The Dickens with Love (7 page)
I opened my mouth to tell him the truth, to tell him to find another errand boy, that even if Sedgwick Crisparkle would let me within ten miles of that book, I wouldn’t go near him or it.
Through the wall of my apartment I could hear America.
Don’t give up until you drink from the silver
cup…
35
Josh Lanyon
I was going to gift this entire apartment complex and buy Darcy a Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
album for Christmas.
“James?” Mr. S. prodded.
I could always go with my gut instinct and tell Stephanopoulos that the book was the real thing. But
then he would ask me to broker the deal between himself and Sedgwick, and even if I could bring myself to speak to Sedgwick again, he’d clearly never accept a deal that I was any part of. Especially since Mr. S.
had made it clear I couldn’t tell Sedgwick who the real buyer was.
What was that about anyway?
Not that it was any of my business now. I needed to put the whole matter out of my mind—except that
wasn’t easy to do when I needed the commission so urgently.
I took a deep breath and lied, “I’m supposed to talk to him later this evening.”
I could feel Mr. S.’s frustration clear across the city. “I don’t understand the delay.”
“Crisparkle doesn’t share your sense of urgency. He’s happy to have the book go to auction.”
“No. I must have that book,” Stephanopoulos insisted.
“We’re not even sure it’s the real thing.”
“You’re sure,” he said with unexpected certainty.
The fight went abruptly out of me. Perhaps it was the reflection that I would be having two eggs and
Hoisin sauce for supper. “I—perhaps.”
“I
must
have that book.”
“I know.”
“
Whatever
you have to do, James.”
“I’ll do whatever I can. Within the legal limits, of course.”
He laughed. “Of course, of course.”
My thoughts were decidedly unmerry as I replaced the phone receiver.
~ * ~
Ebenezer Scrooge would have learned a few things about the dark side of humanity if he’d happened
to work in a national chain bookstore three days before Christmas.
The depressing fact is, no one reads anymore. Most of the people collecting books don’t even read
them. Book collecting is very hot, don’t get me wrong. In certain circles rare books are considered sexy and exotic. But for the average person, books remind them of the bad old days of homework and report cards.
For these folks, books and bookstores are the last resort, the last desperate option for befuddled holiday-makers who have run out of ideas for presents for people they don’t know that well. Books rank somewhere between a tie and a box of chocolates. It’s a book or go home empty-handed—and empty-handed means
again facing the stores and parking lots that one frightening day closer to Christmas.
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The Dickens with Love
I had learned to get through the Season of Plastic with the minimum of anguish by simply playing the
class card. As in, “
Mastering the Art of French Cooking
is a classy gift.” People like the thought that they are giving classy gifts.
I’m looking for…
“
The Beatles Anthology
is a classy gift.”
Do you have anything for…?
“
The Case for God
is a classy gift.”
She’s always saying…
“
Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman’s Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia
is a classy gift.”
Maybe you can help me…
“
A Christmas Carol
is a classy gift.”
Now where had that come from? Not that it wasn’t true. And, in fact, Dickens sold quite well—
continued to sell quite well—around the holidays. But I didn’t want to think about Dickens right then. It reminded me of the promise I had made Mr. Stephanopoulos.
Worse, it reminded me of Sedgwick Crisparkle.
No sooner had I re-resolved to think no more about Dickens, Stephanopoulos or bloody Professor
Crisparkle than the fates seemed to conspire to keep the latter in my mind. Constantly. A customer asked for
The Secret Life of Bees.
Another asked for
The Backyard Beekeeper:
An Absolute Beginner’s Guide to
Keeping Bees in Your Yard and Garden.
Up until then I’d felt I was doing a very good job of not thinking about Sedgwick or the night before, but I couldn’t help remembering his bee pollen comment that morning—it felt like a lifetime ago. I had liked him. A lot. Although he was clearly a nut.
After an hour or two of hell I was rescued from the book floor and sent to man one of the registers up front. I considered that a reprieve. The extent of required socializing amounted to asking if it was cash or credit and if the customer had a membership card.
I rang up a few hundred books on automatic pilot and the line to the bank of registers never grew any
shorter. I spared a glance for my fellow sweating, flushed sales associates. We were like the last centurions, backs to the wall, facing down the barbarian hordes.
At one point I knocked a stack of bookmarks to the floor. Smothering an unholiday-spirited curse, I
knelt, scooped them up, rose from behind the desk. “May I help you?”
Sedgwick Crisparkle stood on the other side of the counter.
37
Chapter Six
Infuriatingly, my initial reaction was a totally illogical leap of shocked delight. This was followed by a far more understandable surge of wary hostility.
“Hello,” he said when I didn’t speak.
I nodded curtly.
He persisted in that polite conversational tone. “You have no idea how hard it was to track you
down.”
I was torn between horror that he must have spoken to my former colleagues, one of whom—at
least—obviously knew what I had been reduced to, and flattered confusion that he was trying to find me. I was also aware of the line of customers shifting and grumbling restlessly behind him.
“Is there something I can help you with?” I asked frostily.
“Oh.” He offered a self-conscious peep of the dimples and set an enormous stack of children’s books
on the counter.
I began ringing up books.
Three Cups of Tea, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Lightning Thief,
a
paperback edition of
The Boxcar Children
—which I nearly dropped. It’s hard to remain unmoved at the sight of a big, strong man buying cute little children’s books. I did my best. “Did you want these gift wrapped?”
“Yes. Look, do you have a break soon? I need to speak with you.”
“No.” I kept ringing up books. Who were all these books for? He was probably married. Married,
closeted, and enjoying a short break from real life.
“No, you don’t have a break?”
“No. I mean, yes. I do not have a break. I already had it. And no. I am not going to speak with you on or off my break.” It occurred to me that I was passing up an opportunity I could not afford to pass up if I wanted to earn Mr. S.’s commission, but pride and anger was working me like an intrusive hand up a
puppet’s sleeve. In fact, I was getting angrier by the minute as I relived the various humiliations of my day.
Not that they were all his fault, but a good portion were.
I finished ringing him up and delivered the total. He barely blinked as he handed over his credit card. I slid it, handed it back to him. Nodded to the gift wrap table at the end of the aisle. “They’ll take care of you over there.”
He didn’t move. “James, I realize you’re angry, but I do need to speak to you.”
The Dickens with Love
“
Next
,” I called more vehemently than necessary.
He flushed. The next customer stepped to the counter, and after a hesitation, Sedgwick fumblingly
gathered his books and receipt and moved away.
I spared him a couple of glances between customers. He stood frowning and abstracted as his books
were wrapped by one of the community volunteers.
The third time I looked up, he was walking out through the glass doors, scowling.
As the doors swung shut behind him and he vanished into the night, the angry energy that had fueled
me seeped away. All at once I was tired and depressed. It was going to be a very long evening.
As I automatically worked the register I decided I had been foolish and hasty in sending Sedgwick off
like that. I should have heard him out. Perhaps it had belatedly occurred to the arrogant asshole that maybe I did really have a wealthy client, and brushing me and my client off was a stupid move.
Perhaps he was willing to bargain now that he’d had time to think things over. Yes, I shouldn’t have
let my hurt ego get the better of me without seeing whether there was a way to turn the situation to my advantage.
Dickens wrote it himself: “The first rule of business is: Do other men for they would do you.”
I needed to get over my hurt pride so that I could do Sedgwick Crisparkle properly. In a matter of
speaking.
Or maybe it was something else. Maybe he wanted to make some sort of lame-ass apology in order to
sleep with me again. He was obviously hard up if his friends and well-wishers sent him off on vacation with that much encouragement to get laid.
Well, even if that was the case, why not use that? Why not treat him exactly as he deserved—like the
person he imagined I was would treat him? Why not use him the way he’d used me?
The more I considered the idea, the better I liked it.
Yes. Since Sedgwick Crisparkle already believed I was a scheming crook capable of everything from
forgery to murder, why not give him a taste of real double-dealing?
I decided that when I got home I would call him—hopefully waking him out of a sound sleep—and
agree to meet. And then I would do everything in my power to get another look at that book and arrange a sale between him and Stephanopoulos. In fact, I was going to do my best to arrange that sale whether I got another look at the book or not—since according to Mr. S. he would be the last person Sedgwick would
want to sell to. It delighted me to think the book would go to a man Sedgwick didn’t want it to go to.
And yet, even as I made these plans, there was a small dismayed corner of my heart. Like those stupid
cartoons when you’re a kid: little red devil on one shoulder and the little angel in his nightie on the other.
My good angel was hiding his eyes.
By the time we got out of the store it was nearly twelve thirty.
39
Josh Lanyon
I said goodnight to my coworkers and was making my way across the now nearly empty parking lot
when a car door opened and a familiar voice called, “James!”
I halted. Sedgwick walked quickly toward me. “James.” He sounded out of breath though it was only
a few feet from where I stood to his innocuous rental car. “Please listen to me for one minute.”
I stared at him stonily. I knew I was going to have to unbend if I was really going to put my evil plans into effect, but he’d caught me off guard again and my instinctive reaction was emotional and
unproductive.
“I’m very bad at this kind of conversation,” Sedgwick informed me, like this was supposed to be a
news bulletin.
“Fifty seconds.”
“What?”
“You asked for a minute. You’ve got forty-five seconds left.”
“I apologize for anything I might have said that offended you this morning.”
“Apology accepted. Goodnight.” I turned away.
“Wait a sec.” He caught my arm. I stood still. I’d have liked to glare haughtily down at him, but he
was—annoyingly—just that bit taller than me. So it was Sedgwick gazing down at me—and the expression
in his eyes was disconcerting. “I’ve been waiting two and a half hours and I
am
going to talk to you.”
“You still have fifteen seconds, go ahead.”
“I gave you the wrong impression this morning. I do not—categorically
do not
—believe you had
anything to do with murder or forgery. But I feel that there’s something not aboveboard with this
anonymous client of yours. This whole preemptive bid business. I’ve never heard of such a thing. It doesn’t seem…” I could see him think twice about finishing that sentence.
“It’s not playing nice, but there’s nothing unusual about it. Look it up on the goddamned internet if
you think it’s such an outlandish idea.” I was genuinely exasperated. Of all the things to be suspicious of, he was taking exception to the piece of the equation that was actually reasonably legitimate.
“Can we find a place to discuss this in a civilized manner?”
I dearly wanted to tell him no, we couldn’t. But that hardly fit with my plans. Plus…I did want to see him again. I did want the chance to justify myself to him. My injured ego and hurt feelings pretty much demanded it.
We went to an all-night coffee shop on Brand Avenue, settling in a booth near the back of the brightly lit room. I was surprised to find how nervous I was, and I tried to cover it by memorizing all the pies on the menu.
The waiter arrived and Sedgwick ordered coffee and cherry pie. I ordered coffee.
As soon as the waiter departed, Sedgwick said, with that unexpected self-consciousness, “First of all, I wanted to say that…I had a really nice time last night.”
40
The Dickens with Love
My face warmed. I unbent enough to say grudgingly, “Me too.”
“Secondly, you should know that I am, per my family and friends, an insensitive clod. I tend to speak
without considering other people’s feelings.”
I said coolly, “Sugarcoating it wouldn’t have changed anything. You think I’m a crook.”