Portland Noir - Kevin Sampsell [62]
Jacob thinks it over. Plays it out in his head, looks for all the flaws, every conceivable way this goes sour. He finds a dozen in under ten seconds.
The kid presses: “No risk, either—it’s totally in public.”
“It’s a book reading. I’ll be lucky if we aren’t the only two people there.”
The kid counts out 250 dollars, slaps the cash into Jacob’s hands. “I’ll wait for you in the Mystery section. Who’s your favorite writer?”
“Michael Connelly.”
“That’s where I’ll be. You come find me, okay?” The kid is half-sitting, half-standing, one foot solid on the floor, both eyes scrutinizing Jacob. “Okay?”
He holds the envelope out. Jacob pockets the money, thinking about his empty cupboards back home, and grabs the envelope from the kid’s clammy fingers. Thinking, This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
Knowing full well it isn’t.
Jacob arrives a few minutes early for the event. He walks up three flights of stairs, marveling—as most do—at a four-story bookstore that encompasses an entire city block. Each room is color-coded, which either makes things easier or more confusing, depending on how readily you associate gold with genres like Sci-Fi and Romance, purple with Military History and Philosophy, and orange with Cooking and Business.
He remembers dating a woman who worked here back in the late ’90s, wonders if she’s still around. Her name lost to him. Probably wouldn’t recognize her anymore. Pierced, tattooed, dyed Goth hair, and a fondness for industrial wear back then; now she’s probably got a house, family, hybrid car, and those Mom jeans that turn a woman’s ass into a denim landing strip.
Jacob enters the Pearl Room wondering what’s “pearl” about it, why “pearl” and not “silver,” not that there’s any silver to speak of, either. A few rows of folding chairs fill the Basil Hallward Gallery next to the art books. A dais is set up beside a cart loaded with books to be signed—though, judging by the half-dozen people scattered about the seats, they won’t sell many copies tonight. Jacob glances at the author’s name—no one he recognizes—then pretends to be extremely interested in a 200-dollar book containing photographs of fat men in diapers.
He finds his mark instantly—a tall, muscular black man with curly hair cut close to the scalp and shoulders so broad and thick they need their own chairs. The guy sits in the back row, a high school letterman’s jacket neatly folded on the seat beside him. Tight short-sleeve button-up shirt tucked into faded blue jeans. Beige hiking boots. Cell phone in a holster clipped to a leather belt.
What interests Jacob even more is the man hovering by the shelves of remaindered books. Black leather jacket, T-shirt tucked into dark blue Levi’s, sunglasses resting on the back of his head. Military-style buzz cut and a thin mustache. And he’s “reading” an oversized book about Gustav Dore while discreetly scanning the room.
Jacob calmly descends the stairs and strolls back to the Gold Room. As the kid looks up from a used copy of The Clos-ers, startled, Jacob presses the jacket, the tape, and the cash into his arms.
“Turn around,” Jacob says. “Get the hell out of here. Don’t look back. This never happened.”
Jacob heads through the Blue Room toward the entrance. The kid is right on his heels, completely ignoring his advice. “What’re you doing? I told you, it’s easy, just two minutes and—”
“And I’m dogshit. Those are cops, kid. At least two, maybe more. But you knew that—that’s why you paid me. You are way out of your league. Walk away and hope they never find you.”
The kid lurches ahead, blocks Jacob’s path. “They pulled a Mexican out of his car and beat him.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
“You don’t wanna see what they did to his wife.”
“I don’t wanna see what they’re gonna do to you. Because they’ll catch you. They’re police. Probably dumb police, since you caught them on tape—but you’re even dumber,