{"product_id":"the-coffee-trader-isbn-9780375760907","title":"The Coffee Trader","description":"Amsterdam, 1659: On the world’s first commodities exchange, fortunes are won and lost in an instant. Miguel Lienzo, a sharp-witted trader in the city’s close-knit community of Portuguese Jews, knows this only too well. Once among the city’s most envied merchants, Miguel has suddenly lost everything. Now, impoverished and humiliated, living in his younger brother’s canal-flooded basement, Miguel must find a way to restore his wealth and reputation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMiguel enters into a partnership with a seductive Dutchwoman who offers him one last chance at success—a daring plot to corner the market of an astonishing new commodity called “coffee.” To succeed, Miguel must risk everything he values and face a powerful enemy who will stop at nothing to see him ruined. Miguel will learn that among Amsterdam’s ruthless businessmen, betrayal lurks everywhere, and even friends hide secret agendas.“AN ENTERTAINING TALE . . . [A] LEARNED PAGE-TURNER . . . Despite the many characters and plot twists, Mr. Liss keeps his story in graceful motion.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eWall Street Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“EXPERTLY PLOTTED AND EXCELLENTLY WRITTEN, and it has all the qualities readers want in novels—romance, mystery, suspense, betrayal and redemption, a feeling for how people lived in other times and places.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Plain Dealer \u003c\/i\u003e(Cleveland)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“UNUSUAL AND DIVERTING . . . Sometimes, as the book demonstrates with a nice twist, sincerity can be the greatest means of deception.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“[A] TRANSPORTING TALE OF FINANCIAL INTRIGUE . . . [Liss’s] writing is smooth and elegant—like a good cup of coffee.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“STRONG BREW . . . [A] LITERATE THRILLER.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Liss fashions a wide-ranging, labyrinthine plot. . . . He also has a historian’s eye for detail, and he creates an Amsterdam that feels very much of its time. . . . Liss’s novels are ultimately about a central truth of capitalism, which is that the system is bigger and more powerful than anyone within it. . . . The best moments of \u003ci\u003eThe Coffee Trader\u003c\/i\u003e create a powerful sense of vertigo that’s something like the vertigo of finance capitalism.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eWashington Post Book Worl\u003c\/i\u003ed\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Masterfully plotted, brilliantly imagined, \u003ci\u003eThe Coffee Trader\u003c\/i\u003e brims with intelligence, intrigue, and suspense. David Liss has written a riveting novel about commerce and faith, loyalty and greed.”\u003cbr\u003e—TOVA MIRVIS\u003cbr\u003e   Author of \u003ci\u003eThe Ladies Auxiliary\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“David Liss has cornered a very narrow niche of the literary market—historical financial thrillers. And it must be said: He’s quite good at it. . . . Lienzo’s world comes to life in great (and frequently grimy) detail, and the workings of the Amsterdam bourse are eerily similar to modern commodities markets. . . . [The book is] more latte than espresso, and all the more enjoyable as a result.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Coffee Trader\u003c\/i\u003e is a very fine piece of historical fiction, and also a uniquely resonant one. . . . David Liss makes the foreign familiar as he immerses the reader in a bustling and intrigue-ridden past.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eDenver Post\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A DOUBLE SHOT OF PROSE SPICED WITH CHARACTERS AND COMMODITIES\u003cbr\u003eAS ERRATIC AS THE DRINK ITSELF. . . .\u003ci\u003eThe Coffee Trader\u003c\/i\u003e paints an evocative picture of Dutch life in the 1600s. Miguel Lienzo’s thrilling flim-flam schemes in coffee bean speculation and Liss’s insightful commentary on paper-tiger consortiums are rendered real and relevant. . . . Throughout \u003ci\u003eTrader\u003c\/i\u003e, Miguel remains a befuddling and charming rogue.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eAustin American-Statesman\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Good to the last drop . . . Chock full of intrigue, suspense, and financial shenanigans . . . Liss transports the reader back in time . . . handl[ing] the seventeenth century and all the nuances of Dutch culture with utter ease. Whether it’s his portrayal of the Ma’amad, the restrictive governing body of Miguel’s Jewish community, or the complex characters appearing throughout the novel,\u003ci\u003e The Coffee Trader\u003c\/i\u003e is an excellent example of historical fiction in its finest form.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe MetroWest Daily News\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“The premise and setting of \u003ci\u003eThe Coffee Trader\u003c\/i\u003e is unique, with smaller-scale historical detail as richly rewarding as Liss’s remarkable first work, \u003ci\u003eA Conspiracy of Paper\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe San Diego Union-Tribune\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Each player in this complex thriller has a hidden agenda, and the twists and turns accelerate as motives gradually become clear.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekl\u003c\/i\u003ey (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A NOVEL OVERFLOWING WITH INTRIGUE AND DUPLICITY . . .Once you’ve wandered the back alleys of Amsterdam with David Liss, you’ll never look at your morning cup of coffee the same way again!”\u003cbr\u003e—SHERI HOLMAN\u003cbr\u003e   Author of \u003ci\u003eThe Dress Lodger\u003cbr\u003e   \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Mammoth Cheese\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“In his second novel, David Liss creates his own genre: the historical noir. The seventeenth-century Amsterdam he depicts is a wonderfully dark city of secrets, roiling with deceitful maneuverings and caffeine-fueled perils. \u003ci\u003eThe Coffee Trader\u003c\/i\u003e is vivid, utterly absorbing, and more than a little relevant to our current age of financial skulduggery.”\u003cbr\u003e—GARY KRIST\u003cbr\u003e   Author of \u003ci\u003eExtravagance\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003eThe Coffee Trader\u003c\/i\u003e is riveting as a historical re-creation, compelling as a tale, and relevant both about the morality of community—in this case, Jewish community—and about the ethical corruptions of an economy where value is a function of perception, competition, and, above all, manipulation.”\u003cbr\u003e—NEIL GORDON\u003cbr\u003e   Author of \u003ci\u003eSacrifice of Isaac\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eSea of Green\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Liss provides plenty of unexpected twists and turns to keep the reader’s attention glued to the page.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBook Street USA\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eDavid Liss\u003c\/b\u003e is the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Day of Atonement, The Twelfth Enchantment, The Devil’s Company, The Whiskey Rebels, The Ethical Assassin, A Spectacle of Corruption, The Coffee Trader, \u003c\/i\u003eand\u003ci\u003eA Conspiracy of Paper, \u003c\/i\u003ewinner of the Edgar Award for Best First Novel. He lives in San Antonio with his wife and children.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt rippled thickly in the bowl, dark and hot and uninviting. Miguel\u003cbr\u003eLienzo picked it up and pulled it so close he almost dipped his nose\u003cbr\u003einto the tarry liquid. Holding the vessel still for an instant, he\u003cbr\u003ebreathed in, pulling the scent deep into his lungs. The sharp odor of\u003cbr\u003eearth and rank leaves surprised him; it was like something an apothecary\u003cbr\u003emight keep in a chipped porcelain jar.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What is this?” Miguel asked, working through his irritation by pushing\u003cbr\u003eat the cuticle of one thumb with the nail of the other. She knew he had\u003cbr\u003eno time to waste, so why had she brought him here for this nonsense? One\u003cbr\u003ebitter remark after another bubbled up inside him, but Miguel let loose\u003cbr\u003ewith none of them. It wasn’t that he was afraid of her, but he often\u003cbr\u003efound himself going to great lengths to avoid her displeasure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked over and saw that Geertruid met his silent cuticle mutilation\u003cbr\u003ewith a grin. He knew that irresistible smile and what it meant: she was\u003cbr\u003emightily pleased with herself, and when she looked that way it was hard\u003cbr\u003efor Miguel not to be mightily pleased with her too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s something extraordinary,” she told him, gesturing toward his bowl.\u003cbr\u003e“Drink it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Drink it?” Miguel squinted into the blackness. “It looks like the\u003cbr\u003edevil’s piss, which would certainly be extraordinary, but I’ve no desire\u003cbr\u003eto know what it tastes like.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGeertruid leaned toward him, almost brushing up against his arm. “Take a\u003cbr\u003esip and then I’ll tell you everything. This devil’s piss is going to\u003cbr\u003emake both our fortunes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt had begun not an hour earlier, when Miguel felt someone take hold of\u003cbr\u003ehis arm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn the instant before he turned his head, he ticked off the unpleasant\u003cbr\u003epossibilities: rival or creditor, an abandoned lover or her angry\u003cbr\u003erelative, the Danish fellow to whom he’d sold those Baltic grain futures\u003cbr\u003ewith too enthusiastic a recommendation. Not so long ago the approach of\u003cbr\u003ea stranger had held promise. Merchants and schemers and women had all\u003cbr\u003esought Miguel’s company, asking his advice, craving his companionship,\u003cbr\u003ebargaining for his guilders. Now he wished only to learn in what new\u003cbr\u003eshape disaster would unfold itself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe never thought to stop walking. He was part of the procession that\u003cbr\u003eformed each day when the bells of the Nieuwe Kerk struck two, signaling\u003cbr\u003ethe end of trading on the Exchange. Hundreds of brokers poured out onto\u003cbr\u003ethe Dam, the great plaza at Amsterdam’s center. They spread out along\u003cbr\u003ethe alleys and roads and canal sides. Along the Warmoesstraat, the\u003cbr\u003efastest route to the most popular taverns, shopkeepers stepped outside,\u003cbr\u003edonning wide-brimmed leather hats to guard against damp that rolled in\u003cbr\u003efrom the Zuiderzee. They set out sacks of spices, rolls of linen,\u003cbr\u003ebarrels of tobacco. Tailors and shoemakers and milliners waved men\u003cbr\u003einside; sellers of books and pens and exotic trinkets cried out their\u003cbr\u003ewares.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Warmoesstraat became a current of black hats and black suits,\u003cbr\u003especkled only with the white of collars, sleeves, and stockings or the\u003cbr\u003eflash of silver shoe buckles. Traders pushed past goods from the Orient\u003cbr\u003eor the New World, from places of which no one had heard a hundred years\u003cbr\u003ebefore. Excited like schoolboys set free of the classroom, the traders\u003cbr\u003etalked of their business in a dozen different languages. They laughed\u003cbr\u003eand shouted and pointed; they grabbed at anything young and female that\u003cbr\u003ecrossed their path. They took out their purses and devoured the\u003cbr\u003eshopkeepers’ goods, leaving only coins in their wake.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMiguel Lienzo neither laughed nor admired the commodities set out before\u003cbr\u003ehim nor clutched at the soft parts of willing shop girls. He walked\u003cbr\u003esilently, head down against the light rain. Today was, on the Christian\u003cbr\u003ecalendar, the thirteenth day of May, 1659. Accounts on the Exchange\u003cbr\u003eclosed each month on the twentieth; let a man make what maneuvers he\u003cbr\u003eliked, none of it mattered until the twentieth, when the credits and\u003cbr\u003edebits of the month were tallied and money at last changed hands. Today\u003cbr\u003ethings had gone badly with a matter of brandy futures, and Miguel now\u003cbr\u003ehad less than a week to pluck his fat from the fire or he would find\u003cbr\u003ehimself another thousand guilders in debt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother thousand. He already owed three thousand. Once he had made\u003cbr\u003edouble that in a year, but six months ago the sugar market collapsed,\u003cbr\u003etaking Miguel’s fortune with it. And then–well, one mistake after\u003cbr\u003eanother. He wanted to be like the Dutch, who regarded bankruptcy as no\u003cbr\u003eshame. He tried to tell himself it did not matter, it was only a little\u003cbr\u003ewhile longer until he undid the damage, but believing that tale required\u003cbr\u003ean increasing effort. How long, he wondered, until his wide and boyish\u003cbr\u003eface turned pinched? How long until his eyes lost the eager sparkle of a\u003cbr\u003emerchant and took on the desperate, hollow gaze of a gambler? He vowed\u003cbr\u003eit would not happen to him. He would not become one of those lost souls,\u003cbr\u003ethe ghosts who haunted the Exchange, living from one reckoning day to\u003cbr\u003ethe next, toiling to secure just enough profit to keep their accounts\u003cbr\u003eafloat for one more month when surely all would be made easy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow, with unknown fingers wrapped around his arm, Miguel turned and saw\u003cbr\u003ea neatly dressed Dutchman of the middling ranks, hardly more than twenty\u003cbr\u003eyears of age. He was a muscular wide-shouldered fellow with blond hair\u003cbr\u003eand a face almost more pretty than handsome, though his drooping\u003cbr\u003emustache added a masculine flair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHendrick. No family name that anyone had ever heard. Geertruid Damhuis’s\u003cbr\u003efellow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Greetings, Jew Man,” he said, still holding on to Miguel’s arm. “I hope\u003cbr\u003eall goes well for you this afternoon.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Things always go well with me,” he answered, as he twisted his neck to\u003cbr\u003esee if any prattling troublemaker might lurk behind him. The Ma’amad,\u003cbr\u003ethe ruling council among the Portuguese Jews, forbade congress between\u003cbr\u003eJews and “inappropriate” gentiles, and while this designation could\u003cbr\u003eprove treacherously ambiguous, no one could mistake Hendrick, in his\u003cbr\u003eyellow jerkin and red breeches, for anything appropriate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Madam Damhuis sent me to fetch you,” he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGeertruid had played at this before. She knew Miguel could not risk\u003cbr\u003ebeing seen on so public a street as the Warmoesstraat with a Dutchwoman,\u003cbr\u003eparticularly a Dutchwoman with whom he did business, so she sent her man\u003cbr\u003einstead. There was no less risk to Miguel’s reputation, but this way she\u003cbr\u003ecould force his hand without even showing her face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Tell her I haven’t the time for so lovely a diversion,” he said. “Not\u003cbr\u003ejust now.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Of course you do.” Hendrick grinned widely. “What man can say no to\u003cbr\u003eMadam Damhuis?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot Miguel. At least not easily. He had difficulty saying no to\u003cbr\u003eGeertruid or to anyone else–including himself–who proposed something\u003cbr\u003eamusing. Miguel had no stomach for doom; disaster felt to him like an\u003cbr\u003eawkward and loose suit. He had to force himself each day to play the\u003cbr\u003ecautious role of a man in the throes of ruin. That, he knew, was his\u003cbr\u003etrue curse, the curse of all former Conversos: in Portugal he had grown\u003cbr\u003etoo used to falseness, pretending to worship as a Catholic, pretending\u003cbr\u003eto despise Jews and respect the Inquisition. He had thought nothing of\u003cbr\u003ebeing one thing while making the world believe he was another.\u003cbr\u003eDeception, even self-deception, came far too easily.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thank your mistress but give her my regrets.” With reckoning day soon\u003cbr\u003eupon him, and new debts to burden him, he would have to curb his\u003cbr\u003ediversions, at least for a while. And there had been another note this\u003cbr\u003emorning, a strange anonymous scrawl on a torn piece of paper. I want my\u003cbr\u003emoney. It was one of a half dozen or so Miguel had received in the last\u003cbr\u003emonth. I want my money. Wait your turn, Miguel would think glumly, as he\u003cbr\u003eopened each of these letters, but he was unnerved by the terse tone and\u003cbr\u003euneven hand. Only a madman would send such a message without a name–for\u003cbr\u003ehow could Miguel respond even if he had the money and even if he were\u003cbr\u003einclined to use what little he had for something so foolish as paying\u003cbr\u003edebts?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHendrick stared, as though he couldn’t understand Miguel’s good, if\u003cbr\u003ethickly accented, Dutch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Today is not the day,” Miguel said, a bit more forcefully. He avoided\u003cbr\u003espeaking too adamantly to Hendrick, whom he had once seen slam a\u003cbr\u003ebutcher’s head into the stones of the Damplatz for selling Geertruid\u003cbr\u003erancid bacon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHendrick gazed at Miguel with the special pity men of the middle rank\u003cbr\u003ereserved for their superiors. “Madam Damhuis told me to inform you that\u003cbr\u003etoday is the day. She tells me that she will show you something, and\u003cbr\u003ewhen you set your eyes on it, you will forever after divide your life\u003cbr\u003einto the time before this afternoon and the time after.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe thought of her disrobing flashed before him. That would be a lovely\u003cbr\u003edivide between the past and the future and would certainly be worth\u003cbr\u003esetting aside his business for the afternoon. However, Geertruid loved\u003cbr\u003eto play at these games. There was little chance she meant to take off as\u003cbr\u003emuch as her cap. But there was no getting rid of Hendrick, and urgent as\u003cbr\u003ehis troubles might be, Miguel could make no deals with this Dutchman\u003cbr\u003elurking in his shadow. It had happened before. He would trail Miguel\u003cbr\u003efrom tavern to tavern, from alley to canal side, until Miguel\u003cbr\u003esurrendered. Best to have this over with, he decided, so he sighed and\u003cbr\u003esaid he would go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith a sharp gesture of his neck, Hendrick led them off the ancient\u003cbr\u003ecobbled street and across the steep bridges toward the new part of the\u003cbr\u003ecity, ringed by the three great canals–the Herengracht, the\u003cbr\u003eKeizersgracht, and the Prinsengracht–and then toward the Jordaan, the\u003cbr\u003emost rapidly growing part of town, where the air echoed with the ring of\u003cbr\u003ehammer on anvil and the chipping of chisel on stone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHendrick led him along the waters of the Rozengracht, where barges\u003cbr\u003epierced the thick canal mist as they headed toward the docks to unload\u003cbr\u003etheir goods. The new houses of the newly wealthy stood on either side of\u003cbr\u003ethe murky water, facing the oak- and linden-lined waterway. Miguel had\u003cbr\u003eonce rented the better part of so fine a house, red-brick and\u003cbr\u003esteeple-gabled. But then Brazilian production of sugar had far exceeded\u003cbr\u003eMiguel’s expectations. He’d been gambling on low production for years,\u003cbr\u003ebut suddenly Brazilian farmers unleashed an unexpected crop, and in an\u003cbr\u003einstant prices collapsed. A great man of the Exchange as instantly\u003cbr\u003ebecame a debtor living off his brother’s scraps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOnce they departed from the main street, the Jordaan lost its charm. The\u003cbr\u003eneighborhood was new–where they stood had been farmland only thirty\u003cbr\u003eyears before–but already the alleyways had taken on the decrepit cast of\u003cbr\u003ea slum. Dirt replaced the cobblestones. Huts made of thatch and scraps\u003cbr\u003eof wood leaned against squat houses black with tar. The alleys vibrated\u003cbr\u003ewith the hollow clacking of looms, as weavers spun from sunup until late\u003cbr\u003einto the night, all in the hope of earning enough to keep their bellies\u003cbr\u003efull for one more day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn moments of weakness, Miguel feared that poverty would claim him as it\u003cbr\u003ehad claimed the wretched of the Jordaan, that he would fall into a well\u003cbr\u003eof debt so deep he would lose even the dream of recovering himself.\u003cbr\u003eWould he be the same man then–himself, yet penniless–or would he become\u003cbr\u003eas hollow as the beggars and luckless laborers he passed on the streets?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe assured himself it would not happen. A true merchant never gives in\u003cbr\u003eto gloom. A man who has lived as a Secret Jew always has one more trick\u003cbr\u003eto save his skin. At least until he fell into the clutches of the\u003cbr\u003eInquisition, he reminded himself, and there was no Inquisition in\u003cbr\u003eAmsterdam. Just the Ma’amad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut what was he doing here with this inscrutable Dutchman? Why had he\u003cbr\u003eallowed his will to collapse when he had business, important business,\u003cbr\u003eto pursue?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“To what sort of place are you taking me?” Miguel asked, hoping to find\u003cbr\u003ea reason to excuse himself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A miserable sort of place,” Hendrick said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMiguel opened his mouth to voice an objection, but it was too late. They\u003cbr\u003ehad arrived.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThough he was not, like the Dutch, inclined to believe in omens, Miguel\u003cbr\u003ewould later recall that his venture had begun in a place called the\u003cbr\u003eGolden Calf, surely an unpromising name. They climbed down a steep and\u003cbr\u003eviciously low-ceilinged stairwell to the cellar, a little room that\u003cbr\u003emight comfortably have held thirty souls but now contained perhaps\u003cbr\u003efifty. The choking smoke of cheap West Indian tobacco and musty peat\u003cbr\u003estoves nearly suppressed the scent of spilled beer and wine, old cheese,\u003cbr\u003eand the odor of fifty unwashed men–or, rather, forty men and ten\u003cbr\u003ewhores–whose mouths puffed out onions and beer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the bottom of the stairs, an enormous man, shaped remarkably liked a\u003cbr\u003epear, blocked their passage, and sensing that someone wished to get by\u003cbr\u003ehe moved his bulk backwards to prevent anyone from squeezing past. He\u003cbr\u003eheld a tankard in one hand and a pipe in the other, and he shouted\u003cbr\u003esomething incomprehensible to his companions.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Move your monstrous bulk, fellow,” Hendrick said to him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man turned his head just enough to register his scowl and then\u003cbr\u003elooked away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fellow”–Hendrick tried again–“you are the hard turd in the ass of my\u003cbr\u003ejourney. Don’t make me apply a purgative to flush you out.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Go piss in your breeches,” he answered, and then belched laughter in\u003cbr\u003ehis friends’ faces.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Fellow,” said Hendrick, “turn around and see to whom you speak so\u003cbr\u003erudely.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe man did turn around, and as he saw Hendrick the grin melted from his\u003cbr\u003ejowly three-days-unshaved face. “Begging your pardon,” he said. He\u003cbr\u003epulled his cap down off his head and moved quickly out of the way,\u003cbr\u003eknocking clumsily into his friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis newfound humility wasn’t enough to satisfy Hendrick, who reached\u003cbr\u003eout like the lash of a whip and grabbed the man’s filthy shirt. The\u003cbr\u003etankard and pipe fell to the floor. “Tell me,” Hendrick said, “should I\u003cbr\u003ecrush your throat or not crush your throat?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not crush,” the drunk suggested eagerly. His hands flapped like bird\u003cbr\u003ewings.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What do you say, Jew Man?” Hendrick asked Miguel. “Crush or not crush?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, let him go,” Miguel answered wearily.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHendrick released his grip. “The Jew Man says to let you go. You\u003cbr\u003eremember that, fellow, next time you think to toss a dead fish or rotten\u003cbr\u003ecabbage at a Jew. A Jew has saved your hide today, and for no good\u003cbr\u003ereason, too.” He turned to Miguel. “This way.”Edgar Award-winning author of A Conspiracy of Paper [quote]--Cleveland Plain Dealer","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303243239653,"sku":"NP9780375760907","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780375760907.jpg?v=1767738724","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-coffee-trader-isbn-9780375760907","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}