Camino Winds (Camino Island #2) - John Grisham Page 0,4
manuscripts? That’s a part of my past I’m trying to forget.”
“Wonderful. No one knows but you, me, Noelle, and of course the folks who paid the ransom.”
“Nothing from me.” She took a sip of wine, then leaned in low herself. “But where’s all that money, Bruce?”
“Buried offshore and drawing interest. I have no plans to touch it.”
“But it’s a fortune. Why are you still working so hard?”
A big smile, a big sip. “This is not work, Mercer. This is who I am. I love this business and would be lost without it.”
“Does the business still include dabbling in the black market?”
“Of course not. There are too many people watching right now, and, obviously, I don’t need that anymore.”
“So you’ve gone straight?”
“Clean as a whistle. I love the world of rare books and I’m buying even more these days, all legit. From time to time I get approached with something suspicious. There’s still a lot of thievery out there, and I confess that I’m tempted. But it’s too dicey.”
“At the moment.”
“At the moment.”
She shook her head and smiled. “You’re hopeless, Bruce. A hopeless flirt, philanderer, and book thief.”
“True, and I’ll also sell more copies of your book than anyone else. You gotta love me, Mercer.”
“I wouldn’t call it love.”
“Okay. How about adoration?”
“I’ll try that. Changing the subject, is there anything I should know about tonight?”
“I don’t think so. Everyone is excited to see you again. There were some questions when you disappeared three years ago, but I covered for you, said you had some family drama back home, wherever home might be. Then you got a couple of gigs teaching and just haven’t had the time to get back to the island.”
“Same characters?”
“Yes, minus Noelle, as I said. Andy will probably stop by for a glass of water and a hello. He asks about you. And there’s a new writer you might find interesting. Name’s Nelson Kerr, a former lawyer with a big firm in San Francisco. He ratted out a client, a defense contractor who was illegally selling high-tech military stuff to the Iranians and North Koreans, nice guys like that. It was a big stink about ten years ago, now it’s long since forgotten.”
“Why would I follow that?”
“Right, anyway, his career flamed out but he collected a ton for blowing the whistle. Now he’s sort of hiding out. Early forties, divorced, no kids, keeps to himself.”
“This place attracts the misfits, doesn’t it?”
“Always has. He’s a nice guy but doesn’t say much. Bought a nice condo down by the Hilton. Travels a lot.”
“What about his books?”
“He writes what he knows, international arms smuggling, money laundering. Good thrillers.”
“Sounds awful. Does he sell?”
“So-so, but he has potential. You wouldn’t like his stuff but you’ll probably like him.”
Thomas returned and the conversation switched to the latest publishing scandal.
5.
Bruce lived in a Victorian home ten minutes by foot from Bay Books. After the obligatory post-lunch siesta in his office at the store, he left midafternoon and walked home to prepare for dinner. Even in the depths of summer, he preferred to have his fancy meals on the veranda, under a couple of creaky old fans and next to a gurgling fountain. His favorite cuisine came from south Louisiana, and for the evening he had hired Chef Claude, a bona-fide Cajun who’d been on the island for thirty years. He was already in the kitchen, whistling as he hovered over a large copper pot on the stove. They bantered for a moment but Bruce knew better than to hang around. The chef was a big talker and when fully engaged often forgot about his food.
The temperature was in the low nineties and Bruce went upstairs to change. He peeled out of his daily seersucker and