It wasn’t his All My Colors. It was Jake Turner’s All My Colors, same as in the bookstore in Chicago. The only difference was that the Chicago book had the latest edition, a brand new copy, whereas this All My Colors was, as Todd might have expected from a library book, old, shop-soiled, with a cloudy cellophane cover and much-thumbed pages.

“Strictly speaking, it’s the library’s copy,” said Franco. “But it’s so old, I thought I could justify taking it out of circulation and ordering—”

“Is this a joke?” said Todd.

“Excuse me?” Franco said.

“I said, is this a fucking joke?” Todd was angry now. “Who put you up to this?”

“I don’t understand, Mr. Milstead,” Franco stuttered. “Would you rather I asked you to sign a new copy?” He was backing away from Todd and Todd understood that this was because Todd was advancing on him.

“I really didn’t mean to offend you!” Franco said. He stepped back, tripped, and fell over.

Todd stood over him, holding the battered book.

“This,” he shouted, “is not mine!”

“Get a grip, man!” shouted Franco from the floor.

He was about to bring it down on Franco’s face throw the book away when he stopped. Eddie had appeared in a doorway, looking a lot bigger than Todd remembered.

“You okay, Mr. Franco?” he said.

“I think so,” said Franco, scrambling up again. He looked Todd in the eye.

“Mr. Milstead is just leaving,” he said.

Todd said nothing. He brushed past them both and headed through the door to the street.

It was only when he was buckling himself up in the Volvo that he realized he still had the library book with him.

Six

SIX

At about the time Todd was storming out of the public library in Charlene, Timothy was considering closing up Legolas Books early so he could go home and make what he liked to call his famous chili con carne. He had it all planned: a bottle of Chianti, his famous chili con carne, and an old movie (Timothy had already checked the TV Guide, and was delighted to see that he had a choice between All About Eve or The Rocky Horror Picture Show: for such a crashing bore, he had great taste in movies).

Timothy looked at the store clock, then his wristwatch. They both confirmed what he knew already: no fucker was coming by his store this afternoon. He flipped the WELCOME STRANGER TO OUR BOX OF DELIGHTS sign over to CLOSED and was about to pull down the blinds when he heard a loud noise that soon became an ear-thumping roar. A motorbike engine.

Timothy despised motorbikes and their riders. Noisy, polluting assholes who lurked around corners just waiting to charge out and scare the living bejasus out of people. The engine was so loud he could barely think.