The Dalai Lama's Cat (The Dalai Lama's Cat 1)

Franc regarded Sam carefully for a long while before telling him, “For the past few months I’ve been wondering how I can diversify my business. I have that area, separate from the rest of the tables, that is underutilized.” He gestured toward the part of the café, up a few steps, where the lighting was more subdued and the tables often unoccupied. “I have a lot of tourists passing through here every day who may want to buy a new book—and there’s nowhere locally to buy one. Problem is, I know nothing about running a bookstore. And I didn’t know anyone who did, until now.”

Sam nodded.

“So, what do you think of the idea?”

“This is exactly the kind of place I could see a bookstore doing well. Like you say, there is no competition. It doesn’t hurt that mobile reception is hit-and-miss around these parts, making it hard to download e-books—”

“A lot of our customers already have a strong interest in mind/body/spirit books,” interjected Franc. “They’re in here reading them all the time.”

“If they’re coming for the overall experience,” chimed in Sam, “you could broaden that experience to include buying new books, CDs, perhaps gifts.”

“Buddhist and Indian novelty items.”

“Only the better-quality stuff.”

“Of course.”

For a full three seconds, Sam held Franc’s gaze. The gleam in Franc’s eye had developed into full-blown excitement. Even Sam’s customary shyness seemed to have lifted.

Then Franc asked, “Will you set it up for me?”

“You mean—?”

“And run it. As my bookstore manager.”

The enthusiasm quickly drained from Sam’s face.

“Well, that’s v-v-very nice of you to ask, but I couldn’t.” Deep furrows appeared on his forehead between his eyes. “I mean, I’m only here for a few weeks.”

“You’ve no job to go back to,” Franc reminded him, somewhat brutally. “I’m offering you a job here.”

“But my visa—”

Franc waved dismissively. “I’ve got a guy who can take care of the paperwork.”

“And ac-c-c-commodation—”

“There’s an apartment upstairs,” said Franc. “I can make that part of the deal.”

But instead of resolving Sam’s concerns, Franc seemed only to be compounding them. Sam lowered his face as a red blush appeared, first on his neck, then steadily, inexorably, bloomed on his cheeks.

“I just couldn’t do it,” he told Franc. “Even if everything else was … ”

Leaning forward in his chair, Franc eyeballed him. “Why not?”

Sam stared miserably at the floor.

“You can tell me,” Franc said, softening his tone.

Sam shook his head slowly.

After a pause, Franc tried a different tack. “Trust me—I’m a Buddhist.”

Sam smiled sadly.

“I’m not leaving here”—Franc managed to combine both sympathy and insistence in his tone—“until you tell me.”

He sat back in his chair, as though preparing for a long wait. Sam’s blush deepened a shade. Then, after the lengthiest pause, eyes still fixed to the floor, Sam murmured, “When the store in Century City closed, I was laid off.”