John Mackie - Hazardous Goods

The place was all books, as though the walls themselves had been fashioned from hardback covers, their spines serving as layered bricks. We crossed the front sitting room to a small sofa and recliner, the only free surfaces I could spot in the room, and I stepped carefully to avoid an avalanche.

“Wow.”

“Oh, the place is such a mess I’ve just given up. Can’t even be bothered to dust anymore. It’s overwhelming.”

I saw now that the walls were lined with wooden shelving, each shelf so packed with books — standing side by side, stacked one on top of the other, squeezed into every open space — that each row sagged like a rope bridge.

“Is this your personal collection?”

“Most of it. I really shouldn’t have them here. Too humid, temperature fluctuates up and down. I can’t even open the drapes in my bedroom, for fear the light will damage the collection. But since the divorce I barely have the money to pay rent and utilities, let alone storage costs.”

“That must be very hard.”

“Life is hard, as my father told me. So, how can I help you, Donnie Elder of Arcane Shipping?”

“Transport.”

“Sure.”

“Well,” I pulled the tiger’s eye from my pocket and placed it gently on the table between us. “I’m wondering if this stone is familiar to you.”

Veronica Galt may have been a bit eccentric, perhaps even nuts. But she was a damned poor liar. The pause was as good as a screaming confession, despite her next words.

“No. Should it be?”

I let the stone rest on the coffee table, watching her eyes as they flitted from mine to the stone and back again, like a squirrel trying to decide whether to cross a roadway.

“It seems that this stone was found in a coat owned by your ex-husband. A coat that was left with us to deliver to his shop. Unfortunately, delivery was never completed, and we’ve had it in our storage room for some time now.”

Her cheeks were flushing a blotchy red and white, and her eyes had widened to the point that I could see white above and below the light blue iris of each.

“Last week we were moving some items off-site,” (a bit of embellishment on my part). “When one of our staff made to pack the coat away, we had a rather strange incident.”

“Oh Lord, no one was hurt, were they?”

It was almost comical, how she blurted it out. It was like a bad Jerry Springer episode, with LaWanda revealing she had slept with Cletus the night that Ricky Bob’s truck stalled at the town carnival.

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Thank God.” Her shoulders sagged, and I flinched as a massive calico cat hurled itself from a hiding place on one of the shelves, landing with a thump on the back of her chair. She picked up the cat, stroked its back and scrubbed the fur behind its ears while the big bugger stared at me with suspicious eyes. I tried not to make eye contact.

“Why was it never delivered?”

“We tried, apparently. But the receptionist at the time,” I pretended to refer to my notes, “Ms. Dianne Morgan, would not accept the package. Said it wasn’t theirs.”

“ That lying bitch! ” The cat sprung from her lap, knocking over a pile of texts and hurtling down the hall. “She knew damned well it was his coat.”

And she was off to the races.

“I just wanted to scare that S.O.B. Fifteen years of marriage, me setting up his store, hunting the province for garage sales, estate auctions. Then one day his coat is delivered to the house by a bellhop from the Royal York. Says my husband must have left it the other night when he attended a client dinner. Remind me again what night that was, I said. Last Thursday. Well, that Thursday he and I had lunch at the King Eddy . It was our anniversary. It was also the night he called to say he would be staying late at the shop. An estate valuation. Didn’t come home until past midnight. How stupid did he think I was?”

I sat silent, well aware of the risk that anything I might say would cause her ire to be directed at me.

“So I spent the next three days scouring through old texts in my collection. Looking for a spell that seemed innocuous enough to make my point without killing the cheating bastard. Found it, cast it, placed the stone in his jacket and dropped it in your night slot. I had worked with Bernie in the earlier years, and remembered your outfit. But you say it was never delivered?”

“No. We tried, but she wouldn’t accept the package. Claimed she didn’t recognize the coat.”

“Well she should have, the skank.” Jesus. Remind me never to anger an English woman. “She was sleeping with my bloody husband.”

Still is, I thought to myself.

“Well, unfortunately he never received the gift. But a few of my employees got a bit of a scare when we found the coat.”

“Oh I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone, other than that son of a bitch. I hope nothing horrible occurred?”

“No, nothing major.”

“And you’ve broken the spell since?”

“Actually, no. We’ve tried to, but it appears to still be active. Just happens that it doesn’t work with me, for some reason.”

“How odd.” She seemed to be puzzling something out, her thumb stroking the underside of her chin. “But, that was several years ago. I would have thought the spell would have dissipated over that time.”

“Well, that’s the other reason I’m here. I wanted to confirm the source of the spell, just to make sure there wasn’t something we needed to worry about. And I was also hoping to get a copy of the spell, to see if one of our contacts could deactivate the thing.”

“Yes, well that seems sensible, doesn’t it.” She stood and brushed fur off her lap. “I’m fairly sure I can find you the text. Just a moment.” Her voice trailed off as she left the room, heading to the back of the apartment.

I decided not to follow, out of fear that there would be even less space in the back rooms. Instead I glanced at titles, trying to see what a lady such as this would be interested in. American Book Prices 1991. Architectural Record 1946. A collection of old Dr. Seuss books. Illuminated Manuscripts of Medieval Spain. Was there any sense to this collection?

“Here we are. Weller on Voodoo and Witchcraft. I’ve placed a bookmark at the relevant page.”

“Do you mind if I borrow it?”

“Not at all. I’ve come to accept that many of my books will never find proper homes. Since the Bastard left, I’ve been trickling them out over eBay, but I find my heart isn’t in it. Books are meant to be touched, held, read. Selling them over the Internet just seems so gauche .”

“We’ll return it shortly.”

“Thank you. And my apologies to your staff people. I never meant to hurt anyone.”

“No problem. I guess your husband’s lucky he didn’t take receipt of the package.”

“Oh, he’s lucky alright. The way he treats people, it’s unbelievable.”

Awkward. I didn’t know the lady, but I could feel the anger at her ex-husband emanating off her like heat off an element.

“It certainly sounds like he treated you poorly.”

“Oh yes. I hope he at least treats you and your staff with some courtesy?”

“Oh sure.” Other than being a bit of a jerk. “Be nice if we could get him to pay his bills on time, but I guess business is tough all around.”

At that she snorted, then clutched my arm and looked me right in the eye.

“Business is not tough for Bernie. Never has been. He has one of the most profitable shops around. The fact is, he stretches payment every time he can get away with it. It’s the way he does business — scratches and claws for every advantage he can get.”

Sol seemed so excited by the Weller book that I left it with him, on the understanding that Veronica Galt would hunt both of us down if anything happened to it. He promised to take good care of it, and was handling it so gently I figured he was telling the truth.