2019.

In the past three minutes of standing at the  Sprang & Sons sales counter, Howard had shifted two books from the first stack to the third, four books from the second to the first, and five books from the third to the first and second. These stacks represented, as he told Gracie, “Buy Now,” “Buy Next Week,” and “Buy Later.”

He fiddled with his thick, black-framed glasses in contemplation of this conundrum. There was no line behind him, which was probably why Howard chose Tuesday morning for his weekly shopping trip. Still, something about it bothered Gracie. Howard’s distress reminded her of a cat’s pitiful mewing for rescue from a tree that no one asked it to climb  — some people have problems they didn’t make for themselves.

He slid a limp sliver of gray hair behind his ear. “Now, if I have early Stephen King tonight,” said Howard, “then I’m going to want P. G. Wodehouse as a palate cleanser tomorrow… Or should I go with Barbara Kingsolver for a little substance?”

Probably Gracie could have pushed through a couple pages of her psychology text before he finished, but how could she concentrate with Howard’s whimpering? This would be the perfect time to do some shelving, but she’d already put up the new arrivals already. Gracie chewed her lip and scanned the store for some task that could take her away from Howard long enough to make his decision.

“Does King go with meatloaf?  If I were to read the Wodehouse instead, that would go with curry. Or a pork pie! But then what would I read in the morning?”

On the bright side, Howard had to be the most difficult customer at Sprang & Sons. The rest were a bit slow and soft-spoken maybe, but for the most part super polite and friendly.

The owner, Rich — one of the “& Sons” who had taken over the store from his father — was more laid back than she thought someone could be and still operate a business. He was a product of the “flower power” generation who spent most of his time noodling on the guitar in his office. When he was out on the sales floor, he usually just chatted with long-time customers about basketball and old movies.

It was a stable, calm, and peaceful workplace, easily the nicest she’d ever known. And Gracie liked being surrounded by all the books. They smelled nice.

Another customer called out from the aisles and immediately lost points with her. “Excuse me, miss?”

Gracie looked over to see a man in his, what? Late thirties? Kept himself in good shape. Could pass for younger.

Maybe he wasn’t a total douchebag, but he definitely shopped in the douchebag department. His houndstooth coat and cashmere scarf didn’t just look expensive — they looked like they were trying to look expensive, just like the movie star swoop to his hair had been carefully crafted to appear messy, a lot of effort going into seem effortless. Had he gotten lost on the way to the financial district? This was the appearance of someone who had stocks to short and lives to ruin.

And to top it all off, he had condescended to call Gracie “miss,” so he could fuck right off.

Then he did it again. “Miss?”

She held up her finger and forced a smile. “Just one second.”  Gracie was happy to let the douchebag-dressed man wait. Anyway, Howard appeared to have it all sorted.

“Okay! I think that does it,” Howard beamed in relief. “I’m going to start with Dashiel Hammet this evening!”

Gracie looked down at the first stack and sighed. She wished she had caught it earlier, saved them both some time. And she didn’t want to say it, but she couldn’t help herself. “Howard, you’ve read that one before.”

“What? No, I haven’t.”

“Yeah, you did.” Gracie didn’t try to keep her customers’ reading history memorized, but some things just stuck in her head.

“No, see, because when I read something and then return it, I put a little yellow sticker on the inside.”

Gracie picked up the copy of Nightmare Town and opened its front cover to him. She didn’t need to look for herself. She just knew it was there, Howard’s little yellow sticker.

His eyes squinted in disbelief, and he took the book to inspect it more closely, as if dubious of the sticker’s origin. “Well, yes, that is one of mine…” The selection process would have to start again.

“It’s cool, Howard. You take your time.” Gracie came out from around the counter and made her way to the douchebag — might as well get this over with.

She kept a little service industry sing-song in her voice as she said, “Yes?”

He shelved the personal motivation book he’d been thumbing through, something called Unchaining Your Inner Prometheus that promised it would help make all your dreams come true like a paperback magic lamp — didn’t seem like it worked for whoever brought it in.

“Oh, yeah. Hi,” he said casually. “I was wondering if you have a True Crime section?”

Not what she was expecting, but she wouldn’t expect a guy like this in the store at all. Couldn’t he pay somebody to shop for him? Or read for him?

“Sure. It’s right over here.”

They passed Howard, still seeking the perfect purchase, and dived into a dim, isolated corner at the intersection of Horror and History, just five shelves worth of non-fiction about some of the worst that humanity had to offer.

“Here you are,” said Gracie. “We got your Torso Killer, your Manson Family murders, Zodiac, Gacy, even a little Bonnie and Clyde.”

His face lit up with an eagerness that she found troubling. “Perfect! Thanks!” Getting excited about actual murder was an actual red flag. Gracie wasn’t going to linger. Howard’s humble OCD seemed preferable company.

Finally, a light shone down from the heavens. Howard made his selections but found no exultation in victory. As he took his bag of books out the door, he muttered, “I hope that was right…”

And suddenly, Gracie was left alone with the douchebag in True Crime, at least until Brianna got back from lunch. 

Whatever he was after, Gracie figured it was bound to be sick, something to shock fellow attendees at the monthly mask orgy. 

Suddenly, her stomach clenched, and she flashed back to Tight-T-Shirt Guy from the other night — his leer, his reach, him spitting blood into the asphalt as Gracie pressed the hard places on her body into the soft places on his.

“Oh, miss?”

For the love of God… “Yes?”

“Could you… I mean… I can’t seem to find…”

She didn’t like this. Something in the tone of his voice was off. Seemed like he wanted her attention more than he wanted a book. Gracie’s pulse quickened.

As she moved toward True Crime, she mapped the space around her — every shelf, every gap, every exit. The douchebag was hunched over the lower shelf, his back to her. If either hand so much as twitched toward his pocket, she’d rip it off.

Her service industry sing-song flattened. “What is it?”

“Well, I’m trying to find… I can’t seem to locate, um…”

“What?”

He turned and looked up to her sheepishly, “Something about the Crimson Wraith?”

Gracie kept her eyes locked on his. “Comics and collectibles…”

“I was looking for nonfiction. Some of the pieces about his early career are out-of-print. I thought you might have a relic or two…”

When she was a kid, a guy had dressed up as the Crimson Wraith to talk to her school about what to do if a stranger tried to lure them into a van. He gave out stickers with his skull mask and red hood and deputized them as Junior Wraiths, which didn’t mean anything because everyone knew the Crimson Wraith’s sidekick was called the Wily Wisp. People didn’t talk as much about the Wisp though.

Gracie had heard there was once an actual, real Crimson Wraith in Titan City, fighting a war on crime, “defending the defenseless,” they would say. He supposedly thwarted a series of villains just as cartoonishly costumed as himself and even tried to stop the Zero Hour bombings twenty years ago. Whatever. If any of it was true, it wasn’t like it did Gracie any good.

“I don’t know, dude. You’re just gonna have to keep looking.”

“Right… Okay…” With childlike disappointment, he returned to the shelf. Gracie started to walk away but didn’t get far. “Here we go!” She fought the urge to flinch and turned to see him holding a worn paperback. “Aw, but I’ve already got this one.”

The cover read Nights of Justice: A Study of Titan City’s Crimson Wraith. “It’s one of the better histories anyway.” He flipped open the back cover to reveal the photograph of an older police officer with several medals on his uniform. “That’s Chief Harlan Goodman. He featured strongly in the Crimson Wraith’s career going way back.”

Gracie nodded. “How nice for him.” And she returned to the register, pleased to send this douchebag on his way, confident she wouldn’t ever have to see him again.

She was wrong.