Free Ellipsis by Stephen Greenleaf Page A

when Chandelier dumped him. He even tried to get me to intervene at one point, but I know which side of my bread is buttered. And besides, he’s a creep.”
    â€œTell me about the butter and the bread.”
    She gestured toward the books piled high on the table. “Chandelier financed my start in the book business back in ’92. Cosigned the loan. Took me to see a friend of hers at Wells Fargo. Everything. Things went great for a while, but what with Borders and Barnes and Noble opening stores on every corner, and the on-line services expanding as well, I’d be out of business if Chandelier hadn’t been so supportive.”
    I looked at her table. “How many books did you bring?”
    â€œFour hundred.”
    â€œWill you sell them all?”
    â€œWe’ve sold that many a time or two before, but anything over two is a bonanza for us. We double the average because Chandelier isn’t happy if we run out of books.”
    I pointed toward the door. “Some of the fans seem to be bringing books with them.”
    â€œNot the new one they aren’t—we’re the only source in the city for Shalloon at this point. But lots of them bring her backlist to be signed as well. Fans, and collectors, too. But we try to set limits.” She pointed at a small printed sign taped to the end of the book table: DUE TO TIME CONSTRAINTS, CHANDELIER CAN SIGN A MAXIMUM OF THREE BOOKS PER CUSTOMER AND CANNOT INSCRIBE PERSONAL MESSAGES. THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING .
    I pointed at the pile of papers next to the sign. “What’s that?”
    â€œChandelier’s newsletter. One to a customer.”
    â€œFree?”
    â€œFree. It can be downloaded from our Web site, too, of course.”
    â€œOf course,” I said as though I were a dot head myself. I looked at the banner tacked to the wall behind the book table. “Where’s your son?”
    It took her several seconds to answer. The starkly haunted expression on her face made me wish I hadn’t asked the question.
    â€œJason’s dead. Six months after he was born and three months before his father left me behind to grieve all by myself in the emptiest house there ever was. When I finally recovered, I decided this was a good way to remember and honor him and, thanks to Chandelier, his memorial won’t be tainted by bankruptcy anytime soon.”
    Just then there was a noise outside, a rumble, then a buzz, then a swell of cheers and shouts in the nature of a hallelujah chorus. The queen must have entered the building.

Chapter 8
    Surrounded by a retinue of imposing women and followed by a knot of squealing, surging fans, Chandelier Wells swept into Jimbo’s ballroom like Isabella returning to court after bidding Columbus bon voyage. She took a quick tour of the room to assess the arrangements, whispered something to the caterer and something else to Lark McLaren, then doffed her camel-colored cashmere coat and took her seat behind a pile of shiny books, chic and businesslike in a bright red dress with a low-cut bodice, ready to greet her public. As if in response to a cosmic prompt, the crowd, barely held in check by one of the Dunne and Son retainers, streamed toward the table cash in hand, clamoring to claim their prize. I heard the woman who was first in line tell Chandelier she had been waiting since 10 A.M.
    As predicted, the file of fans snaked out of the building and down the block. Under the guise of a hall monitor on the lookout for cutters and rowdies and people not keeping their hands to themselves, I strolled its length looking for suspicious characters.
    There were twenty women for every man, and twenty people over forty for every one under that. On the whole they seemed harmless enough, a cross-section of the city’s Anglo-Saxon middle class, a surprisingly substantial number of people to whom Chandelier’s prose was in the nature of a benign narcotic—addictive and pleasurable and