Song of Susannah - Stephen King [87]
“Do you remember what I told you when we were discussing The Hogan, Mr. Dean? Or The Dogan, if you prefer? I said that the value of a rare book—like that of a rare coin or a rare stamp—is created in different ways. Sometimes it’s just an autograph—”
“Your copy of ’Salem’s Lot isn’t signed.”
“No, because this particular author is very young and not very well known. He may amount to something one day, or he may not.” Tower shrugged, almost as if to say that was up to ka. “But this particular book…well, the first edition was only seventy-five hundred copies, and almost all of them sold in New England.”
“Why? Because the guy who wrote it is from New England?”
“Yes. As so often happens, the book’s value was created entirely by accident. A local chain decided to promote it heavily. They even produced a TV commercial, which is almost unheard-of at the local retail level. And it worked. Bookland of Maine ordered five thousand copies of the first edition—almost seventy per cent—and sold nearly every single one. Also, as with The Hogan, there were misprints in the front matter. Not the title, in this case, but on the flap. You can tell an authentic first of ’Salem’s Lot by the clipped price—at the last minute, Doubleday decided to raise the price from seven-ninety-five to eight-ninety-five—and by the name of the priest in the flap copy.”
Roland looked up. “What about the name of the priest?”
“In the book, it’s Father Callahan. But on the flap someone wrote Father Cody, which is actually the name of the town’s doctor.”
“And that’s all it took to bump the price of a copy from nine bucks to nine hundred and fifty,” Eddie marveled.
Tower nodded. “That’s all—scarcity, clipped flap, mis-print. But there’s also an element of speculation in collecting rare editions which I find…quite exciting.”
“That’s one word for it,” Deepneau said dryly.
“For instance, suppose this man King becomes famous or critically acclaimed? I admit the chances are small, but suppose that did happen? Available first editions of his second book are so rare that, instead of being worth seven hundred and fifty dollars, my copy might be worth ten times that.” He frowned at Eddie. “So you’d better be taking good care of it.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Eddie said, and wondered what Calvin Tower would think if he knew that one of the book’s characters had it on a shelf in his arguably fictional rectory. Said rectory in a town that was the fraternal twin of one in an old movie starring Yul Brynner as Roland’s twin, and introducing Horst Buchholz as Eddie’s.
He’d think you were crazy, that’s what he’d think.
Eddie got to his feet, swayed a little, and gripped the kitchen table. After a few moments the world steadied.
“Can you walk on it?” Roland asked.
“I was before, wasn’t I?”
“No one was digging around in there before.”
Eddie took a few experimental steps, then nodded. His shin flared with pain each time he shifted his weight to his right leg, but yes—he could walk on it.
“I’ll give you the rest of my Percocet,” Aaron said. “I can get more.”
Eddie opened his mouth to say yeah, sure, bring it on, and then saw Roland looking at him. If Eddie said yes to Deepneau’s offer, the gunslinger wouldn’t speak up and cause Eddie to lose face…but yes, his dinh was watching.
Eddie thought of the speech he’d made to Tower, all that poetic stuff about how Calvin was eating a bitter meal. It was true, poetic or not. But that apparently wouldn’t stop Eddie from sitting back down to that same dinner himself. First a few Percodan, then a few Percocet. Both of them too much like horse for comfort. So how long would it be before he got tired of kissing his sister and started looking for some real pain relief?
“I think I’ll skip the Percs,” Eddie said. “We’re going to Bridgton—”
Roland looked at him, surprised. “We are?”
“We are. I can pick up some aspirin on the way.”
“Astin,” Roland said, with unmistakable affection.
“Are you sure?” Deepneau asked.
“Yeah,” Eddie said. “I am.” He paused, then added: “Say sorry.”
* *