“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 million 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.