by John Grisham
sentences just stopped me cold, which, one could argue, is not something a good sentence is supposed to do, but anyway you can write like hell and I think you can write anything. So what’s it gonna be—literary fiction or popular fiction?”
“Can’t it be both?” Bruce asked, thoroughly enjoying the conversation.
“For a handful of authors, right,” Myra replied. “But for the vast majority the answer is no.” She looked at Mercer and said, “This is something we’ve been debating for about ten years, since the first day we met. But, anyway, let’s assume that you will probably not be able to write literary fiction that will slay the critics and also rack up impressive royalties. And by the way, there is no envy here. I don’t write anymore so my career is over. I’m not sure what Leigh is doing these days but she’s damned sure not publishing anything.”
“Now, Myra.”
“So we can safely say her career is over too, and we don’t care. We’re old and we have plenty of money, so there’s no competition. You’re young and gifted and you’ll have a future if you can just figure out what to write. Thus this intervention. We’re just here to help. By the way, this risotto is delicious, Noelle.”
“Am I supposed to respond?” Mercer asked.
“No, it’s an intervention. You’re supposed to sit there and listen to us as we beat you up. Bruce, you go first. What should Mercer write?”
“I would start by asking what you read.”
“Everything by Randy Zalinski,” Mercer said and got a laugh.
“Poor guy’s laid up with a migraine and we’re trashing him over dinner,” Myra said.
“God help us,” Leigh said quietly.
Bruce asked, “What are the last three novels you read?”
Mercer took a sip of wine and thought for a second. “I loved The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah, and I believe it sold well.”
Bruce agreed. “Indeed it did. It’s out in paperback and still selling.”
Myra said, “I liked it, but you can’t make a living writing books about the Holocaust. Besides, Mercer, what do you know about the Holocaust?”
“I didn’t say I wanted to write about it. She’s written twenty books, all different.”
“Not sure it qualifies as literary fiction,” Myra said.
“Are you sure you would recognize it if you saw it?” Leigh asked with a grin.
“Was that a cheap shot, Leigh?”
“Yes.”
Bruce regained control with “Anyway, the other two novels?”
“A Spool of Blue Thread by Anne Tyler, one of my favorites, and LaRose by Louise Erdrich.”
“All girls,” Bruce said.
“Yes, I rarely read books written by men.”
“Interesting, and smart, since about 70 percent of all novels are purchased by women.”
“And all three sell, right?” Noelle asked.
“Oh yes,” Bruce said. “They write great books that sell well.”
“Bingo,” said Mercer. “That’s the plan.”
Bruce looked at Myra and said, “Well, there you have it. A successful intervention.”
“Not so fast. What about murder mysteries?” Myra asked.
“Not really,” Mercer replied. “My brain doesn’t work like that. I’m not devious enough to drop off clues and pick them up later.”
“Suspense? Thrillers?”
“Not really. I can’t do intricate plots.”
“Spies, espionage?”
“I’m too much of a girl.”
“Horror?”
“Are you kidding? After dark I’m afraid of my shadow.”
“Romance?”
“Don’t know the subject matter.”
“Porn?”
“I’m still a virgin.”
Bruce added, “Porn doesn’t sell anymore. You can get all you want for free online.”
Myra exhaled dramatically and said, “Those were the days. Twenty years ago Leigh and I could make the pages sizzle. Science fiction? Fantasy?”
“Never touch the stuff.”
“Westerns?”
“I’m afraid of horses.”
“Political intrigue?”
“I’m afraid of politicians.”
“Well, that does it. Looks like you’re destined to write historical fiction about screwed-up families. Now get to work. We expect some progress from this point on.”
“I’ll start first thing in the morning,” Mercer said. “And thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Myra said. “And since we’re on the subject of interventions, has anyone seen Andy Adam? Reason I ask is that I bumped into his ex at the grocery store a few days ago and she seemed to think he’s not doing too well.”
“Let’s just say he’s not sober these days,” Bruce said.
“Anything we can do to help?”
“Nothing I can think of. Right now Andy is just a drunk, and until he decides to sober up he’ll be nothing more than a drunk. His publisher will probably turn down his latest, and that will mean more trouble. I’m worried about him.”
Mercer was watching Bruce’s wineglass. Several times Elaine had said he drank too much, but Mercer had not seen this. At Myra and Leigh’s dinner party, and now again tonight, he sipped his wine, was slow to refill, and was in perfect control.
With Andy out of the way, Myra led them through a recap of their other friends’ lives. Bob Cobb was on a sailboat down around Aruba. Jay Arklerood was in Canada spending some time isolated in a friend’s cabin. Amy Slater was busy with the kids, one of whom was playing T-ball. Bruce grew noticeably quiet. He was careful to absorb the gossip but not repeat any of it.
Noelle seemed excited to be leaving the Florida heat for a month. Provence was warm too, but not as humid, she explained. After dinner, she again asked Mercer to join her there, maybe not for a month, for perhaps a week or so. Mercer thanked her but said she needed to work on the novel. That, plus money was tight and she was saving for the writer’s table.
“It’s yours, dear,” Noelle said. “I’m saving it for you.”
Myra and Leigh left at nine and walked home. Mercer helped Bruce and Noelle in the kitchen and managed to say good-bye before ten. When she left, Bruce was sipping coffee in the den, his nose stuck in a book.
8.
Two days later, Mercer ventured downtown and had lunch at a small café with a shaded courtyard. Afterward, she strolled along Main Street and noticed that Noelle’s shop was closed. A handwritten sign on the door explained that the owner was in France shopping for antiques. The writer’s table was on full display in the front window, in an otherwise empty room. She went next door, said hello to Bruce, and walked upstairs to the café, where she ordered a latte and took it outside to the balcony overhanging Third Street. As expected, he soon joined her.
“What brings you downtown?” he asked.
“Boredom. Another unproductive day at the typewriter.”
“I thought Myra had cured your writer’s block.”
“Wish it could be that simple. Do you have a few minutes, to talk?”
Bruce smiled and said of course. He glanced around and noticed a couple at a nearby table, too close for a serious conversation. “Let’s go downstairs,” he said. She followed him down to his First Editions Room and he closed the door behind them. “This must be serious,” he said with a warm smile.
“It’s somewhat delicate,” she said. She told him the story of Tessa’s old books, the ones she had “borrowed” from the Memphis Public Library in 1985. She had rehearsed the tale a dozen times and seemed genuinely perplexed about what to do. She was not surprised that he enjoyed the story and was interested in the books. In his opinion, there was no need to contact the library in Memphis. Sure, it would love to have the books back, but their losses had been written off decades ago. Besides, the library would have no appreciation for their real values. “They would probably just put them back on the shelves for the next person to steal,” he said. “Believe me, nothing good would
happen to the books. They should be protected.”
“But they’re not really mine to sell, right?”
He smiled and shrugged as if this was a technicality of little consequence. “What’s the old saying? Possession is nine-tenths of the law. You’ve had the books for over ten years. I’d say they belong to you.”
“I don’t know. It just doesn’t feel right for some reason.”
“Are the books in good shape?”
“They seem to be. I’m no expert. I’ve taken good care of them. In fact, I’ve rarely touched them.”
“Can I see them?”
“I don’t know. This is just the first step. If I show you the books, then we would be getting closer to a transaction.”
“At least let me see them.”
“I don’t know. Do you have the titles in your collection?”
“Yes. I have all of James Lee Burke’s books and all of Cormac’s.”
Mercer glanced at the shelves as if looking for them. “Not here,” he said. “They’re with the rare books downstairs. Salt air and humidity are brutal on books, so I keep the valuable ones in a vault where the temperature is controlled. Would you like to see them?”
“Maybe later,” Mercer managed to say casually. In fact, she was wonderfully indifferent. “Any idea what these two might be worth, you know, just ballpark figures?”
“Sure,” he said quickly, as if anticipating the question. He swung around to a desktop computer, hit a few keys, and studied the screen. “I bought the first copy of The Convict in 1998 for twenty-five hundred bucks, so it’s probably more than doubled in value. It all depends on the condition, which of course I won’t know until I actually take a look. I bought another copy in 2003 for thirty-five hundred.” He continued scrolling. Mercer couldn’t see the screen but it appeared to be loaded with an extensive collection. “I have one copy of Blood Meridian, bought it from a dealer pal in San Francisco about ten years ago. Nine to be exact, paid, let’s see, two thousand for it but it had a slight chip on the jacket and some aging. Not in great shape.”
Well, just buy a forged jacket, Mercer thought, now that she knew so much about the business. Instead, she managed to seem pleasantly surprised. “Are you serious? They’re that valuable?”
“Don’t doubt me, Mercer, this is my favorite part of the business. I make more money trading rare books than selling new ones. Sorry if that sounds like bragging, but I love this stuff. If you’d like to sell the books I’ll be happy to help.”
“They have the library’s bar codes on the dust jacket. Wouldn’t that hurt their value?”
“Not really. They can be removed and I know every restorer in the business.”
And probably every forger. “How would I show them to you?” she asked.
“Put ’em in a bag and bring ’em in.” He paused and swiveled back to face her. “Or better yet, I’ll stop by the cottage. I’d like to see the place. I’ve driven by it for years and always thought it was one of the prettiest on the beach.”
“I really don’t want to haul them around.”
9.
The afternoon dragged on, and at one point Mercer could not resist the temptation to call Elaine for an update. Their plan was progressing faster than they had imagined, and now Bruce was ready to pounce on the books. The fact that he was stopping by the cottage was almost too good to be true, at least for Elaine.
“Where’s Noelle?” she asked.
“Gone to France, I guess. Her store is closed indefinitely while she’s off shopping.”
“Perfect,” Elaine said. She knew that the day before Noelle had flown from Jacksonville to Atlanta, where she boarded an Air France flight at 6:10 p.m. for a nonstop to Paris. She had arrived at Orly at 7:20, on schedule, and caught a 10:40 a.m. flight to Avignon. Their man on the ground there followed her to her apartment on Rue d’Alger in the old section of the city.
When Bruce arrived at the cottage a few minutes after six, Noelle was having a late dinner with a handsome French gentleman at La Fourchette, a famous little restaurant on Rue Racine.
When Bruce arrived at the cottage, Mercer was peeking through the blinds covering a front window. He was driving his convertible Porsche, the one she had seen parked at the Marchbanks House, and he had changed into khaki shorts and a golf shirt. At forty-three, he was lean, fit, and tanned, and though she had yet to hear him reveal the usual boring details of any workout routine, it was obvious he stayed in shape. After two long dinners, she knew that he ate little and drank in moderation. Same for Noelle. Good food was important to them; they just consumed it in small portions.
He was carrying a bottle of champagne, evidence that he was not one to waste time. His wife/partner had left the day before and he was already moving in on his latest prospect. Or so she figured.
Mercer met him at the door and showed him around. On the breakfast table, where she was trying to write her novel, she had placed the two books. “I guess we’re having champagne,” she said.
“It’s just a housewarming gift, maybe for later.”
“I’ll put it in the fridge.”
Bruce sat at the table and stared at the books, as if enthralled. “May I?”
“Of course. They’re just old library books, right?” she said with a laugh.
“Hardly.” He gently picked up The Convict and caressed it as if handling rare jewels. Without opening it, he examined the dust jacket, front, back, and spine. He rubbed the jacket and said, almost mumbling to himself, “First-issue jacket, bright and unfaded, no chips or blemishes anywhere.” He slowly turned to the copyright page. “First edition, published by LSU Press in January of 1985.” He turned more pages and closed the book. “Very fine copy. I’m impressed. And you’ve read it?”
“No, but I’ve read a few of Burke’s mysteries.”
“I thought you preferred female writers.”
“I do, but not exclusively. Do you know him?”
“Oh, yes. He’s been to the store twice. Great guy.”
“And you have two of these, first editions?”
“Yes, but I’m always looking for more.”
“What would you do if you bought it?”
“Is it for sale?”
“Maybe. I had no idea these two were so valuable.”
“I would offer five thousand for this, and I would then try to sell it for twice that. I have a number of clients, serious collectors, and I can think of two or three who’d like to add this to their collections. We would haggle for a few weeks. I would come down. They might go up, but I would hold the line at seven thousand. If I couldn’t get that, I’d lock it in the basement for five years. First editions are great investments because they can’t print any more of them.”
“Five thousand dollars,” Mercer repeated, apparently stunned.
“On the spot.”
“Can I haggle for more?”
“Sure, but six is my top dollar.”
“And no one will ever know where it came from? I mean, they can’t trace it back to me and Tessa?”
Bruce laughed at the question. “Of course not. This is my world, Mercer, and I’ve been playing this game for twenty years. These books disappeared decades ago and no one will suspect anything. I’ll place them privately with my clients and everyone will be happy.”
“There are no records?”
“Where? Who could keep up with all the first editions in the country? Books don’t leave trails, Mercer. A lot of them are passed down like jewelry—not always accounted for, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Outside of probate.”
“Oh, I get it. Are they ever stolen and resold?”
“It happens. I’ll turn down a book if its provenance is too