Michael Guillebeau - MAD Librarian - You Gotta Fight for Your Right to Library

Serenity nodded. “Bring him in.”

A few hours later, Serenity rubbed her eyes and shut down her computer. Enough. Who would have guessed that spending money could be so tough? She had spent all morning staring at the screen and sending money everywhere she could.

She stood up and stretched. No sleep, no food. At least five trips to the coffee pot. And now she needed one more. Maybe she’d get some peanut butter crackers from the machine. That sounded as appealing as week-old cat litter, but she needed something.

Serenity opened her door and looked out through the glass wall from the old library to the new MAD. Three floors of steel frame were up. Glass was going in on the third floor and the frame was started on four.

Amazing what you could do with money.

She went to the coffee bar that was crammed into the corner of what had been the break room. Tom, the new library barista hired to set up shop in the MAD, smiled from his temporary quarters.

“You’re keeping me busy today, Ms. Hammer.”

“Yeah. Good thing we made this stuff free for everybody or I’d be broke.”

“How about some decaf? I can make you a caramel decaf latte. Take some of that edge off.”

“I wish. Even straight caffeine’s not getting it done today. Give me a large Depth Bomb. Make it a double.”

“You sure? Dark coffee with two shots of espresso?”

She handed him her cup. He worked on it a minute and handed it back. “When you get done drinking that, you may want to throw the cup out. But don’t kill anyone in the process. Aim well.”

“I promise.”

To keep Tom’s brew from spilling and eating through the carpet, she cradled the cup in two hands as she walked back to her office. She unlocked the door, kneed the empty visitor’s chair out of the way and sat down at her chair. Faulkner peeked out and stared across the room.

“Don’t touch this stuff,” she warned. He kept staring.

She jumped when she saw a short teen-aged boy sitting in her visitor’s chair.

“Young man,” she said, “where did you come from?”

He didn’t say anything and she looked closer. The teen-aged boy had wrinkles around his eyes and a gymnast’s build.

And one hand.

She caught herself staring. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t staring.”

He let her hang there for a long moment before he said, “Yes, you were.”

“Well, yes, but… are you…” She realized she didn’t have a full name and wasn’t sure if One Hand Ryan was offensive. Just because Joy said it, didn’t mean Emily Post would approve. “Are you, uh—”

“One Hand Ryan. Just call me OHR.”

“I’m sorry,” she stood up and reached a handshake across the desk. She was glad to see his right hand was the functioning one.

Didn’t matter. He didn’t take it. Her hand hung in the air for a second before she pulled it back.

“Well, Ryan,” she said, “if you come to work here, what last name should we put on your paychecks?”

He shrugged and looked at the wall behind her. “How about Maddington?”

Could be worse. Could have just been Mad.

“Okay. Mr. Maddington—”

“OHR.”

“OHR. How much do you know about our situation?”

“Everything. Joy told me everything she knew, and I did my own digging.”

“When? We just decided to talk to you—and that’s all this is, just an interview—a few hours ago.”

“Plenty of time to dig. And travel.”

“We’re pretty secretive here these days, and our computer security features some of the best.”

“Best for a library.” He paused and leaned forward. “It’s not good enough for a criminal enterprise.”

“We’re not a criminal enterprise.”

“You are a civic criminal enterprise. Lots of organizations start that way, and then change. The people involved start taking a little for themselves, then a little more until there’s nothing left. You appear to be the exception. You’ve raised the salary for your staff, but not for yourself.”

“Joy tell you that?”

“She told me some. Most I found on my own. And if I can find it, others can. We need to fix that, and fast.”

“We? You’d work for a—what did you call us—civic criminal enterprise?”

He stood up. He was small, and his muscles were compact.

“Everything’s a civic criminal enterprise, if you think about it. Even the obvious criminal organizations like the Mafia and drug gangs don’t survive because of their crime, but because of the roots they put down in the community and the needs they serve there. At the other end of the spectrum, churches are—sometimes—completely legal, but they only survive by the legalized theft of their tax-free status. In between are all the civic and business and political enterprises that write the laws to let them get away with murder.

“The problem that you’ve got here,” he continued, “is that your library has nothing to protect it—no politicians, no tax breaks, no tough guys. And no OHR.”

Serenity looked at him, a slightly wrinkled former teen-aged boy with muscles and one hand.

“It sounds as if you’ve talked yourself into taking the job. If we offer.”

“As long as I’m on board with what you’re doing, I’ll be here.”

“That’s a little… arrogant. But you haven’t talked me into hiring you yet.”

“Ask me anything.”

“First of all, I can’t let you bring a gun into the library.”

“Don’t need one. Don’t need a uniform either. Some days I’ll have a blue polo with security written over the heart. Some days and nights I’ll be in the big tree outside. Other days you won’t know I’m here.”

“How about your background? Do you have a resume?”

“Nothing I want to talk about with you.”

“As I said about arrogance. Really, everything I’ve heard from you could just be bragging. I—”

“You need more Chris Knopf books.”

“What? The writer? How do you—”

“Before I came in here, the last thing you did was order one of Chris Knopf’s Hamptons mysteries. You need more. Chris is going to be the next big thing. And you need Larissa Reinhart. You’re a southern library, for crying out loud.”

“Okay. So maybe we can use you for computer security. I don’t mean to be rude, but you only have one hand. One hand, and no gun.”

“Sorry. My other hand got stuck in a Jihadist rocket launcher someplace I’d rather not name.”

“That doesn’t seem like a good place to put your hand.”

“The American vice president who the launcher was pointed at thought it was a good idea. The guy firing the rocket, who was killed when the rocket jammed on my hand and exploded, thought it was a very bad idea. Opinions differ.”

“Jesus. I mean, I admire your service, but aren’t there limits to what you can do?”

He nodded, stood, opened the door and waited in the library for her. She stepped out beside him.

“How many people—patrons—do you count out here?”

Serenity looked. “Eleven.”

“Twelve. You missed the kid under the table with the woman in the Rastafarian cap.”

“Okay. Nice trick.”

“Trick. Try to watch this. If anybody sees what I’m doing, I’ll walk out of here and let you hire a rent-a-cop.”

He jumped up and dug his fingers into the molding over her door. Then he pulled himself up with his one arm until his waist was even with the top of the door. Swung himself off that to the top of a book rack. Gathering speed, he flew from the rack to a rafter, and bounced rafter to rafter.

No sound. Serenity looked around. Nobody was paying attention to the man flying over their head. She looked back and couldn’t find OHR.

There was a quiet thud behind her. She turned and saw OHR grinning, wearing the woman’s Rastafarian cap.