Dr. Yes Read Free Page A

publisher and they've all been
out of print for twenty years!'
        'So?'
        I
turned to my trusty assistant. 'Jeff - how many times a week do people come in
here asking about Augustine Wogan and how to get hold of his books?'
        'Uhm
- once?'
        'Yes,
but it's every week!'
        'Uhm
- yes, but it's usually the same bloke.'
        'That
isn't the point! He wrote the Barbed-Wire Love trilogy; he's a genius!'
        'Well
your genius looks mental.' She shook her head. 'Maybe he could be a genius down
at Waterstones?'
        'Philistine,'
I hissed.
        I
knelt before him. He still had the briefcase pinned to his chest by his elbows.
I gingerly prodded a knee. 'Mr Wogan. Augustine. Is there anything I can do to
help?'
        He
rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles. 'Help? I think it's too late for that.'
        'Is
there somebody I can call for you?'
        'It's
definitely too late for that.'
        'Well,
you were rushing somewhere; do you want me to call wherever you were going?'
        'No,
I don't think that would be a good idea at all. You see . ..' He let out a
sigh. He looked from me to Jeff to Alison and back. Then he opened his
briefcase and reached inside. He took out a gun. 'I was on my way to kill
someone.'
        'Oh,'
I said.
        'Bloody
hell,' said Alison.
        As
Augustine waved the gun listlessly around, Jeff ducked down behind the counter.
I stood up, and stepped back.
        'Oh,
I'm such a bloody fool,' Augustine wailed. 'I have immersed myself in crime
fiction for all these years and convinced myself that I know something about
crime, about murder and how to do it and get away with it, when the truth is
I'm just a ham-fisted, gold-plated old eejit. I was building up a head of
steam, and you interrupted me, and now I don't think I have the strength to
make another run at him. Thank God you stopped me when you did - divine
intervention, that's what it is, that's what it is!'
        We
were stunned, we were shocked, we didn't know where to look or what to say. He
was the legendary Augustine Wogan, but reduced to a sobbing, gun-toting wreck.
        Alison
already had the phone in her hand.
        Jeff
was clutching the mallet I keep for protection just beneath the counter.
        'While
you're here,' I ventured, 'do you think you could sign some books?'
    ----
        

Chapter 3
        
        Alison
was telling me I had to get him out of the shop, that he was clearly
brain-damaged, that we shouldn't allow him to say anything else because I was
so weak and insipid I was bound to be pulled into something dark and dangerous,
and I would drag her in with me. She was pregnant, and that was scary enough. I
had told her a million times that I was only interested in little itty-bitty
cases, not much more complicated than crosswords or, God help me, Sudoku, but
somehow they never quite worked out like that. There were always gunshots,
bodies, terror, blood, pine trees or stuffed animals, and we just didn't need
it right now; we had to be thinking of little Caspar.
        'Just
get the gun off him,' she said, 'and if you don't call the police, I will.'
        I met
her halfway. I removed the gun. He didn't put up a fight. He was a broken man.
But I couldn't phone the police. I didn't want my legacy as a bookseller to be
that I had put the greatest crime fiction author ever to come out of Belfast
behind bars, especially as he hadn't even responded to my request to sign my
precious books, and in doing so render them even more precious.
        'Look,'
I said, showing her the gun, 'he's disarmed, he's not a danger to anyone now.
The least we can do is let him talk about it if he wants to. What's the harm in
that?'
        'You
know exactly what the harm is.'
        'I
swear to God we won't get involved. I've had it with danger, you know that; my
blood pressure is worse than yours, and I'm not even pregnant.'
        'Your
blood pressure is