The Camel Club (Camel Club 1)

“Yes, it involves isolation with rubber sheeting and drilling to shave off the enamel, which leaves a post of dentin approximately two millimeters in diameter, but without exposing the nerve. The permanent crown is made of porcelain. It’s quite nice. See?” He opened his mouth and showed them.

Reuben said impatiently, “Thank you for the bloody dental lesson, Dr. Farb.”

“Oh, there’s hardly any blood, Reuben,” replied Milton, who’d entirely missed the sarcasm in his friend’s remark.

Reuben sighed and then proudly ran his gaze over the pin-striped candy-apple-red motorcycle with attached sidecar. “A thousand cc power plant, rebuilt transmission and magneto. The sidecar’s not authentic; it’s a fiberglass replica, but it doesn’t rust and it’s a lot lighter. I got most of the parts off eBay, and a friend of mine had some extra cowhide leather that I used to reupholster the sidecar seat. And it’s a left-mount sidecar, which is pretty damn rare. One in this condition would sell for north of twenty grand, and I’ve only got about a tenth of that in it. Not that I’m thinking about selling, mind you, but you never know.”

He held out a black crash helmet to Stone that had goggles attached.

“Where exactly do I ride?” Stone asked.

“In the sidecar, of course. What the hell do you think it’s for? A damn flowerpot?”

Stone put on the helmet and adjusted the goggles, then opened the small door, stepped into the sidecar and sat down. It was a very cramped space for the tall man.

Reuben said, “Okay, let’s go.”

“Wait a minute!” Stone exclaimed. “Is there anything I should know about the motorcycle?”

“Yeah, if the wheel on the sidecar goes off the ground, you can start praying.”

Reuben hit the kick-starter and the motor caught. He revved it a couple of times, waved good-bye to Milton, and they sailed away from Union Station.

Reuben steered the motorcycle west on Constitution Avenue. They cut past the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, where war veteran Reuben gave a respectful salute to the wall, looped around the Lincoln Memorial and passed over Memorial Bridge, which carried them into Virginia. From there they headed south on the George Washington Parkway, which was referred to locally as the GW Parkway. As they raced along, they drew curious stares from people in vehicles they passed.

Stone found that if he angled his legs just so, he could nearly stretch them fully out. He sat back and gazed over at the Potomac River on his left, where a powerboat had just passed two crew teams racing each other. The sun was warming, the breeze inviting and refreshing, and for a few moments Stone allowed his mind a respite from the many dangers that lay ahead for the Camel Club.

Reuben pointed to a road sign and shouted over the whine of the engine. “Remember for years that sign read ‘Lady Bird Johnson Memorial Park’?”

“Yes. Until someone informed them she wasn’t dead,” Stone called back. “And named it after LBJ, who is.”

“I love the efficiency of our government,” Reuben cried. “Only took them about a decade or so to get it right. It’s a good thing I don’t pay taxes, or I’d be really ticked off.”

They both watched as a jet lifted off the runway at Reagan National Airport heading north and then did a long bank and eventually turned in the southerly direction they were traveling. A few minutes later they entered the official city limits of Old Town Alexandria, one of the most historic places in the country. It boasted not one, but two boyhood homes of Confederate general Robert E. Lee, as well as Christ Church, where the posterior of none other than George Washington had graced the pews. The town was chock-full of wealth, ancient but beautifully restored homes, rumpled cobblestone streets, wonderful shopping and eclectic restaurants, a vibrant outdoor life and an inviting waterfront area. It also was home to the federal bankruptcy court.

As they passed the court, Reuben said, “Damn place. Been through there twice.”

“Caleb knows people who can help you with your money. And I’m sure Chastity could provide valuable services to you too.”

“I’m certain sweet Chastity could service my needs, but then Milton would be really mad at me,” Reuben called out with a roguish wink. “And I don’t need help with the money I have, Oliver, I just need help with getting more of it.”

He turned left, and they pulled down a side street heading toward the river until it dead-ended at Union Street. Reuben found a parking space, and Stone extricated himself from the sidecar with some difficulty.

“What the hell happened to your face?” asked Reuben, who’d obviously just noticed these injuries.

“I fell.”

“Where?”

“In the park. I was playing chess with T.J., and then I was having coffee with Adelphia. I tripped over a tree root when we were leaving.”

Reuben grabbed his friend by the shoulder. “Adelphia! Oliver, that woman is mental. You’re lucky she didn’t drop a lethal Mickey in your java. Mark my words, one night she’s going to follow you to your cottage and slit your throat.” He paused and then added in a low voice, “Or worse, try and seduce you.” Reuben shivered, apparently at the thought of Adelphia

as a seductress.

They walked past Union Street Pub and then crossed the street and headed toward a shop near the corner. The sign above the door read: “Libri Quattuor Sententiarum.”

“Where the hell did that come from?” Reuben asked, pointing at this plaque. “I know I haven’t been here in a while, but didn’t this place used to be called Doug’s Books?”

“That name wasn’t attracting the desired upscale clientele, so they changed it.”

“Li-bri Quat-tuor Senten-tiarum? That’s real catchy! What does it mean?”

“It’s Latin for ‘Four Books of Sentences.’ It was a twelfth-century manuscript by Peter Lombard that was cut up and bound around the 1526 edition of St. Thomas Aquinas’ lectures on the Epistles of Paul. Some scholars consider the Aquinas work to be the world’s rarest book. An even earlier work that was bound around that one might be even more special. Hence, it’s a very appropriate name for a rare book shop.”

“I’m impressed, Oliver. I didn’t even know you spoke Latin.”

“I don’t. Caleb told me about it. In fact, it was his idea to rename the shop. As you know, I introduced him to the shop’s owner. I thought it would be productive, given Caleb’s expertise with rare books. At first he simply advised on a few things, but now Caleb has an ownership interest in the place.”

They went inside the shop accompanied by the jangle of a bell attached to the arched, solid-oak door. Inside, the walls were equal parts exposed brick and ancient stone with worm-eaten wooden beams overhead. Tasteful oil paintings hung on the walls, and ornate bookshelves and massive armoires were bulging with ancient tomes that were all carefully labeled and housed behind glass doors.

In a separate room a pretty young woman was standing behind a small coffee bar making drinks for some thirsty customers. A sign on the wall asked customers not to enter the rare book area with their beverages.

A small, balding man came out from the back dressed in a blue blazer, slacks and a white turtleneck, his arms outstretched and a smile on his tanned face. “Welcome, welcome to Libri Quattuor Sententiarum,” he announced, the words rolling adroitly off his tongue. Then he stopped and eyed Reuben and looked at Stone.

“Oliver?”

Stone put out his hand. “Hello, Douglas. You remember Reuben Rhodes.”

“Douglas,” Reuben muttered under his breath. “What happened to ‘Doug’?”

Douglas gave Stone a prolonged hug and shook Reuben’s hand. “Oliver, you look, well, you look very different. Nice but different. I like the new style. No, I love it. Muy chic. Bellissimo!”

“Thank you. Caleb says that things are going well here.”

Douglas took Stone by the elbow and led them over to a quiet corner.

“Caleb is a jewel, a treasure, a miracle.”

“And here I was thinking he was just a print geek,” Reuben said with a smirk.

Douglas continued enthusiastically. “I can’t thank you enough, Oliver, for introducing Caleb to me. Business is booming. Booming! I started out selling porno comic books out of my car trunk, and now look at me. I have a condo in Old Town, a thirty-foot sailboat, a vacation house at Dewey Beach and even a 401(k) plan.”