The Changeling. Victor LaValle
Mrs. Grabowski swung at her son again. “I told you not to lie!” she shouted.
She hit his cellphone this time, and it soared out of his hand, into the den, skittering across the hardwood floor and under the couch.
“Mama!” He ran for the device, and Apollo’s card fluttered to the floor.
The old woman turned back to Apollo. “Do you like to buy these books?”
“Well,” Apollo said, looking into the sixth box again. How to be nice about this? “It’s obvious your husband got a lot of enjoyment out of them.”
She dropped her head, trembling with desperation. When she did, he came across a book that made him stiffen. A novel called Fields of Fire by James Webb. No discoloration to the book jacket, and the book itself showed no fading to the board edges, no rubbing, and when he turned to the copyright page, he saw it was a true first edition. Nothing like the Crowley postcard of course, but he had a regular customer in Virginia, a history hound, who might pay two hundred and fifty for this book.
Apollo scanned the house again. Old clothes in garbage bags, a decaying sectional couch. The kitchen, visible from the dining room, looked like a graveyard for pots and appliances. Apollo doubted Mrs. Grabowski’s ex-husband had left her anything worth a damn. She’d even said this house was only a rental. She’d inherited a messy house that she had to clear quickly, and her only help was feckless Igor.
And yet she’d retained dignity, hadn’t she? She’d refused to go along with her son’s stupid plan. Even as much as she no doubt needed money, any money, she hadn’t been willing to lie to Apollo to get it. He imagined her working some job during the day, then coming out to Ridgewood each evening to sweep up after her dead, no doubt equally feckless husband. Though she was Ukrainian, she reminded him of his mother. Someone who worked like hell and still didn’t get all the good luck she deserved. If he paid her what this book was actually worth, it would be a kindness. Even half its value, even a hundred bucks, might make a difference: a week’s worth of groceries, a month’s Con Ed bill.
From the other room, Igor shouted, “You better not have cracked the screen, Mama!”
She looked over her shoulder at her son, on his knees, pawing for the device under the couch. He looked like a toddler scrambling for his toy. Mrs. Grabowski visibly deflated. Apollo felt his sympathies flare across his face like a rash.
But quickly Apollo reminded himself why he’d come out to Ridge-wood tonight: because it had been six years since the D’Agostino haul and nothing worth even as much as the Webb novel had come his way since then. Because Emma’s job at the library had been reduced from full time to part time. Because Apollo Kagwa and Emma Valentine were expecting their first child in two weeks.
When Mrs. Grabowski looked back, Apollo held two hardcovers out to her. “I missed these when I first looked,” he said.
She peeked at the covers and mouthed the titles to herself. “They’re valuable?” she asked. She watched his face closely.
“A little,” he finally said.
If he’d tried to buy only one book, Mrs. Grabowski would’ve felt sure it was valuable, but the second book—a ratty copy of an unremarkable thriller—acted as a kind of camouflage for Fields of Fire. Apollo learned this trick from the old dealers long ago. He hated doing all this, and so he decided, deep in the well of his mind, that he was doing it for his unborn child. It’s for the kid, he told himself. The words soothed his conscience, like applying aloe to a light burn.
“I’ll give you fifty dollars,” Apollo said softly.
“Each?” Mrs. Grabowski asked, her voice rising.
Apollo went to his wallet. “For both,” he said.
He waited until she nodded and took the cash.
Igor returned from the other room, his phone gripped tight in one hand. “You’re proud of yourself?” he asked. “Cheating an old widow?”
Mrs. Grabowski folded the bills into her fist, then hit Igor with her closed hand. “Don’t talk like that! This is more money than your father gave me in years.”
Igor ignored the attack and her words. “You know it’s true,” he said, grinning at Apollo. “And I know it’s true.”
Apollo tucked both books under his arm. Mrs. Grabowski walked him back toward the front door, Igor trailing behind them.
Apollo crossed the threshold and walked down to the sidewalk. He turned back to find Igor in the doorway. Behind him Mrs. Grabowski counted the money in her hand. Apollo couldn’t tell if she looked satisfied or suspicious.
“It’s business,” Apollo said. “I’m just doing business here.”
“The devil likes to hide behind a cross,” Igor said, then shut the front door.
ENTERING BOULEY RESTAURANT felt like stepping inside a gingerbread house. Outside he’d been on Duane Street, a tony block in Manhattan but still just downtown NYC. The exterior of the building, an understated apricot, and a simple wooden door with glass panels suggested Nichelle had picked a pleasant enough place. But when he opened the door and stepped into the foyer, he found himself surrounded by apples. Shelves had been built into the wall, running as high as the ceiling; rows of fresh red apples and their scent enveloped him. The door to Duane Street shut behind him, and Apollo felt as if he’d stumbled into a small cottage off an overgrown path in a dark wood. He stayed there in the perfume of the apple room inhaling the scent. If he’d brought the stain of his interaction with Mrs. Grabowski downtown with him, then this room made him feel cleansed.
Another door led from the foyer into a waiting room, a long narrow hall with padded chairs and tiny tables. Six small chandeliers hung from the wooden rafters but offered little light. The curtains covering the windows looked as lush as bridal gowns. The waiting room sat shrouded in an elegant gloom like the little parlor of a storied mansion.
Immediately, instinctively, Apollo checked to see if he was wearing sneakers or shoes. He shifted his messenger bag so it hung behind him. A few people were waiting to be seated, but Emma and Nichelle weren’t among them. There was a dark wooden station, and behind it the maître d’—a tall man in a tailored blue suit—gazed down into a screen that lit his sharp face strangely. When he looked up to greet Apollo, the man’s eyes were lost in a shadow. Since his mouth stayed shrouded in darkness too, it was impossible to see his lips. He looked more ghoulish than gallant.
“Forty regular?”
Not what Apollo expected. He set his bag down and presented his empty hands. If they were turning him away, this had to be the strangest rejection he’d ever heard.
“Nichelle Murray?” Apollo replied.
The maître d’ nodded quickly and stepped away from his station, then retreated to a door behind him. Apollo looked at the guests in the waiting room—mere silhouettes in leather chairs. In a moment the maître d’ reappeared with a sport coat. He helped Apollo slip it on.
He waved Apollo forward, a menu under one arm, led him through the waiting room and past the other customers. The dining room’s vaulted ceilings had been laid with eighteen-karat gold leaf sheets, and on top of that a twelve-karat white gold varnish, so the ceiling seemed as supple as suede. The floors were Burgundy stone, overlaid by Persian rugs. If the foyer felt like a woodland cottage and the waiting area a haunted parlor, the dining room became an ancient castle’s great hall. This only added to the fantastical atmosphere of the restaurant. Apollo felt as if he was trekking through realms rather than rooms. If there had been men in full armor posted as sentries, it wouldn’t have surprised him. And in fact, when the maître d’ reached the right table, there was a queen waiting there. Emma Valentine, too pregnant to stand. Apollo leaned close and kissed her.
Nichelle