Going Postal

of Uberwald and Genua, First Steps in Pins, Adventures in Acuphilia… ) and staring covetously at the rack of pins laid out under glass, had an intensity of expression that frightened him. They looked a bit like Stanley. They were all male. Clearly, women weren’t natural “pinheads.”
    He found Total Pins on the bottom rack. It had a smudgy, home-produced look, and the print was small and dense and lacked such subtleties as paragraphs and, in many cases, punctuation. The common comma had looked at Stanley’s expression and decided not to disturb him.
    When Moist put the little magazine onto the counter, the shop’s owner, a huge bearded man with dreadlocks, a pin through his nose, a beer belly belonging to three other people, and the words DEATH OR PINS tattooed on a bicep, picked it up and tossed it back down dismissively.
    “Sure about that, sir?” he said. “We’ve got Pins Monthly, New Pins, Practical Pins, Modern Pins, Pins Extra, Pins International, Talking Pins, Pins World, World Pins, World of Pins, Pins and Pinneries… ” Moist’s attention wandered off for a while but came back in time to catch “ The Acuphile Digest, Extreme Pins , Stifte!, that’s from Uberwald, very good if you collect foreign pins, Beginning Pins , that’s a part-work, sir, with a new pin every week, Pin Times and”—here the big man winked—“ Back Alley Pins .”
    “I noticed that one,” said Moist. “It has lots of pictures of young women in leather.”
    “Yes, sir. But, to be fair, they’re generally holding pins. So, then…it’s still Total Pins for you, is it?” he added, as if giving a fool one last chance to repent his folly.
    “Yes,” said Moist. “What’s wrong with it?”
    “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.” Dave scratched his stomach thoughtfully. “It’s just that the editor is a bit…a bit…”
    “A bit what?” said Moist.
    “Well, we think he’s a bit weird about pins, to tell you the truth.”
    Moist looked around the shop.
    “Really?” he said.

    M OIST WENT to a nearby café and leafed through the book. One of the skills of his previous life was an ability to pick up just enough about anything to sound like an expert, at least to nonexperts. Then he returned to the shop.
    Everyone had their levers. Often it was greed. Greed was a reliable old standby. Sometimes it was pride. That was Groat’s lever. He desperately wanted promotion; you could see it in his eyes. Find the lever, and then it was plain sailing.
    Stanley, now, Stanley…would be easy.
    Big Dave was examining a pin under a microscope when Moist returned to the shop. The rush hour for pin-buying must have been nearly over, because there were only a few laggards ogling the pins under glass, or thumbing through the racks.
    Moist sidled over to the counter and coughed.
    “Yes, sir?” said Big Dave, looking up from his work. “Back again, eh? They get to you, don’t they? Seen anything you like?”
    “A packet of pre-perforated pin papers and a ten-penny lucky-dip bag, please,” said Moist loudly. The other customers looked up for a moment as Dave pulled the packets off their rack, and then looked down again.
    Moist leaned over the counter.
    “I was wondering,” he whispered hoarsely, “if you’d got anything a bit…you know…sharper?”
    The big man gave him a carefully blank look.
    “How d’you mean, sharper?” he said.
    “You know,” said Moist. He cleared his throat. “More…pointed.”
    The door clicked shut as the last of the customers, sated enough on pins for one day, stepped out. Dave watched them go and then turned his attention back to Moist.
    “A bit of a connoisseur, are we, sir?” he said, winking.
    “A serious student,” said Moist. “Most of the stuff here, well…”
    “I don’t touch nails,” said Dave sharply. “Won’t have ’em in the shop! I’ve got a reputation to think about! Little kids come in here, you know!”
    “Oh no! Strictly pins, that’s me!” said Moist hastily.
    “Good,” said Dave, relaxing. “As it happens, I might have one or two items for the genuine collector.” He nodded toward a beaded curtain at the back of the shop. “Can’t put everything on display, not with youngsters around, you know how it is…”
    Moist followed him through the clashing curtain and into the crowded little room behind, where Dave, after looking around conspiratorially, pulled a small black box off a shelf and flipped it open under Moist’s nose.
    “Not something