dollars, perhaps more. That meant a hefty commission for Riverrun.
But, as I’ve often noticed, once you answer good fortune’s knock, prepare for the door to slam on your ass after it crosses the portal. The trick is to hedge your bet while the cards are still hot so that when the inevitable turn comes you land on a goose-down mattress. My plan was to increase the benefits of this windfall by asking Eulalia Darp to assist with the sale rather than try to sell it myself. Not only would her reputation attract higher bidders for the book, but her gratitude for gaining a share of the commission might also assure my admittance to the ABAA. And that meant a gold ticket to future success in the antiquarian business.
Even so, offering to split fees was counterintuitive. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get some objective advice.
Only not from Josie.
As much as I trusted her judgment, she had a funny notion that overreaching—whether picking apples or grabbing front-row seats—was rarely wise, often impolite, and sometimes unethical.
After explaining to her that I needed to prepare a set of books for shipping, I descended to the basement storeroom where I locked the door behind me. Then I opened the steel filing cabinet and brought out the bag.
It felt somewhat heavier than when I’d last carried it to the table a month earlier. I attributed that to the feeling that had grown ever since returning with it from Ivo Mackin’s mountain Shangri-la—namely, that it had been a tad improper, if not illegal, to remove the mummified head of Captain James Cook from where it had lain for centuries in a cave high above Kealakekua Bay. But the great eighteenth-century explorer had no heirs and I figured I had as much right to it as modern-day Hawaiians whose ancestors had murdered, cannibalized, and kept what was left of him in a basket there.
Putting those thoughts to rest, I lifted the muslin cloth and proceeded to consult with a mentor who was not only wise, but more practical than a priest—or Josie—when it came to questions of conscience.
Funny how madness creeps up on you. You see, Claire Phelan wasn’t the only one a little touched by the faeries. I’d spent yesterday morning snidely confronting Emery for his belief in angels and multiple heavens, and this morning expressing amazement hearing about a girl who thought she was a banshee. Yet here I was seeking wisdom from the spirit of a man who had been murdered more than 250 years ago.
—
When I returned upstairs twenty minutes later, Josie was waiting with crossed arms and a faint, quizzical smile. Her tongue played with the inside of her cheek.
She began slowly. “Sooo…What were you doing down there?”
I pretended not to hear while looking past her at the happy-hour crowd streaming into Café Provence. The late afternoon sun broke through the clouds with shafts of silver and gold, highlighting the hair of the women. It reminded me of something Yeats had written:
…She who had brought great Hector down
And put all Troy to wreck…
“Michael?”
I returned my gaze to her. “Yes, love?”
“I heard you talking to yourself in your secret lair.”
“It’s not secret.”
“It
is
when you lock the door. So what’s with the yakking to walls?”
“Just a habit I’ve developed when wrapping books.”
“Since when?”
“Since New Zealand. I’m working through some issues.”
“Is paranoia one of them?”
“Josie, please. It’s nothing like that. I’m fine. Lots of people talk to themselves.”
“Oh, yeah? Like who?”
“Bobo Jenkins whenever he crashes into a ruck.”
“Your rugby pals don’t count.” She uncrossed her arms and began tapping her fingers on the counter. “You addressed the person as ‘Captain’ and were answering questions as well as asking them.”
“Was I?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Bevan.”
Natalie Phelan wasn’t the only one with a temper.
“It’s a quirk I’ve developed to address some
But, as I’ve often noticed, once you answer good fortune’s knock, prepare for the door to slam on your ass after it crosses the portal. The trick is to hedge your bet while the cards are still hot so that when the inevitable turn comes you land on a goose-down mattress. My plan was to increase the benefits of this windfall by asking Eulalia Darp to assist with the sale rather than try to sell it myself. Not only would her reputation attract higher bidders for the book, but her gratitude for gaining a share of the commission might also assure my admittance to the ABAA. And that meant a gold ticket to future success in the antiquarian business.
Even so, offering to split fees was counterintuitive. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to get some objective advice.
Only not from Josie.
As much as I trusted her judgment, she had a funny notion that overreaching—whether picking apples or grabbing front-row seats—was rarely wise, often impolite, and sometimes unethical.
After explaining to her that I needed to prepare a set of books for shipping, I descended to the basement storeroom where I locked the door behind me. Then I opened the steel filing cabinet and brought out the bag.
It felt somewhat heavier than when I’d last carried it to the table a month earlier. I attributed that to the feeling that had grown ever since returning with it from Ivo Mackin’s mountain Shangri-la—namely, that it had been a tad improper, if not illegal, to remove the mummified head of Captain James Cook from where it had lain for centuries in a cave high above Kealakekua Bay. But the great eighteenth-century explorer had no heirs and I figured I had as much right to it as modern-day Hawaiians whose ancestors had murdered, cannibalized, and kept what was left of him in a basket there.
Putting those thoughts to rest, I lifted the muslin cloth and proceeded to consult with a mentor who was not only wise, but more practical than a priest—or Josie—when it came to questions of conscience.
Funny how madness creeps up on you. You see, Claire Phelan wasn’t the only one a little touched by the faeries. I’d spent yesterday morning snidely confronting Emery for his belief in angels and multiple heavens, and this morning expressing amazement hearing about a girl who thought she was a banshee. Yet here I was seeking wisdom from the spirit of a man who had been murdered more than 250 years ago.
—
When I returned upstairs twenty minutes later, Josie was waiting with crossed arms and a faint, quizzical smile. Her tongue played with the inside of her cheek.
She began slowly. “Sooo…What were you doing down there?”
I pretended not to hear while looking past her at the happy-hour crowd streaming into Café Provence. The late afternoon sun broke through the clouds with shafts of silver and gold, highlighting the hair of the women. It reminded me of something Yeats had written:
…She who had brought great Hector down
And put all Troy to wreck…
“Michael?”
I returned my gaze to her. “Yes, love?”
“I heard you talking to yourself in your secret lair.”
“It’s not secret.”
“It
is
when you lock the door. So what’s with the yakking to walls?”
“Just a habit I’ve developed when wrapping books.”
“Since when?”
“Since New Zealand. I’m working through some issues.”
“Is paranoia one of them?”
“Josie, please. It’s nothing like that. I’m fine. Lots of people talk to themselves.”
“Oh, yeah? Like who?”
“Bobo Jenkins whenever he crashes into a ruck.”
“Your rugby pals don’t count.” She uncrossed her arms and began tapping her fingers on the counter. “You addressed the person as ‘Captain’ and were answering questions as well as asking them.”
“Was I?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Bevan.”
Natalie Phelan wasn’t the only one with a temper.
“It’s a quirk I’ve developed to address some
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