The library was dim, and considering the lack of working air-conditioning, surprisingly cool. It had the look and feel of a church-the same portentous quiet, the same expression of serene contemplation on the faces of the adults there. The non-adults looked about the same too-they looked like they'd rather be somewhere else. Mr. Brickman looked like he'd rather be somewhere else too-back in Astoria on his home turf. William felt a little like a transgressor here himself-he hadn't been to a library in years, or, in fact, to a church either. The sound of his cane echoed through the rows of books causing reader after reader to look up at him as if he'd made a particularly rude noise. Once they'd seen him though, or not seen him, it was back to the books in a flash.
The librarian, a long-haired young man who seemed imprisoned by his tie and jacket, walked over to offer his assistance-either that, or to tell him to get out. It was hard to tell from his expression, which was decidedly neutral. But courtesy won out.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
Everything, William was tempted to say. Only everything. But he restrained himself. Instead, he took the list of numbers that was folded in his hand, Jean's numbers, and dropped it onto the counter, flattening it out as if it were a road map and he was in need of directions. Which, as a matter of fact, he was. For I'm lost, he might have said. I'm lost and I need to know where I am and where the place is that I'm looking for. And I have to know how to get there, that too, I have to know the route.
But what he actually said was: "These are call numbers. Do you think you can tell me where they are?"
Mr. Brickman, who was peeking over his shoulder said: "What are they… novels?"
"Periodicals," the librarian said. "I'll have to look downstairs. Take a seat."
So they sat. Mr. Brickman drumming his fingers on the table, William doing his own sort of rat-ta-tat-tat in his head, Shankin to Waldron to Ross, wondering exactly what periodicals Jean had been so interested in, and why.
Then the librarian was back upstairs, two magazines in his hand and an apologetic expression on his bemused face. No doubt about it-if it was possible to be both, both amused and sorry, he was.
"One magazine isn't here anymore," he said.
Okay, William thought, that took care of the I'm sorry part.
"Here's the other two," he said, dropping them on the table.
Which took care of the I'm amused part.
The first magazine was called Tattoo and had some sort of biker chick on the cover. The second magazine was called Healthy Skin and had some sort of Swedish chick on the cover. Those were the periodicals he'd asked for. He'd have been amused himself, if he hadn't been in pain and hadn't been in need of answers and hadn't been at the short end of the rope. He'd have smiled too-the way Mr. Brickman was smiling, or trying not to.
"What gives?" Mr. Brickman said.
Yes, what gives? The Table of Contents-that gives. It gives the contents. The contents it gave of Tattoo were "Biker Babe of the Month-Inside Foldout." "Snakes, Scorpions, and Scythes-The Tattoo Artists of San Fran." And "Getting Your Last Year's Girlfriend Out of Your Heart and Off of Your Chest-The Off and Ons of Tattoo Removal."
And what did the Table of Contents of Healthy Skin give? It gave these contents: "Sun or No Sun-The Latest Facts." "Cucumbers-Myth or Miracle?" "How to Pamper Your Derriere." And "Tattoos-The Newest in Laser Removal."
So, all in all, they gave a lot. They gave William what he'd asked for back in that Florida hotel room. For Jean to show him the way. And Jean had, he had. He'd tapped him on the elbow and said I will talk to you. If you listen, I will tell.
TWENTY
M r. Weeks looked even paler than before, like fine white china, the kind your aunt makes you eat from on Sunday visits, the kind that breaks into bits at the slightest pressure of your hand. You've got to be careful with china like that. He let William in without a word, as if he'd been expecting him to show up at any moment, as if they visited each other on a regular basis to discuss what's wrong with the world. Mr. Brickman had been left downstairs to wait for him, partly because he still had no idea what William was up to, and partly because strangers weren't exactly welcome in Weeksville.
"Your leg…?" Mr. Weeks said, after William had gently eased himself into a chair.
"Something's broken," William answered.
"Ah." Mr. Weeks nodded, as if he'd expected as much.
The room felt pretty much like it did the last time he was here, like a crawl space; William had to resist the temptation to duck. The air tasted medicinal, gritty as soot, and William noticed yet another drape had been plastered against the window. Mr. Weeks was fighting a war, William thought, but Mr. Weeks was losing. It was World-100. Weeks-0.
"What can I do for you?" Weeks said.
"Well, I've got a question."
"Sure."
"Just a little one."
"Okay."
"Just a little one about something you said last time."
"I'm listening."
"You were talking about that night he came in looking like a ghost, the night he told you he had the biggest case of his life. Remember?"
"Yes. I remember."
"Then you said you didn't see much of him after that. That's the way you put it. Right so far? You saw a lot less of him, you said. Except for twice. Once, when he came back from Miami and dumped that file on you. And one other time. Before that. When he came in to borrow some medicine. Recall that, Mr. Weeks? Those were your words, right? That he came in to borrow some medicine because he'd burnt himself cooking."
"Yeah."
Mr. Weeks was looking just a little edgy now, not like he was going to make a dash for it or anything. Just like he was thinking about it. But then, there wasn't anywhere to g°.
"Jean cooked a lot then?"
"Now and again."
"Really? What was he cooking that night?"
"Don't know."
"Well, what did he burn himself on? The hot plate maybe? The stove?"
"He didn't say."
"Okay, he didn't say. What did he say?"
"I'm not following…"
"Sure you are. You're following along fine. He came in to borrow some medicine. Because he'd burnt himself. That's what he said, right?"
"Right."
"He burnt himself cooking."
"Uh huh."
"But who knows what he was cooking that night. Could've been anything, right? Maybe his specialty."
"I didn't ask."
"What did you ask?"
"I asked him how I could help him."
"Sure. You were good at helping him, weren't you. That was your specialty. Take my file, Weeks, he said, and you did. Like that. Tell no one, he said. And you didn't. Until me of course. What did he want you to help him with that night?"
"I told you. He burnt himself. He wanted medicine."
"That's right. Bet it was a bad burn too. How did he burn himself so badly?"
"I told you." Yeah, Mr. Weeks was definitely not a happy camper now. "He burnt himself cooking."
"Okay. When I went to Jean's funeral, know what I did, Mr. Weeks?"
Mr. Weeks shook his head. He didn't know.
"I shook his hand. Honest to God. I wasn't supposed to open the coffin either. It was closed-those were the directions. So why did I do it? Why? There's a famous line about this old Brooklyn Dodger-I forget his name- Max something. No one liked this guy. He was a bully and a drunk and he used to piss off the sportswriters no end. Until the day he got old and was told he was traded, gone, just like that. Then he all of a sudden got friendly. And you know what one of these writers said? He said, Poor old Max. He's finally saying hello when he ought to be saying goodbye. Well, I guess I was saying hello. Understand?"