“The couple who put it together.”
“You mean got it together like really got it going, or the other thing?”
“Edited and published the book. They solicited the stories, selected those they wanted, rejected those they didn’t, put the book together by choosing which print and paper and who went where and in what order if the author had more than one story in it — I’ve got four. And designed the cover and frontispiece and so on — this is the frontispiece — and wrote the contributors’ notes and promotional copy and got the money for the project and distributors and things like that.”
“Eight fifty it says here.”
“It’s a little high but nothing I can do.”
“What I think is you just give two of them away. Then sell the rest for six dollars and make a big profit. Eight times six is almost fifty.”
“Five are soft covers and I have to keep one of each for myself.”
“Then just give away one. What do the softcovers sell for, four dollars, five? You’ll still net around fifty. That’s some money at least. But your name.” She looks at my mailbox nameplate.
“Keep turning.”
She turns to the contents page, runs her finger down the names of the authors.
“Mine’s at the end.”
“There it is. Last one. That’s good or bad though I’m sure being first is best, but I could have found it. Looks nice. You’re really him. You’re famous, Will. Can I have this?” She sticks the book in to her shoulder bag.
“No can do,” I put my hand into her bag.
“Say,” edging away, “what are you doing? Help, police. A thief in our midst, I mean mine. I can’t keep it? As a keepsake from a short and lasting acquaintanceship if I do get to keep it? I want to read you. And then carry it around and tell all my friends and the people I talk to about subscriptions that I met you and you were one of their fellow subscribers who gave me this book and lots and lots of votes. Please?”
“Give back the book?”
“You have seven of them. Ten. This is one of ten. What’s that?”
“I told you. I’ve friends and a library to give them to.”
“So I’m not a friend of yours, right?”
“The truth is I just met you. Years ago I might have been that superficially generous with a book I’m in or something I own, but now I can’t. I just don’t. I don’t want to. The book?”
“The Black Book. Goodbye Black Book.” She kisses it. “It’s very smooth, the cover. Black is the smoothest color of all in looks and touch. I like it against my face.” She runs the front of the book against her cheek and chin. “You look worried. I’m not sweaty or have makeup, so don’t be.” She gives me the book.
“Thanks,” I drop it into the box. “I really have to go upstairs now.”
“Before you do let me tell you in detail what you don’t know about our vote system. I can skip the introduction monologue because you know us, correct? We’re all college students, working our way, which you know too. Some need money for tuition, some to have fun. I want to have fun with it. I’ve never had a thousand dollars just to spend on myself. And now I’ve been real honest with you so the least you can do is take one subscription from me to help me out. We have magazines for everyone. The Writer we have. It’s right at the end here, alphabetically. You’re a writer, so if you don’t already subscribe to it it’s an absolute must. Indispensable I’m supposed to say. See? I’m being completely honest, telling you what they say should be my pitch.”
“I already told you.”
“Told me what?”
“Debts, rent.”
“So I can’t sell any to you? Well that’s cool, am I right?”
“I guess.”
“I like you. You’re more than nice. You’re patient and speak well and write things. You wouldn’t let me read anything you wrote but I’ll buy your book even if you won’t take a subscription from me and give you royalties and read you through.”
“No royalties. And no place to buy it except through a distributing company in Berkeley and maybe one of the better literary bookstores downtown.”
“Then I’ll go downtown and buy it. So now you can take a subscription, royalties or not.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Who’s he? Somebody else who’s famous in this house?”
Ed Turner from the first floor just passed. He might have said “Hi will” as he usually does in a very low voice without ever looking at me, but I didn’t hear him. He’s already sitting against a parked car.
“That’s Ed Turner. He’s a tenant here.”
“Writer too?”
“He’s a reader. A fantastic reader actually. Retired. Worked as a printer.”
“Printer and a writer. Eggs and butter, I mean toast,”
“Ed was a linotypist.”
“I know. For newspapers and such. Retired. He’s old though, but you think I ought to go after him? Not just trying to get rid of me, not that you shouldn’t? I’ve been a pest.”
“No you haven’t. I liked talking to you. And Ed does get strapped for cash, but he might buy.”
“No, you’re not trying to get rid of me. You’re still much too nice.” She opens the door to the street. “You know, I’m really beginning to love this little building. Everybody who’s in it is great. Printers. Writers. I’m going to make it my project to stick around here and meet everybody who lives here, even if I can’t get Ed to give me a hundred votes. This building’s loaded with good people, to me the best on the block.”
Ed takes his keys out of his pocket and looks at them. It’s around dinnertime for him. Mostly he eats in luncheonettes like the type I worked in today. Denise says goodbye, shakes my hand and goes outside.
“Mr. Turner?” she says. “Ed?” His hearing’s bad so that might be the reason he doesn’t look up.
I go upstairs, exercise, shower, finish reading my section of the book. About fifty pages. I’m satisfied with the way it reads and looks. Only a few minor typos and one major one where it reads “Pocked the sand in his hand” instead of “Packed,” which could make me look stupid because of all the intentional transpositions of letters and words in my stories to make double meanings and puns, and I correct it in my ten copies. I read the newspaper, shave, snack and go downstairs with one of the hardcovers to drop into my neighborhood library’s drop chute with a note taped on it for the librarian. I promised her a copy when she said she had no funds to order one. Denise is sitting on the building’s outside steps.
“Hiya, Will. I told you I loved this building. So far I’ve talked to two of your neighbors and three of their guests and a television repairman. Outside of him and a man who wouldn’t identify himself who went out to walk his monkey he said, which he wouldn’t show me under his coat, they’ve all been more than nice to me and in brains practically brilliant. Mrs. Balin from 4B gave me a hundredten votes. So you can see I’m too good at this not to win the thousand dollars. Hey, there it is again, The Black Book. You’ve decided to give me one after all.”
“I’m donating it to the library.”
“They’re open this hour? Intellectual New Yorkers. But what have you been doing till now, reading your own anthology pages?”
“You must be psychic.”
“I’m more than that, Will. And you’re feeling much happier now, aren’t you, so you’re going to give me a hundredten votes too.”
“Here, take the book instead.” I take off the note. “And now that you’ve cut short my destination in a way, what do you say to accompanying me for a coffee or a beer?”
“Go with you? Oh no, I don’t do that. But thanks for the book.”