Dr. Yes Read Free

ordering Alison to get him a chair.
        Alison
blinked at me.
        I
next ordered Jeff, who, being an employee, of sorts, was much more compliant.
        'Have
a seat, have a seat,' I said as Jeff put it in place.
        'Thank
you…thank you ...'
        'Get
him a glass of water.'
        Alison
was looking at me, knowing how rare it was for me to fawn over anyone. Jeff
nodded and turned to the kitchen.
        'Please,
no, don't go to any trouble.' Augustine held up his hand. 'Evian if you have
it.'
        Jeff
hesitated, then looked to me for direction. From behind Augustine I drew a
bottle outline in the air, and Jeff got it immediately. We keep a selection of
empty designer water bottles in the kitchen for the exclusive use of prima
donnas. In his field, Augustine was actually a prima donna, in the best sense
of the words, but it didn't mean he could tell branded water from tap. Or as it
turned out:
        'Fuck!
That tastes like fucking shite!' He grabbed the bottle and examined the label.
'Sell by March 1997 - are you trying to fucking kill me as well?'
        He
let out a cry, and hurled it across the shop, spraying water over a display of
books that would shortly boast a sign saying Water Damage Sale , though
actually I would have increased their price.
        Before
I could apologise profusely, he held his hand up again and said sorry himself.
He was under a lot of pressure. He appreciated us giving him sanctuary. For the
first time he nodded around the shop.
        'I do
remember this place. Yes. Did a very good reading in here, didn't I? What did
you call that tit used to own it?'
        I
cleared my throat. 'I own it now,' I said.
        Augustine
nodded at Alison. 'This the missus?'
        'Working
on it,' said Alison.
        He turned
his gaze upon Jeff, who shrugged and said, 'Jeff - I just do stuff.'
        Augustine
shook his head. 'Well, nice to meet you all.' He patted his jacket pocket, and
produced a long, thick cigar and snipped the end of it with a small guillotine
cutter. He was about to light up when Alison said, 'No.'
        'No?'
        'No.'
        'But
somebody just tried to kill me.'
        'No.'
        He
looked at me. I gave him my helpless shrug. I was one hundred per cent against
smoking, particularly in my shop, but he was Augustine Fucking Wogan!. Fortunately
he didn't try to force it. It was just another thing that was going against
him. He looked sadly at the cigar, then slipped it back inside his jacket. He
shook his head. He sighed. 'How appropriate,' he said, 'that a crime writer
should wash up in a mystery bookshop, here, at the end of it all.'
        He
stared at the ground. His shoulders began to shake. He cried silently. It was
terribly sad to see the great man brought so low, and I would have put an arm
around him and given him a hug if I wasn't allergic to people. Alison did the
twirly finger thing at the side of her head, asking if he was nuts. Jeff did
the mobile phone with his fist, for the emergency services, before miming
pouncing with a butterfly net. Their reaction to this first encounter with
Augustine Wogan was understandable; they did not know who he was, the giant
that he was in his field, nor that his signature, applied to a dusty box of
books, would help No Alibis get through the doubtlessly lean summer months.
They took him at face value - a head-the- ball I'd dragged in off the street.
        Alison
said as much, pulling me to one side as Augustine continued to sob his eyes
out. 'Just what this shop needs - another maniac. How are we going to get rid
of him?'
        'We
aren't. Don't you know who he is? Augustine Wogan? The Times named him
amongst their One Hundred Masters of Crime Fiction. At number seventeen. The
sixteen above him are already dead. The Daily Telegraph put him in their
top ten Fifty Crime Writers to Read Before You Die, despite the fact that his
books have never been picked up by a mainstream