Read The Bad Book Affair: A Mobile Library Mystery for Free Online Page A

and his well-cut suits—suits for which he was, according to his campaign literature, renowned provincewide. His Savile Row pinstripes and his Jermyn Street shirts and ties, he believed, spoke for themselves, and they most certainly did; they told you everything you needed to know about Maurice Morris, or M ’n’ M, as he preferred to be called. His sparkling white teeth and his perma-tan spoke eloquently also—they sang out on his behalf—as did his reputation as North Antrim’s most successful independent financial adviser. What M ’n’ M did not know about mortgages, repossessions, and trusts in kind simply was not worth knowing: Maurice was the man, the big man in the big picture, financially, politically, and socially; this was a man who had been photographed consistently, for over a decade, in the Ulster Tatler , and the Belfast Telegraph , and the Impartial Recorder , with every Irish and Northern Irish celebrity, major and minor, excepting Bono, who was still on his wish list. Maurice was not just a politician or a businessman: he was a brand and a celebrity, and he was not aman to be underestimated, overlooked, doubted, mocked, questioned, queried, or in any other way challenged. Maurice Morris had been blessed at birth—by whimsical, apparently homonymic-and possibly crossword-puzzle-minded parents—with his own surname for a first name, and he had known from an early age that this somehow made him impregnable and unassailable, like God with Jesus and the Holy Spirit. Maurice was like New York, New York. He was entirely in and of himself; he was, according to his campaign literature, the Man with the Plan. His ostensible plan was accountable government, investment in jobs, reform of the planning process: all of the usual. His actual plan was to win back power by any means necessary. He’d done his penance, he’d made his apologies, and now he wanted back in. Israel had followed Maurice’s charmless charm offensive on the many billboards of County Antrim as he drove in the van every day, Maurice Morris’s shining face staring down at him: dominant, necessary, and appalling.
    “So what is it, gents,” said Minnie, returning to take orders. “Two coffees and two scones of the day?”
    “Aye,” said Ted.
    “Right you are,” said Minnie. “And I’ll make sure Maurice comes and has a quick word with you.”
    “I heard he’d had a cafetière fitted,” said Ted.
    “A cafetière ?” said Israel.
    “Aye.”
    “A cafetière is what you make the coffee in,” said Minnie.
    “Not a cafetière , then,” said Ted. “Something like that.”
    “A catheter?” said Israel.
    “Well, I don’t want you asking him about that ,” said Minnie.
    “I don’t want to meet him anyway,” said Israel. “Thanks.”
    “The man running to be your own elected representative?” said Minnie.
    “Sure, you probably vote for the Shinners,” said Ted.
    “The whatters?” said Israel.
    “Now!” said Minnie. “We’re one big happy rainbow nation these days, Ted.”
    “Does he have any actual policies, Maurice Morris?” asked Israel.
    “Aye,” said Ted. “The same as the rest of them. Snouts in the trough and selling the rest of us down the river. I tell ye, I’ve some questions for Mr. Morris if he comes over.”
    “That’s fine,” said Minnie, beginning to walk away. “Healthy democracy and all that—just you make sure you go easy on him, Ted. I don’t want any trouble. Nothing personal. I’ll be back in a minute.”
    “Nothing personal!” said Ted. “Adulterating so-and-so.”
    “Ex-adulterer,” said Minnie, as a parting shot.
    “Ex-adulterer?” said Israel.
    “A leopard doesn’t change its spots,” said Ted.
    Israel watched, fascinated, as Maurice slowly worked his ex-adulterating way from wipe-down-gingham-tableclothed table to wipe-down-gingham-tableclothed table, firmly shaking hands with the men and hugging the ladies and kissing the babies—grandchildren, mostly—and grinning