haven’t been restarted. Also, because I had more than one hundred thousand dollars in stock, I was not included in the one hundred thousand dollar giveaway.”
Shirley wiped a tear away. “My grandfather started this store when he came home from World War Two,” she said. “We have been in business since 1947. Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, Truman Capote, Eudora Welty, Willie Morris—they all signed books here. I can’t believe it is all coming to an end.”
“I’m so very sorry,” Bob said. “I want you to know, Shirley, what an honor it has always been for me to sign here. I don’t know where I’ll be signing from now on, but I will very much miss this place.”
“I don’t know where you will be signing either,” Shirley said. “I’ve talked to every bookstore owner in Baldwin and Mobile Counties. None are staying open.”
“You’re talking about the independents, though.”
Shirley shook her head. “Not only independents but the big chain stores as well. By the end of this month, there won’t be a bookstore left anywhere on the Gulf Coast, and I would be surprised if there were any left anywhere in America.”
“When did all this happen?” Bob asked.
“Bob, I know you and the others down at Fort Morgan live almost like hermits. But you really should pay attention to what is going on around you. It’s not only the bookstores; the entire country is coming down around us.”
“I’ve been watching the news, but I never know what to believe. Even the news now is so slanted that it is difficult to discern the truth. The left-wing media says we are in a temporary recession and all will be well, while the right-wing media is all gloom and doom. I pass it all off as hyperbole and figure the truth is somewhere in the middle.”
“It’s not hyperbole. I wish it were, but it isn’t.”
“Maybe I should get out more,” Bob said.
“No, you are probably better off holed up down there on the beach, away from everything. I would think that now is the time to just dig in and wait until this all blows over,” Shirley said.
“I’ll miss coming over here,” Bob said. “And if you ever decide to reopen, let me know. I’ll be your first guest author.”
“If I ever reopen, yes,” Shirley said wistfully. “It would be wonderful to think so.”
As was his custom, Bob called his agent after the signing to tell him how the signing went.
Bob also knew Greg Taylor’s personal cell number, so he called that.
“Hello, Bob,” Greg answered.
“Hi, Greg. I forgot this was Saturday and I called the office,” Bob said. “I didn’t leave a message, but when you go in to the office Monday and check your missed calls, one will be from me, so you can just disregard it.”
“I won’t be going into the office Monday,” Greg said. “No one will be. There is no office, there is no agency.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t checked your e-mail, have you?”
“No. What happened?”
“Ohmshidi is what happened,” Greg said. “Bob, there is no agency, because there is no publishing. As of Monday morning, every publishing house in New York will be closing its doors.”
“Every publishing house? You mean Kinston?”
“I mean Kinston, Berkline, Pelican; Pulman, Harkins and Role, Bantar; Dale, St. Morton—all of them, every publishing house in New York. The cost of fuel has shut down not only Ingerman, but every other distributor as well. And you know better than anyone that the book industry cannot survive without distribution. The only thing left now is online publishing. I tried to move the three books you have on contract with Kinston to Spindle press. Spindle agreed to take the books, but they are offering no advance, just royalties against the Internet sales. I told them I would talk to you, but to tell the truth, I don’t think it’s worth it. And since Kinston closed its doors, you are under no obligation to complete the three remaining books. I’d advise you to not to write any of them since you would be writing them for nothing.”
Bob was silent for a long moment.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here,” Bob said.
“I wish I had better news for you.”
“Yeah, so do I.”
“It’s been good working with you, Bob. I wish you all the best.”
“Thanks, Greg. You too,” Bob said. He punched the cell phone off and continued his drive to the Wash House Restaurant, where he was to meet his wife, Ellen, and their neighbors, James and Cille Laney, and Jerry and Gaye Cornett, from The Dunes at Fort Morgan.
Ellen was surprised when she saw Bob coming in.
“I thought you were signing books.”
“I did sign them.”
“Already? That was quick.”
“There were only four books to sign.”
“Only four books? That doesn’t sound like Shirley. She always keeps a lot of your books on hand.”
“Not today.”
“You should call Gary right now, and tell him that she only received four books. He could probably find out what happened,” Ellen said. Then, to the others, she added, “Gary Goldman is Bob’s editor. He’s been with Bob through three publishing houses, Bantar, Berkline, and now Kinston.”
“I can’t call Gary because there is no Kinston publishing anymore,” Bob said, morosely.
“Oh, Bob! No!” Ellen said. “Kinston has gone out of business? But they are one of the strongest houses in New York. Well, is Greg going to try and put you somewhere else?”
“Greg closed the agency, and there is nowhere else.”
“What—what do you mean?” Ellen asked in a small, frightened voice.
“There’s no Bantar or Berkline or St. Morton,” Bob said. “There are no publishing houses anywhere, and no distributors.”
“If that is the case . . .” She let the sentence die, unable, or unwilling to finish it.
“If that’s the case, I am out of work,” Bob said, finishing the sentence for her.
“And with your retirement income halted,” Ellen added. “Oh, Bob, what are we going to do?”
“We’re going to do what every other American is doing,” Bob said. “We are going to find some way to survive. And we can start by having lunch.”
“I don’t know,” Ellen said. “Maybe we shouldn’t be spending money eating out until we know where this is all going to go.”
“We may as well spend the money,” Bob said. “I have a feeling it will be worth about half as much tomorrow.
“This is getting bad for everyone,” Jerry said. “I was talking to my broker yesterday; he said things are going to hell in a hand bucket on Wall Street. It’s the total opposite of economic crisis in the past. Instead of the Dow going down, it is going up every day. But even though the Dow is now more than three hundred percent higher than it was when Ohmshidi was sworn in, its real value, according to my broker, is about one-fourth of what it was.”
“I don’t write books and I don’t have any money in the stock market,” James said. “All I have is my retirement from the power company, and it hasn’t gone up one dime since all this began. Hell, my monthly income used to be enough to enable Cille and me to live comfortably. Now, it is going to take an entire month’s retirement check, just to pay for this meal.”
“James, maybe we shouldn’t eat here,” Cille said. “Maybe we should save our money, and go back home.”
“Why?” James asked. “Bob is right. Whatever we spend today is probably worth twice as much as what it will
