Although Jake was so congenial, he was usually greeted more warmly at the Grill Bar Tavern than at the bookstore on Court Street, managed by Leo Fry. Jake drove Mr. Fry a bit nutty, but I knew their banter was exaggerated, because it was obvious Mr. Fry really liked Jake.
As we walked in, Mr. Fry looked up at the sound of the door chime. When he saw Jake, he rolled his eyes dramatically. “Oh, no, he moaned, “not today. You are such a load.” (I was highly amused.)
“What do you mean? I’m your best customer!” Jake protested.
“Customer? Boarder, you mean. I should set up a cot for you. You handle our books and read for hours, but you never buy. You leave fingerprints!”
“A cot would be useful, thank you kindly. And my prints would be of great interest to the FBI hacks who consider me a pers
