Bibliomania

Monroe took a slow, careful drag off the cigarette, leaned over, and blew the smoke right in Walter’s face.

“Hey!” Walter howled, throwing a hand up. “Not there. On my jacket.” He raised his arms and turned to the side a bit, and Monroe redirected the smoke.

Monroe’s breath broke into a dry cough, and he leaned back against the table, nearly dropping the cigarette. “Holy cow,” he said, gripping one edge of the battered wooden table tightly, “I can’t believe they still sell these things, and books are illegal.”

“I know,” Walter said. “World doesn’t make any sense.”

Monroe recovered himself and took another careful drag off the cigarette. Walter turned so that he could hit the back of his jacket with the smoke.

They were in a bad part of town, in what had once been a decrepit house and was now a rough little cafe called Stallman’s. It was one of those places the IP agents were always trying to infiltrate, looking for contraband books. Sometimes their searches were successful, but usually there were no books, merely people staring at their viewers and talking about the old days.

One night a week, the cafe hosted a spoken-word performance, where local people gathered to read and listen to poetry and short works until late into the night. This was one of the other nights. The sound system turned out world jazz music, and the crowd was made up of anarchists and various riffraff sitting around wooden tables making dark plans of one form or another. Most nights, Walter wouldn’t need Beckett’s assistance to smell like smoke. This night, however, Walter and his friends had been out on a mission, and they had just gotten here. They smelled a little like sweat and dust, and a lot like success, but Walter needed to smell like smoke and liquor.

Monroe had dissolved into another cough when Beckett pushed through the little crowd back to their table, a small bottle of amber liquid in his hand. “Here you go, man. Guy swears it’s the real thing.”

Walter unscrewed the top and put the bottle up to his nose.

“Good?” Beckett asked.

It smelled like antifreeze and aftershave. “Yeah.”

A gasp of laughter burst from the dark corner at the back side of the table. “Like either of you would know,” Zeta said. She was the only female in the group, but she was the one who drank and smoked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Walter said. He tried to make eye contact with Zeta, to convey his nonchalance, but all he could see in the shadows was the red tip of her cigarette. “I’m not planning on getting drunk with it. It only needs to convince my wife.”

Monroe sat down in one of the vinyl chairs, looking greener than ever.

Beckett cleared his throat, clearly working up the nerve to say something. “Yes,” he began, “well, uh, that part bothers me—that hiding all this from your wife.”

“Yeah,” Monroe said. “You should just tell her what you’re doing, and what you say goes.”

Zeta laughed.

“No way,” Beckett said. “If she didn’t like it and went to the authorities, we could be in a lot of trouble.” At this thought, he collapsed into the vinyl chair opposite Monroe, elbow on the table, palm on his forehead. “A lot of trouble.”

“I don’t care,” Monroe said. “It’s totally worth it.” He sat up straighter in his chair. “Hey, Walter, let me see that page again.”

Walter glanced around the room and took the last seat at the table. Monroe put the cigarette in the ashtray and slid it over in front of Zeta, who pushed it over by Beckett, who didn’t notice. They all leaned in close to the table as he slipped a single piece of paper from his pocket.

“Wow,” Monroe said. He reached his hand out and traced lovingly along the line of text at the bottom of the page.

“Every time we find one, it gives me chills,” Beckett said.

Walter said nothing. Inside, his stomach was doing backflips, too, but he was more worried about IP agents catching them with the contraband.

They stared at the page for another moment, the other three taking the opportunity to feel the slightly yellowed paper and run their fingers over the crisp black letters.

“I’ll bring it by any time you guys want,” Walter said. This was the first time one of their little treasures was going home with him, and he was the newcomer to this little gang. He didn’t want to get caught, but he didn’t want to be kicked out of the gang, either. He slid a fingernail under the edge of the paper, lifted it carefully, and tucked it back inside his jacket.

They leaned back in their chairs as the paper disappeared from view.

“You take care of that,” Monroe said. “That’s a piece of a real beauty by a real master.”

“I will,” Walter promised. “But I’d better be getting home now. Karen’s going to be pissed.”

“Tell her you’re the boss,” Monroe said again, and Walter still couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“Make sure you don’t get us caught,” Beckett said.

“Or maybe,” Zeta said, copping an attitude from the back of the table, “you could tell her the truth. Maybe she likes books. Some girls do, you know.”

Walter shook his head. “No way. Not Karen. She’s too uptight.”

Beckett shrugged. “She lets you come here.”

“She doesn’t let me come here,” Walter said. “She thinks I’m blowing off some steam, drinking and so on with the guys.”

They laughed at him.

“Whatever,” Walter said. “Give me that bottle.”

Beckett handed him the bottle, and Walter took a sip. It was strong. Walter tried to keep it on the back of his tongue and swallow it without tasting it. His mouth on fire, he said to Monroe, “Hit me with some more smoke.”

Walter stood up and raised his elbows. Monroe made a face, picked up the cigarette, and took another little drag. While Monroe blew smoke onto his jacket, Walter took another, bigger, drink from the bottle. Then they both collapsed into their chairs, coughing furiously.

From the back side of the table came a humorless chuckle. “Lightweights,” Zeta said. Her eyes shined in the darkness, and the tip of her cigarette glowed as she inhaled.

“You could have helped, you know,” Walter said to her.

Zeta exhaled slowly, blowing the smoke in his direction, up over his head. “And you could be honest with your wife.”

“Be honest?” he asked. “What we’re doing is illegal.”