The Conspiracy Club Read Free Page A

hospital at lunchtime and walked to a used bookstore two blocks away. The shop was a dim, narrow place on a grimy block filled with liquor stores, thrift outlets, and vacancies. A strange block; sometimes Jeremy’s nose picked up the sweetness of fresh bread, but no bakeries were in sight. Other times, he’d smell sulfurous ash and industrial waste and find no source of those odors, either. He was beginning to doubt his own senses.
    The bookstore was filled with raw pine cases and smelled of old newsprint. Jeremy had frequented its corners and shadows in the past, searching out the vintage psychology books he collected. Bargains abounded; few people seemed interested in first edition Skinners, Maslows, Jungs.
    Since Jocelyn’s death he hadn’t been back to the store. Perhaps now was the time to return to routine, such as it was.
    The shop’s windows were black, and no signage identified the business inside. Once you entered, the world was gone, and you were free to concentrate. An effective ruse, but it also had the effect of discouraging venture; rarely had Jeremy seen other customers. Maybe that was the way the proprietor wanted it.
    He was a fat man who rang up purchases with a scowl, never spoke, seemed pointedly misanthropic. Jeremy wasn’t certain if his mutism was elective or the result of some defect, but he was certain the man wasn’t deaf. On the contrary, the slightest noise perked the fat man’s ears. Customer inquiries, however, elicited an impatient finger point at the printed guide posted near the shop’s entrance: a barely decipherable improvisation upon the Dewey Decimal System. Those who couldn’t figure it out were out of luck.
    This afternoon, the bearish mute sat behind his cash register reading a tattered copy of Sir Edward Lytton’s
Eugene Aram
. Jeremy’s entrance merited a shift of haunches and the merest quiver of eyebrow.
    Jeremy proceeded to the
Psychology
section and searched book spines for treasures. Nothing. The sagging shelves bore the same volumes he’d seen months ago. Every book, it appeared, remained in place. As if the section had been reserved for Jeremy.
    As usual, the shop was empty but for Jeremy. How did the mute make a living? Perhaps he didn’t. As Jeremy continued browsing, he found himself fantasizing about sources of independent income for the fat man. A range of possibilities, from the loftiest inheritance to the monthly disability check.
    Or, perhaps the store was a front for drug-dealing, money-laundering, white slavery, international intrigue.
    Perhaps piracy on the high seas was hatched here, among the dusty bindings.
    Jeremy indulged himself with thoughts of unimaginable felonies. That led him to a bad place, and he cursed his idiocy.
    A throat clear stopped him short. He stepped out of
Psychology
and sighted down the next aisle.
    Another customer stood there. A man, his back to Jeremy, unmindful of Jeremy.
    A tall, bald man in a well-cut, out-of-fashion tweed suit. White fringes of beard floated into view as a pink skull turned to inspect a shelf. The man’s profile was revealed as he made a selection and extricated a tome.
    Arthur Chess.
    Was this the
Lepidoptery
section? Jeremy had never studied the fat man’s guide, had never been interested in expanding.
    Funnel vision.
Sometimes it helped keep life manageable.
    He watched Arthur open the book, lick his thumb, turn a page.
    Arthur kept his head down. Began walking up the aisle as he read.
    Reversing direction, head still down, coming straight at Jeremy.
    To greet the pathologist would open the worm-can of obligatory conversation. If Jeremy left now, quickly, stealthily, perhaps the old man wouldn’t notice.
    But if he did notice, Jeremy would earn the worst of both worlds: forced to socialize and robbed of browsing time.
    He decided to greet Arthur, hoping that the pathologist would be so engrossed in his butterfly book that the ensuing chat would be brief.
    Arthur gazed up before Jeremy reached him.