Free The Burglar in the Rye by Lawrence Block Page A

an authentic signature.”
    “Suppose the signature’s authentic,” she said. “And suppose it’s what I originally asked you about, not just a signed copy but an inscribed one.”
    “Saying something about Timmy and his birthday?”
    “Saying something like ‘To Tiny Alice—Rye can do more than Milt or Malt / To let us know it’s not our fault. Love always, Gully.’”
    “Gully,” I said.
    “Yes.”
    “And I guess you’d be Tiny Alice.”
    “You’re very quick.”
    “Everybody tells me that. So your question’s not hypothetical. You’ve got the book, and you’re in a position to be sure of the signature.”
    “Yes.”
    “Tell me the inscription again.” She did, and I nodded. “He’s paraphrasing Housman, isn’t he? ‘Malt can do more than Milton can to justify God’s ways to man.’ A friend of mine used to recite that couplet just before he drank the fourth beer of the evening. Unfortunately he did it again with beers five through twelve, and one grew a little weary of it. ‘Rye can do more than Milt or Malt’—why rye, do you suppose?”
    “It’s all he drinks.”
    “You’d think he could find something better to drink, wouldn’t you? What with Nobody’s Baby still in print after…how many years?”
    She answered before I could consult the copyright page. “About forty. He was in his mid-twenties when he wrote it. He’s in his early sixties now.”
    “If the computer analysis is right, and he’s still alive.”
    “He’s alive.”
    “And you…know him?”
    “I used to.”
    “And he inscribed a book to you. Well, as far as the value’s concerned, all I could do is guess. If the copy came into my hands, I’d call a few specialists and see what I could find out. I’d get the handwriting authenticated. And then I’d probably consign the book to an auction gallery and let it find its own price, which I’d be hard put to guess at. Over two thousand, certainly, and possibly as much as five. It would depend who wanted it and how avid they were.”
    “And if you had a few of them bidding against each other.”
    “Exactly. And it wouldn’t hurt if you were somebody famous. Alice Walker, say, or Alice Hoffman, or even Alice Roosevelt Longworth. That would make it an association copy, and would render it a little more special for a collector.”
    “I see.”
    “On the other hand, the inscription’s interesting in and of itself. How did he come to sign it? For that matter, how did you happen to meet him? And, uh…”
    “What?”
    “Well, this may be a stupid question, but are you sure the man who signed your book was who he claimed to be? Because if no photos of the man exist, and if nobody knows where he lives or what he looks like…”
    She smiled a knowing smile. “Oh, it was Gully.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    “Well, I didn’t just run into him at a bookstore,” she said. “I lived with him for three years.”
    “You lived with him?”
    “For three years. Do you suppose that makes my book an association copy? Because you could say we had an association.”
    “When did this happen?”
    “Years ago,” she said. “I moved in twenty-three years ago, and—”
    “But you would have been a child,” I said. “What did he do, adopt you?”
    “I was fourteen.”
    “You’re thirty-seven now? I’d have said early thirties.”
    “And you’d have been sweet to say it. I’m thirty-seven, and I was fourteen when I met Gully Fairborn, and seventeen when we parted company.”
    “And you were, uh…”
    “We were.”
    “No kidding,” I said. “How did you meet?”
    “He wrote to me.”
    “You wrote him and he wrote back? That’s remarkable in and of itself. For thirty-some years every sensitive seventeen-year-old in America has read Nobody’s Baby. Half of them write letters to Fairborn, and they never get an answer. He’s famous for never answering a letter.”
    “I know.”
    “But he answered yours? You must write a hell of a letter.”
    “I do.