Here's the new opening...
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The beginning of the end of Simon Halloran’s life started with a phone call from Olivier Daskin, an antiquarian book dealer he knew from London. He wanted Simon to catalogue and pack a collection of rare books and fine bindings at a residence in Barrington, Ohio, something he was very practiced in doing.
But the moment he heard what Olivier wanted, a little voice in his head calmly said, Hold on; this is not a good idea.
To begin with, Simon was gay and Ohio was hardly conducive to that. Next, Simon was extremely liberal in politics and everything while Ohio was mainly his polar opposite. Finally, he had reached that stage in life where he felt no need to tolerate the intolerance of others, which would put him at odds with much of the state. So he had consistently avoided going anywhere near there and the moment he heard Olivier’s request his first thought was to say no.
However, Simon had known the man for some time, had helped him in the same way, a few times before, and knew a great deal about rare and antiquarian books...so it made sense that Olivier would contact him about this.
The one drawback?
Simon was seventy-five and looked it, both in face and neck, though seemed much younger. Of average height, as thin as Ichabod Crane, with hair more white than blond and features that were calm and plain, exacerbated by an ever-present pair of readers on his nose, he had a vaguely dusty, knowledgeable, almost ethereal air whispering around him that would immediately peg him as either a librarian or book dealer. Which fit, considering he had worked at Veriman’s Antiquarian Books for nearly thirty years.
His clothing was always a button down-shirt, slacks...never jeans, never shorts...and loafers. With plenty of pockets for pens, pencils and small notepads. Sometimes a sweater. Sometimes a jacket. Sometimes an overcoat...when the weather demanded it.
He lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment on the ninth floor of a high-rise a couple blocks from Veriman’s rambling old storefront on the town’s gentrified Main Street. Now retired, he survived well-enough on Social Security and occasionally being asked to handle a small cataloguing and packing job.
Like this one .
“It's a nice collection,” Olivier said, “and not so very far from you. Can you help me with it?”
He hadn't even said a word of Hello or How are you doing? So like him. He was one of those self-involved lads who were born and raised on an estate halfway to Cambridge. Short, stocky, family money, he had the face of a wicked elf and was always impeccably dressed in bespoke clothing. He also spoke in a West End accent another British dealer had referred to as about as faux as possible, and had minimal concept of how difficult life could be for those not as fortunate as he.
Simon had met Olivier when he came to Veriman’s and purchased an East of the Sun, West of the Moon illustrated by Kay Nielson as well as a Grimm’s Fairy Tales with artwork by Arthur Rackham. He would make the rounds of the Mid-Atlantic book dealers whenever he was stateside, and had recently opened a second shop in New York City. Now he was still trying to stock it, fully.
“But it's in Barrington,” Simon said, that little voice making its displeasure known.
“Um, Olivier, that’s over three-hundred miles. Not, not so very far.”
“Closer than I am. It’s just, I won’t be in the States for another three weeks and this has to be done now, now, now. I’ll email you an itemized list to work off. XLS. Pop it down to the NY shop. You know the drill. Easy-peasy.”
“Is it of high value?”
“Only about six-fifty...”
That made Simon blink. “Six-hundred and fifty thousand dollars!?”
“Pounds. They’re from Tannen Northridge’s wife.” Spoken as if he were shocked Simon didn’t already know.
Simon already suspected that was to whom Olivier was referring.
