Necessity by Brian Garfield Read Free Book Online

of which don’t seem to be new—many are without dust jackets—and the bins and tables that crowd the center of the room are stacked high with oversized picture books and paperbacks and bargain selections: All Books On This Table $1.59.
    The cash register near the front door is a genuine antique—brass keys and pop-up numbers behind glass. But she sees a computer screen on the shelf behind.
    There is no one at the counter. Two men are deep in conversation near the back: the older one glances her way and speaks up: “Be right with you, ma’am.”
    â€œTake your time,” she says. “No hurry.” She smiles at his “ma’am.”
    He is white-haired: tall with a flowing white gunfighter’s mustache, a bit stooped, dressed in jeans and an outdoorsy red plaid shirt. The customer with him is younger—thirties or early forties, brown mustache, khaki poplin business suit.
    She removes her sunglasses and replaces them with the clear-lensed ones and glances along the shelves. Hand-crayoned signs thumbtacked to the bookcases identify their subject matter: American Indians … California History … Colorado River … Gold Rush … Gunmen.…
    The man with white hair separates himself from his customer and comes forward through the clutter. She sees that he is younger than he appeared at a distance; his smooth tanned face is interestingly in contrast with the color of his hair, which is abundant and well combed, and with the stoop of his shoulders, which at closer glance seems a symptom of scholarliness rather than age. He’s nearer fifty than seventy. His eyes are a troubled brown behind silver-framed glasses.
    â€œMay I help you?” He pronounces it he’p. Texas, she decides.
    â€œI’m Jennifer Hartman—the one who called this morning about your ad? Are you Mr. Stevens?”
    â€œDoyle Stevens.” His handshake is almost reluctant. He goes behind the counter and glances out the window and touches a corner of the cash register. He seems to go slack. His attention flits around the walls and she senses a furtive desperation. He utters an awkward laugh. “I feel tongue-tied,” he says.
    Then he punches a button: there is the jingle of the high-pitched bell and the No Sale tab flips up and the drawer slams open with a satisfying crunch of noise. It is a gesture: some kind of punctuation.
    He says: “You don’t look like somebody looking to get into this kind of business.”
    It startles her because she hasn’t had the feeling he’s scrutinized her at all. “I’m sorry. What should I look like?”
    He flaps a hand back and forth, dismissing it. “You want to know how’s business, I expect. I can tell you how it is. Calm as a horse trough on a hot day. Or, to put it another way, and not to put too fine a point on it—business is terrible. You think we’d be putting ads in the papers if we were earning a fortune here?”
    He pokes his head forward: suspicious, belligerent. The mustache seems to bristle. “Mostly I get fuzzy-headed inquiries by phone. Investors looking for opportunities—want to know about inventory and volume of business. Traffic in the location, all that jargon and bullroar. I tell them if they need to ask those kinds of questions, this is the wrong place for them. I tell them it’s a terrible investment for a real businessman. You could earn more on your money with a passbook savings account.”
    Doyle Stevens prods his finger into the drawer and rattles a few coins around and finally pushes it shut. It makes a racket.
    Finally he stares at her face. “I get letters from folks in Nebraska. Retired couples looking to set themselves up in retail. Looking for something genteel to, I guess, keep them busy while they enjoy the winter sunshine. I tell them too—forget it, my friends, it’s hard work and it’s full time and then some. My wife and I