Chapter Text
the bell above the door jingles softly as john steps in, being greeted by the warm scent of worn paper and leather polish.
the sign above the door read ‘woodward book shop’, a new-york bookstore over one hundred years old, one that he was supposed to meet a potential contact at.
laswell had briefed him on the man; lionel woodward, third-generation bookseller, dealing in rare finds of the literary world. he was also john’s golden ticket into a weekly backroom poker game that’d give him access to people whose dealings were more of interest to him.
”hi!” a chirpy voice greets, head popping up from the counter. a younger woman — looks to be fresh out of uni. ruddy cheeks, messy braids, thick glasses. she looks as if a field-mouse was turned into a person.
”can i help you find anything?” she asks, head tilting to the side.
john clears his throat, “i have a meeting with mr. lionel woodward.”
she glances down, dragging a finger along a page in the leather-bound planner sitting stout on the wooden counter, “john keane?”
”that’d be me,” he nods. he wasn’t thrilled about going under-cover, but laswell at least gave him the mercy of his same first name. a foriegn-feeling tweed suit-jacket sat too-snug on his shoulders, a briefcase in his hand where his AR should be.
she grins, “gramps is back in the office. you met with him before, or do you need me to show you up?”
he smiles warmly, “could you show me up, love?”
“of course,” she stands, staying bent over for a moment to finish scribbling something down. “sorry, doing some inventory — gramps insists everything be done on paper, thinks it’s still the seventies,” she jokes, circling around the desk.
easier to fudge financials when there’s no electronic records, john thinks.
”follow me, mr. keane,” she beckons, leading him through a labrynth of floor-to ceiling bookshelves, teeming with novels — some cheap, some rare, all used.
floorboards creak with every step they take, the girl chattering aimlessly as she leads him, pointing out different sections, eventually getting to a doorway.
”if you’re the type of man i think you are, this’ll be the area for you to peruse once you’re done with your meeting,” she says, an excited glint in her eye. she pulls a skeleton key from her back pocket, pushing open the heavy wooden door, stained glass in the transom.
he tries not to think of what type of man he is; a war machine who’s been checking out a twenty-something year old’s ass as he prepares to dupe her grandfather.
as opposed to the aged chaos of the public section, this area is immaculate. clean, brightly lit, and obsessively maintained shelves of signed first editions and million dollar antique tomes lined the walls.
”i’m sure you’re itchin’ to get to your meeting, but if there’s anything you’re wanting to get a better look at after your appointment, call for me or gramps. the intercom on the wall hooks up to the phone at my desk,” she grins.
”up you go,” she motions to a set of wooden stairs along the back wall, leading up to a small platform with another door at the end. “just knock, he’s expecting you.”
john thanks her, trying to not think too hard about her two pig-tail braids and how he hopes to not get this girl caught in the cross-fire.
𖡎 ꩜ .ᐟ
worming his way in was even easier than anticipated. all john needed to do was lay on charm thick, as well as express his interest in a first-edition copy of ‘casino royale’ — dust jacket required.
”i’m afraid i don’t currently have that one in my collection,” leo, as he’d insisted on being called, said, “but i’m sure a friend of mine does. we play poker here friday nights… if you’re not busy, i’m sure you’d find some enjoyment here, mr. keane.”
john had smiled and thanked him, shaking his hand with an enthusiastic, “good chap, you.”
”i have some calls to make, but if you’d like to browse our private selection, i’ll have dusty give you a hand,” leo says, looking quite pleased in his worn leather desk chair, a tweed jacket of his own curled around him.
”dusty?” john asks.
”louise, uh, weezie, my granddaughter. she showed you up?”
”ah,” john acquiesces, “the one in the sweater.”
”don’t even mention the sweater. it’s awful,” leo groans, “she needs to learn better before i leave this all to her.”
this earns a genuine guffaw from john. lionel’s right — the sweater really was awful. worn out in the elbows, textured and colorful in a heinous 90’s sort of way, making the little thing look like she was drowning in threadbare wool.
”well, i won’t let the sweater distract me from your collection. page her for me, if you would?” he asks, standing from his position across from lionel’s desk.
leo nods and waves him off, and the door opens as his granddaughter, louise, lets herself into the archive room.
”mr. keane,” she greets warmly. “please, feel free to look around, let me know if you’d like a closer look at anything.”
john takes a few minutes to peruse, pretending to be interested in the spines of the specialty books before something genuinely catches his eye, “dove, can i see this one, please?”
and the girl absolutely lights up, pulling on gloves and passing a pair to him, “just a precaution, sir. i’m sure you know how damaging skin oils can be.”
she oh-so-gently pulls the book from the shelf: ‘dubliners’, james joyce. gracefully, it’s set upon a lacquered table, and she takes a practiced step back so that john can examine it in peace.
crimson cloth runs under his gloved fingers, and he gently leaves through the pages trying to act the part of a high-eschelon book collector under the girl’s possibly-naive gaze.
”may i share some information about your pick?” she asks, peering up at him through thick lenses.
john nods, making a vague gesture for her to keep talking, her voice a pleasure despite his secret disinterest in the book.
”this is a first-edition copy of joyce’s ‘dubliners,’ one of the one-hundred and twenty copies he was required to purchase himself in his contract. it is in near-fine condition; some time-wear on the outer binding, paper tanning, and mild damage to the textblock on page…” she trails off, glancing back down at a notebook, “page one-forty-one. you’ll notice an inscription from joyce himself on the inside of the fromt cover, though it is not addressed to anyone directly.”
”asking price?” he grunts back.
”nineteen-five USD. roughly…” she trails off again, looking up as she does mental math, “fourteen thousand, five hundred pounds.”
damn. based on how fast the bird rattled off that information, and how quickly she did the conversions in her head, lionel’s been training her to take over the family business for a long, long while. too bad it’s all dirty money.
”hmph,” is all price offers back. he gingerly closes the book, removing his gloves. “i’ll be on my way.”
she just nods, trailing him out of the back room, “if you have any questions, or need anything during your time in new york, mr. keane, feel free to call the store. i’m louise, uh, i’m here most days, and i’m a bit easier to get ahold of than gramps.”
she scribbles out something onto a piece of paper, tearing it out of the notebook and holding it out to him, “the store phone, and my cell. for buyers with your… tastes… i’d reccommend my cell first.”
with a small smile, he takes the paper, “thanks, love. call me john.”