“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
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:
“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!”
“Uh, good plot?” said a schoolteacher, grinning nervously.
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.
