I had spoken with Big Johnson—Allen—the modern lit dealer, only a few days before. He had told me he was working with a PhD who was trying to put together a comprehensive Kerouac bibliography. I read off the vital information. He still had the Kerouac file on his desk. How much do you need for it? I HATE it when specialists ask that question.
Why ask me to guess? That was a lot of money then. To Mike, his third would be the Irish lottery won at last. To me, my third would be a big book—a good supplement to the day.
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To Johnson, his third would be a good sale and the prestige of discovery and the supply of something unique—undiscovered to the rare book market. I went out back and told Mike the good news. A thirty-two hundred dollar day for scruffy old Mike. Ashen is a literary medical condition, rarely to be encountered in real life. At least from my limited pathological experience up to that time. But ashen Mike became.
No use crying over spilt milk……. The rhythmic beat of life was suspended. I held my breath while everything backed up within me. The significance had hit home. It looked like just a box of reprints. It was an outdoor auction. They were all the same! My van was full of real books. It was a symbiotic relationship. Maybe an unequal symbiotic relationship. I felt and still feel I gave far more than I got. I have proof of it somewhere. The final balance, scribbled in pencil, a pinhole in it from where it hung on my old office wall. We finally tore it out in after years of disuse— read about it a bit here.
But there was level of trust. He was a book character. He had decent working knowledge on a number of subjects. One of his flea market booths had a big case of vintage fountain pens and ballpoint pens laid out under glass. I sort of got it. He also liked sailing literature. In fact, he would sometimes buy from me—trade rather—sailing histories or historic nautical fiction I came across from other sources. He collected all of them. He also sought out true sailing stories and histories. Mostly from the early 19th century back to the s.
I never liked him. He was handsome, but I felt there was something dodgy about him. Something in his eyes maybe. He was on the outer edges of the old book scene in the region. His real job was slate roofing. I think he longed to be a bookseller but roofing paid much more.
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Maybe it was paranoia, but I sensed something conspiratorial going on. This Mike had a bookstore—actually more of an antique mall somewhere down in Virginia—off I skirting the Blue Ridge Mountains. Still Mike continued coming in. His van banging, coughing, wheezing, choking outside my back door calling me out to take a look. It was a nephew I think. Leather bound things from the 17 and 18 hundreds. I opened my door and stepped out. Mike was standing there but his doors were not open.
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He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and unfolded it. A heavy gold ring glowed up at me. A big diamond—2 carats? You can hold it as collateral. I can even pay you interest on it. Well, it was a weak moment. I was distracted by all the activities involved in a two-week getaway.
Just make sure you start paying me back. Upon arrival you back to an entrance and begin wheeling the books in and setting up your booth on Thursday. It is a lot of work and takes hours. However, I did most of my sales during that time—the preshow—to other dealers trolling for treasures as others set up. Often they would offer to help me unpack my boxes.
Can you imagine why they were so anxious to help? These were often specialists who knew their Americana or first editions or autographs or fine press material far better than my own generalist knowledge could master. Torturous time passed with no sales—often no nibbles or bites either. When I returned, I called the nephew. His tone on the phone was a bit hesitant. It was couple guys named Mike.
One with long hair and one had a beard. They said they knew you. I thought maybe they were getting them for you. How had he found out about it? Did he see my notes on my desk? Afterwards, Mike came in sheepishly from time to time.
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He rarely brought me books any more. He never asked for money again. One time I overheard his daughter talking with a friend in the shop. I was working in an adjacent aisle. She was loudly chatting in the next aisle. Goofing off—on the clock. Old war ship stuff. I overheard him talking to Mom about an old letter he found in one.
He said it had a lot of brown stains on it. It was addressed to some Lady Houston or something. It was from some Lord somebody. I have spoken with … [somebody] … and I have been assured your needs will be attended to. He says Chuck took advantage of Dad for a lot of years. Most old booksellers die with a lot of books, no cash, a lot of debt and a lot of IOUs from various associates who may or may not show up at his funeral. I felt I should show up. The white stucco building was pristine. As I approached the front door, a cadaverous fellow unexpectedly opened the front door from the inside surprising me and forcing me to enter unprepared.
I signed the guest book. Nineteen had signed ahead of me. Nineteen plus the family, not a bad turn out considering I was rather early. I proceeded down a hallway at the end of which a room opened. That room was lined with two rows of folding chairs. They were four chairs across. Family, friends and others were mingling around the middle of the aisle.
I recognized about twenty percent of those present. A good average, I suppose. At the front end of the aisle, flanked by two pairs of floral arrangements, the coffin lay. Its northern half was flipped open. And there was Mike. Rigid, made up, wearing a suit and tie which was far more dressed than I had ever envisioned him being.
He is married to a woman who diligently forces him to live his dream, and is the father of an angel, a pixie, and a gremlin. He has two voracious hounds that wag their tail quite menacingly at anyone who comes near his home. Mike loves to write about true-to-life people who are perpetrators or victims of crimes. He also likes writing funny stuff. He mixes these two loves quite passionately into his mystery books. You can contact Mike by sending him an e-mail to mike strangerealm. Are you an author? Help us improve our Author Pages by updating your bibliography and submitting a new or current image and biography.
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