sipping cocktails for Archer. I sat, watched, and nursed my own beer, thinking of these two odd bedfellows and what a small world it was. Small world, my ass. Seeing them together made everything murkier, but it left no room in my mind for coincidence.
Archer left first. He got up, said something to Dean, hit the boys’ room, and walked out of the bar a few minutes later. Dean had ordered another beer and seemed to be settling in for the night. I decided there might be more to gain by tailing Archer than watching Dean get drunk, so I followed him out into the street. I had to be careful now: one mistake and my cover would be blown. But on second thought, how much did that really matter? My time here was short: I would have to confront them all at some point.
I half expected Archer to hop a cab and leave me gaffing on the street, but for once I was lucky. He kept walking and he never looked back. Five minutes later he went into a hotel. I followed him into the lobby, just in time to see him get into an elevator and go up to the tenth floor.
What now?
I would wait, at least for a while: sit in the lobby with a newspaper, and if my luck held nobody would bother me till Archer came down again. Again I was lucky. The desk clerk had just begun eyeing me suspiciously after an hour when the elevator opened and Archer stepped out.
He had changed clothes and now wore a dark evening jacket and a bright turtleneck. I watched him over the top of my newspaper as he turned in to the dining room. The old Murphy’s Law derivative ran through my head. If something jams, force it. If it breaks, it needed replacing anyway. A plan, whole and devious, unfolded in my mind. Hit him where he lives—in the book he’s writing. Don’t wait for it to grow cold. Just do it.
I followed him in. The hotel offered a buffet in addition to the regular menu and Archer had opted for that. I got into the line a few people behind him.
I was close enough now to hear him giving the cashier his room number. He took a table in the far corner of the room, a solitary figure with all his glory unrecognized. The Pulitzer prize may have its charms, but it’s a lousy bedmate.
I paid with a twenty and headed across the room toward him. “Well, Hal Archer, imagine seeing you here.” He looked up. “Do I know you?”
He knew me, all right: I could see it in his face. But I said, “Cliff Janeway. We met at Lee Huxley’s.” I said this warmly, as if we had become buddies at once that night. Boldly I put my tray down on his table and sat down. “Do you mind?”
“Actually, I’m waiting for someone.”
“Oh, listen, I’ll get out of your hair as soon as she gets here. I’ve just got to tell you something that’s been on my mind since Miranda’s party. I never should’ve fawned over you like that; I know it must be a drag being set upon by strangers. I’ll bet it gets tiresome as hell, being told how great you are every minute of your life.”
“That’s all right,” he said coldly.
“How generous of you to say that. But I was a boob and I need to say so.”
“Well, you’ve said it.” His face remained passive, indifferent, distant, and finally tinged with annoyance. “Now if you’ll excuse me.” But I had already started to eat. “I really did mean it when I said I liked your stuff. I was your biggest fan, long before you won anything.”
“Look,” he said. “If I’ve written something you liked, I’m happy for both of us. But at the moment—”
“In fact, I owe you a big favor.”
He looked at me with doleful eyes, like a man afraid to ask.
“You’re the guy who turned me on to Richard Burton.”
He said nothing but his eyes wondered where the hell this was going.
“I’m a book dealer, you know.” “I remember.”
“Because of you, Burton has become one of those burning passions that comes along just a few times in a bookman’s life.”
He looked at me coldly.
“I’ve done a lot of homework on the man and his life and times since that night, and I’ll bet I can even tell you a thing or two. I know you’ve been researching him for years and you’ve got a book in the works, but I’ve come across stuff nobody else knows.”
The plan was suddenly on track: I had rattled him. For a moment he kept staring at me, then he said, “Who told you that?”
“What, that you’re writing a book? Oh, come on, it was so obvious that night even a blind man could see it. But your secret’s safe with me. I know how writers are. Just let it be known that Hal Archer is doing Sir Richard Burton, and half a dozen wannabe writers will rush into print with warmed-over retreads. And of course that’ll cut into your market even if their books are lousy. Which they will be, right?”