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“I don’t know anything,” I said at length, “but I can make inquiries.”
Flanker seemed to be satisfied with this, handed me his card and said in a stony voice, “I’ll expect your call.”
He turned and walked out of the store to a waiting Range Rover and drove off.
“Trouble for us?” asked Bowden as soon as I returned.
“No,” I replied thoughtfully, “trouble for me.”
He sighed. “That’s a relief.”
I took a deep breath and thought for a moment. Communications into the Socialist Republic of Wales were nonexistent—when I wanted to contact Pryce, I had to use a shortwave wireless transmitter at prearranged times. There was nothing I could do for at least forty-eight hours.
“So,” continued Bowden, handing me the clipboard with the list of people wanting quotes on it, “how about some Acme Carpets stuff?”
“What about SpecOps work?” I asked. “How’s that looking?”
“Stig’s still on the case of the Diatrymas and has at least a half dozen outstanding chimeras to track down. Spike has a few biters on the books, and there’s talk of another SEB over in Reading.”
It was getting desperate. I loved Acme, but only insofar as it was excellent cover and I never actually had to do anything carpet-related.
“And us? The ex–Literary Detectives?”
“Still nothing, Thursday.”
“What about Mrs. Mattock over in the Old Town? She still wants us to find her first editions, surely?”
“No,” said Bowden. “She called yesterday and said she was selling her books and replacing them with cable TV—she wanted to watch England’s Funniest Chain-Saw Mishaps.”
“And I felt so good just now.”
“Face it,” said Bowden sadly, “books are finished. No one wants to invest the time in them anymore.”
“I don’t believe you,” I replied, an optimist to the end. “I reckon if we went over to the Booktastic! megastore, they’d tell us that books are still being sold hand over fist to hard-core story aficionados. In fact, I’ll bet you that jar of cookies you’ve got hidden under your desk that you think no one knows about.”
“And if they’re not?”
“I’ll spend a day installing carpets and pressing flesh as the Acme Carpets celebrity saleswoman.”
It was a deal. Acme was on a trading estate with about twenty or so outlets, but, unusually, it was the only carpet showroom—we always suspected that Spike might have a hand in scaring off the competition, but we never saw him do it. Between us and Booktastic! there were three sporting-goods outlets all selling exactly the same goods at exactly the same price and, since they were three branches of the same store, with the same sales staff, too. The two discount electrical shops actually were competitors but still spookily managed to sell the same goods at the same price, although “sell” in this context actually meant “serve as brief custodian between outlet and landfill.”
“Hmm,” I said as we stood inside the entrance of Booktastic! and stared at the floor display units liberally stacked with CDs, DVDs, computer games, peripherals and special-interest magazines. “I’m sure there was a book in here last time I came in. Excuse me?”
A shop assistant stopped and stared at us in a vacant sort of way.
“I was wondering if you had any books.”
“Any what?”
“Books. Y’know—about so big and full of words arranged in a specific order to give the effect of reality?”
“You mean DVDs?”
“No, I mean books. They’re kind of old-fashioned.”
“Ah!” she said. “What you mean are videotapes.”
“No, what I mean are books.”
