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“Yes,” I replied, “but I’m only fifty-four.”
“But in that time you’ve had a lot of mileage. Head the of Wessex Library Service is a cushy number, and this is why I want you in at the top: I’d like you to liaise closely with Divisional Commander Smalls, who will be reestablishing the Literary Detectives over the next few weeks.”
I took a deep breath, and Braxton continued.
“It’s time to move on and out, Thursday. Phoebe is a good choice. Qualified, fearless, smart, nuts—and good with stats. I want you two to get along. It’ll be better for you, her and the service. Now, how about it?”
“I’ll . . . have to discuss it with Landen.”
“I expect nothing less,” he said as his order arrived. “By Jove, this looks good.”
We ate while Braxton talked at some length about his daughter’s latest drunken escapades and how they were a huge worry to Mrs. Hicks. But I wasn’t really listening. Somehow I didn’t really think a career of saying “Shh!” and stamping return dates was really my thing. I could go
freelance at the drop of a hat and join any private detective agency on the planet with a single phone call. But if I did join the Wessex All-You-Can-Eat-at-Fatso’s Drink Not Included Library Service, I was still in a government agency, and in the loop, ready to step in when Phoebe fell flat on her small and very perfect nose.
Within half an hour, I had thanked Braxton for his time and limped out of Yo! Toast.
6.
Monday: TJ-Maxx
Many people still thank that TJ-Maxx is an outlet for last season’s designer clothes, bought in bulk. The same people still think IKEA is there to sell flatpack furniture and Home Depot’s primary interest is DIY. They’re not and never were—and after the 2004 scandal regarding the SpecOps involvement with Lidl and Aldi, their position within the retail landscape might be slightly more precarious.
Millon de Floss, A Longer History of SpecOps
I walked through the Brunel Centre feeling a sense of disappointment mixed with the realization that until my health improved, things were going to be very different. I couldn’t do what I wanted to do, which led me to the inevitable conclusion that I couldn’t be who I wanted to be. My purpose was suddenly blunted, and I didn’t like it.
I arrived at the Swindon branch of TJ-Maxx at a little after two. I knew as well as anyone that the store hadn’t been deliberately set up as a bargain store for end-of-line designer garments, but rather a high-security facility for the imprisonment of dangerous criminals. Swindon’s most celebrated convict had been Oswald Danforth, whose punishment was to be trapped in an endlessly recurring eight-minute loop of time. In his case while his girlfriend, Trudi, tried on a camisole. She never knew about the loop, of course—but Danforth did. That’s why it was called TJ-Maxx: Temporal-J, Maximum Xecurity. It had been runby the ChronoGuard. The official title was “Closed-Loop Temporal-Field Containment,” but SO-12 simply called it being “in the loop.” It was cruel and unusual, sure, but it was cheap and required no guards, food or health care.
Or at least it had. There were no prisoners now—not since the ChronoGuard was disbanded and all its technology decommissioned.
I found Landen staring at the frying pans on the second floor, wondering, as he usually did, whether they were more expensive than at the co-op and, if so, what the point was of selling them.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he replied, putting back a cheese grater before adding, “No cookies at the hunt, sir.”
“What?”
“The password?”
“Oh. ‘It’s not a cookie, it’s a . . .’ Shit. Hang on.”
As I stood there trying to remember the last word, I saw Landen’s hand move to his pocket. Not usually an issue, only I knew he kept a COP357 there, a small pistol that packed enough power to punch holes in . . . well, almost anything.
“Newton,” I said with a stupid smile. “It’s a Newton. ‘It’s not a cookie, it’s a Newton.’ ”
Landen breathed a sigh of relief and took his hand out of his pocket. “Don’t do that,” he said. “It just makes me jumpy.”
“Sorry.”
“How did it go?”
“Pretty shittily.”
I told Landen all about Braxton’s offer, and how Phoebe Smalls would be heading up the Literary Detectives’ office, and how I felt that everything was just falling down around my ears because of the blasted accident. I may even have mentioned something about “unfairness” or “a waste of good experience” before I’d gone on to a Level 2 Rant at that point, the sort where you raise your voice in public and sound like an idiot, but without realizing it. I paused at the end, expecting him to agree, but he didn’t. He simply stared at me with an expression of benign conciliation.
“Look,” I said, “I’m kind of looking for agreement here.”
