“This will do,” Denny replied.

Oscar took the book, opened it to the inside cover, and said, “Four dollars and thirty cents.”

Denny laid a five on the counter and said, “Actually, I’m looking for the original.”

Oscar took the five and asked, “You mean a first edition? Of Gatsby?”

“No. The original manuscript.”

Oscar laughed. What an idiot. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there, sir.”

“Oh, I think you can.”

Oscar froze and looked him in the eyes. A cold, hard stare met him. A hard, calculated, knowing stare. Oscar swallowed and asked, “Who are you?”

“You’ll never know.”

Oscar looked away and put the five in the register. As he did, he realized his hands were shaking. He removed some coins and placed them on the counter. “Seventy cents,” he managed to say. “You were here yesterday, weren’t you?”

“And the day before.”

Oscar looked around. They were indeed alone. He glanced at the small surveillance camera high above, aimed at the register. Denny said quietly, “Don’t worry about the camera. I disabled it last night. And the one in your office isn’t working either.”

Oscar took a deep breath as his shoulders slumped. After he had spent months living in fear and losing sleep and peeking around corners, the dreaded moment had finally arrived. He asked, in a low, shaky voice, “Are you a cop?”

“No. I’m avoiding cops these days, same as you.”

“What do you want?”

“The manuscripts. All five.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is that the best you can do? I was hoping for something a bit more original.”

“Get out of here,” Oscar hissed, trying to sound as tough as possible.

“I’m leaving. I’ll be back at six when you close. You’ll lock the door and we’ll retire to your office for a little chat. I strongly suggest you play it cool. You have nowhere to run and there’s no one who can help you. And we’re watching.”

Denny picked up the coins and the paperback and left the store.

2.

An hour later, a lawyer named Ron Jazik stepped onto an elevator in the federal building in Trenton, New Jersey, and pushed the button to the ground floor. At the last second, a stranger slid through the doors and pushed the button to the third floor. As soon as the doors closed, and they were alone, the stranger said, “You represent Jerry Steengarden, right? Court appointed.”

Jazik sneered and said, “Who the hell are you?”

In a flash, the stranger slapped Jazik across the face, knocking off his glasses. With an iron grip, he grabbed Jazik’s throat and rammed his head against the back wall of the elevator. “Don’t talk to me like that. A message for your client. One wrong word to the FBI and people will get hurt. We know where his mother lives, and we know where your mother lives too.”

Jazik’s eyes bulged as he dropped his briefcase. He grabbed the stranger’s arm but the death grip just got tighter. Jazik was almost sixty years old and out of shape. The guy with the grip was at least twenty years younger and, at that moment, seemed incredibly strong. He growled, “Am I clear? Do you understand?”