Free The Salinger Contract by Adam Langer Page B

view of Lake Shore Drive and the black lake beyond it.
    â€œThat’s right,” Dex said. “Some people collect art. Some collect autographs. I collect stories—novels, memoirs … if there’s really any difference between them. It all depends upon the author’s willingness and upon my fancy. As you may have noticed, my tastes tend towards crime stories. But you are absolutely correct—you won’t find these in any other library in the world. You won’t find them mentioned in any one of these authors’ biographies, autobiographies, or bibliographies. The only place you will find them is here.”
    Conner selected another manuscript, this one by Margot Hetley— Bluddy Brillyance: A Tale of Wizzerds, Vampyres, and Vampards .
    â€œAhh, yes. Lady Hetley’s book,” said Dex. “No one knew her then. She’d written only one book, but I knew she had the gift. Ruthless. But brilliant. Pity I can’t let you read it.”
    Dex returned the Hetley manuscript to the shelf. Conner turned his attention to The Missing Glass .
    â€œBut this one,” said Conner. “Surely …”
    â€œSurely what?” asked Dex.
    â€œI thought he …”
    Dex finished Conner’s sentence for him. “Stopped publishing?”
    Conner nodded.
    â€œYes,” said Dex. “In fact, he did. But that doesn’t mean he stopped writing. You heard he wanted to stay out of the public eye? Well, that was part of our agreement as well. Still, everyone has his price. Even wealthy, reclusive authors. Every author you see represented here—they all made their agreements, and I paid each of their prices. All of this will be part of our agreement too, Conner—yours and mine, if you decide that you would like to work with me.”
    As Dex and Pavel both stared intently at Conner, the manuscripts in the bookcase began to make more sense. Apparently, Dex had commissioned these authors to write books for him. But what sort of books? And why hadn’t he heard of any of them before? How valuable might these be if they were authentic? An original, unpublished novel by J. D. Salinger? One by Harper Lee? By Jarosław Dudek? Conner began reading the first page of the Salinger manuscript and instantly recognized his favorite author’s style—it was like a fingerprint; you couldn’t counterfeit it. But before he could get the slightest sense of the story, a shadow fell over the page, and he noticed Pavel standing beside him, holding open a hand. Conner looked over to Dex, who indicated to Conner with a slight jut of the chin that he should hand the manuscript back to Pavel. Conner did. Pavel reshelved the book. Dex stood and locked the bookcase. He placed the key in his pocket.
    â€œThat was another part of my agreement with these authors, and that will be part of ours, too,” Dex said. He directed Conner to sit across from him at the library table. “No other readers aside from me.” He looked up at Pavel, who was still guarding the bookcase. “Pavel may read, but no one else.”
    As Conner told me his story while we reclined on our poolside lounge chairs, I shifted back and forth between excitement and jealousy. I was fascinated by the idea of all these unknown works. Yet I was envious that Conner was, in a sense, being asked to join these men, while here I was in Indiana, once again listening to another author’s story instead of telling my own. I was even more envious of the idea of writing a story, getting paid for it, and not having to share it with anyone or risk alienating anybody.
    â€œI wish I could tell you more about the story in that Salinger book, buddy, or about any of the others. But they were all private books,” said Conner. “He said he wanted me to write his very own private book.”
    You may wonder why I was so willing to believe Conner, why I accepted, almost without question, the idea that Conner