Sal Terranova and the Insanely Brilliant Price Tag Caper

A Last Word story

“There’s no money to be made selling used books, Sal,” Jacob says after Sal mentions that used books are a market The Last Word Bookstore has yet to tap. “Discount Books will undersell us anyway, which is why your uncle got rid of the small used section we had years ago.”

“I have told you never to mention that place in my presence,” Sal says. “It was bad enough having one of them in Trenton. Then I move down here and find one on every freaking corner.”

Discount Books had been founded in the early 1970s by two Dallas men escaping the corporate rat race. They opened their first store in an abandoned dry cleaners on Royal Lane with two thousand books from their personal libraries and had built the business over the decades into the Wal-Mart of bookstores. They now had over 100 locations in 20 states.

It wasn’t their success that Sal and Jacob resented, exactly; a few chain stores had even been good for the book business over the years. It was rather the way Discount Books had, in every city where they had opened a store, run every used bookstore already operating there out of business. And they did it the old-fashioned way: when they first opened a store, they would offer abnormally high prices for the books they bought from customers. They could do this because they were large enough to absorb losses at one or two stores in the chain for the first year or so. They could also bring in overstock from their other stores, so the shelves were always full.

After a period of time, the small independent used bookstores couldn’t replenish their stock because they couldn’t compete with the high prices that Discount Books was paying customers for their books. Their shelves became bare, and fewer and fewer people shopped there. Ultimately, they all closed. And once they were gone, Discount would suddenly stop paying those great prices and pay less than you’d get at a garage sale. But now they were the only game in town.

They had upped the ante with two recent developments. After Barnes & Noble put many of the independent bookstores that sold new books out of business, Discount Books saw a void they could fill: they began selling new bestsellers at a discounted price that even Barnes & Noble couldn’t match, moving for the first time outside of the used book market. Second, and far less forgivable, was an alliance with the bane of indie bookstores everywhere: Amazon. They had just announced a partnership with the online giant to sell their books on their site as well as in stores, joining with the Great Satan to further destroy the bookselling ecosystem that first gave the company life.

“There is money to be made,” Sal says, “otherwise we wouldn’t let you buy the used books you buy.” He knows that calling the stock of Jacob’s Rare and Collectible Room “used” will hit a nerve.

“The books I buy are not ‘used,’ as you so crassly call them. They are valuable rare editions, all first printings, many with fine bindings…you’re just winding me up, aren’t you?”

“Yep,” Sal says with a laugh. “Works every time. Seriously though, why can’t we add used books to our inventory?”

“Look,” Jacob says, “I know you don’t like the way they seem to gobble up every book in town like some Japanese fishing trawler. I don’t like it either, but it’s the reality of things today. They can operate on a huge scale because of all the stores they have.”

“Scale has nothing to do with it,” Sal counters. “Ok, maybe a little, but mainly what they do is blow into town, offer more for people’s books than any of the established used bookstores can afford, and then once the competition is eliminated they start offering pennies on the dollar because there’s nowhere else for people to sell their books.”

“That’s called business,” Camden says, walking up for the tail-end of his rant, but having heard it many times before.

“It’s crap,” Sal says.

“Perhaps,” Jacob says, “but you really don’t want to get into that side of the book business, trust me. People bring in the most worthless stuff and expect a fortune for it. You would spend half your day looking at beat up copies of diet books, celebrity biographies, World Book encyclopedias, and Reader’s Digest Condensed Books.”

Sal shudders at his last four words, as Jacob knew he would. He despises the RDCBs.

“There has to be a way,” he persists, “for us to get the word out that we will pay more than Discount Books for good copies of certain kinds of books. I mean, look at you Jacob. People bring you their collectible stuff.”

“Because they know we offer a fair price for excellent copies,” he says. “That’s going to be harder to convey to people on common books, even if you confine the used stock to fiction. Some people see no difference between Faulkner and Tom Clancy, though clearly there is a huge difference.”

“Right,” Camden says. “Clancy sells ten times as many books.” She stares at them blankly for a long moment, and then bursts out laughing. “I’m kidding, you twits. I am not against the idea, Sal, but how does it help the store?” To her astonishment, he actually has an answer ready.

“One way would be required reading lists,” he says. “High school kids’ parents don’t want to pay for all new books if they can avoid it, but also can rarely find everything they need at a place like Discount Books. Here they can get everything in one stop and save a little by picking up whatever used copies we do have.”

“Interesting idea,” she mutters.

“And while you may never have encountered this situation, being a soulless accountant, there are also readers out there who would love to own a houseful of books but can’t afford new-book prices. We can meet a need there as well.”

“Not as compelling an argument, but ok,” she says. “Anything else?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. We will start small, then expand, then open a store in every town Discount Books has one, and ultimately we will crush those thieving bastards into dust.”

“Quite. A fine plan all the way round,” Camden says. “Such a shame we don’t have any space left for a used books section.” Sal gazes around the packed store and his shoulders slump.

“You could always use the basement,” Jacob says casually as he flips through a collection of Pasternak’s poems. Sal and Camden turn and stare at him as if he is speaking a foreign language.

“Jacob,” Camden says in her most soothing voice, “we don’t have a basement.”

“Early onset senility,” Sal whispers.

“Of course you do,” Jacob says, closing the book. “You’ve been in this building more than a year…you live in this building, for crying out loud…and didn’t know there was a basement? How is that possible?”

It is obvious now that he is neither joking nor senile. Maybe they actually do have a basement. Camden looks at Sal, who shrugs.

“I guess it’s possible,” he says. “I’ve never looked in the attic, but I know there is one. So where is this mythical basement, Mr. Weinberg? Wait, before you give me a smart-ass answer, let me rephrase that: where is the entrance to this mythical basement?”

Jacob suddenly looks less certain.

“Well,” he says hesitantly. “It’s been a long time, more than 20 years. But I know there was an entrance somewhere.”

“Somewhere?” Camden repeats. “Are you telling us you know we have a basement but don’t know how to get to it?”

“Like I said, it’s been more than 20 years since I saw it. I don’t even know what made me think of it just now…something from one of the Pasternak poems, I suppose. Franklin didn’t like it, so he kept it closed off and never used it.”

“Why didn’t my uncle like it?” Sal asks.

“He said it felt like a tomb,” Jacob replies. “If I remember correctly, it’s just one big room with concrete walls and floor and a couple bare light bulbs.”

“At least it has electricity and isn’t just a dirt floored storm cellar,” Sal muses. “It just might work, assuming we can find this hidden entrance to the underworld. Camden, have Ramon start looking for that door.”

“Why can’t you look for it?” she asks. “This is your idea after all.”

“I would, but Jacob and I have to leave for a few hours.”

“Where are we going?” Jacob asks, instantly suspicious.

“We are going to do some reconnaissance on our used-book competition,” he says. “Cam, if you need us, we’ll be at the Discount Books on Forest Park Blvd.”

Sal has never been inside the Discount Books on Forest Park, even though it is only a few miles from the store, but he has a strong feeling of déjà vu as soon as they walk inside. It takes him a second to realize that the store is set up exactly like the one back in New Jersey. Not a lot like, exactly like.

Apparently those two Dallas entrepreneurs, who still owned the company, had the concept of chain store down to an art: plain, unvarnished wooden bookcases in long rows, buying counter to the left as you walk in, checkout counter right at the front, and along both side walls little alcoves formed from the U-shaped placement of the bookcases, each with a different subject. There were art books, science books, gardening, sports, biographies, music, history, politics, and a number of other topics that they had wisely decided to avoid at The Last Word. The long rows in the middle contained all of the fiction genres; this was where Sal would start. He turns to say something to Jacob, but he has already made a beeline for their collectible section.

Sal wanders down the fiction aisles, noticing that while they are full, much of the space is taken up by a handful of best-selling authors. This makes sense, of course; best-sellers are exactly that for a reason. But there is something depressing in the fact that there are roughly nine shelves of nothing but Janet Evanovich books, 11 shelves of Stephen King, and 21 (twenty-one!) shelves containing only the prolific James Patterson. By contrast, Somerset Maugham rates exactly four books (not shelves), Gabriel Garcia Marquez has eight books, and Virginia Woolf only two.

He walks over to where Jacob is examining a shelf marked “Signed and First Editions.”

“We’re not in competition with these guys,” Sal whispers to him. “We’re not even selling the same books. Heather would have a heart attack if she saw what they pass off as literature.”

“It’s much worse than that,” Jacob says gravely. He hands a book to Sal, who looks at the cover then flips it open, first to the front flyleaf where the price is written in pencil, then the title page and finally to the copyright page. His eyes widen. He looks around for an employee, finally flagging down a girl of about 18 who could be Heather’s little sister.

“Who does the pricing for the collectible books?” Sal asks.

“Whoever happens to be working when the book comes in,” she says. “Why?”

He shows her the book he’s holding. “You have this book marked as a signed first edition, and priced at $95.00,” he says.

“Is there something wrong with the book?”

“Well,” Jacob says, stepping up beside Sal. “For one thing, while it technically is a first edition, it is a fourth printing. See how the number line at the bottom of the page starts with a 4? Anything other than a first printing is virtually worthless to collectors. Also, this particular author is notorious for signing every book he can get his hands on; there are probably more signed copies in circulation than unsigned ones.”

“Which means what exactly?” the girl asks, clearly losing interest.

“Which means,” Sal says, “your $95.00 book is actually worth about ten bucks.”

“Buyer beware, I guess,” she says. “I’m more of a music expert myself. Do you want that book? I could probably get the manager to knock the price down to $50 or something.”

“But it’s not worth even half that,” Sal says, exasperated with this girl.

“So you say. Remember, we’re the experts.” With this she turns and walks away.

Sal looks at Jacob, shrugs, and puts the book back on the shelf. Some poor idiot will come in one day and pay an insane price for a worthless book. Unfortunately, it happened all the time, especially to people who bought “rare” books online.

“Let’s get out of here Sal,” Jacob says. “This place depresses me.”

“Give me one more minute,” Sal says. “I want to check something.”

“Have you not seen enough?”

“I have, including something very interesting.”

“What’s that?” Jacob asks.

“Look over at the kid at the checkout counter,” Sal says. “He’s keying in the prices of all the books that woman’s buying.”

“So?”

“All of the books in this store have bright yellow stickers with the price and a barcode at the top. Why is he manually entering the price into the register if there’s a barcode?”

“I don’t know, I don’t care, and I don’t know why you care.”

“I’m intrigued,” Sal says. “But I need to confirm something first.”

He walks over to the counter, and after the woman has left with her books he steps up to the clerk, a hipster in his mid-20s with a “Darth Vader is my Father” T-shirt.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Sal says. “I’m looking for a book and was wondering if you have it in stock. It’s called Sad Movies, by Mark Lindquist.” Sal purposely chose this book not just because he likes it, but because it is nearly impossible to find anywhere.

“Let me get someone to check the shelf for you,” the young man says.

“I checked the shelf,” Sal says. “I thought maybe you had it in the back, or even at one of your other stores if not.”

“Sorry, sir,” the clerk says, shaking his head. “We’re not fully computerized yet, so there’s no way to know what we have in the back or at any of our other stores. The goal is to have the system up and working in the next year or so, but that’s a big change for us.”

“But you have barcodes on your price stickers,” Sal says.

The guy looks around, then leans across the counter and whispers to Sal.

“The barcodes are just for show,” he says conspiratorially. “The higher-ups think they make us look more professional and deter theft at the same time. See the detectors at the front door? Those aren’t plugged into anything.” He opens a drawer and shows Sal stacks of prices stickers, each stack denoting a different price. “If you look closely at the barcodes, you’ll see that they’re actually all the same.”

“That’s nuts,” Sal says.

“Hard to keep up technologically when you’re growing as fast as this company is. We’re opening four more stores next month alone.”

“Well, thanks anyway. I guess I’ll just have to keep looking.”

“Have you tried The Last Word downtown?” the guy asks. “I hear they have a lot of good stuff. Plus, the owner was supposedly a hit man for the Colombian drug cartels.”

“Is that so?” Sal asks with a laugh, and he and Jacob leave the abomination that is Discount Books.

A week later, Sal slips down the short alley off 8th Street just past Houston. He moves quickly down a flight of concrete steps that lead to what at first glance appears to be the basement of the Robber Baron’s Restaurant directly above. In reality it is a completely separate establishment, by night the raucous Bop Jazz Lounge and by day the quietest place to drink in town. Once inside, his eyes struggle to adjust to the dim lighting, but after a moment he sees Jake and Ortiz seated at a booth in the far corner.

There had been a time when Sal spent the better part of his day in places like this, but since taking over the bookstore he only drank during the day occasionally. His definition of occasionally differed somewhat from Camden’s, but she had been an accountant after all. He is confident, however, that none of the ladies at the store will even think to look for them here, if they even know the place exists. He takes a seat at the table, noticing that Ortiz and Jake are already halfway through a pitcher of beer.

“I didn’t think preachers were allowed to drink in the middle of the day,” he tells Jake with a smile.

“Technically we’re not allowed to drink at all,” Jake says as he fills Sal’s mug. “I’ve never been too good at following rules.”

“Where are the others?” Ortiz asks. “We cannot do this with three people.”

“We decided it was best to leave the store at different times,” Sal says. “Less likely to arouse suspicion.”

“Let me go on record that I have not yet agreed to be a part of this foolishness,” Jake says. “And that’s what it looks like to me; a foolish prank that could get you thrown in jail if you get caught.”

“Get caught?” Sal repeats in mock horror. “Us? Never.”

“It is a fact, Jake,” Ortiz agrees. “We have never been caught, either one of us.”

“That’s been true until now,” Jake says. “But bookman here is out of practice, and you’re not getting any younger.”

“This particular job requires no skill,” Ortiz replies. “I am not even convinced that it is illegal. Any reputable judge would simply chuckle and send me on my way, perhaps with a nice mojito and some tapas.”

“Of course,” Jake laughs. “Judges always give criminals alcohol and appetizers after the trial. How silly of me.”

They continue this banter until Jacob and Max arrive. Sal is still not thrilled about involving them, but both insisted, Max because he thought it would be fun, and Jacob because he is still incensed over what he saw in Discount Books’ signed and first edition section. Max pours himself a beer; Jacob asks for iced tea. Sal leans in close so he will not be overheard, even though the only other people in the bar are the waitress and the bartender.

“I went back yesterday and again last night to check everything out,” he says. “If not for the sheer volume involved, I could do the whole thing myself, but that’s not practical. I appreciate all of you agreeing to join me, and I assume you are aware of the risks, legally speaking.”

“The only risk I can see,” Max says, “is getting charged with trespassing.”

“Incorrect, my literary friend,” Ortiz says. “A particularly zealous prosecutor could choose from a range of offenses: trespassing, yes, but also breaking and entering, vandalism, intent to defraud, criminal mischief. All petty crimes to be sure, but taken together they could be quite serious.”

“What about the mojitos and tapas?” Jake asks.

“I was talking only about myself then,” Ortiz replies. “I have a way with judges, especially lady judges.”

“We will not get caught,” Sal assures them. “I never get caught. But if by some act of God it did happen, the only ones here with any kind of prior records are me and Ortiz, and those were all for youthful indiscretions that have since been expunged.”

“What about the alarm system?” Jake asks. “And the surveillance cameras? And the security guard?”

Max and Jacob turn to Sal expectantly; these are things they have not considered. Ortiz stifles a yawn.

“For a guy who snuck in and out of hostile countries for a living you sure do worry a lot,” Sal says to Jake. “But they are fair questions. The security guard, one guy for the whole strip mall, is a couple years older than Moses and sleeps most of the night after he does the first rounds of his shift. There are no surveillance cameras — I guess that’s another technology their management is working on — and the alarm system is a joke.”

“It worries me that you’re making this whole thing sound so simple,” Jake says.

“It is simple, just really time consuming. You don’t have to come if you’re that worried.”

Jake’s eyes flash angrily for a moment, and Ortiz places a huge hand on his shoulder. In that instant Sal sees the man whose job it was to kill people from long distances; he makes a mental note to tread lightly around him tonight. In an effort to release the tension building up, he rolls out a diagram he has made of the store, complete with times noted on the right margin.

“We get in, do what we have to do, and we get out,” he says. “With five of us it should take a couple hours max. So is everyone in?”

All of the men at the table nod. Jacob seems almost giddy, Max determined, Jake wary, and Ortiz bored. Sal is simply calm, as he always is before a job, though this is like no job he’s ever pulled before.

“Good,” he says. “We go at midnight.”

By the following afternoon, news has reached the store of the riot at Discount Books. Ramon heard about it from a friend who works at a shoe store in the same strip mall, and he is telling everyone in The Last Word the story.

“Jaime said the morning started out normal,” Ramon says, “but by noon the parking lot was packed and there was a line to get into the bookstore. He thought maybe they were having one of those big sales they do a couple times a year, but those are normally advertised weeks ahead of time.

“He could see people coming out of the store pushing cartloads of books, like entire shopping carts full, so he walked over to check it out. He asked one of the customers coming out what was going on, and they told him that almost every book in the store was on sale for 50 cents.”

“50 cents?” Camden repeats, stunned. “How is that possible? Even the hardcovers?”

“Yeah,” Ramon says. “That got Jaime’s attention for sure because he loves science fiction but can’t afford it in hardcover; he buys paperbacks from us. So, he pushed his way into the store to try and pick up some Heinlein and Asimov.”

“Sal,” Camden says, “if they can sell everything at 50 cents we are in huge trouble.”

“Fear not, cousin,” Sal says reassuringly. “Our stock is very different from theirs, and I bet that sale won’t last forever. Right, Jacob?”

“I imagine it will be a one-day phenomenon,” Jacob replies.

“Not even that long,” Ramon says. “Jaime had just paid for an armload of books when the manager showed up; apparently he had been at a meeting at the main store in Dallas.”

“The Flagship,” Sal mutters derisively.

“No one had bothered to call to tell him what was happening, and he went nuts. Started screaming at the employees that they were idiots, asking how the hell all the prices got changed, threatening to fire everyone. Then he announced that the store was closed and everyone had to leave.”

“Which is when the riot broke out,” Julia says.

“Yep,” Ramon says. “Jaime said he feared for his life the way the crowd reacted, and this is a kid who’s been in the East Side Homeboys since he was twelve years old. He said no banger with a gun is as scary as an old woman with an armload of 50-cent Danielle Steel hardbacks being told the sale is off.”

“What did they all do?” Julia asks excitedly. “Refuse to leave?”

“Jaime was just trying to get out at this point,” Ramon says. “He said some refused to leave, some threw their books down and screamed obscenities at the manager, and then it got ugly.”

“Sounds like it was already pretty ugly,” Sal says, trying to suppress a smile.

“Jaime was at the door when the manager threatened to have everyone arrested. That’s when the old ladies started pelting him with romance paperbacks. He pushed his way to the back and locked himself in the storeroom. Jaime said the cops showed up about 15 minutes later, but by then the store had been stripped bare.”

“How in the world can that have happened?” Camden wonders aloud. “Was it a computer glitch?”

“No,” Ramon says. “Jaime said the price stickers on the books all said 50 cents. And they were the stickers the store normally uses.”

“Besides,” Sal says, “their computer system doesn’t work.”

The words are out of his mouth before he realizes he’s said them, and he knows immediately that he has made a huge mistake. Everyone turns and stares at him except Jacob; he moves quickly and quietly to his rare book room and closes the door.

“How do you know their computer system doesn’t work?” Julia asks. She is not smiling.

“One of their clerks told me when Jacob and I were in there the other day.”

“And where were you last night?” she asks.

“You cannot possibly believe that I broke into Discount Books and managed to put new stickers on all their books by myself,” he replies, carefully avoiding answering her question.

At that moment Max comes downstairs from the apartment. He looks like he’s still half-asleep.

“I’m not as young as I used to be,” he says, walking past them toward the door. “After all that work last night, I need a double espresso.”

The bell above the door chimes as he leaves. Camden and Julia watch him go, then turn back to Sal.

“No,” Julia says, “you couldn’t do it alone. But if you had help…”

“I am shocked that you would accuse me of such a juvenile prank,” Sal protests. “I am a highly respected bookseller and was, allegedly, a very competent thief. A job like that would be beneath my dignity.” They continue to stare at him. “But if by chance I ever was to engage in such tomfoolery, it would not violate my promise to you, Julia, to never rob anyone again, since clearly I took nothing from the store.”

Julia tries to hold her stern expression, but now Camden is giggling. After a few seconds Julia can’t help herself; she starts laughing too. Ramon seems puzzled by the entire exchange, but he has more news that he needs to share with Sal.

“I found the basement, Mr. Sal,” he says. “The door was hidden by the bookcase where we keep the children’s chapter books. I measured to see how many bookcases we can fit down there, and I think I can hang some fluorescent lights without having to call an electrician.”

“Excellent job, my young friend,” Sal says happily. “Let’s order some bookcases and start loading up on used books. I think our friends at Discount have a public relations problem that we can exploit if we move quickly enough.”

Julia moves close to Sal and kisses him on the cheek.

“So was it like old times?” she asks.

“Not even close, Jules. Not even close.”

If you’d like to read more about Sal, Julia, and the rest of the misfit booksellers at The Last Word, you can check out the series here; all of the titles are now also available in audiobook versions. This story is what inspired the fourth book in the series, The Bookstore War, which will be published later this spring.