Vernon asked. Charlie nodded as he fished the tattered copy of The Vegetable King Olivia had left behind from his bag. “This looks pretty beat up,” Vernon said, fanning through the curled pages. “I think I can do better.” He slid back the doors on the white and maple sideboard table packed with books and, not finding what he was searching for, reached under the unmade bed for a plastic bin crammed with copies of his work. He selected a pristine copy of The Vegetable King and signed it to Olivia. He signed the worn copy too, splaying the book out on the black granite kitchen counter, the only shadow anywhere in the gleaming white loft. “You can sell this one for a couple of bucks at the Strand.” Charlie nodded, remembering the mammoth bookstore on Twelfth Street from when he’d cased Vernon’s block upon learning Vernon’s address. The light outside the oversized windows was fading, a dusky glow painting the white walls gold. The stainless steel fan Vernon had switched on during the interview rotated, its blades flashing, the breeze rippling the cloth folding screen in the opposite corner that sequestered a table and computer.
