Legolas Books was small, cramped, and unpopular, but Todd liked it. Timothy, the owner of Legolas, was a former hippy who’d taken advantage of premature baldness and myopia to remodel himself as an archetypal bookstore-owner, complete with bald head, gold-rimmed glasses and the benevolent look of a man who has lived his life among books rather than taking too much acid. His devotion to the wholesale faking-up of whatever a bookstore should be—shelves in disorder to create the impression of too many books, cups of awful coffee to encourage chats, unnecessary step ladders and a framed, hand-written copy of the Desiderata— had extended to his own attire of moleskin waistcoat and collarless shirt. Anywhere else, Timothy would have been roughed up and thrown into a storm drain, but here in his book-lined kingdom, he could be himself with impunity.

Timothy’s attitude to literature appealed to Todd, who had himself been faking a life in books for some years. Todd was particularly drawn to Timothy because the shine-pated bookseller had decided for some reason that Todd was a real writer, in the same way that Timothy was a real bookman. They could stand for hours, Todd and Timothy, on either side of Timothy’s counter, discussing books and their contents until finally interrupted by an angry cough from some idiot who wanted to actually buy a book. Timothy didn’t mind at all: he knew that Todd was as likely to write a great novel as he was to piss diamonds, but Todd was part of the bookstore’s color. “See that fellow, browsing among the Hemingways?” he’d say to a tourist who’d come in to buy a map, “Local author. We’re kind of proud of him.” And the tourist would feel ashamed at not being more artistic, and buy something expensive by a dead guy.

Today as usual Timothy was behind the counter, or rather beside it, sitting on a high stool, nose in a book, ready to peer over his glasses at any approaching customers. When the shop bell rang as Todd entered, Timothy closed the book without marking his place—it was, being the first book he’d picked up, an empty notebook with an attractive marbled cover and as such had no actual words in it—and greeted Todd.

“Good morning, scribe,” he said. “How fares the struggle?”

Even Todd would normally have had difficulty responding to this without headbutting Timothy, but today he was hardly listening.

“Got a specific request for you today,” he said.

“Well,” said Timothy, “like it says in the men’s room—‘We aim to please. You aim too, please.’”

He beamed at his salty sally. Todd just looked at him. What the fuck was the old prick on about?

“I need a copy of All My Colors,” he said.

Timothy looked confused.

“I don’t think I recollect that one,” he said. “Is it new?”

“Oh, not you as well,” replied Todd. “Has my wife been down here, is that it?”