The Waste Lands (Page 42)

From Florida! Fresh-Broiled John D. MacDonald Hardcovers 3 for $2.50 Paperbacks 9 for $5. From Mississippi! Pan-Fried William Faulkner Hardcovers Market Price Vintage Library Paperbacks 75$ each

From California! Hard-Boiled Raymond Chandler Hardcovers Market Price Paperbacks 7 for $5. FEED YOUR NEED TO READ Jake went in, aware that he had, for the first time in three weeks, opened a door without hoping madly to find another world on the other side. A bell jingled overhead. The mild, spicy smell of old books hit him, and the smell was somehow like coming home.

The restaurant motif continued inside. Although the walls were lined with shelves of books, a fountain-style counter bisected the room. On Jake’s side of the counter were a number of small tables with wire-backed Malt Shoppe chairs. Each table had been arranged to display the day’s specials: Travis McGee novels by John D. Mac-Donald, Philip Marlowe novels by Raymond Chandler, Snopes novels by William Faulkner. A small sign on the Faulkner table said: Some rare 1st eds available—pls ask. Another sign, this one on the counter, read simply: BROWSE! A couple of customers were doing just that. They sat at the counter, drinking coffee and reading. Jake thought this was without a doubt the best bookstore he’d ever been in.

The question was, why was he here? Was it luck, or was it part of that soft, insistent feeling that he was following a trail—a land of force-beam—that had been left for him to find?

He glanced at the display on a small table to his left and knew the answer.

IT WAS A DISPLAY of children’s books. There wasn’t much room on the table, so there were only about a dozen of them—Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, The Hobbit, Tom Sawyer, things like that. Jake had been attracted by a storybook obviously meant for very young children. On the bright green cover was an anthropomorphic locomotive puffing its way up a hill. Its cowcatcher (which was bright pink) wore a happy grin and its headlight was a cheerful eye which seemed to invite Jake Cham-bers to come inside and read all about it. Charlie the Choo-Choo, the title proclaimed, Story and Pictures by Beryl Evans. Jake’s mind flashed back to his Final Essay, with the picture of the Amtrak train on the title-page and the words choo-choo written over and over again inside. He grabbed the book and clutched it tightly, as if it might fly away if he relaxed his grip. And as he looked down at the cover, Jake found that he did not trust the smile on Charlie the Choo-Choo’s face. YOM look happy, but I think that’s just the mask you wear, he thought. I don’t think you’re happy at all. And I don’t think Charlie’s your real name, either. These were crazy thoughts to be having, undoubtedly crazy, but they did not feel crazy. They felt sane. They felt true.

Standing next to the place where Charlie the Choo-Choo had been was a tattered paperback. The cover was quite badly torn and had been mended with Scotch tape now yellow with age. The picture showed a puzzled-looking boy and girl with a forest of question-marks over their heads. The title of this book was Riddle-De-Dum! Brain-Twisters and Puzzles for Everyone! No author was credited. Jake tucked Charlie the Choo-Choo under his arm and picked up the riddle book. He opened it at random and saw this:

When is a door not a door?

“When it’s a jar,” Jake muttered. He could feel sweat popping out on his forehead . . . his arms … all over his body. “When it’s ajar!”

“Find something, son?” a mild voice inquired. Jake turned around and saw a fat guy in an open-throated white shirt standing at the end of the counter. His hands were stuffed in the pockets of his old gabardine slacks. A pair of half-glasses were pushed up on the bright dome of his bald head.

“Yes,” Jake said feverishly. “These two. Are they for sale?” “Everything you see is for sale,” the fat guy said. “The building itself would be for sale, if I owned it. Alas, I only lease.” He held out his hand for the books and for a moment Jake balked. Then, reluctantly, he handed them over. Part of him expected the fat guy to flee with them, and if he did—if he gave the slightest indication ol trying it— Jake meant to tackle him, rip the books out of his hands, and boogie. He needed those books. “Okay, let’s see what yon got,” the fat man said. “By the way, I’m Tower. Calvin Tower.” He stuck out his hand.

Jake’s eyes widened, and he took an involuntary step backward. “What?” The fat guy looked at him with some interest. “Calvin Tower. Which word is profanity in your language, O Hyperborean Wanderer?” “Huh?”

“I just mean you look like someone goosed you, kid.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He clasped Mr. Tower’s large, soft hand, hoping the man wouldn’t pursue it. The name had given him a jump, but he didn’t know why. “I’m Jake Chambers.”

Calvin Tower shook his hand. “Good handle, pard. Sounds like the footloose hero in a Western novel—the guy who blows into Black Fork, Arizona, cleans up the town, and then travels on. Something by Wayne D. Overholser, maybe. Except you don’t look footloose, Jake. You look like you decided the day was a little too nice to spend in school.”

“Oh … no. We finished up last Friday.” Tower grinned. “Uh-huh. I bet. And you’ve gotta have these two items, huh? It’s sort of funny, what people have to have. Now you—I would have pegged you as a Robert Howard land of kid from the jump, looking for a good deal on one of those nice old Donald M. Grant editions—the ones with the Roy Krenkel paintings. Dripping swords, mighty thews, and Conan the Barbarian hacking his way through the Stygian hordes.”