“A hundred and twenty? Why so many?”

“I have a First Editions Club, about a hundred of my top customers who buy every autographed book. It’s quite a draw, really. If I can guarantee a hundred books, the publishers and writers are pretty eager to put us on the tour.”

“And these people show up for every signing?”

“I wish. Usually about half, which makes for a nice crowd. Thirty percent live out of town and collect by mail.”

“What happened when I canceled?”

“I returned the books.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Just part of the business.”

Mercer moved along the wall, scanning the rows of books, some of which she recognized. All were single copies. Where were the others? He had put one of hers back and left one on the table. Where were they kept?

“So are any of these valuable?” she asked.

“Not really. It’s an impressive collection, and it means a lot to me because I’m attached to each one of them, but they rarely hold their value.”

“Why is that?”

“The first-run printings are too large. The first printing for your book was five thousand copies. That’s not huge, but to be valuable a book has to be scarce. Sometimes I get lucky, though.” He reached high, removed a book, and handed it to her.

“Remember Drunk in Philly? J. P. Walthall’s masterpiece.”

“Of course.”

“Won the National Book Award and the Pulitzer in 1999.”

“I read it in college.”

“I saw an advance reading copy and loved it, knew it had potential, so I ordered a few boxes, and that was before he said he would not be touring. His publisher was broke and not too sharp to begin with, so it did an initial run of six thousand copies. Not bad for a first novel but not nearly enough. Well, the printing got interrupted when the union went on strike. Only twelve hundred copies made it off the press before they shut it down. I got lucky when my supply arrived. The first reviews were insanely good and the second printing, at a different press, was twenty thousand. Double that for the third and so on. The book eventually sold a million copies in hardback.”

Mercer opened the book, flipped to the copyright page, and saw the words “First Edition.”

“So what’s this worth?” she asked.

“I’ve sold a couple at five thousand dollars. Now I’m asking eight. Still have about twenty-five of them, buried in the basement.”

She filed that away but said nothing. She handed the book back to him and walked to another wall covered with books. Bruce said, “More of the collection, but not all of those authors have signed here.”

She removed John Irving’s The Cider House Rules and said, “I’m assuming there are plenty of these on the market.”

“It’s John Irving. That was seven years after Garp, so the first printing was huge. It’s worth a few hundred bucks. I have one Garp, but it’s not for sale.”