The Bookman

By David Messler

Travis Cole leads a quiet life. A ex-Air Force fighter pilot, and decorated hero of the Gulf war, he has mellowed into a comfortable existence running his rare book store in far north Houston. He buys and sell rare childrens books, hangs out with his Alsatian Lola, and occasionally dabbles in romance.

One day his housekeeper confides that she is worried about her granddaugher Marisol. The teenager has been hanging out with gang known as the Nuestra Sangres. Travis knows these people are very bad news, and intervenes immediately, bringing the girl home.

A few days later he gets the news that Marisol has disappeared completely, and begins to search for her.He enlists the aid of a gorgeous P.I. named Kim whom he's just met and kind of has a thing for. Kim's specialtly is tracking missing children and she lets him know that there is not a moment to lose in finding this girl. In a few days Marisol may be sold by the Nuestras to an organ harvesting organization.

The two of them spring into action following the scant clues Marisol left behind.

Non stop action and adventure as Travis and Kim battle the Nuestras to find and save Marisol.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Messler
• Release date: Nov 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310197086

David Messler

Hello and thanks for coming to my page. I grew up in the 1960's. A time when actual space flight was relatively new and had captured the publics' imagination. As s teenaged boy I was a rapt reader of what became scifi classics. " Citizen of the Galaxy" by Heinlein, the "Lensman" series by Doc Smith, Asimovs' "I Robot" novels all kept me from doing my homework and relentlessly turning pages long after lights out. You don't find this sort of fare anymore, so I aim to produce it. I also have a (distant) background as an illustrator. In my pulp-styled works I will be including several illustrations of the text per episode. Fairly simple line drawings that should replicate decently on a Kindle. I will also be introducing a fairly gritty mystery/horror series featuring a continuing character- Father Ted. An ex-Delta, traveling preacher with a haunted past who assists those in need who come to his revivals, and punishes evil doers with dismemberment. Father Ted walks a fine line that sometimes gets blurry. I do have a full time job as a traveling engineering trainer for a large company. For the next few years this will limit my output somewhat. So please, if you like Jack of all Trades, check back from time-to-time to what else I have available. There will be more of Jack and Angelina as they uncover the mysteries of Faralane. Look for the 4 remaining installments of this five-part series. And please be sure to write a review! There is no bad publicity!

Book preview

The Bookman

A Travis Cole Adventure

Copyright- 2014 by D. C. Messler

Previously published as Girl at Risk, 2013

Author- D.C. Messler

This is a work of fiction with no references to real persons or places, except as serves the story-line.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Prologue

A phone call interrupted a broadcast of a futbol match the Doctor had been watching. His team-Vasco, had been ahead until a few minutes ago when their cross-town rivals- Flamengo had scored two quick goals, to go one-up. The fireworks explosions were still reverberating through the ‘canyons’ of the high rise apartment buildings that made up his complex. He spoke into the mouth-piece of his cell, momento, por favor, and then waited another moment for the echoes to die away before he began speaking.

Si, he said, when it was quiet. Podemos falar agora.

Doctor, English please, came the request from the other end.

Desculpe-I mean sorry, he returned, as he recognized the number and the necessity to speak in another language. What can I do for you this evening. The two callers were a continent away from each other, and the time-zone effect was taking its toll.

"We have a ‘candidate’ Doctor. Are you free to come and perform the surgery? It will most likely be in the next 5-7 days. The caller paused, waiting for a response from the Doctor.

I have a window that closes about 10 days from now. So, theoretically, I could. How sure are you of the timing? Are both ‘parties’ present, he at last?

We have one very ill client in the terminal stages of renal failure. He is ready at a moment’s notice. He has a hospice situation, in his own home, and a private jet to make the trip to San Francisco, the caller in America said.

And the ‘provider’, the Doctor inquired?

Still being selected based on final blood typing, from several available to us, came the reply.

And my fee?

This is a good one Doctor. $500,000, already distributed among shielded accounts in U.S. currency. You’ll be given the account numbers when you arrive, there was a little tension in the caller’s voice now. They did not like to make long calls, for fear of post-911 monitoring.

Plus expenses, of course. And I earn the fee when I arrive. If the deal falls apart, it’s no.. what is the English expression, skin off my nose? Is that it?

Done. Plan to arrive the day after tomorrow Doctor. Get a room in town and inform us of your whereabouts. We will be in touch. The line fell silent as the connection was broken.

The Doctor went out on his balcony to enjoy the sunset and the sound of the Atlantic, as the waves crashed onshore. After a few minutes his wife called him in for dinner, or jantar, as it is called in Brasil.

He left the harmony of the seaside evening-fall and joined his family for the evening meal. He was at his core, a sensitive man, and the stark-irony of sitting down for a meal with his wife and teenaged children, after just agreeing to cut open a defenseless teenager in another country, and transplant a vitally needed organ into a wealthy recipient’s body, was not lost on him.

Being sensitive, he shuddered a little inwardly, and then thoroughly enjoyed his family time.

Chapter-1

A jangle of the bell attached to the front door announced the arrival of lunch. Today it was corned beef and swiss on rye, with a healthy dollop of brown mustard. A side of potato salad and a large sweet tea completed my order. This was not going to be the day I reduced my carbon footprint on the earth, as my youngest sister was always encouraging me to do. I was starving and Amir, the delivery boy was late, it had been almost an hour since I phoned over my order. He and I have kind of a bad history, and I am pretty sure I am right at the bottom of his list. I frowned my displeasure at him as he shuffled toward the counter in the back of the shop.

I am expecting that I will hear a tale that includes you being carjacked, being held for ransom, and then writing a book about the experience on your way over here, I snarked.

Amir a dread-locked, ‘take no shit’ kind of delivery guy, set the bag with my food on top of the counter. Hey dude, you’re lucky I showed at all. My last delivery, up the street, was to a hot chick who tips way better than you. In fact I was on the verge of eating your lunch myself and just hanging out with her. Yup, that’s me, right at the bottom!

She shot you down, didn’t she? The lady he was talking about was a private investigator who had recently taken an office on my street. I had seen her at the post office a time or two, and tried to strike up a conversation. My luck hadn’t been any better than Amir’s, but I was in no mood to bond. I opened the bag to make sure it contained something resembling what I had ordered. It did, so I reached for my wallet to pay him.

Like the opening day of dove season. Amir made an air shotgun, cocked it and then pulled an ‘air trigger’ to signify his lack of success wooing the hot chick, verbalizing a blam as he did so. He hovered around the counter for a minute while I was verifying the contents of the bag. You’re not gonna tip me are you dude? Amir folded his arms defiantly as I pulled some bills out.

What makes you say that Amir? Would it be that you took my lunch on a joyride? Or maybe the fact you tried to hustle my girlfriend? Or both? I held some bills out for him.

You tapping that…no way dude. Amir took the bills proffered without a glance and shoved them into his pocket. See ‘ya tomorrow dude. The door whooshed closed behind him. It was a little demoralizing that he had rejected my claim on the ‘hot chick’ so quickly. Oh well, time to eat, I thought. Nothing like a good corned beef sandwich to dull the ache of being verbally ‘body-slammed’ by a ropey-haired delivery boy! I had given him a couple of extra bills. Short changing the guy who delivers your food ranks fairly high on my list of ways to get food poisoning. Not a goal of mine.

The phone rang before I could take out my sandwich. It was another estate sale auctioneer, telling me about an upcoming ‘event’. It makes it sound better if you call it an event, I suppose. I took his details, and asked him to email some particulars to me. I thanked him for the call and replaced the handset in the cradle.

A rattle of paper drew my ear in the direction of the bag from Kratz’s. Binkley, the cat was peering into the sack and batting it with a paw. A few more minutes and the darn little beast would have had my sandwich for himself. I spritzed him with a spray bottle filled with water kept handy for just that purpose, and he jumped down off the counter with a yowl. And then jumped quickly back up, a few feet away, glaring at me. He had landed near Lola, the large Alsatian who was curled up under the counter in ‘cave-mode’, who warned him about ‘territories’, with a low growl. When Lola growls, it’s best to listen. She also has time-in-service on Bink, as I have raised her from a pup. Lola’s one goal in life is to screen all other creatures who approach me. You only get one shot with her. She may also be part of the reason the last girlfriend took off. Lola always growled at her.

Stupid cat, I grumbled. I had inherited him from the girlfriend, who had rescued him from an alley dumpster late in our relationship, given him a name taken from an eighties comic strip, and then, shortly there-after, taken off in the company of a rock band guitarist. No room for a feline on the road, I guess.

Binkley and I had mourned her briefly while we decided what sort of relationship we would have after her departure. We had being dumped by her in common, but that was about it. It was still a work in progress. Whatever we had, it did not include my lunch. Lola had never seemed happier, than after the girlfriend’s departure, and really didn’t give a flip about Bink, as long as Bink didn’t encroach on her turf.

I pulled the sandwich out of the wrapper and took a huge bite. I take lunch most days here in the store. The aroma of the previous merchandise still lingers, and the fine quality old books that I stock add their own special fragrance, to the ambiance of the ‘Scrivener’s Redoubt’. And of course the deli around the corner makes it doubly easy. Kratz’s Deli made the best corned beef on rye, and was the chief reason I put up with Amir. As I chewed I looked back my laptop monitor at the headers of a couple of emails that had arrived during my repartee with Amir. One was from an estate agent I had dealt with in the past, informing me of a house clearing and auction in Fredricksburg. Attending these is a good way to find the old, and out of print books that are my stock-in-trade. I clicked on it to see what René might have to entice me in.

"Travis, haven’t seen you in a while lad. This might be worth your time. The deceased was a retired academic. There was a dedicated library in the house and the place has twelve foot walls. You do the math! See you buddy.

René

The date was a few days off, so I dashed off a quick reply saying that I would plan to come and then I flagged it on my calendar for a reminder the day before. The second was from an old army buddy, mentioning that he would be through Houston later in the month and would look me up. I hoped that turned out. He had helped me out of a jam in Iraq, and later left the army to sign on with the Feds. I owed him a meal and place to ‘shack’ for the night, at the very least, and it would be good to catch up.

I have owned ‘The Scrivener’s Redoubt’ for about six years now. After I had been freed from an Al Queda prison, by my aforementioned chum and a few of his cohorts, I had taken the money I had saved in four years of military service, and bought an old shop in a revived section of Old Town Spring, just North of Houston. It was in a ‘kitschy’ conglomeration of restaurants, crafts shops, with a few accounting and legal offices sprinkled into the mix. An eclectic neighborhood by any standard! And, now we had a P.I., a lady one to boot. Dashiel Hammet, eat your heart out!

Prior to my occupancy the building had been used as a tobacconists shop. In an effort to preserve his stock in premium condition the owner had done a lot of work creating a humidified space within. Basically the entire place was a temperature and humidity controlled environment. This made it perfect for some of my more fragile stock, as well.

Books are an ephemeral item without special care. A few tens of years and they are well on their way to returning to the dust, from which they came. Generally constructed of animal, and vegetable matter; left to a natural environment they degrade rapidly. Bindings loosen and rot. Bacteria and rodents chew and fox their pages, assisted by mold and mildew. The oil from our fingers starts the process, breaking down the fibrous filaments that makeup the pages. Children scribble on whatever artwork they may contain, or rip out the illustrations to tape to a wall. Dust covers crack and disintegrate, or are made into ‘paper airplanes by the same kids. By the time most books are a hundred years old, they can scarcely be touched without coming apart. With the great mass of printed matter, that is not any great loss. Most books are ‘made’ for recycling.

But, then there are those rare treasures that should be preserved indefinitely. An example is a vintage copy of Thompson’s ‘The Hungry Tiger’, with color plates illustrated by John R. Neill. In mint condition it is worth over one thousand-five hundred dollars. Ruth Plumly Thompson was hired by Baum’s publisher to continue the OZ series after he passed away. These do not have the value that the canonical first fourteen, authored by Baum do, but a signed, complete set of the eighteen OZ books she wrote between nineteen-twenty one and nineteen-thirty nine, published by Reilly and Lee, with color plates by Neill, and in a First Edition, First State, recently sold for a hundred and fifty thousand dollars! That’s almost eleven thousand dollars per book, for something that sold for five, to ten dollars new! The early works of Baum and Neill, and Thompson characterize a time in Americana that people remember (not so many of them these day’s), or remember their parents telling them about. They are nostalgic for those ‘simpler’ times, and books of this vintage are one of the few ways to briefly recapture them, or pass along those memories to their own children.

The key is popularity versus rarity. If there are thousands of particular edition existing, then it is not going to be ‘rare’ enough to hold much value. Aging solves the numbers issue for most books. There are other things that add value to a book, other than its condition. Being signed by a famous author is chief among them. If you can get a top quality, signed, first printing of….say of Eugene Field’s, ‘Poems of Childhood’, illustrated by Maxfield Parrish, you are looking at book that can retail for over five-thousand dollars. They aren’t making any more of these! Parrish and Field have been long dead for many years.

The task then becomes finding what few copies may still exist and tracking them down for collectors has become my life’s work. I have always been bookish, up through and taking a Literature degree at Rice University, in my native hometown, of Houston. People are often struck by the seeming dichotomy of a guy my size; I am six foot, four inches tall and sling two-hundred and forty pounds down the road, being curled up with a book in one hand, and sixty pound dumbbell in the other. Hey, it shouldn’t be such a surprise; Rice is a school for smart people. Not all of them are four-eyed midgets.

Rare children’s books and classic sci-fi are specialties of mine. About half the time I work for dedicated collectors, who have contacted me seeking a particular item. The other half I spend researching; and traveling to estate sales like the one René emailed me about. Some of my trade is walk-in, but not enough to justify the store. I just like it. It also has a small attic apartment that enables me to be close by in the case of an emergency of some kind, like a parent who desperately needs a last minute birthday gift, or something. I can’t be there all the time, so I have a young Rice undergrad (be true to your school), who mans, well…’wo-man’s the place, as a shop assistant. Lauren is a kindred soul, and actually convinced me to hire her, by out-bidding me at an auction. Nothing like hiring the competition!

It works out well for both of us. She gets a paycheck, flexible hours for her class schedule, and place to do her own research, and I get continuity in the store and someone to run small errands for me when I am traveling. Plus, she is also easy on the eyes, and brightens up the place the way only pretty girls can. And she passed the Lola test…no growl.

No, absolutely not…get your mind out of the gutter; we have a purely professional relationship, although she has caught me looking at her ass a couple of times. So shoot me, she has a nice ass and she’s over eighteen.

Morning Travis. Lauren has arrived, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. Any coffee?

It may still be morning in Hawaii Lauren. Here it’s lunchtime, I replied. Today seemed to be my day for snarky commentary.

Hmmpf, got any Jack Daniels then? Might as well have the hair of the dog. She generally gave as good as she got when it came to snarkiness. She withdrew a cold Dr. Pepper from the frig under the counter and scooted into her workstation.

She looked like she might have had a late night. Her eyes were a little red and she might have had to reach twice for the soda can. She is one of those people, who can function on relatively little sleep, and she is twenty-two; so she’s bullet proof. She doesn’t offer an explanation for her tardiness, and I don’t ask. Boundaries, I guess. Taking a long pull on her drink, she looked at me and asked, anything special today Travis?

Not so far Lauren. I have been chasing a few leads on the internet, but nothing extraordinary up to now. If you can hold the fort, I’m going to run into town and look at some books Pindar called me about the other day. I logged off my laptop and folded it into a sleeve for travel.

Sure boss man. I got this, you run along. She was only half paying attention. With me not having anything for her to do, she was going to pursue her own interests. I honestly think she wanted me out of there so she could lay down her head and sleep. Not that I would tell her this, but I don’t really didn’t care. Her main job was to be there, so I could move about as needed.

As I was leaving, Mrs. Perez arrived to clean the upstairs. Being a bachelor, I do a reasonably good job of keeping up with the detritus I leave in my wake, but just don’t take the time to do laundry, or change the cat box (as often as I should). So for the past couple of years Mrs. Perez has come in once a day to help me out. She seemed a little preoccupied this morning as the normal cheery, Hola Señor Cole that, she greets me with, didn’t come out quite as cheery today. Señora, que paso, I asked? Mrs. Perez’s English is pretty spotty, so I often speak in Spanish with her.

Es mi nieta, ella esta saliendo con una muchacho malo, she wiped a tear from her eye. Yo tengo miedo que se con problemas. She had just told me her grand-daughter was hanging around with a bad kid and she was afraid she would get into trouble. One of my weaknesses is that I try to help people around, meaning I occasionally go looking for trouble. Goes with the turf, I suppose. With great size comes great responsibility?

I asked her where I might find this guy and have a ‘talk’ with him. At first she didn’t want to say, but being a widow and having no one else to turn to, she told me where the rough kids, and ‘bangers’ usually hung out. No te preoccupes, voy hablar con él, I told her I would speak with the boy she was worried about. She smiled the weak, fragile smile that women get when they have to reluctantly turn to someone for help, hoping that it will actually help and something else will not go wrong as a result. Gracias Señor Cole, she said and went up to begin her cleaning ritual, and Lola left to visit Pindar. Since he was waiting and it was early, it made sense to go there first, before checking the address Mrs. P. had given me as the hangout where I would find Ramón, the twenty-year old wanna-be thug who was in the process of corrupting her fourteen-year old grand-daughter, Marisol.

Lola at my side we hopped into my ‘vette. One the first things I did when I returned from Iraq was to restore this car, a Rally Blue, nineteen ninety six convertible to its former glory… well close enough to its former glory as my budget would allow then. I had indulged myself a little and dropped a 427 hemi into the engine bay. With a power plant like that, there wasn’t much that can pass me, without my permission. Lola’s place is ‘shotgun’ and she rides sitting high up in the seat usually, with her tongue hanging out and taking ‘airhits’ off passing scents. I have lost a couple of girlfriends who became a little paranoid about Lola breathing down their necks from the rear, after they’d shooed her out of ‘her’ spot. You ‘shoo’ Lola at your own peril. It had definitely been an issue for Jennifer. Where is it written that a girlfriend upstages your dog? Who, after all is man’s best friend? And in Jennifer’s case, in point of fact, who was still around? I gave Lola a pat.

I think she is also a speed freak as she ‘chuffs’ the way dog’s do when they are happy, when I hit the gas and the throaty growl of the Hemi rumbles through the car. She’s a bit of a bad influence on me actually as she will ‘chuff’ until I do hit the gas, almost like she’s urging me to violate the law for her own instant gratification. Would she do that? There’s not a doubt in my mind. Hopefully she’s got some money laid away for speeding tickets!

Pindar’s place was down 45 in the section of Houston known as River Oaks. River Oaks is the ‘old money section of town. Developed by the Hogg siblings (the children of former Texas Governor Jim Hogg) in the 1920’s, as one of the first master planned communities in the U.S., it has long been the home of the fabulously wealthy in Houston. It is a dreamy area, of old Southern style columned mansion’s, American style Colonial’s, English Tudor’s, and their modern renovations, juxtaposed against the sometimes garish new-builds that the latest generation of disgustingly rich have thrown up to satisfy their needs to display their wealth. It backs up to Buffalo bayou South of I-10, with tree-lined avenues that over-arch with verdant leafy boughs over darkened roadways. Even in midday, the gloom cast by the heavy foliage weaves a spell on the passerby. The houses are set far back from the road and encased in lush lawns, that are maintained a by legion of immigrant operated lawn service companies. Some have gated entries that guard their approach with remote controlled barriers. Such is Pindar’s.

Pindar was a classmate of mine at Rice, only while I had labored in Lit, he had majored in economics. While my post-ROTC responsibilities took me into the Air Force after graduation, he went on toward his Phd at Rice. For his thesis he developed a radical theory of market timing and technical analysis; that happened to contradict most of the accepted ideas about such things. His thesis was rejected, and a heart-broken Pindar left academia for an internship at a stock brokerage in New York. It turned out that his theory was dead on the money, by the time I returned from military service, he had retired, a billionaire and bought this spread to inhabit. A few years hence, he may be hearing from the Nobel committee, about a prize of some sort. Basically his financial and professional status is fairly solid.

Rich beyond any dreams, Pindar is still learning to cope with his wealth. A couple of times he has called me, telling me to ‘bring your passport’ and we have gone on some exotic trip that had only taken shape in his mind that very morning. He keeps a G-4 up in Tomball at Hooks airport. Once we went to the Grand Caymans, and another time to Colombia. When he’s not jetting around the world he hangs out in strip joints, looking for love. I think Pindar may be ready to settle down, if he can find the right girl.

He seems to find the right girl about once a week in a strip bar. Strippers, not being the most stable sort of girlfriend he might find, generally take him for a ride, loading up on expensive gifts and money, and then drops him in the shit, so-to-speak. It pisses me off; Pindar is one of the nicest, most gentle souls on the planet; could be a Hindu thing. But, there isn’t much I can do about it except give him a shoulder to cry on afterward.

We had met during college, haphazardly in a bar off Richmond street; Houston’s famous honky-tonk and strip club area. He had gone there looking for company and run afoul of some drug store cowboy types who were there for the same reason. Failing to attract any companionship from the ‘fairer sex’ they had liquored up and discovered Pindar, a relatively small man of Indian descent. They had seized on his lack of size and racial differences from them and were starting to push him around. I don’t like bullies; never have, and I had intervened and saved him a probable ‘ass-kicking’. Pindar isn’t a big dude and would not have fared well against one of these heroes; let alone four of them. I had shown them the error of picking on little guys, with big friends.

Over the next few years we forged a friendship based on our mutual love of classic children’s and Golden Age science fiction books. During the time his family was acclimating to the U.S. his mother had read these to him, the kid’s books anyway; teaching him English and a love of reading at the same time. Much like my mother had done with me, giving us a commonality that I hadn’t found in anyone else. Until our paths separated for a while after graduation we had often attended auctions together, picking up the odd rarity that also fit our, then, limited budgets. Mostly though, we hit a lot of clubs on the strip, becoming regulars, and blowing huge wads of cash, relatively speaking. We were both going through the phase where it seemed like the peak experience in life was sticking dollar bills into stripper’s g-strings. It was a time I remembered fondly, because we’d had a lot of fun, but I had passed through this phase, and somehow, in spite of his intellectual gifts, he had not.

I took the exit onto I-10 and followed it to Falling Rock, turning left under the overpass. A couple of lights and I steered the ‘vette into the quiet alcove where Pindar lived. His drive was protected by an electric gate and I slowed to a stop and buzzed the intercom.

Pindar, open up. It’s me and Lola.

Come on in…um, I trust Lola has eaten recently? Pindar had passed the Lola test, in fact she is crazy about him, but he still was nervous about her presence. The gate began to retract and I took my foot of the brake and accelerated slowly down his twisty drive. About half way down Lola saw a squirrel at the base of a tree and leapt out of the car, racing toward it. She never had a chance, but as anyone who has wooed in vain knows, the thrill is in the chase. Satisfied she had taught the little rodent some respect she trotted alongside the car as we traveled the last few yards to the entryway.

Make her stop, she is drowning me. Pindar’s plea came as Lola raised up on her hind paws and licked his face in greeting. She was head height with him and covering his face with ‘kisses’.

Lola! Down girl. Pindar, you are just going to have to accept her love someday dude. Some things will just not be denied. I struggled to hold back laughter. Lola dropped to all four and returned to my side, but still gazing adoringly at Pindar. She is trained to sit at my left side when I am standing and to lie where she can see me when I sit.

Come inside you two. As we did, he called out, Martina, will you bring some beers and a dish of water out to the pool, please. He walked toward a sliding door rear entrance and opened it to lead us out on the veranda. I have had an interesting day. The police just left, not an hour before you came. I was broken into last night and my copy of Graeme’s ‘Dream Days’ was stolen. I have been giving a deposition to the detectives most of the afternoon.

Was that all that was taken, I inquired? Although extremely valuable, it had cost him over a hundred grand- I knew because I had found and sold it to him, it was far from being his most valuable book.

That is interesting in itself, he replied. Yes, the thief took only that, leaving some vastly more precious volumes. What do you make of that Travis, he asked?

It may have been a commission, I said. This happened infrequently as collectors like Pindar had high tech security and constant monitoring. Someone who knew you had that book hired a thief to steal it.

My thought as well. Someone whom I considered a friend was not very friendly it seems. Pindar’s face was expressionless, but his voice broke a little as he spoke. He didn’t have many friends, actual friends that is, a common problem with billionaires I suppose, and the thought that someone he had trusted, was false had to be a bitter blow.

Martina showed up with the beer and Lola’s water and set the beer on a table, and my jaw dropped. She was a stunner. A Latina of about 5-foot, 3" and maybe a hundred extremely curvaceous pounds, she looked up and smiled as she did this, inviting a long glimpse down the canyon of her cleavage. My head started to tilt in her direction before I caught it. She then raised up to an erect posture, breaking the spell a little, and poured the water into a dish she had tucked under her arm and set it down for Lola, who interestingly enough seemed not to have any issues with her.

You guys need anything else, she asked as Lola lapped? We told her no and she showed an amazing expanse of creamy thigh as her slit-skirt rode up while she stooped to ruffle the fur on Lola’s neck for a moment and then walked back toward the house, finally, and completely breaking the spell the nearness of her flesh had cast. We sat in some chairs near the pool as we sipped our beer, and watched Martina leave.

Billionaire’s have nice maids, I mused aloud, watching her exit.

Martina is not a ‘maid’, he insisted. She is my assistant.

She’s new anyway, I commented, after appreciating the view. Where did you find her, I asked this a little suspiciously. Pindar had a weakness for strippers and the stories they whipped on him once they discovered he was wealthy beyond avarice. Martina would not be the first to have used her beauty as a cudgel to knock what little sense Pindar had about women, out of him.

Oh she showed up selling magazines one afternoon, it’s a tough economy you know, he began. I was so impressed with her that I offered her a full time job…as my assistant. She’s been learning to work in my system. She’s quite sharp really, a degree in Finance from U. of H. His attempt to ‘legitimize a girl he had obviously picked up at strip bar, brought out the bully in me, for just a second.

Pindar, Pindar, Pindar. This is me you’re talking to, your buddy Travis. You found this girl at Plez’ures, just like the last one. Don’t B.S. me or I’ll tell Lola she can ‘love’ on you some more. Turning the conversation back to the stolen book and letting him off the hook about Martina, whose presence was after all, his business, I said, I am sorry buddy. Martina and what you do with her, is your business. Changing the subject away from what I knew was pretty uncomfortable for him I asked, What does Tritech say about the break-in? Tritech was the security company Pindar retained to make sure stuff like this didn’t happen. They have a ‘bloody nose’ I would think.

Not really, at least that they will own up to anyway. Tritech is claiming this was an inside job. All of the protocols were met and no alarm was triggered. The police crime techs have gone through the library with the proverbial ‘fine-toothed-comb’ and come up empty so far.

I suppose Martina has come up clean? I winced at the look he shot me in reply. Ok, ok, I had to ask. I am sure others have. My phone rang interrupting any reply he might make. It was Lauren.

Hey boss. When are you coming back?

I don’t know, what’s up?

We had a visitor who wanted to talk with you only. She left a number and asked you to call. Said it was urgent.

She? I wanted to ask wanted to ask what she looked like, a natural response, I suppose, but, knowing me Lauren saved me the trouble and embarrassment.

Yeah, ‘she’ boss… and she was a looker in case you’re wondering. I could hear the laughter in her voice.

Text me the number, and I’ll call her after I finish with Pindar. What could be so urgent about a book anyway? I got the number in my phone and broke the connection.

So what is it you dragged me all the way down here for? It was time to get down to business. Lauren had me curious about this lady. She’s hard to impress, being pretty hot herself.

A friend asked me my opinion on some books, since I was a collector. This is more your area than mine so I thought I would ask you to look them over and give me an appraisal. Pindar stood to lead the way into the house. Lola uncurled and followed on my left, true to her training.

A friend, I asked as we walked, with the emphasis on the ‘friend’. You tapping this friend dude?

No, and why do you always assume the worst, he asked a little too indignantly to completely sell his innocence.

Said the man who’s hiring his assistants out of Plez’ures.

He dropped his eyes and led me into his study. Fortunately this was in the safe when the thief was in. He turned the dial and the door opened with a whoosh of slightly compressed air. He reached his hand inside and withdrew a velour sack, whose edges took the form of a book. He handed it to me and sat behind his desk, motioning me to an arm chair placed in front.

Not knowing anything about it I assumed it to be fragile and supported it in the sack while I untied the drawstring. I grasped it firmly and let the sack fall down around it, and silently sucked in a breath as I realized what I held in my hand. It was a seemingly mint condition copy of the ‘Knave of Hearts’, by Louise Saunders, with illustrations by Maxfield Parrish. I had never seen one of these this close and had only held a much more poorly preserved copy once before. There are probably less than a hundred of these in existence now, and are now approaching a hundred years of age. Most are falling apart, have had the illustrations cut out, or are locked away in private collections, never seeing the light of day unless their owner is parsing lovingly through its pages. A bad copy will sell for about twenty-five hundred dollars. One in this condition would surely fetch more than a hundred grand at an auction. A private collector who learned of it might pay more just to keep other people from knowing that he had it. Serious collectors are secretive by necessity and nature.

Where did you get this, I asked thumbing ever so carefully through the ancient, but amazingly well preserved pages. A natural question, but one he wasn’t likely to answer.

He just looked at me expectantly. Have you ever seen one like this, he asked impatiently?

You know I haven’t. No one has in a hundred years. This is off-the-charts fine. It was that good, almost as good as the day it was made. Which lead to the question, where had it been, and how in the world was it in this condition? I turned it slowly in my hands, examining it from all aspects.

Pindar, this will be impossible to sell without provenance to any reputable collector. Provenance is a term used to describe the vetting process book dealers and antiquities dealers in general use to make sure they are not handling stolen property. The honest one’s anyway.

All I can say it that the owner would like to know that it is genuine and have an approximate idea of its worth. I don’t think selling is an objective at this point. Pindar continued to look expectantly at me.

"I think it probably is genuine, stuff like this is near impossible to knock off, and there just isn’t enough money in it to make it worthwhile. As to value, I am going to say over a hundred k. It would depend somewhat on the buyer’s motivation as to how high he would go to get it. I will say that, I doubt there is another in this condition, which makes it unique and probably doubles my previous number. As a courtesy I would