Mercer slowly picked up the second book. Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy, published by Random House, 1985, a first edition with a shiny dust jacket. “What’s this one worth?” she asked.
“We paid four thousand a couple of weeks ago.”
Mercer laid it down and picked up the third one. Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry, published by Simon & Schuster, also in 1985. The book had obviously been passed around, though the dust jacket was pristine.
“That one is a little different,” Elaine said. “Simon & Schuster was anticipating big numbers and the first printing was around forty thousand, so there are a lot of first editions in the hands of collectors, which, obviously, suppresses the value. We paid five hundred bucks, then put a new dust jacket on it to double the value.”
“The dust jacket is a forgery?” Mercer asked.
“Yes, happens all the time in the trade, at least among the crooks. A perfectly forged dust jacket can greatly increase the value. We found a good forger.”
Mercer once again caught the “we” angle and marveled at the size of the operation. She laid the book down and gulped some water.
“Is the plan for me to eventually sell these to Cable? If so, I don’t like the idea of selling fake stuff.”
“The plan, Mercer, is for you to use these books as a means to get closer to Cable. Start off by merely talking about the books. You’re not sure what to do with them. It’s morally wrong to sell them because they really don’t belong to you. Eventually, show him one or two and see how he reacts. Maybe he’ll show you his collection in the basement or the vault or whatever he has down there. Who knows where the conversation will go. What we need, Mercer, is for you to get inside his world. He might jump at the chance to buy The Convict or Blood Meridian, or he may already have them in his collection. If we have him pegged correctly, he’ll probably like the idea that the books are not exactly legitimate and want to buy them. Let’s see how honest he is with you. We know what the books are worth. Will he give you a lowball offer? Who knows? The money is not important. The crucial aspect here is to become a small part in his shady business.”
“I’m not sure I like this.”
“It’s harmless, Mercer, and it’s all fiction. These books were legitimately purchased by us. If he buys them, we get our money back. If he resells them, he gets his money back. There’s nothing wrong or unethical about the plan.”
“Okay, but I’m not sure I can play along and be believable.”
“Come on, Mercer. You live in a world of fiction. Create some more.”
“The fiction is not going too well these days.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Mercer shrugged and took a sip of water. She stared at the books as her mind raced through various scenarios. Finally, she asked, “What can go wrong?”
“I suppose Cable could contact the library in Memphis and snoop around, but it’s a big system and he’d get nowhere. Thirty years have gone by and everything has changed. They lose about a thousand books a year to folks who simply don’t return them, and, being a typical library, they have no real interest in tracking them down. Plus, Tessa checked out a lot of books.”
“We went to the library every week.”
“The story holds together. He’ll have no way of knowing the truth.”
Mercer picked up Lonesome Dove and asked, “What if he spots this forged dust jacket?”
“We’ve thought about that and we’re not sure we’ll use it. Last week we showed the book to a couple of old dealers, guys who’ve seen it all, and neither spotted the forgery. But you’re right. It could be a risk we decide not to take. Start with the first two, but make him wait. Drag it out as you struggle with what’s right and fair. It’s a moral dilemma for you and let’s see what kind of advice he gives.”
Mercer left with the books in a canvas bag and returned to the beach. The ocean was still and at low tide. A full moon lightened the sand. As she walked she heard voices that slowly grew louder. To her left and halfway to the dunes she saw two young lovers frolicking on a beach towel, their whispered words punctuated by sighs and groans of erotic pleasure. She almost stopped to watch until it was over, until the final heave and thrust, but she managed to move on, absorbing it all as much as possible as she ambled along.
She was consumed with envy. How long had it been?
5.
The second new novel came to an abrupt end after only five thousand words and three chapters, because by then Mercer was already tired of her characters and bored with her plot. Frustrated, depressed, even a bit angry with herself and the entire process, she put on a bikini, the skimpiest one in her growing collection, and went to the beach. It was only 10:00 a.m., but she had learned to avoid the midday sun. From noon until around five it was simply too hot to be outside, whether in the water or not. Her skin was now tanned enough and she worried about too much exposure. Ten o’clock was also about the time that the jogger came by, a stranger about her age. He ran barefoot at the edge of the water, his tall lean frame glistening with sweat. He was obviously an athlete, with a seriously flat stomach and perfect biceps and calves. He ran with an easy, fluid grace, and, she told herself, he seemed to slow just a little as she came into view. They had made eye contact on at least two occasions the previous week, and Mercer was convinced they were ready for the first hello.
She arranged her umbrella and folding chair and covered herself with sunblock, watching all movements to the south as she did so. He always came from the south, from the direction of the Ritz and the fancy condos. She unfolded her beach towel and stretched herself in the sun. She put on her sunglasses and straw hat and waited. As always on weekdays, the beach was practically deserted. Her plan was to see him in the distance and walk casually to the water, timing her movements to coincide with his. She would nail him with a casual “Good morning,” the same as everyone else on this friendliest of beaches. She rested on her elbows, and as she waited she tried not to think of herself as just another failed writer. The five thousand words she’d just deleted was the worst junk she’d ever written.
He had been there for at least ten days, too long for a hotel stay. Perhaps he was renting a condo for a month.
She had no idea what to write next.
He was always alone but too far away for her to check on a wedding band.
After five years of lame characters and clunky prose and ideas so bad that she didn’t even like them, she was convinced she would never again finish a novel.
Her phone rang and Bruce began with “Hope I’m not interrupting the genius at work.”
“Not at all,” she said. In fact, I’m lying on the beach practically nude scheming to seduce a stranger. “I’m taking a break,” she said.
“Good. Look, we have a signing this afternoon and I’m a bit worried about the crowd. It’s an unknown guy with a first novel that’s not very good.”
What does he look like? How old is he? Straight or gay? But she said, “So this is how you sell books. You rally your writers to come to your rescue.”
“You bet. And Noelle is doing a last-minute dinner party at the house, in his honor, of course. Just us, you, him, and Myra and Leigh. Should be fun. Whatta you say?”
“Let me check my calendar. Yes, I’m free. What time?”
“Six, dinner to follow.”
“Casual attire?”
“Are you kidding? You’re at the beach. Anything goes. Even shoes are optional.”