“I know. I think Gatsby has every book in the world in here.”
“Wonder if he has my books? Or is popular detective fiction not good enough for the bootlegger?” he asked.
“Gatsbywas before your time,” I said, scanning the bottom shelves. “It came out in 1925, remember? The first Duke of Chicago book didn’t come out until ’45, when cozy crime fiction turned into noir.”
“But it’s 1930 at home,” he said, running his fingers over book spines as he worked his way to the corner where his wall met mine. “Isn’t it? I could’ve sworn—”
“In your stories, it’s always 1930. But your books came out between 1945 and 1966. Twelve novels, three novellas, and twenty-one short stories. Supposedly your writer left an unfinished book of yours behind.”
“Wait a moment. Remind me what year this is again?” Duke asked.
“In the real world or Gatsby’s?”
“The real world.”
“It’s 2025,” I said.
“So if I was ‘born’ in 1945, and it’s 2025…I’m fifteen years younger than I thought. I’m only eighty, not ninety-two. No wonder I look so good for my age.” He gave a triumphant little laugh.
“Still too old for me,” I said, but gave him a little wink to soften the blow.
“Don’t wink unless you want me to kiss you,” he said as we both reached the same corner.
“I can wink if I want.” I winked again.
“That’s it. You’re getting kissed. Brace yourself.”
It was against the rules, but they were my rules and so I supposed I could break them if I wanted.
Duke bent to kiss me.
Suddenly, the door flew open.
A young woman in a flapper dress burst in.
“Come on, gals and pals! It’s champagne o’clock!” she cried out. Then she took a look at Duke. “I’ve got a whole bottle for you, guv.”
She shook the bottle at him.
“Out,” I ordered her.
“Someone’s feisty. But I get it, honey. He’s a dish and a half,” she sang. Then she spun around and dashed away.
I closed the door behind her and put a chair under the knob. It wouldn’t stop anyone who really wanted to come in, but it would slow them down.
“Now,” I said, turning around, “where were we?”
“About to passionately kiss like we hadn’t a care in the world,” Duke said.
“I do have cares, though,” I reminded him. “Pops.”
“Very well. We’ll find your grandfather,thenI’ll kiss you.”
Koshka let out a high-pitched whine, the one he usually reserves for when he’d cornered a toy mouse and wanted me to praise him for his hunting prowess.
“What is it?” I asked him.
Koshka stood on his back paws and stretched himself to his full height of two and a half feet, then batted at a book.
