by John Grisham
She was still amused by the dinner and tried to remember as much as possible. The more she thought the more astonishing it became. A room filled with writers, with their insecurities and egos and jealousies, and with wine flowing, and not a single argument, not even a harsh word. The popular authors—Amy, Cobb, and Andy—longed for critical acclaim, while the literary ones—Leigh, Jay, and Mercer—longed for greater royalties. Myra didn’t give a damn one way or the other. Bruce and Noelle were content to stay in the middle and encourage them all.
She wasn’t sure what to make of Bruce. The first impression was quite good, but given his good looks and easygoing manner Mercer was certain that everyone liked Bruce, at least initially. He talked enough but not too much, and seemed content to allow Myra to be in charge. It was, after all, her party and she obviously knew what she was doing. He was completely at ease with his crowd and thoroughly enjoyed their stories, jokes, cheap shots, and insults. Mercer got the impression he would do anything to further their careers. They, in turn, were almost deferential to him.
He claimed to be an admirer of Mercer’s two books, especially her novel, and they talked about it enough to satisfy her doubts about whether he had actually read it. He said he had done so when it was published and she had been scheduled to sign at Bay Books. That had been seven years earlier, yet he remembered it well. He’d probably skimmed it before the dinner party, but Mercer was impressed nonetheless. He asked her to stop by the store and autograph the two copies in his collection. He had also read her book of short stories. Most important, he was eager to see something else, her next novel perhaps, or more stories.
For Mercer, a once promising writer suffering through an endless drought and handcuffed by the fear that her career might be over, it was comforting to have such a knowledgeable reader say nice things and want more. Over the past few years, only her agent and her editor had offered such encouragement.
He was certainly a charmer, but he said or did nothing out of line, not that she expected anything. His lovely wife was just inches away. When it came to seduction, and assuming the rumors were true, Mercer suspected that Bruce Cable could play the long game as well as the short one.
Several times during the dinner she looked across the table at Cobb and Amy and even Myra and wondered if they had any idea about his dark side. Up front he ran one of the finest bookstores in the country, while at the same time he dealt in stolen goods under deep cover. The bookstore was successful and made him plenty of money. He had a charmed life, a beautiful wife/partner, a fine reputation, and a historic mansion in a lovely town. Was he really willing to risk jail for trading in stolen manuscripts?
Did he have any clue that a professional security team was on his trail? With the FBI not far behind? Any inkling that in just a few months he might be headed to prison for many years?
No, it did not seem possible.
Did he suspect Mercer? No, he did not. Which brought up the obvious question about what to do next. Take it one day at a time, Elaine had said more than once. Make him come to you and ease your way into his life.
Sounds simple, right?
6.
Monday, Memorial Day, Mercer slept late and missed another sunrise. She poured coffee and went to the beach, which was busier because of the holiday but still not crowded. After a long walk, she returned to the cottage, poured more coffee, and took a seat at a small breakfast table with a view of the ocean. She opened her laptop, looked at a blank screen, and managed to type, “Chapter One.”
Writers are generally split into two camps: those who carefully outline their stories and know the ending before they begin, and those who refuse to do so upon the theory that once a character is created he or she will do something interesting. The old novel, the one she had just discarded, the one that had tortured her for the past five years, fell into the second category. After five years, nothing of interest had happened and she was sick of the characters. Let it go, she had decided. Let it rest. You can always come back to it. She wrote a rough summary of the first chapter of her new one and went to the second.
By noon she had ground her way through the first five chapter summaries and was exhausted.
7.
Traffic was slow along Main Street, and its sidewalks were crawling with tourists in town for the holiday weekend. Mercer parked on a side street and walked to the bookstore. She managed to avoid Bruce and went to the upstairs café, where she had a sandwich and scanned the Times. He walked past her to fetch an espresso and was surprised to see her.
“You have time to sign those books?” he asked.
“That’s why I’m here.” She followed him downstairs to the First Editions Room, where he closed the door behind them. Two large windows opened onto the first floor and customers browsed through racks of books not far away. In the center of the room was an old table covered with papers and files.
“Is this your office?” she asked.
“One of them. When things are slow I’ll ease in here and work a little.”
“When are things slow?”
“It’s a bookstore. Today it’s busy. Tomorrow it will be deserted.” He moved a catalog that was hiding two hardback copies of October Rain. He handed her a pen and picked up the books.
She said, “I haven’t autographed one of these in a long time.” He opened the first one to the title page and she scribbled her name, then did the same for the other one. He left one on the table and put one back into its slot on a shelf. The first editions were arranged in alphabetical order by the author’s last name.
“So what are these?” she asked, waving a hand at a wall of books.
“All first editions of writers who’ve signed here. We do about a hundred signings a year, so after twenty years it’s a nice collection. I checked the records, and when you were coming through on tour I ordered 120 copies.”
“A hundred and twenty? Why so many?”
“I have a First Editions Club, about a hundred of my top customers who buy every autographed book. It’s quite a draw, really. If I can guarantee a hundred books, the publishers and writers are pretty eager to put us on the tour.”
“And these people show up for every signing?”
“I wish. Usually about half, which makes for a nice crowd. Thirty percent live out of town and collect by mail.”
“What happened when I canceled?”
“I returned the books.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Just part of the business.”
Mercer moved along the wall, scanning the rows of books, some of which she recognized. All were single copies. Where were the others? He had put one of hers back and left one on the table. Where were they kept?
“So are any of these valuable?” she asked.
“Not really. It’s an impressive collection, and it means a lot to me because I’m attached to each one of them, but they rarely hold their value.”
“Why is that?”
“The first-run printings are too large. The first printing for your book was five thousand copies. That’s not huge, but to be valuable a book has to be scarce. Sometimes I get lucky, though.” He reached high, removed a book, and handed it to her.
“Remember Drunk in Philly? J. P. Walthall’s masterpiece.”
“Of course.”
“Won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer in 1999.”
“I read it in college.”
“I saw an advance reading copy and loved it, knew it had potential, so I ordered a few boxes, and that was before he said he would not be touring. His publisher was broke and not too sharp to begin with, so it did an initial run of six thousand copies. Not bad for a first novel but not nearly enough. Well, the printing got interrupted when the union went on strike. Only twelve hundred copies made it off the press before they shut it down. I got lucky when my supply arrived. The first reviews were insanely good and the second printing, at a different press, was twenty thousand. Double that for the third and so on. The book eventually sold a mi
llion copies in hardback.”
Mercer opened the book, flipped to the copyright page, and saw the words “First Edition.”
“So what’s this worth?” she asked.
“I’ve sold a couple at five thousand dollars. Now I’m asking eight. Still have about twenty-five of them, buried in the basement.”
She filed that away but said nothing. She handed the book back to him and walked to another wall covered with books. Bruce said, “More of the collection, but not all of those authors have signed here.”
She removed John Irving’s The Cider House Rules and said, “I’m assuming there are plenty of these on the market.”
“It’s John Irving. That was seven years after Garp, so the first printing was huge. It’s worth a few hundred bucks. I have one Garp, but it’s not for sale.”
She returned the book to its slot and quickly scanned the ones next to it. Garp was not there. She assumed it too was “buried in the basement,” but said nothing. She wanted to ask about his rarest books, but decided to lose interest.
“Did you enjoy dinner last night?” he asked.
She laughed and moved away from the shelves. “Oh yes. I’ve never had dinner with so many writers. We tend to keep to ourselves, you know?”
“I know. In your honor, everybody behaved. Believe me, it’s not always that civilized.”
“And why is that?”
“The nature of the breed. Mix together some fragile egos, booze, maybe some politics, and it usually gets rowdier.”
“I can’t wait. When’s the next party?”
“Who knows with that bunch. Noelle mentioned a dinner party in a couple of weeks. She enjoyed your company.”
“Same here. She’s lovely.”
“She’s a lot of fun and she’s very good at what she does. You should pop in her store and have a look.”
“I’ll do that, though I’m not in the market for the high-end stuff.”
He laughed and said, “Well, watch out. She’s very proud of her inventory.”
“I’m meeting Serena Roach for coffee tomorrow before the signing. You’ve met her?”
“Sure. She’s been here twice. She’s pretty intense but nice enough. She tours with her boyfriend and her publicist.”
“An entourage?”
“I suppose. It’s not that unusual. She has battled drugs and appears to be somewhat fragile. Life on the road is unsettling for a lot of writers and they need the security.”
“She can’t travel by herself?”
Bruce laughed and seemed hesitant to gossip. “I could tell you a lot of stories, okay? Some sad, some hilarious, all colorful. Let’s save them for another day, perhaps another long dinner.”
“Is it the same boyfriend? The reason I ask is that I’m reading her latest and her character struggles with men, as well as drugs. The author seems to know her material.”
“Don’t know, but on her last two tours she had the same boyfriend.”
“Poor girl is getting roughed up by the critics.”
“Yes, and she’s not handling it too well. Her publicist called this morning to make sure I don’t mention dinner afterward. They’re trying to keep her away from the wine bottle.”
“And the tour is just starting?”
“We’re the third stop. Could be another disaster. I guess she could always quit, like you.”
“I highly recommend it.”
A clerk stuck her head in the window and said, “Sorry to disturb, but Scott Turow is on the phone.”
“I’d better take that,” he said.
“See you tomorrow,” Mercer said and walked to the door.
“Thanks for signing the books.”
“I’ll sign all of my books you buy.”
8.
Three days later, Mercer waited until dusk and walked to the beach. She removed her sandals and put them into a small shoulder bag. She headed south along the water’s edge. The tide was low, the beach wide and deserted but for an occasional couple with their dog. Twenty minutes later, she passed a row of high-rise condos and headed for the Ritz-Carlton next door. At the boardwalk she rinsed her feet, put on the sandals, strolled by the empty pool, and went inside, where she found Elaine waiting at a table in the elegant bar.
Tessa had loved the Ritz bar. Two or three times each summer she and Mercer dressed in their finest and drove to the Ritz, first for drinks and then dinner at the hotel’s noted restaurant. Tessa always started with a martini, just one, and until she was fifteen, Mercer ordered a diet soda. When she was fifteen, though, she arrived for the summer with a fake ID and they had martinis together.
By chance, Elaine was sitting at their favorite table, and as Mercer sat down she was hit hard with the memories of her grandmother. Nothing had changed. A guy at the piano was singing softly in the background.
“I got in this afternoon and thought you might enjoy a fine dinner,” Elaine said.
“I’ve been here many times,” Mercer said, looking around, soaking in the same smells of salt air and oak paneling. “My grandmother adored this place. It’s not for those on a tight budget, but she splurged occasionally.”
“So Tessa didn’t have money?”
“No. She was comfortable, but she was also frugal. Let’s talk about something else.”
A waiter stopped by and they ordered drinks.
Elaine said, “I’d say you’ve had a pretty good week.”
Their routine included the nightly e-mail as Mercer recapped things that might be relevant to their search. “I’m not sure I know much more than I did when I got here, but I have made contact with the enemy.”
“And?”
“And he’s as charming as advertised, very likeable. He stores the good stuff in the basement but did not mention a vault. I get the impression there’s quite an inventory down there. His wife is in town and he’s done nothing to indicate he has any interest in me, other than his usual attraction to writers.”
“You have to tell me about the dinner party with Myra and Leigh.”
Mercer smiled and said, “I wish there had been a hidden camera.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE FACILITATOR
1.
For over sixty years, the Old Boston Bookshop had occupied the same row house on West Street in the Ladder Blocks section of downtown. It was founded by Loyd Stein, a noted antiquarian dealer, and when he died in 1990 his son Oscar took over. Oscar grew up in the store and loved the business, though with time had grown weary of the trade. With the Internet, and with the general decline in all things related to books, he had found it more and more difficult to make a decent profit. His father had been content to peddle used books and hope for the occasional big score with a rare one, but Oscar was losing patience. At the age of fifty-eight, he was quietly looking for a way out.
At 4:00 on a Thursday afternoon, Denny entered the store for the third consecutive day and browsed nonchalantly through the racks and piles of used books. When the clerk, an elderly lady who had been there for decades, left the front and went upstairs, Denny selected an old paperback copy of The Great Gatsby and took it to the register. Oscar smiled and asked, “Find what you’re looking for?”
“This will do,” Denny replied.
Oscar took the book, opened it to the inside cover, and said, “Four dollars and thirty cents.”
Denny laid a five on the counter and said, “Actually, I’m looking for the original.”
Oscar took the five and asked, “You mean a first edition? Of Gatsby?”
“No. The original manuscript.”
Oscar laughed. What an idiot. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there, sir.”
“Oh, I think you can.”
Oscar froze and looked him in the eyes. A cold, hard stare met him. A hard, calculated, knowing stare. Oscar swallowed and asked, “Who are you?”
“You’ll never know.”
Oscar looked away and put the five in the register. As he did, he realized his hands were shaking. He removed some
coins and placed them on the counter. “Seventy cents,” he managed to say. “You were here yesterday, weren’t you?”
“And the day before.”
