Cost of a Book

"Hey, I think your friend is here," the children's librarian said.

      I did not look up from the article I was reading on movies using artificial intelligence to replace the people who picked movies.

      Naomi said, "The friend with the hat."

     "You gotta be more specific than that," I said, 

     "Y'all know where I can find a pricing guide on a 1976 mint copy of Interview With a Vampire?"

     The guy at the desk indeed wore a hat. It was yellow and said "Taco Villa" on it. Kind of a small sombrero thing. This was Chester, a local junk peddler.

     "Hey Chester," I said. "Pricing guides are where they always are, over in the 680s."

     "You know how much an Interview With a Vampire copy is worth?"

     "Hardcover or paperback?"

     Chester puffed up his chest. "Hardcover, of course." 

     "Any damage?"

     "None."

     "Dust jacket?"

     "Yep, in that plastic stuff."

     "Probably a few hundred. But you know what I always tell you."

     "Chester, you're so pretty?"

     "No, although I like the hat," I said. "You only get what people will pay."

     Chester thought about that. "I guess."

     "Where'd you get it?" Naomi asked.

     I shot her a glance, warning her that she should not get him started, but what the hell. I went ahead and typed up Ebay and plugged in the details. 

     Chester said, "I got it on ebay for six hundred."

     "There's two in here for four hundred."

     "Those must be crap," Chester said. "Mine is genuine. It has a letter and everything."

     Now I had to ask. "What kind of letter?"

     "From Abigail Rice herself," Chester said. He had his backpack off, pulling out a small box. That went on the table, opened, and out came a copy of Interview with a Vampire, with the yellow cover and the pages faded and old. Thing smelled like mothballs and old dead lady.

     "Anne Rice," I said.

     Naomi nodded, a hand up by her nose.

     "No, Abigail. She was Anne's sister, she really wrote the thing. It's all here in the letter," Chester said, unfolding a small note.

     The torn page from a composition book looked to have been busily written in ball pout while the author was having their morning shit. A stain I hoped was coffee was on the right. The handwriting went every which way like an epileptic chicken had a fit all over it. I was skeptical of its authenticity and told him so.

     "Well how would you know?" Chester said. 

     I turned the monitor around. Had up Anne Rice's biography on her website. "Cause she's only got one sister and her name is Alice." 

     Chester's face fell. "This is, well shit." 

     "I'm sorry, Chester. Maybe you can sell it again? Or leave a review, maybe get your money back?" Naomi said.

     Chester said, "Or I can get revenge."

     "What?" I said, my stomach filling with acid. 

     Chester took off his hat, put it over his heart. "I swear, by the junk sellers code, to find and destroy the man, woman, or child that sold this erroneous fabrication of beloved author Anne Rice if it is the last thing I do." Then he left, taking the old book and letter.

     Naomi said, "Think we should tell someone?" 

     I shrugged and went back to my article.