Deals with the Devil by Loren D. Estleman

He stood behind an old-fashioned wooden counter that reached to his sternum. His red bow tie was so surrealistically crooked it might have been tied that way deliberately.

The proprietor was an anachronism in green felt sleeve-protectors, black unbuttoned vest powdered with gray ash, and a green eyeshade that turned his long narrow face the color of a pickle. That was something new in the world of retail. There was a pause, then a buzz and a clunk, and he pulled the door open. A tin sign in the barred window told him to ring the bell. Jacob tugged on the handle to the door of the shop. Together we will change the face of literature.” All I ask is a cleaning now and then, a little light oil, and I will serve you faithfully forever. “I will never skip a space or type above or below the line.

“My keys will never tangle or stick,” it said. It looked proud and disdainful, a prince in exile. In a pawnshop window it was absurdly out of place, surrounded by egg-beaters and pocket watches, bouquets of fountain pens, a Chock full o’Nuts coffee can filled with wire-rimmed spectacles tangled inextricably like paper clips, a full set of the World Book Encyclopedia (outdated emphatically by events in Munich and Yalta). The typewriter-for that’s all it was, despite the trimmings-compared to his old gray Royal standard like a spaceship parked next to a hay wagon. One, the tabulator (largely useless except to accountants), was labeled SELF STARTER. It had four rows of black-and-silver keys, but three keys were enameled in ruby red. The Remington Streamliner portable was black, glossy, curved, with a sleek low profile like a Cadillac roadster.

Deals with the Devil by Loren D. Estleman