The Conspiracy Club

3

After the chat in the dining room, Jeremy braced himself for some sign of familiarity from Arthur Chess at the next Tumor Board. But the pathologist favored him with a passing glance, nothing more.

When the meeting ended, Arthur made no further attempt to socialize, and Jeremy wrote off the encounter as a bit of impulse on the older man’s part.

On a frigid autumn day, he left the hospital at lunchtime and walked to a used bookstore two blocks away. The shop was a dim, narrow place on a grimy block filled with liquor stores, thrift outlets, and vacancies. A strange block; sometimes Jeremy’s nose picked up the sweetness of fresh bread, but no bakeries were in sight. Other times, he’d smell sulfurous ash and industrial waste and find no source of those odors, either. He was beginning to doubt his own senses.

The bookstore was filled with raw pine cases and smelled of old newsprint. Jeremy had frequented its corners and shadows in the past, searching out the vintage psychology books he collected. Bargains abounded; few people seemed interested in first edition Skinners, Maslows, Jungs.

Since Jocelyn’s death he hadn’t been back to the store. Perhaps now was the time to return to routine, such as it was.

The shop’s windows were black, and no signage identified the business inside. Once you entered, the world was gone, and you were free to concentrate. An effective ruse, but it also had the effect of discouraging venture; rarely had Jeremy seen other customers. Maybe that was the way the proprietor wanted it.

He was a fat man who rang up purchases with a scowl, never spoke, seemed pointedly misanthropic. Jeremy wasn’t certain if his mutism was elective or the result of some defect, but he was certain the man wasn’t deaf. On the contrary, the slightest noise perked the fat man’s ears. Customer inquiries, however, elicited an impatient finger point at the printed guide posted near the shop’s entrance: a barely decipherable improvisation upon the Dewey Decimal System. Those who couldn’t figure it out were out of luck.

This afternoon, the bearish mute sat behind his cash register reading a tattered copy of Sir Edward Lytton’s Eugene Aram. Jeremy’s entrance merited a shift of haunches and the merest quiver of eyebrow.

Jeremy proceeded to the Psychology section and searched book spines for treasures. Nothing. The sagging shelves bore the same volumes he’d seen months ago. Every book, it appeared, remained in place. As if the section had been reserved for Jeremy.

As usual, the shop was empty but for Jeremy. How did the mute make a living? Perhaps he didn’t. As Jeremy continued browsing, he found himself fantasizing about sources of independent income for the fat man. A range of possibilities, from the loftiest inheritance to the monthly disability check.

Or, perhaps the store was a front for drug-dealing, money-laundering, white slavery, international intrigue.

Perhaps piracy on the high seas was hatched here, among the dusty bindings.

Jeremy indulged himself with thoughts of unimaginable felonies. That led him to a bad place, and he cursed his idiocy.

A throat clear stopped him short. He stepped out of Psychology and sighted down the next aisle.

Another customer stood there. A man, his back to Jeremy, unmindful of Jeremy.

A tall, bald man in a well-cut, out-of-fashion tweed suit. White fringes of beard floated into view as a pink skull turned to inspect a shelf. The man’s profile was revealed as he made a selection and extricated a tome.

Arthur Chess.

Was this the Lepidoptery section? Jeremy had never studied the fat man’s guide, had never been interested in expanding.

Funnel vision. Sometimes it helped keep life manageable.

He watched Arthur open the book, lick his thumb, turn a page.

Arthur kept his head down. Began walking up the aisle as he read.

Reversing direction, head still down, coming straight at Jeremy.

To greet the pathologist would open the worm-can of obligatory conversation. If Jeremy left now, quickly, stealthily, perhaps the old man wouldn’t notice.

But if he did notice, Jeremy would earn the worst of both worlds: forced to socialize and robbed of browsing time.

He decided to greet Arthur, hoping that the pathologist would be so engrossed in his butterfly book that the ensuing chat would be brief.

Arthur gazed up before Jeremy reached him. The book in his arms was huge, bound in cracked, camel leather. No winged creatures graced the densely printed pages. Jeremy read the title.

Crimean Battle Strategy: A Compendium.

The tag on the nearest shelf said, MILITARY HISTORY.

Arthur smiled. “Jeremy.”

“Afternoon, Arthur. No lunch today?”

“Large breakfast,” said the pathologist, patting his vest. “Busy afternoon, a bit of diversion seemed in order.”

With what you do all day, it’s a wonder you ever have an appetite.

“Lovely place, this,” said the old man.

“Do you come here often?”

“From time to time. Mr. Renfrew’s quite the crosspatch, but he leaves one alone, and his prices are more than fair.”

For all his purchases, Jeremy had never learned the proprietor’s name. Had never cared. Arthur had obtained the information because, like most gregarious people, he was excessively curious.

Yet, for all his sociability, the old man had chosen to work among the dead.

Jeremy said, “Very fair prices. Nice seeing you, Arthur. Happy hunting.” He turned to leave.

“Would you have time for a drink?” said Arthur. “Alcoholic or otherwise?”

“Sorry,” said Jeremy, tapping the coat cuff that concealed his wristwatch. “Busy afternoon, as well.” His next patient was in an hour and a half.

“Ah, of course. Sorry, then. Another time.”

“Absolutely,” said Jeremy.

Later, that evening, walking to his car, he noticed Arthur in the doctors’ parking lot.

This is too much. I’m being stalked.

But, as with the bookstore encounter, Arthur had arrived first, so that was ridiculous. Jeremy chided himself for self-importance- paranoia’s first cousin. Had he slipped that far?

He ducked behind a pylon and watched Arthur unlock his car, a black Lincoln, at least fifteen years old. Glossy paint, shiny chrome, kept up nicely. Like Arthur’s suit: well used, but quality. Jeremy envisioned Arthur’s home, guessed the pathologist would inhabit one of the gracious old homes in Queen’s Arms, on the North Side, a shabby-elegant stretch with harbor views.

Yes, Q.A. was definitely Arthur. The house would be a Victorian or a neo-Georgian, fusty and comfortable, chocked with overstuffed sofas in faded fabrics, stolid, centenarian mahogany furniture, layers of antimacassars, doilies, gimcracks, a nice wet bar stocked with premium liquors.

Pinned butterflies in ornate frames.

Was the pathologist married? Had to be. All that cheer bespoke a comfortable, comforting routine.

Definitely married, Jeremy decided. Happily, for decades. He conjured a soft-busted, bird-voiced, blue-haired wife to dote on Dear Arthur.

He watched as the old man lowered his long frame into the Lincoln. When the big sedan started up with a sonorous rumble, Jeremy hurried to his own dusty Nova.

He sat behind the wheel, thinking of the comforts that awaited Arthur. Home-cooked food, simple but filling. A stiff drink to dilate the blood vessels and warm the imagination.

Feet up, warm smiles nurtured by routine.

Jeremy’s gut knotted as the black car glided away.