... Tommy spent a couple of hours assembling the couch and entertainment center. The television was a miserable thirty-two inches.
... The couch, though – it was lumpy, but soft and inviting. He flopped down and closed his eyes, felt himself drifting away.
... Then his wife cried out and he sprang up, fully awake.
... “Marie!” he said. “Marie, what’s wrong!”
... He rushed into the bedroom where she stood over the suitcase, holding a .38 revolver at arm’s length as though it were a dirty diaper.
... “You promised me, Tommy!” she cried. “You promised! You said things would be different!”
... Tommy gently took the gun from her and laid it on the bed. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. This is just protection, in case somebody finds us. You know the Feds, they wouldn’t lift a finger.”
... “I heard what that man told you. If they find this, they’ll send us home, and then what will we do?”
... “That’s not gonna happen, baby. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
... Tears cut tracks through her makeup. “You said this time was going to be different,” she said. “No guns, no booze, no… no staying out all night. Just you and me, together.”
... Tommy put his arms around her, pulled her close. “It will be different, baby. Hey, did I tell you? I got a job, working in a bookstore, like a regular guy. I start tomorrow. Everything’s gonna be okay, I swear.”
... “You mean it, Tommy?” said Marie. She buried her face against his chest. “Can we really start over?”
... “Yeah, baby, sure we can.” But all he could think was Christ, I need a cigarette.

* * *

... Half an hour later he stood outside in the breezeway, sucking on a smoke like his life depended on it. Marie had taken her Prozac and lain down on the bed. Experience told him she wouldn’t be up ‘til dinnertime.
... It was then that he saw the girl.
... She was coming up the stairs from the pool, head down over a magazine. She wore a long, loose tank top over a swimsuit, still wet. It clung in all the right places.
... Black hair, bobbed. Bright blue eyes. Peaches and cream complexion. Breasts small but perfectly formed. Skinny arms and legs. Not perfect. But cute, and young, so young.
... “Hey,” he said.
... The girl stepped back in surprise. “Oh, hi there, I didn’t see you,” she said. She grinned and gestured at the magazine. “I guess I was lost there for a minute.”
... Tommy smiled. “No, no, you’re in the right place. Anyway, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Just taking a break from unpacking.”
... “I’m right across the hall,” she said. “Looks like we’re neighbors.”
... He held out a hand. “My name’s Tommy, uh, Roach.” Inside he cursed Barton for sticking him with that crappy name.
... She took his hand and held it for a second. Her skin was so smooth, so cool. “I’m Grace,” she said. “Very pleased to meet you.”
... “Just Grace?”
... “Yup, just Grace.” She laughed. “Grace, period.”
... “When do I learn your last name?”
... “Maybe someday.” She wrinkled up her nose. “How do I know you’re not some kind of stalker? You can’t be too careful these days.”
... “You got me,” said Tommy. “Better call the cops.”
... “Oh, I don’t know. You look mostly harmless.” Grace pulled at the cotton shirt where it stuck to her skin. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Roach—”
... “Oh, God, don’t call me that!”
... “Well, I’ve got to go and get changed. See you around.”
... As he watched her disappear into her apartment he said, “You can count on it.”
... Then he heaved a sigh and went inside to Marie.

* * *

... You ran the book for Salazar. Tommy stood outside his new place of employment and thought of all the things he’d do to Barton if he got the chance.
... Rusty’s Book Bazaar was in the middle of a storefront block on 6th Avenue. On one side was a tobacconist’s shop that catered to the stoner set; on the other side was a co-op gallery staffed by the art-school contingent.
... Rusty Harmon could have been a refugee from either of them. His droopy frontier moustache was gray with just a few strands of red, as was the hair that hung well below his collar. He wore the round glasses that John Lennon made popular in certain quarters and a string tie.
... Rusty unlocked the door for Tommy at five ‘til eight. “Thomas Roach?” he said, squinting. “Good morning to you, sir. Please come in.”
... Inside it was dim and musty. Up front there were a couple of trestle tables with books stacked on them. Beyond that was six rows of floor to ceiling bookshelves. By the door there was a simple counter with an old-fashioned cash register and a percolator, which hissed and burbled.
... “Coffee?” said Rusty.
... “No thanks,” said Tommy. “This is the whole store?”
... “Oh, no, there’s more. Come on to the back room and we’ll get started – we’ve still got an hour until we open.”
... The back room was nearly as large as the front and was crammed with cardboard boxes of every size, arranged in haphazard stacks. A lonely shopping cart stood by the back window.
... “When you’re not up front minding the register, come one back here and start sorting the books by genre, and then–”
... “By what?”
... “Genre,” said Rusty. “You know – mystery, romance, science fiction, that kind of thing. You can usually tell just by looking at the cover. If you can’t, toss ‘em back and I’ll look at ‘em later. Once you’ve got three or four good-sized piles, load ‘em in the cart and shelve ‘em up front.” He paused and looked Tommy over from head to toe. “I sure am glad you’re a young fella,” he said. “Lugging these old boxes sends a pain down my back right to my tailbone. Now come up front and I’ll show you how to work the register.”
... In fifteen minutes they’d covered every aspect of the store’s operation, from writing receipts to brewing up the coffee to cleaning the tiny restroom at the back. “Not for customers,” said Rusty. “Not unless it’s an emergency. Some of the regulars, well, they’re getting along in life, and they can’t hold it too well, if you take my meaning.”
... “I get it,” said Tommy.
... Four hours and half a dozen customers came and went, and it was lunchtime. Rusty strolled down the street and brought back a sack of tamales and two bottles of cold beer. “Since it’s your first day I thought I’d treat,” he said.
... Tommy popped the cap off his beer and took a long swallow. “Thanks,” he said.
... When they finished eating Tommy looked around the store. “So this is it?” he said. “This is what you do all day?”
... “Yep,” said Rusty. “Sure, it’s a little slow sometimes, but I like the quiet. Plenty of time to enjoy a good book, if that’s your thing.” His eyes twinkled. “And I guess you’ve noticed, I didn’t get into this business to get rich.”
... “I’ll say. You sold, what, twenty bucks worth of books? I bet that didn’t cover our lunch.”
... Rusty paused. “Well,” he said, “business has fallen off a bit since the big warehouse store opened up out by the mall. But the loyal customers, they’re the backbone of the business, the ones who really–”
... “Where is it?” said Tommy.
... “Where’s what?”
... “This new bookstore. I want to go take a look at it.”
... Rusty laughed. “Looking to move up already? I warn you, that place works the staff like dogs.”
... “Nah, I just want to, you know, see what they’ve got. Maybe we can spruce this place up a bit, attract a few more customers. Make some more dough.”
... “Well, you are ambitious,” said Rusty. “All right. Take the afternoon off. Go see what you can see.”
... “Thanks,” said Tommy. “And tomorrow, lunch is on me.”