Fridays at Enrico's by Don Carpenter Read Free Book Online

the front door and see if the people were awake yet. As was his usual habit, the night before he had picked up a copy of the bulldog edition of the Chronicle and read the ads, looking for anything that might be fruitful. This ad said, “Household furnishings for sale. Many good things,” and the address close enough to the high rent district to make Kenny interested. Not that he cared about furniture. Kenny was a book scout. He spent most of his spare time running around theBay Area looking for underpriced used books. One of his tricks was to answer ads like this morning’s, looking around at the furniture but actually keeping his eye out for books. Often the people holding home furniture sales were in bad shape and didn’t know what they were doing. Sometimes the person who collected the books had died, and the widow wouldn’t know their value. He’d picked up quite a few good bargains this way, including a copy of Hike and the Aeroplane , a children’s book which had been Sinclair Lewis’s first published work. Kenny sold the copy he found, not mint, not even excellent, but very good, for one hundred and fifty dollars. He had paid fifty cents for it.
    He sat in his old maroon ’49 Ford sipping coffee from his thermos cup and reading the morning Examiner by flashlight. This time of year the sun wouldn’t be up for another hour. It was cold, but Kenny was comfortable. Last night had been good. He sat up writing for several hours, the laundry below closed, the apartment building almost silent except for the usual quiet domestic sounds, and he had been able to churn out three whole pages. He was writing an insane little story about an old Chinese man who worked in a laundry every day and then went home to work on his invention, which was made of a lot of tiny moving parts, gears, wheels, pins, shafts, etc. No one was sure what the old man was making, but everyone was very respectful. Kenny wasn’t sure what the old man was making either, but he hoped his imagination would come to his rescue. He seemed to be coming near to the end of the story, and he still didn’t have any idea what the story was about. He had to trust himself, he knew. Writing blindly, following only impulse, was the secret to finding out what lay in the deepest parts of his mind. What his mother would call his soul, but which he preferred to call his essence.
    He looked at his watch. Five to seven. He knew from experience that a lot of people would answer this ad and it was best to be early. Oddly, none of the other book scouts he knew had caught on to his trick of answering furniture ads. Usually he was the only one even slightly interested in the books. He got out of the car and saw his breath. It was a nice cold morning. He went up the steps and rang the doorbell. He hoped they wouldn’t be angry with him, but they usually weren’t. They wanted that sale to begin.
    After a while a plump little woman in a gray sweatshirt and green slacks opened the door and looked out at him without saying anything.
    â€œI’m here for the sale?” he said.
    â€œOh,” she said. She seemed a little strange, but she widened the opening and let him in. He could see right away that the furnishings were good. Persian rugs everywhere, Tiffany lamps, at least three of them in the living room, good-looking and well-cared-for antique furniture. He walked around the living room pretending to look at the furniture.
    â€œI’m Mrs. Froward,” the woman said and gave him a moist hand. He realized she was drunk. At least she had booze on her breath.
    â€œThis is all such nice stuff,” he said, walking around. He looked at the pieces in the dining room. Still no books. This was actually a good sign. If a household like this had only a few books, usually they would be displayed in the living room. Of course they might have no books at all.
    â€œDo you have any bookshelves for sale?” he asked her.