One of the women lifted the books she had selected to make sure we were watching. Then she dropped them on the floor and sniffed at Julian. “If you’re going to let riffraff into your establishment, we’ll take our business elsewhere.”
“Do that,” Julian snapped. “And just so there are no misunderstandings in the future, if you do decide to purchase books here, I won’t accept any used books from you in exchange. The last time you brought books in, one had been dropped in dirty water and the other two smelled like cat piss. Any books you buy here from now on, you pay the going price.”
“Well!” the first woman huffed.
“I’m going to report you!” the other snipped.
“To whom? I own the place,” Julian said.
The second woman hesitated, then dropped her stack of used books on the floor in a show of solidarity. The first woman kicked a book out of her way as she marched to the door and out, her friend trailing behind her.
Julian came out from behind the island counter and began to pick up the books the women had dropped. When I took a step to help him, he snapped, “Don’t.” Then, more softly, “Bitches.”
Since I didn’t think any business in Sproing could afford to lose customers, I felt badly for him—and felt guilty because my coming into the store had contributed to his trouble with some of his customers.
I watched the women cross the street. “They’re going to the police station.” I turned and looked at him. “They’re going to report you to the police?”
Julian had been checking the books for damage. He glanced toward the police station and sighed. “Gods, I hope Wayne isn’t in the station right now. This is the kind of bullshit that makes him crazy and is the reason he chose highway patrol in the first place.”
I didn’t feel all warm and fuzzy thinking about a large man with a gun going crazy. Then again, I woke up that morning with a Panther-shaped Cougar standing next to my bed, staring at me as if trying to decide if I was still alive and was going to get up and make breakfast or had died and could now be breakfast. Since it looked like this was going to be my new normal, I might not be using the straightest ruler when it came to measuring crazy.
I went into the back half of the store, where the new books were shelved. Julian had a small display next to the island counter that held the newest releases, but the rest of the new books were back here. It seemed like a less-than-stellar business plan, having the more profitable part of your stock where it wasn’t easily visible, but the used books really were more like a lending library than a store.
Maybe Julian should make up a membership card and charge a modest annual fee that allowed people to do the buy and swap of used books like they did now, and people who didn’t pay the fee could just buy the used books.
I’d float the idea past Ineke first and see what she thought. In the meantime, I gave in to the need for some kind of treat to take away the sting of the woman’s words and my guilt over hurting Julian’s business. I browsed the shelves, picking up another thriller by Alan Wolfgard as well as a mystery by an author I hadn’t read before. According to her bio, she lived in the Finger Lakes area in a village I’d never heard of.
Looking at the terra indigene names on the covers of some of the books, I realized why Julian kept the new stock in the back half of the store. Sure, he carried the books by human authors that could be found in any bookstore in human-controlled towns, but he also had books by authors who would be unknown in cities like Hubbney or Toland—authors he kept in stock for a clientele that wasn’t human.
I selected a few thrillers and mysteries, then perused the romance shelves, finally choosing one about a ship’s captain and a female stowaway who faced danger on the high seas—the biggest danger being the Sea itself. The capital S was the only hint that the captain and his stowaway might be squaring off with an Elemental, so of course I had to buy it.
I brought my selections to the counter. Julian looked at the stack and sighed.
“You don’t have to buy more than you want in an effort to support the store,” he said. “Those women did nothing for my bottom line.”
“I like to read.” It wasn’t a snappy or clever reply, but it was the truth.
Julian rang up my purchases and deducted the total from my revolving line of credit. Me buying books on credit didn’t help his bottom line either, but I would pay him. Eventually.
He put the books in a cloth Lettuce Reed bag and held it out. I took the bag but hesitated to leave the store.
“Does the eye really look that bad?” I asked.
“Compared to what?”
Now I sighed. I’d planned to stop at the general store to pick up a few things since I wasn’t feeling up to driving to a grocery store in Crystalton or Bristol for a full load of victuals. Besides, Pops Davies carried all the basics, and he bought the food fresh from local farmers, and that included the milk, cheese, and ice cream. What more did I need? Well, I needed big sunglasses that hid half my face so I wouldn’t have to answer the “What happened to you?” question at every store I entered.
When I asked Ilya Sanguinati to spread the word about how I got hurt, he knew I wasn’t thinking about the humans in Sproing, but maybe I should let certain people know. Problem was, I really didn’t want to tell humans I had a black eye because I had a nightmare and fell out of bed.
While I considered if I really needed milk and fruit, Detective Swinn slammed into the store, looking triumphant. Officer Osgood trailed behind him, looking worried. Looking scared.
“You’re coming with me, Farrow,” Swinn said.
“Why?” Julian asked calmly.
“To answer the charges of abusive language and threats of bodily harm.”
“Come again?”
“Are you resisting?” Swinn’s expression made it clear he really wanted the smallest indication of resistance.
“I’m asking for clarification.”
“Two women made a complaint about you,” Osgood said.
“You mean the two women who marched over to the police station after insulting another customer and damaging some of my stock?” Julian asked so pleasantly I knew he was furious. “The two women who come in at least once a week to complain that I don’t carry their preferred authors? I do carry those authors, by the way, but the women would have to buy new copies of the books because I don’t have those titles as used books. Are we talking about the two women who come in and complain about what I charge for used books, saying they can get them cheaper in Bristol? The two women who bring in damaged books that I can’t possibly use and expect to be given full credit toward their next selection? Are those the women who made the complaint?”
“Julian didn’t say anything objectionable,” I said.
“No one asked you, missy,” Swinn snapped. Then he studied my face and smiled. “That’s a good look for you. Fireplug.”