Camino Island

by John Grisham

“At least one gunman?” Trey mumbled. Doesn’t every shooting require at least one gunman?

Threatening to modify wills and trusts was a favorite ploy used against the young, and it had never worked.

He’d been an English major and was bothered by the great books he had never read.

It was all a hopeless maze of numbers and strategies. There was a reason he’d chosen English over economics.

In the past five years, over 700 independent bookstores had closed. Only a few were making money.

He had a lot of opinions on most matters, and after a couple of weeks Bruce was ready for him to leave.

Allow some time to pass, for memories to fade. As he would quickly learn in the business, patience was imperative.

August saw a net profit of only two thousand dollars, and Bruce was ready to panic.

He worked the front like a politician, memorizing the names of the regular customers and noting what they bought.

He claimed to average four books per week and no one doubted this. If a prospective clerk did not read at least two per week, there was no job offer.

old Memphis with lots of history and airs and such, but no real money.

‘Too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash.’

Holstead wrote me a filthy letter that I considered framing.

“Tessa always said you were too competitive. Checkers, chess, Monopoly. You always had to win.” “I guess. Seems kind of silly now.”

The furniture was old flea market stuff, but quirky and engaging.

“I’ve been in Chapel Hill for the past three years, teaching. But now I’m sort of in transition.” “What the hell does that mean?” Myra asked. “Means I’m basically homeless and unemployed and desperate to finish a book.”

“I’m not sure about historical fiction. Is it history or make-believe? For some reason it seems dishonest to tamper with the lives of real people and make them do things they didn’t really do.

They were chasing something, a vague dream, and Mercer often wondered where they would be when they found it.

Zelda hated Hemingway, thought he was a bully and a brute and a bad influence on her husband.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t be that casual about it.” “Fine. I’m not pushing. I just offered a little nap, that’s all.” Both chuckled, but the tension was palpable. And they knew the conversation was not over.

No one made her drink too much. Own it, girl. The old saying from college: “If you’re gonna be stupid you gotta be tough.”

“I doubt it. I’ll give any book a hundred pages, and if by then the writer can’t hold my attention I’ll put it away. There are too many good books I want to read to waste time with a bad one.” “Same here, but my limit is fifty pages. I’ve never understood people who grind through a book they don’t really like, determined to finish it for some unknown reason.

“Another rookie mistake is to introduce twenty characters in the first chapter. Five’s enough and won’t confuse your reader. Next, if you feel the need to go to the thesaurus, look for a word with three syllables or fewer.

Next, please, please use quotation marks with dialogue; otherwise it’s bewildering. Rule Number Five: Most writers say too much, so always look for things to cut, like throwaway sentences and unnecessary scenes. I could go on.”

This came from Princeton.” He opened the box, and announced proudly, “The original manuscript of The Last Tycoon.”

For a long time that night she convinced herself to stay quiet, let the lazy summer days pass, don’t rock the boat. Fall would be there soon enough and she would be somewhere else. Was there a moral right and wrong?

Bruce feigned disbelief and frustration, but in reality for the past two months he’d been living with

the assumption that someone, possibly the FBI or perhaps someone else, was watching and listening.

“You’re a great lover, Mercer, but a lousy spy.”