Authors: Carolyn Haines
Shop Talk (31 page)
About Mr. Auerbach—whoever he was, and if he ever had been—Adam knew nothing. Mrs. Auerbach mentioned no relatives, except to say she had lived a lovely life and it was done with some years ago; that now she and Adam were both orphans.
He walked across and sat down at the card table with Mrs. Auerbach, waving away her offer of the rum bottle. It was now twenty minutes past five. Adam’s date was with an airline reservations telephone clerk he had met in his personality class.
“Mrs. Auerbach, I have to go soon. Really.”
She was paging through the familiar autograph book, her favorite.
“This is the great poet Goethe’s son’s autograph book, Adam.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know that by now.”
“Yes, ma’am, you know, don’t you? It’s yours, but you think I should put it back in the safe. You don’t believe it’s yours, no?” She cackled and drank more rum. “My apartment was mine. Thirty years, Adam, yah? I believed it was mine, but no! The City’s it was—all these years. Did the City pay the rent once? No, but the City’s it is!”
“I’m sorry about that Mrs. Auerbach, I really am.” “But you’re a hurry. Rush and rush, Adam, is that you? Like the City, rush and rush to get me out.” “I have a date, Mrs. Auerbach.”
“Yes, but wait, Adam.” She placed her hand on Adam’s wrist. “The law is, this is yours. Take it.” She put the worn autograph book in his hands. “It was Goethe’s son’s book, Adam. Oh, money it could bring you, and not a little. But more, Adam. Sentiment. Roots. Let it be your
Stammbuch,
Adam. Roots, I can’t give you, but this is the next best thing. Yah, Adam?”
“Thank you,” said Adam. “I’ll put it back in the safe.”
She slapped her hand down on the book in his hand. “Nein! This time, take it with you! It is yours, Adam!”
Adam said, “Yes, and thank you again. I’ll keep it here in the safe.”
“Nein!”
Adam held the book in his hand, uncertain of his next step. In all his years of receiving this “gift” from Mrs. Auerbach, she had never stopped him from putting it back in the safe; neither of them, Adam always thought, had ever taken her gesture with any seriousness. The book was worth thousands; it was one of The Mart’s most valuable pieces of stock.
“ ‘Hand to the patron the book, and hand it to friend and companion,’ “ Mrs. Auerbach recited. “I hope you will over and over read that, Adam. In Goethe’s own handwriting.”
Adam said, “This book is worth—”
“Money! Is that all you care for? Put it in your pocket and shut up your squealing and squeaking! I need some peace! You are like a collector with your money all the time! Put it in your pocket!”
Adam did as he was told.
“Go on, rush!” she said. “Shoo!”
“I could—help you home, Mrs. Auerbach.”
Momentarily she regarded him coolly, letting his presumption hang in the silence. Adam had thought of walking her the few blocks to her apartment, then slipping back with the valuable book and locking it safely in The Mart. It was no good. “Since when did I need help home, Herr Blessing?”
He knew she was very angry.
“The law about ‘The Lucy Baker Album stands!’ “ she announced, with a bang of the rum bottle on the table top for punctuation. “To that man who comes here for it, it is not for sale.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And there is filing piled up on your desk too!” “I realize that, Mrs. Auerbach.”
“Do you have correspondence on the Poe manuscript?” “Yes, Mrs. Auerbach. I have it started.” “Go on! Next thing you’ll want this overtime employees want, yah?” “No,” Adam said.
He kept the palm of his hand on his pocket where the album was. He knew he would keep it there all night, and that he would sleep with it under his pillow; not draw a free breath until it was back in The Mart on Monday. He could not even return it tomorrow, though he had a key. At 6:00
P.M
. on Saturdays, Mrs. Auerbach’s burglar alarm was wired to the keyhole, and centralized with the Palmer Protective Association. It was clocked that way until eight Monday morning.
“What are you waiting for, ah?” She sat erect now, with her plump legs crossed, the one dangling over the other, swinging—exposing her garter, her silk stockings, and her bright yellow ankle socks. As always, Adam could see his face in the shine on her shoes. He dismissed a crazy, sudden impulse to bend down and plant a kiss on that wild mop of orange hair.
As he turned, after saying good night, he heard her voice behind him snap: “Get in on time Monday morning, Herr Blessing!”
Outside, he climbed the winding stairs to Fifty-seventh Street. He sneaked a look at her, the naked electric light bulb dangling on a cord directly above her head, the bottle of rum tipped to her mouth, and her feet tapping energetically to what Adam guessed was probably another waltz.
Tyrus Books, a division of F+W Media, publishes crime and dark literary fiction—offering books from exciting new voices and established, well-loved authors. Centering on deeply provocative and universal human experiences, Tyrus Books is a leader in its genre.
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Copyright © 1998 by Lizzie Hart
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-3901-4
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3901-5