Part 32 (2/2)

”You're most welcome. Let me know if there's anything else you want to read. After all, what good are books if you can't share them?”

”I never got around to reading Moonraker,” I said, ”but if I ever find the time, I'll buy a used paperback. I'd be afraid to even breathe on this copy.”

”Don't be,” he said, and placed it in my hands. ”You can read it here if you like; it shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. But I'm sure you understand why I'd prefer it didn't leave the premises.”

”Of course.”

”By the way,” he said, ”I've been meaning to talk to you about your collection of pulp detective magazines.”

”The magazines that were in the boxes you don't know anything about?”

”Those would be the ones.”

”What about them?”

”Take special care with the June 1935 edition of Black Mask. It contains the first printing of a story by Raymond Chandler, and except for the tiny coffee stain on the spine, it's in remarkable condition.”

”I suppose it is.”

”If you ever decide to sell it, let me know. The last one that sold at auction brought five hundred dollars.”

”You'll be the first one I call,” I said. I could sure use the money, but I hated the idea of parting with it.

”So,” he said, ”why did you want to see me?”

I told him.

He picked up the crystal decanter, poured himself a shot of Scotch, and offered me one. I shook my head.

”Well,” he said, ”this will certainly cause some trouble for the governor.”

”For you, too, I imagine.”

”No, not really. Yolanda will plead me guilty to violating the state campaign finance law, and I'll have to pay a four-figure fine. But of course the governor's campaign committee will have to return the money, so I'll use that to pay the fine and be well ahead of the game.”

”They'll return the money to the p.o.r.n actors, not to you,” I said. ”I doubt you'll ever see any of it.”

”Excellent point,” he said.

”When the story breaks, there'll be a lot of pressure on the governor and the legislature to outlaw prost.i.tution,” I said.

”I imagine so.”

”If they do, it will ruin Vanessa's brothel business.”

”I very much doubt that.”

”Really?”

”Really.”

”How come?”

”I'd rather not say.”

”The story's going to run Sunday, page one,” I said. ”We need some kind of quote from you and Vanessa.”

”Just put us down for a 'No comment.'”

I walked into Hopes expecting to find Fiona at her usual table. Instead she was holding down a stool at the far end of the bar.

”You look exhausted,” I said.

”I am. I spent last night trying to comfort Daniel and Carla Arruda.”

”The parents of the kidnapped Pawtucket girl?”

”Yeah.”

”How are they holding up?”

”Carla can't stop crying and begging G.o.d to send her little girl home. Daniel has already given his daughter up for dead and wants to shed blood; but he doesn't know who to kill, and it's driving him f.u.c.king crazy.”

I didn't have anything to say to that, so I stared at the bar top for a moment.

”I bet you could use some good news,” I said.

”You got any?”

”I do,” I said, and then I told her.

”That's fantastic,” she said. ”How'd you find out?”

”I didn't,” I said. ”It was Thanks-Dad.” And then I told her how he'd done it.

”Pretty slick,” she said.

”I think so, too.”

”Of course, they'll all wriggle off the hook,” she said. ”Maniella will get fined and can grab enough cash to cover it by looking under his sofa cus.h.i.+ons. The governor and the two committee chairmen will be shocked, shocked, about where the campaign contributions came from, and they'll give the money back. But the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds won't dare to hold up my antiprost.i.tution bill now. If they do, I'll make it look like they were all bought and paid for.”

”Which they were,” I said. ”You were right all along.”

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