The Dickens with Love by Josh Lanyon Page A

adventures of the night overtook me and I put the book aside, returned to bed and closed my eyes.
    I was drifting off into exhausted sleep as the strains of America filtered softly through the wall.

    “I’m disappointed, James,” Mr. Stephanopoulos said when I called him later that afternoon. “You
    usually show more initiative.”
    I closed my eyes against the throb behind them—a throb that had been there ever since I left the Hotel Del Monte that morning. “The book looks genuine to me, but I need to examine it more closely to be sure.”
    “When do you think you’ll have the opportunity? We’re running out of time.”
    I opened my mouth to tell him the truth, to tell him to find another errand boy, that even if Sedgwick Crisparkle would let me within ten miles of that book, I wouldn’t go near him or it.
    Through the wall of my apartment I could hear America. Don’t give up until you drink from the silver cup…

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    Josh Lanyon
    I was going to gift this entire apartment complex and buy Darcy a Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
    album for Christmas.
    “James?” Mr. S. prodded.
    I could always go with my gut instinct and tell Stephanopoulos that the book was the real thing. But
    then he would ask me to broker the deal between himself and Sedgwick, and even if I could bring myself to speak to Sedgwick again, he’d clearly never accept a deal that I was any part of. Especially since Mr. S.
    had made it clear I couldn’t tell Sedgwick who the real buyer was.
    What was that about anyway?
    Not that it was any of my business now. I needed to put the whole matter out of my mind—except that
    wasn’t easy to do when I needed the commission so urgently.
    I took a deep breath and lied, “I’m supposed to talk to him later this evening.”
    I could feel Mr. S.’s frustration clear across the city. “I don’t understand the delay.”
    “Crisparkle doesn’t share your sense of urgency. He’s happy to have the book go to auction.”
    “No. I must have that book,” Stephanopoulos insisted.
    “We’re not even sure it’s the real thing.”
    “You’re sure,” he said with unexpected certainty.
    The fight went abruptly out of me. Perhaps it was the reflection that I would be having two eggs and
    Hoisin sauce for supper. “I—perhaps.”
    “I must have that book.”
    “I know.”
    “ Whatever you have to do, James.”
    “I’ll do whatever I can. Within the legal limits, of course.”
    He laughed. “Of course, of course.”
    My thoughts were decidedly unmerry as I replaced the phone receiver.

    ~ * ~

    Ebenezer Scrooge would have learned a few things about the dark side of humanity if he’d happened
    to work in a national chain bookstore three days before Christmas.
    The depressing fact is, no one reads anymore. Most of the people collecting books don’t even read
    them. Book collecting is very hot, don’t get me wrong. In certain circles rare books are considered sexy and exotic. But for the average person, books remind them of the bad old days of homework and report cards.
    For these folks, books and bookstores are the last resort, the last desperate option for befuddled holiday-makers who have run out of ideas for presents for people they don’t know that well. Books rank somewhere between a tie and a box of chocolates. It’s a book or go home empty-handed—and empty-handed means
    again facing the stores and parking lots that one frightening day closer to Christmas.
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    The Dickens with Love
    I had learned to get through the Season of Plastic with the minimum of anguish by simply playing the
    class card. As in, “ Mastering the Art of French Cooking is a classy gift.” People like the thought that they are giving classy gifts.
    I’m looking for…
    “ The Beatles Anthology is a classy gift.”
    Do you have anything for…?
    “ The Case for God is a classy gift.”
    She’s always saying…
    “ Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman’s Search for