Nash’s feelings, then, were complicated when he witnessed this repeated, petty theft: D.D.’s person as crypto rich, the object as base, and the shamelessness of the grab right in front of him. Nash also knew he would just suck it up and absorb the loss. Henry would tolerate it, he would make it up some other way. Because Nash would rather jeopardize the existence of the whole enterprise than bust this kid. Not because he didn’t like confrontation but because he absolutely refused to be a cop of any kind. It really would be the last thing he would ever do. He was certain that the tiniest choices altered the world as significantly as larger choices. It was through accumulation that people gradually became unrecognizable to themselves. He would sacrifice a lot not to become an enforcer.
He watched as Davey D. walked out the door with no hesitation, just as before.
Nash returned to his stack of books. His skin itched. Itching always coincided with his being watched — he could feel scrutiny like a rash. He realized that this whole theft drama had been witnessed by one of the other kids.
Josh Marshall stood by the table and nodded in his direction. Nash recognized him. He stood out because he didn’t have the customary appointments of the Prairie Fire crowd. He wore clean, well-pressed clothes. Short, neatly combed hair. He bought interesting books. Nash couldn’t recall which ones exactly, but he remembered thinking he was an unusual kid.
Nash waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. Instead he examined the top book on the stack. It was a cheap small-press paperback of Alexander Berkman’s prison memoirs, essays and collected letters with no introduction, tiny Garamond type and thin, newsprintlike paper. And it was rancid with mildew. Josh picked it up and looked at the back pages.
“Revolutionist first, human afterwards,” Josh said. He used his thumb to slowly fan the pages of the book.
“I think he revised that position by like page ten,” Nash said.
“I hate books without indexes,” Josh said.
“It’s an old edition. I have a newer edition on the shelves that has an index. And explanatory footnotes. And an introduction—”
“I just check out the indexes to see what the reference points are and sometimes the bibliographies. I like to see what they are stringing together, where they came from. I don’t need some academic hack’s introduction to contextualize it for me.”
Nash nodded.
“Sometimes I only read the index.”
“That’s very modern, isn’t it?” Nash said. Now he remembered what a narc vibe this kid gave off. “Some books of philosophy and social theory from independent small presses didn’t have indexes until someone, perhaps an academic hack, added them later.”
“I don’t necessarily want to read the essays as organized. I like to skip around and hunt out specific subjects of interest. I like things chaptered and sectioned. I like headings and subdivisions.”
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
“Fifty cents.”
Josh smiled at that and took a calfskin billfold out of the inside chest pocket of his raincoat. He pulled a dollar out and put it down on the table in front of Nash.
“You shouldn’t charge less than a dollar. It devalues things,” he said, not looking at Nash and sniffing the surface of the book. “People won’t respect things if they think you are giving them away.”
“That is totally wrongheaded. You don’t know what you are talking about,” Nash said. Josh looked at him, his mouth now slightly open. He still held the book. “I mean,” Nash said, softening his tone a bit, “I refuse to accept that.”
Josh leaned down to the table so his face was close to Nash.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” he said in a low tone. “I’m sure you saw what he did.” Nash scrutinized the next book in his pile.
“That kid lifted a magazine. Why didn’t you stop him?”
Nash marked a price on the inside cover of the book and then recorded it on his clipboard list.
“By the way, that’s a very mildewed book, you know,” he said, pointing with his pencil at the book Josh still held.
“You saw him. Stealing. I know you did.”
Nash pushed the dollar back at him. “Thing is, I can’t sell you a mildewed book. It wouldn’t be right. You can have it.”
Josh didn’t move.
“Just take the book. It’s yours.”
Nepenthex
HENRY QUINN wore his mechanic coveralls. At 1:45 a.m. he moved quickly across a parking lot on Third Avenue. The streets were quiet but not at all dark. This didn’t concern him. After several nights in this street at this time, he knew that very few people passed by. Very few cars passed by. The only time he had ever seen a police car in the area was at 2:30, and then only in pursuit of someone at some other place.
It was a cool early summer night, but Henry was already sweating in his coveralls. He pulled a black watch cap off his head and put it in his side pocket. He kept his head shaved, and when he looked up at the side wall of the building, deep furrows formed in the skin where the back of his head pushed into his neck. A pain shot down into his shoulder. He couldn’t remember when his neck and back didn’t hurt. He wanted a drink and to lie on his bed with the odd-shaped neck pillow and the heating pad. He walked onto the side street perpendicular to the avenue. The street banked steeply to a series of alleys leading to Elliott Bay, and he could smell the ancient midnight damp from the Sound behind the buildings at the bottom of the hill. Most of the street light came from the illuminated billboard attached to the brick side of the building that faced the side street. The vinyl face of the billboard had enormous sans serif letters that spelled Endurit and Abiden. The legend underneath read:
Cutting-edge psychopharmacology in the new
Nepenthex Pairing System:
what gets you through the longest nights
and the hardest days
He couldn’t help hearing the liquid-toned voices of the television ads for the two drugs, the man’s voice saying “longest nights,” the woman’s voice, barely overlapping the man’s, saying “hardest days.” Underneath the letters there was a picture of two curved and interlocking pills in a pink, luminous chiaroscuro that glowed in virtual three dimensions in the spotlights. Under that, in smaller letters, it said:
Ask your doctor if the Nepenthex System of
Endurit and Abiden is right for you
Henry stared for a moment, unable to stop himself from either reading the board or hearing the mellifluous voice of the woman from the TV ad. He stood and waited, sweating. At precisely 2:00, the lights on the board timed out. Henry tried to take another deep breath, but already it was difficult, and he walked away from the board to a fire escape that led to the roof. He tied a rope to one of the metal bars holding the board to the building. The board didn’t have a ladder attached like most billboards. He hooked himself to the rope with a carabiner and attached it to a thick nylon belt around his legs and waist. He pulled at it and then walked to the edge of the building. He dangled the rope down the front of the board. Up close he could see it was thick vinyl sheeting. He took out a large retractable-blade knife. He lay on his stomach and slammed the knife into the corner, pushing it until it punctured the surface. He struggled to pull rightward, cutting the vinyl across the top. White, powdery dust that smelled of new plastic puffed out from the cut vinyl and filled the air by his head. He felt his lungs close as he inhaled. Fumbling with the zipper on his coveralls, Henry fished out his inhaler just as he was about to pass out. He sucked on the inhaler, lying on the roof and staring at the night sky. He felt the cold, wet spray of the Sound blowing faintly on him. He could see the blue-black of the water from up here. He wanted to go back to his house and take a pill and fall asleep. But he reached again into his coveralls and pulled out a bandanna and covered his mouth and nostrils. He very slowly resumed his cutting of the vinyl board.