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Itzhak can't resist the opening. "That's what they all say. It's sociological research."
Actually, the man, whose first name is Mike, turns out to be telling the truth. He works for the same guy who produces the Playboy index Volansky uses. But Mike points out that his main job is as a free-lancer for Celebrity Skin and Celebrity Sleuth magazines. His sole task is to search far and wide for nude pictures of people who are now movie stars. One way to find these valuable items, for which the Sleuth and Skin pay handsomely, is to search through old porn mags where the stars may have posed for a pictorial before they became famous and respectable.
Mike won't give his last name. But he's more than willing to share with Volansky the intricacies of his trade. Usually, he says, he concentrates on two magazines, Gallery and Genesis. "People will start their careers there, since they are not as hard-core," he says.
His greatest obstacle is what he calls the redundancy factor. "Hustler '93 shots will show up in Cheri in '97," Mike says.
Again, Itzhak can't resist commenting. "I have never been as intimate with these magazines," he says.
Francesca Causey walks in the door at McDonald's Books and announces her intentions and desires: "I don't want anyone to bother me. I don't want anyone to talk to me. I just want to be alone with my books."
She draws out the last word and gives it its due, lying among the middle consonants as if they were luxurious pillows, before closing the door on it with a slam made by the sound ks. The hiss hangs in the air, a dare to anyone who might think of filling the pause with other words. Her diction is immaculate, deep and resonant in a way very few besides African-Americans of a particular generation can bring to language. The words could have been formed in a marble cistern.
Volansky simply nods and accedes to Francesca Causey's demand, as he has, in one way or another, for the 20-some years she has been coming to his store to be alone with her books.
Mannerly and formal, Francesca enters the store as if she were attending a cotillion, rather than walking into a seedy bookshop on a urine-stained stretch of unremarkable street in the Tenderloin.
She's certainly dressed for an imperial role, her red velvet jacket appointed with a large, fragrant gardenia. But it's her turban that literally grabs one's attention; its huge multicolored brim and magnificent yellow crown beg comparison with the costuming for Beach Blanket Babylon.
Her glasses are equally spectacular: big and black and framed in artificial jewels. Her purse is bright yellow, her lipstick bright red and liberally applied.
Francesca's queenly carriage and dress have been undermined by a recent tragedy: an aneurysm laid her low and stole her sight. But, she says, "the grace of God" gave her back her eyes and her books, and today she's on a search. She's looking for Bibles and dictionaries -- old ones, new ones, as many as she can find. Her self-appointed task: to trace changes of vernacular in various versions of the Scriptures.
When this royally eccentric bookworm returns to the front of the store hours later, she has finished exploring subtle changes in biblical idiom and found two items to purchase: a paperback version of former Supreme Court Justice William O. Douglas' The Right of the People and a bizarre little antiquity, a series of small bound and boxed pamphlets from the 1930s, written by someone named Estelle B. Hunter, Ph.D., titled Practical Language and Effective Speech: A New Self Teaching Course.
The cover of each pamphlet is made of red leatherette, slightly rough to the touch. Very nice, really. The pages are yellowed, but only slightly.
Francesca counts the pamphlets. She's scored a complete set of Dr. Hunter's tutorial, meaning that she has purchased an old and extremely rare item that has absolutely no value.
Except to Francesca Causey.
She gathers up the loose papers, notepads, and books she came in with. She adds her new books to the bundle, takes her change from Volansky, and asks for a bag, a nice one please.
"I will bring it back Saturday when I come back to purchase more of my books," she says.
Again, the word hangs in the air like rare music. Francesca darts out the door with new treasure to catch a bus.
