The Bookman's Wake by John Dunning Page A

record,” Crystal said in her
     Southern voice, “we don’t care what you do for
     a living. I’m just glad you were in the right place
     at the right time, and I’m grateful to you and
     we’re so glad you’re here with us.”
    “That was gonna be my next comment,” Moon
     said, “in more or less that same choice of
     words.”
    “Where’re you staying, Mr. Janeway?”
     Crystal asked.
    “He’s going where the wind blows,
     Mamma,” Eleanor said, as if that explained
     everything.
    “Tonight the wind dies here,” Crystal said.
     “I won’t hear any argument about it,
     we’ve got a fine room in the loft over the shop.
     It’s warm and dry and there’s a good hard bed.
     Best of all, it’s private.”
    “You’ll love it,” Eleanor said.
    “In fact,” Crystal said as Rigby came in
     carrying some clothes, “why don’t we get that
     done right now?—get you into some dry duds and
     checked into your room. We’re putting Mr. Janeway in
     the loft,” she said to Rigby, who nodded. To me she
     said, “The only thing I need to ask is that you not
     smoke over there. Gaston doesn’t allow any smoking in
     the shop. I hope that’s not a problem.”
    “Not for me.”
    “Good. I’ll whip us up some cinnamon rolls
     to go along with the coffee. You get yourself thawed out
     and come back over in half an hour so we can all get
     acquainted.”
    “Me, I gotta go,” Moon said.
    “You ornery old cuss,” Crystal said.
     “Damn if you’re not the unsociablest one man I
     ever met.”
    “I’ll take Mr. Janeway over to the loft
     while I’m goin‘ out,” Moon said to Rigby.
     “No sense you gettin’ wet too.”
    I followed him back through the house. We popped open
     two umbrellas and went down into the yard. Moon pointed out
     the path with a flashlight he carried, leading the way to
     an outbuilding about twenty yards behind the house. The
     first thing I noticed, even before he turned on the light,
     was the smell…the heavy odor of ink mixed with
     some-thing else. The light revealed a long room, cluttered
     with machinery and steel cabinets. Two large
     ancient-looking presses stood against the far wall, a
     smaller handpress on a table near the door, and, nearer the
     door, was a vast, complicated machine from another century,
     which I thought was probably a Linotype. It was.
     “That smell shouldn’t bother you any,”
     Moon said. “It’s just the smell of hot type.
     Gaston must’ve been working out here till just before
     you showed up. You shouldn’t even notice it
     upstairs.”
    He flipped on the lights. Our eyes touched for less than
     a second, then he looked away. “I’ll leave you
     a slicker here by the door, and the flashlight and the
     umbrella too. If you need anything else, there’s a
     phone upstairs, you can just call over to the
     house.”
    The first thing I saw was a no smoking sign. Moon moved
     me past it, onto the circular staircase in the corner
     opposite the presses, then up to the loft, a spacious
     gabled room with a skylight and a window facing the house.
     In the middle of the room was a potbellied stove, which
     looked to be at least a hundred years old. Moon stoked it
     and soon had a fire going: “This old bastard’ll
     really dry out your duds. And it’s safe, Gaston has
     it checked every so often. It’ll run you right out of
     here if you let it get too hot on you.” He walked
     around the room looking in corners. Opened a door, peeped
     into an adjacent room. “Bathroom. There’s no
     tub, but you’ve got a shower if you want
     it.”
    He made the full circle and stood before me. He radiated
     power, though his was wiry, a leaner brand than
     Rigby’s. His voice was the prime ingredient in the
     picture of hard male strength that he presented to the
     world. It was a deep, resonant baritone, bristling with
     Southern intelligence. He’d be great on talk radio, I
     thought, and I was just as sure that he’d have
     nothing to do