“The door.”
He opened it a crack. Four people stood behind hand trucks stacked with brown cartons. In the background, a white commercial van from a book distributor in Hialeah.
“Hi, I’m your wholesaler,” said a smiling woman holding a dachshund.
No response. The door stayed open only a slit.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, trying to see inside.
“Fine. Go away.”
“But we brought some more books.”
“We didn’t order any.”
“I know,” said the woman, smiling again. “We got so much more press than we expected that I was afraid you’d run out. I took it upon myself to bring extras. You’ve been such good customers…”
A pause.
“Go away.”
“If you don’t need them, then we do. We’d like to get them signed for our other stores. This is our hottest title.”
One of the tropical shirts tapped the boss from behind. He jumped again. “What?”
“Someone’s out front asking for you.”
“Get rid of them.”
“I think it’s the author.”
“Shit!”
“What should I tell him?”
“Tell him we’re out of books.”
“You’re out of books?” said the woman at the back door. “Then I’m glad we came.”
The employee tapped the boss again. “I don’t think I can get rid of them.”
“Why not?”
“There are others.”
Blinding lights came on in the front of the store, the strings of beads breaking them into hundreds of bright shafts that showered the back room. The boss shielded his eyes. “What the fuck is that?”
“TV cameras. I was trying to tell you….”
“Who called the TV station?”
“I did,” said the woman. She had pushed the back door open and was directing hand-truck traffic. “Just set those cases over there.”
The tropical shirts scrambled to hide cocaine. A man stuck a microphone through the beads. “Sir, can I get a quick interview?”
“No! Go away!”
More TV people arrived, then writers from the Herald, the Sun-Sentinel and the Post.
The boss burst through the beads. “Everybody out!”
A long line of regular patrons waited at the cash register, and they weren’t leaving until they got what they came for. Neither were the reporters. A TV camera panned down the customers, who for some reason were all covering their faces. The camera swung to a newswoman: “As you can see, the rising popularity of Ralph Krunkleton seems to cross all economic, ethnic and social lines…”
“Turn that camera off!”
The boss grabbed the newswoman’s arm, but she jerked free and stomped on his instep with a high heel.
“Ouch!”
“You, sir, what does Ralph Krunkleton say to you?” The woman held her microphone toward a businessman, who froze in the lights, then broke from the line and sprinted out of the store.
“Obviously camera shy…. What about you, sir?”
“Uh, good plot?” said a schoolteacher, grinning nervously.
“Good plot. That seems to be everyone’s verdict tonight at The Palm Reader, where author Ralph Krunkleton will be signing copies of his latest bestseller in just a few moments. Back to you, Jerry…”
The camera lights died, and the newswoman spun on the store’s owner. “Don’t you ever fuck with me while I’m on the air!” She jammed her microphone in his stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and walked away.
The owner doubled over. “Can this get any worse?”
“Hi, I’m Ralph Krunkleton.” A big man in a fishing cap extended a hand.
“The signing’s off. We don’t have any more books.”
“What are those?” asked Ralph, pointing at three tall stacks of his books behind the counter, selling quickly at a hundred dollars each.
“Those are special. They’re on reserve. People have already bought them.”
Ralph took out a pen and stepped toward the piles. “I’d be happy to sign—”
“No!” The owner grabbed him by the arm. He stopped and lowered his voice. “I mean, no, that won’t be necessary.”
A college student had just purchased a book. Ralph reached for it. “How about you, son? Would you like an autograph?”
“Touch it and I’ll kill you!” The student jerked the book away and left the store.
The owner turned and gasped. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
People were unfolding Samsonite chairs. “Setting up for the reading,” said the woman with the wiener dog.
“No!” shouted the owner, grabbing a chair out of someone’s hand. “No reading! Go away!”
A TV cameraman looked through his viewfinder, talking to his news director. “There’s something strange about these people. I can’t quite put my finger on it….”
“I know what you mean,” said the director. “I’ve never seen an author appearance where nobody gets an autograph or stays for the reading. Smells fishy, like this is some kind of front….”
The owner overheard them and began clapping his hands sharply. “Okay, we’re about to start the reading. Everybody take a seat.”
A debutante paid for a book and started for the door. The owner blocked her path.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“My boyfriend’s.”
“You’re staying for the reading.”
“I’ve been waiting all day to get off.”
The owner lifted the edge of his tropical shirt to reveal a pistol tucked in his Dockers. “Have a seat.”
The owner kept lifting his shirt at departing customers, and the chairs began filling with fidgeting, sniffling people.
Unsuspecting readers who had seen the TV spot started arriving, a few at first, then dozens. The parking lot overflowed. Police officers came into the store.
“Are you the owner?”
He fell into a chair and grabbed his heart.
“We’ll take care of traffic. The chamber of commerce already called and is paying for the overtime, so there’s no charge. Just wanted you to know.” They went back out into the street, waving lighted orange batons.
The legitimate customers began mixing with coke fiends in the book line. The books kept selling, although the cost dropped sharply to the regular cover price when the new customers expressed outrage and the cashier panicked. Everyone was happy again, especially the dopers, who discovered the price of cocaine in Miami Beach had just fallen to $6.99 a gram.
The normal people took their new books and joined the others in the audience until it was standing room only.
“I guess we were wrong,” the TV director told his cameraman. “They’re staying for the reading. Some of them still seem a little weird, but on average it’s about what you’d see in any mall around here.”
The owner slid up to the cashier and whispered out of the side of his mouth, “How are you keeping the books with the cocaine separated from the others?”
“How am I doing what?”
Ralph stepped to the front of the chairs. “Good evening and thanks for coming. I’d like to start by reading one of my favorite passages—”
“What the heck’s this?” interrupted a woman in back, holding up a little white baggie.
“There’s one in my book, too,” said a man on the other side of the room.
“Me, too!”
“It looks like cocaine.”
“What’s going on here?”
The owner stood on a chair in the corner, holding a match up to an emergency sprinkler head.
“Come on! Come onnnnnnnnn!”
Teresa leaned over the steering wheel of the rented Grand Marquis. “I think I can see the bookstore on the next block. I told you we’d make it.”
“Why are all those police jumping out of those vans?”
15
Collins Avenue.
The BBB lounged behind dark sunglasses and recovered with morning coffee on the front patio of the Hotel Nash.
Sam stared into her decaf.