“What did he say?”

“He said no, but I was welcome to take a look on the shelves. Said it was a big place and there could be anything back there. So I went and took a look. It was a mess. The guy had no respect for the alphabet. There were Hemingways mixed up with Chandlers, Thackerays stacked up next to Graham Greene… a mess.

“I stayed there half the morning. Guy even made me a coffee and brought me a sandwich. I went through those shelves like an auditor. I counted every single book. You okay?”

Todd looked at Behm. Behm nodded downward at Todd’s hands. Todd was knitting and unknitting his fingers in a perpetual cat’s cradle.

“I’m fine,” said Todd. “Did you find it? The book?”

“No,” said Behm, and Todd’s heart almost burst with relief. Then Behm reached for the bag. He tipped it out onto the floor. There must have been ten or eleven books there. Paperbacks and hardbacks. Mint condition books and books fit only for the fire. Some were copies of All My Colors and some weren’t, but they all had one thing in common. They were all by Jake Turner.

“I found the books. Plural,” said Behm.

Todd got down on his knees among the books.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“Well, if you don’t, nobody does,” Behm said. “You asked me to find Jake Turner, and I guess,” he indicated the small heap of books, “I came pretty close.”

“But I never heard of these books,” said Todd, picking one up. The Green Road, it was called. Now he had it in his hand, it seemed somehow familiar.

“The store guy hadn’t, either,” said Behm. “He guessed they must have been a job lot left by the previous owner. But you know the weird part?”

Why is there always a weird part? thought Todd. Just for once, why can’t there be a normal part?

“No,” he said. “What’s the weird part?”

Behm looked at Todd, as if wondering what Todd really knew.

“The guy starts off saying, gee, I never saw these books before, and, gee, who is this guy, and all that. He’s really insistent,” he said. “But then he stops, and he says, gee, wait a minute, I’m remembering something. Jake Turner, Jake Turner… And he starts tapping his teeth with a pencil like it’s gonna wake up his memory. Then all of a sudden he opens this drawer, and—”

“And what?” Todd said.

“I had to give him twenty dollars for it,” said Behm. “He was reluctant to sell it, he said, but you could tell he hadn’t looked at the fucking thing in ten years—”

“What?” repeated Todd.

Behm sighed. “Now we’re eager,” he said. He reached into the bag again, and pulled out a folder. Todd grabbed the folder off him. Inside it was a small yellowing bundle of typescript.