Lindsey thanked her and walked next door. It wasn’t raining so he didn’t get wet, even though he wasn’t at 101 California Street.
The clerk was right, Moe’s had thousand upon thousands of used paperbacks. Trouble was, they were arranged by author, not title. Finding Death in the Ditch—if Moe’s had it at all—was about as likely as dropping a pebble from the Goodyear blimp and hoping to hit the right spectator in a stadium full of football fans.
But again a clerk came to the rescue. “You know the San Francisco Mystery Book Store? Twenty-fourth Street? If anybody can help you, they can.”
Lindsey drove across the Bay Bridge, took Duboce Street to Market and turned left on Castro. On a Saturday afternoon the city’s gay community was out in force, but something struck Lindsey as odd. There we
