Jonathan Cohen

From 2005.

Max pushed the book away from the woman. “You don’t want to buy that.”

“That’s exactly what I came in here to buy,” she said. “James Joyce.”

“He’ll just break your heart,” Max said. “All wordplay and no action.” The woman was tucked into winter furs, determination set into her face. Max was familiar with the type; he saw enough of them in the used bookstore. The literary equivalent of the Christian who went to church on Christmas and Easter, she belonged to a book club.

“You do have the best prices around here,” the woman said. “I don’t like to patronize the big-box chains.”

She didn’t patronize anyone but the small stores, indeed. “Book club?” he asked slyly.

She flushed. “Personal interest.”

Max nodded. “Of course, of course.” Don’t get too close, he thought. “Are you sure you didn’t mean James Cavell?”

“I know the difference between Ulysses and Shogun,” she said huffily. The people behind her shuffled impatiently. “For a place that’s so popular, it’s surprising how unfriendly you are.”

Max sighed, pretending defeat. “Now, we only accept cash,” he said, calculating. “Exact change. That’ll be…three dollars and eighty-nine cents.”

“Exact change?” she nodded, getting the picture. The woman looked around. One of the dead foxes on her neck swung around, as if in agreement. “Oh, I see. This isn’t a business at all.”

She huffed out. Victory, Max thought. But there was the rest of the line to dissuade.

At the end of the day, Ronnie called, like every day. “Did you sell any books today, dear?” Ronnie asked.

Max glanced at the unbought stack on the counter. “Nothing today. Crowds are thinning out.” Fortunately.

“Don’t get discouraged, honey. I’ve got the cash to see you through any slump. Remember, it’s a labor of love.”