...but where did he get the book from?

I was walking down Broadway at 108th street this afternoon on my way from a reading to a rehearsal. I passed a guy sitting next to a table of books. One caught my eye, as I turned back to him, asking how much.

"Which one?"
"This one," I pointed to Michael Crichton's NEXT.
"Uh, eight dollars."
"Eight?!"
"Come on, you know that's his newest book. It's $29.95 in the store."
"Nevermind. Not for eight bucks" I mutter and proceed to cross the street. Half way across the street, I turn back and re-approach the man. "OK, you got me."
"You would've got yourself if you didn't take this book," he quipped.

So, now I have Crichton's newest on the shelf, waiting for me to finish Murakami's meandering story about a boy named Kafka, children mysteriously falling down and losing consciousness in the forest, and a man who talks to cats.