Savage Tales

THE BOMB IN SIDE

    Someone came in through the store's front door. I tapped my fingers on the top of the cash register. I was casual, cool, professional. The man came to me.
    "Who are you?" he said.
    "Jeremy," I said. "What's it to you?"
    "Not very polite, are you? I come in here looking for a book and find you. What happened to George?"
    "He got called over to the war."
    "That so? Doing his duty. Aye, a good man. And now you come to fill in."
    "I'm his brother."
    "As if that's some kind of explanation."
    "I'm just like George. I can do this as well as anyone."
    "I'm looking for a book."
    "There's a paper shortage, you know. Perhaps you should go watch a movie instead."
    "Are you trying to destroy your brother's business while he's away? Are you some kind of saboteur working for the Japs?"
    "No."
    "The Germans then."
    "No. I can run a business as fine as my brother. It's in my blood."
    "What's that sound?"
    "That's my voice. When I talk, there's sound."
    "Not that. That other sound. Behind you."
    "Some gas. It'll pass."
    "Not that, Jeremy."
    "Thank you for remembering my name. It seemed like so long ago."
    "That crying sound. Like crying. It comes from in there."
    He pointed to the room behind me.
    "That's just my wi – that's just a pillow."
    "Wait. You were going to say that was your wife."
    "I have no wife. I would never say that."
    "Perhaps you killed your wife and stuffed her remains into your office."
    "No. It's a large office. There'd be no need for stuffing."
    "I'd like to have a look."
    "That's your right. Wait, no. That's not your right. This is my bookstore. I'll throw you out like a cur."
    "I thought this was your brother's bookstore."
    "Perhaps you're getting too inquisitive for your own good."
    "I want to look in that room, and you're not going to stop me!" he screamed.
    He tried to push his way past me. I grabbed the bottle of Coke next to the register and smashed it against his forehead. It burst and covered his face with syrupy goodness.
    "Ow!" he said. "Why'd you do that? It really hurt."
    "I had to stop you," I said.
    "You won't."
    He took another step toward the room. Fortunately I had another Coke bottle under the counter. I smashed it into the back of his skull and there was a crunch like aluminum foil. He dropped to the ground like a sack of old potatoes. I got down on my knees and licked the Coke off his head, then dragged him into the back office, resting his corpse on the pillow. He looked serene, and might have been, if he wasn't dead.
    He began to babble. He wasn't dead after all. I took a rusty box cutter and sliced his throat. The carpet was irredeemable with blood when it was over. But it was all over. It was all –
    I thought I heard crying from the pillow – he had called it my wife. Or I had. I couldn't remember.
    A bell tinkled from the front of the store, which meant a customer had entered. I put on my game face and went to see what was up.
    "Hey, mac," the man said. He wore a police uniform and looked serious. "What's with all the blood?"
    "What blood?" I said, looking at my hands. They were covered in blood. "Oh, never mind."
    "Well?"
    "Are you looking for a book?"
    "No. The only book I read is the book of the law. And I read it every day. I don't have time for other books."
    "Commendable. Well, you've come to the wrong place. This is a bookstore, and we do sell books. But if you already have the book of the law, then I don't think I can interest you in anything else. I'm not a very good salesman."
    "Maybe if you washed your hands," the cop said.
    "Excuse me," I said.
    I went to the restroom and washed my hands. When I went back to the cop, he was perusing a copy of Forever Amber .
    "Put that down, you look ridiculous," I said.
    "You might have sold me that. It's thick."
    "I told you, I'm not a salesman."
    "What are you, a murderer?"
    "You caught me red-handed once. The chance shall not come again."
    He snapped his fingers. "Gosh darn it. I want a look around this place. Something's screwy."
    "I wouldn't do that. There's a bomb in here. Planted by an anarchist. A Nazi Japanese."
    "Why didn't you say so?"
    "I didn't want to hurt your feelings."
    "So all that talk about poor salesmanship?"
    "Rubbish," I said. "I could sell you a pound of dust."
    I thought he might cry so I pushed him out the door and he went on, letting me handle the bomb. I thought I heard crying from inside my office. I went in, pushed the body away and picked up the pillow. I hugged it and we talked.
    I heard