orange man is clenching the soggy nub of a well-chewed, but blessedly unlit cigar between his thick lips.
Uncle Merv is at least a head taller than this guy, but as he catches my eye, his expression doesn’t relax.
“Ramona,” Merv says quietly, “this is Mr. Frank Venal. Apparently, he is the new owner of our building.”
“Ya got that right,” Frank Venal says, his New Jersey accent thick as buttah. “Won the whole buildin’ last night on two pair and a cement poker face.”
He squints in my direction, and with his thick tongue, moves the cigar to the corner of his mouth.
“Ramona?” he asks, glancing at one of the papers in his hand. “As in, Ramona Keene, suite 2B?”
I take advantage of his moment’s distraction to slide my pile of books onto the sales desk. As I do, Venal’s companion shuffles his feet uncomfortably. He’s closer to my age, and taller; with tawny skin and wavy dark hair that just brushes his shoulders. I know instantly I’ve seen this guy somewhere before. He’s attractive enough that under normal circumstances, I’d be wracking my brain to remember where.
But at the moment, the circumstances feel pretty far from normal.
All the same, I slide sideways a little to try to catch the young guy’s eye. When I do finally manage it, he glances away, maintaining a carefully blank expression.
“That’s right,” I answer, at last. “I’m Romy Keene.” I look past the younger man and exchange a worried glance with my uncle.
“Well, as of midnight last night, doll, this building is mine,” Venal says smugly. “And seein’ as nobody in their right mind reads books anymore, I’m guessin’ this place don’t pull its own weight. Consider this your official notice. You pay what I’m askin’, or you got forty-five days before the wreckers come in.”
He turns and bares his teeth at the younger man. “I’m thinkin’ micro-condos, Dom. Them things are the way of the future.”
He waves a piece of paper that reads “Property Deed” in Merv’s face.
Merv takes a step back, and Venal clutches the younger man by the arm.
“This is my—ah—nephew, Dominic,” he says. “He’ll be by to collect the rent every month.”
“We always pay by direct deposit,” Merv says, but Venal waves this away with a menacing chuckle.
He slaps a new lease agreement on the counter.
“I prefer the personal touch,” he says. Except he pronounces it poisenal. Then he marches out the front door.
The taller man shoots a startled look at Venal’s retreating back, pausing as the bell jingles on the front door. “He’s not my uncle,” he whispers, then hurries out onto the street.
Merv slumps on a stool behind the counter, looking stunned. This act in itself shows how upset he is, since he has always equated sitting behind the cash desk with the most contemptible laziness. At this moment, Tommy, swathed in several scarves and with a large Soviet-era fur hat on his bald head, comes bustling in the front door, laden with patisserie bags.
By the time he’s got his coat off and the pastries under the glass display domes on the tea counter, Merv’s told him the whole story. Tommy bursts into tears at the news.
This is no help at all.
In the end, I tuck Tommy into the comfy sofa in their tiny apartment behind the bookstore. I leave a cup of tea, a plate piled in chocolate éclairs, and his favorite telenovela on to distract him. Hurrying back into the shop, I find Merv has summoned our neighbor, Mrs. Justice Rosa Ruiz, in the interim.
Mrs. Justice Rosa—seriously, that’s what we call her—is eighty-six, and a retired circuit court judge. She’s among our regulars, stopping by weekly to pick up her copies of the Times and Hola Latinos, a cup of tea, and whatever sweet treat Tommy can entice her into. Today, she’s wearing a tracksuit in vivid magenta and a pair of Birkenstocks that show off her turquoise pedicure.
It’s hard to decipher some of the document’s legalese, but once I find her a magnifying glass, Mrs. Justice Rosa lends us her thoughts and we determine the extent of the bad news.
The new lease spells out that since Venal’s acquisition has negated historic rent controls, he will now be charging triple the rent, something the bookshop can never sustain. Two Old Queens needs to pay up by May 1st—less than seven weeks away—or face eviction.
I spend the rest of the very long day running back and forth between the cash desk and the little apartment behind the shop, bearing fresh