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The Castle Bookroom
6613 Peggy Way
Bakersfield, CA 93307
UNITED STATES
661-835-0623
a hardboiled pulp-fiction pastiche for booklovers in seven pithy paragraphs
The sun was just going down, and the coffee just wasn't, when I took the call. Dispatch called it a possible case of domestic literary violence, "book-abuse" in layman's terms, I called it a good excuse to abandon a bad cup of java.
When I arrived at the crime scene, only the silent victim remained. He wasn't talking, but the evidence spoke volumes. It was written all over the poor guy. Water-damage and mildew, probably from being held hostage in some damp basement somewhere. Coffee-stains told the tale of certain torture by being held under a scalding cup. Dented corners, grease stains, highlighter markings, marginal notes in ink. More evidence of mayhem than a grunge-rock concert-arena the day after. The helpless victim had been tossed aside like a tuxedo in a honeymoon suite.
"Where's your dust jacket, buddy?", I inquired. His pages shivered in the cold evening breeze, but he didn't answer. He'd been without it for some time, judging by the damage his cover had sustained. Then I noticed a particularly cruel instrument of torture: a paperclip! Several, in fact, wickedly embedded at the top of several pages, left there for longer than a bad credit rating, disfiguring the pages and bleeding rust stains as a permanent testimony to the sadistic nature of the perp'. My stomach churned, and it wasn't just the bad coffee. Gingerly, I removed the clips, knowing that the damage could never be undone.
Suddenly I became aware of another casualty nearby, Victim Two. My nose was the first to notice: a victim of canine urine poisoning. Callously abandoned, this poor guy had found himself under the fourth leg of a dog on the other three. Then I noticed the dog-eared pages, wickedly folded back to satisfy the sick reader's whim for a bookmark. There was no life left in the carcass. It was an ex-library book that had checked out for good! I looked at the title - it was a dogmatic treatise! How ironic, I thought to myself.
"WHO DID THIS?!!" I raged - to no one in particular. I wanted to lock this sick-o up for good, and I wanted it bad. My gut told me it wouldn't take a rocket-scientist to solve this one. A guy this many sandwiches shy of a picnic is just asking to be busted, down at the end of Easy Street. I took the short ride, if you know what I mean. I opened the cover of Victim One. Sure enough, the perp' (like the dog) had left his calling card. I could read this thug like a book - he had left his John Hancock on the endpaper - what a chump! A few calls and a short time later, I had him in custody.
"Honest, I didn't know book-abuse was a crime!", he sniveled. "How about them librarians? Why don't you guys ever bust them? Always glueing and taping stuff to books, writing on them, rubber-stamping them! But you look the other way, just 'cause they're government workers, I suppose!"
"Save it for the judge, Palley. He's the one does the sentencing, if you read me. Hope you brought your toothbrush Palley, 'cause you're takin' a little field-trip up the river. Oh, and be sure and call your momma and ask her to bring you a good detective novel, seein' as you'll be havin' so much time on your hands." The irony of it hit him like a ton of books. I dropped him off at the station for booking, like a bad habit. Then I got to thinking about what he said. Maybe he had something, after all. The tires of the prowl car let out a squeal like a cat under a rocking chair as I headed for my next bust - at the public library!
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(To receive a new word every day by email, send a blank email message to: join-WordoftheDay@lists.lexico.com)
cozen KUZ-un, transitive verb:
1. To cheat; to defraud; to deceive, usually by petty tricks.
2. To obtain by deceit.
intransitive verb:
To act deceitfully.
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THE BIBLIO FILES - BOOK CRIMES OF THE MEAN STREETS...