Where the Books Went

On the phone, he breathed in sharply.

“So you got rid of my books?” Sylvester Strand asked, concern rising in his voice.

“You were in a psych ward. You should be glad I brought your car and other belongings to Delaware. It’s six hours from Massachusetts on a good day,” Mino Vaseo replied.

“You claim there was no room….”

“You have a convertible. A two seater. There just wasn’t enough—-”

“Bovine fertilizer.”

“Alright, alright. But you didn’t need them anyway. All those books written by that crazy woman….”

Strand’s tone was as even as water at its own level. “That’s fine. That’s good. You’re never getting the $23,000 or the 100% benefits that are coming my way….”

“I know that. I always said, ‘…And you’ll get it.’ I just did what I did—”

“Out of spite, I know. That’s the little boy in a man’s body that you are. You child.”

The line didn’t go dead but silence, not even the sound of breathing resonated with the call.

“I—” Vaseo started. “I’m going to continue to be your friend, right? I mean we’ll probably never see each other again.”

“No. You’ve shown me who you are and that is enough. I will have a wife and children or even better, live the joyful single life and what will you have as a convict in prison?”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Vaseo mentioned in a grizzly tone.

“Of course. The line I’m not even paying for. It’s thick with your transgressions,” Strand responded.

“So I stole all your books and sold them. So what?”

“Lotta help it did, seeing that you’re behind bars right now,” Strand spoke cooly.

The line then went dead. Strand opened his door and immersed himself in his home full of first edition books he had bought himself.