![]() "This letter," I said, "is from the office of the head librarian downtown." I removed a sheet of paper and handed it over slowly. I reached for a paper folder at the far end of the table, and the cop standing over me let his right hand drift toward his holster. "Library throws away thousands of books every year." "Front'a each page marked discarded," I said, editing out all unnecessary words as I spoke. "Stole 'em?" the dark-haired cop asked from across the room. I was sitting in my favorite swivel chair behind the makeshift table-desk that I used for book sales and purchases. "Where'd you get all these books, son?" the other cop asked, looking down on me. The dark one wandered around the room, flipping through random books, looking, it seemed, for some kind of contraband. ![]() One had dark hair and the other sported freckles. I hadn't called them, of course a black man has to think twice before calling the cops in Watts. ![]() MY USED-BOOK STORE had been open for just about a month when the police showed up. ![]()
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