wouldn't want to hear it, pal. Double it and double it again and add the number you first thought of and then slope off if that's the best you can do."
"I assure you, Mr. Mevin, I'm trying to be generous."
"Don't bloody strain yourself." Mevin went to the window and gazed up at the deserted street while bumping his mug along the lowest stretch of barbed wire; then he swung around in a crouch, leaving the wire jangling. "The daughter wants me to give the randy books the push before I move in with her in case the grandchildren get their grubbies on them, and the rest aren't my meat. Come close to a thousand and I'll shake hands with you."
"I'd raise my offer if I could, but honestly—"
"You're not a Jew as well as a Yank, are you?"
Don wasn't, but he couldn't have felt more outraged. "If you're going to put it that way—"
"Better learn how we do business over here, then. I'll be seeing what I get from someone who doesn't mind splashing their money around, in the yellow pages for a start." Mevin seized Don's mug, dunking his fingers in the tea. "Watch where you tread on your way out. I won't be paying your hospital bill."
"Interesting to have met you," Don murmured as he stepped over the barbed wire and groped for the front-door latch, but couldn't prolong his sarcasm when he glanced back out of the sunlight and saw the stooped man watching him along the gloomy hall. "I hope you find someone more amenable," he said, and hurried to the Volvo, wondering what comments Mevin might be addressing to his legs.
Bookselling brought worse encounters, he thought as he pulled on the seatbelt to hush its complaint, and better ones too. Only last week he'd found on a church stall a near fine first of a Conan Doyle novel. A regular client in Georgia had snapped that up before Don had had a chance to list it in his catalogue. Any good British finds were assured an American buyer, which was why Don had visited Britain several times, latterly accompanied by Susanne and Marshall, both of whom had grown so fond of it that when Susanne, having been observed by a visiting lecturer at Florida Atlantic, had been offered the opportunity to teach the same course in Manchester—
The sound of high heels interrupted his musing as they halted by the car. A young woman, perhaps not so young once he saw through her makeup, leaned down to gaze at him across the passenger seat. "On business, love?"
"No other word for it. At least I just was. You don't mind if I—" She wasn't wearing much of a skirt, Don noticed, and wondered belatedly if she might after all not be a resident questioning his right to park. He pressed the button to lower the window she was gazing through. "Sorry, what did you ask me?"
He knew as soon as he spoke. She'd said not "On business" but "Want business." Her gaze was losing patience. "Oh, right, got you, yes, no, thanks anyway," Don gabbled, almost knocking his glasses to the floor as he shoved them higher on his nose. "Excuse me," he saw himself repeating in the mirror as he twisted the key twice in the ignition before the Volvo deigned to start. He pulled out without checking for traffic, and for a moment couldn't think whether he was driving on the correct side of the road.
He was, but away from home. Retracing his route past the woman didn't appeal to him, and so he turned right when he could, only to find that the next street which should lead to the park was sentineled by two No Entry signs with terse words added to the horizontal white space on each red disc. He made for the nearest main road, where the three-story houses were split into pairs by gaps not much wider than a man, and a small green bus was chugging from side street to side street as though searching for a bus stop. Brightness was hopping up and down a group of traffic lights half a mile onward, and the route sign which preceded them indicated that he should drive straight on, contrary to his instincts.
The road forked, and he took the rightward curve
"I assure you, Mr. Mevin, I'm trying to be generous."
"Don't bloody strain yourself." Mevin went to the window and gazed up at the deserted street while bumping his mug along the lowest stretch of barbed wire; then he swung around in a crouch, leaving the wire jangling. "The daughter wants me to give the randy books the push before I move in with her in case the grandchildren get their grubbies on them, and the rest aren't my meat. Come close to a thousand and I'll shake hands with you."
"I'd raise my offer if I could, but honestly—"
"You're not a Jew as well as a Yank, are you?"
Don wasn't, but he couldn't have felt more outraged. "If you're going to put it that way—"
"Better learn how we do business over here, then. I'll be seeing what I get from someone who doesn't mind splashing their money around, in the yellow pages for a start." Mevin seized Don's mug, dunking his fingers in the tea. "Watch where you tread on your way out. I won't be paying your hospital bill."
"Interesting to have met you," Don murmured as he stepped over the barbed wire and groped for the front-door latch, but couldn't prolong his sarcasm when he glanced back out of the sunlight and saw the stooped man watching him along the gloomy hall. "I hope you find someone more amenable," he said, and hurried to the Volvo, wondering what comments Mevin might be addressing to his legs.
Bookselling brought worse encounters, he thought as he pulled on the seatbelt to hush its complaint, and better ones too. Only last week he'd found on a church stall a near fine first of a Conan Doyle novel. A regular client in Georgia had snapped that up before Don had had a chance to list it in his catalogue. Any good British finds were assured an American buyer, which was why Don had visited Britain several times, latterly accompanied by Susanne and Marshall, both of whom had grown so fond of it that when Susanne, having been observed by a visiting lecturer at Florida Atlantic, had been offered the opportunity to teach the same course in Manchester—
The sound of high heels interrupted his musing as they halted by the car. A young woman, perhaps not so young once he saw through her makeup, leaned down to gaze at him across the passenger seat. "On business, love?"
"No other word for it. At least I just was. You don't mind if I—" She wasn't wearing much of a skirt, Don noticed, and wondered belatedly if she might after all not be a resident questioning his right to park. He pressed the button to lower the window she was gazing through. "Sorry, what did you ask me?"
He knew as soon as he spoke. She'd said not "On business" but "Want business." Her gaze was losing patience. "Oh, right, got you, yes, no, thanks anyway," Don gabbled, almost knocking his glasses to the floor as he shoved them higher on his nose. "Excuse me," he saw himself repeating in the mirror as he twisted the key twice in the ignition before the Volvo deigned to start. He pulled out without checking for traffic, and for a moment couldn't think whether he was driving on the correct side of the road.
He was, but away from home. Retracing his route past the woman didn't appeal to him, and so he turned right when he could, only to find that the next street which should lead to the park was sentineled by two No Entry signs with terse words added to the horizontal white space on each red disc. He made for the nearest main road, where the three-story houses were split into pairs by gaps not much wider than a man, and a small green bus was chugging from side street to side street as though searching for a bus stop. Brightness was hopping up and down a group of traffic lights half a mile onward, and the route sign which preceded them indicated that he should drive straight on, contrary to his instincts.
The road forked, and he took the rightward curve
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