"Can I help you find something?" asked a cheerful voice.

Dover spun around to see an elderly man behind an ancient-looking sales counter. His snowy hair was streaked with reddish strands that seemed to glow beneath the ceiling lights. His blue eyes twinkled, making him look like a slimmed down version of Santa Claus, except that Santa had pointed ears, not fleshy lobes that hung low enough to reach this man's shoulders. Several pieces of jewelry dangled from his elongated ears, including two wire loops, each one glistening with a half-dozen gold and silver charms.

Dover tried not to stare when he asked, "What kinds of books do you sell here?"

The shopkeeper gave his head a little shake, causing his myriad earrings to jangle almost as loud as the door's bell. "All kinds," he said. "You'll not see a selection like this anywhere else, I can assure you."

Clearly a con man, Dover thought. "Is that right?"

"Absolutely." The old man leaned forward and extended his right hand. "The name's Ish Kabibble. Pardon my manners for not standing. Rheumatism. Hits me hard during the rainy season."

Dover scowled while shaking the man's hand. "It's bone dry outside. Has been for weeks." Which was typical of the Arizona desert most of the time.

The old man sputtered, snatching up a pair of round eyeglasses and dropping them onto the bridge of his bulbous nose. The glasses had no lenses.

"Quite right, my boy," he said to Dover, while searching the counter for an illusive item he never did find. He stopped fidgeting and said, "I've been out of town, in a place where it rains a lot."

"I see." Dover studied the tidy store, impressed by the orderly arrangement of volumes stacked on the shelves. "So you're Ish Kabibble, the store's owner?"

"The one and only," Ish Kabibble said. "That is, if you don't count the 1930s comedian of the same name."

"You were named after him?"

"Actually, I chose the name myself. People had a hard time pronouncing my other one."

Though curious about the old man's former name, Dover only nodded and wandered down an aisle. He tugged a book from the shelf, its cover smooth and bright with a bluish-green gloss, patterns of spirals and octagons coating its surface. On close inspection it looked as if made from snakeskin, though Dover had never heard of a snake with scales quite like this.
He held up the book. "Beautiful binding. Snake skin?"

Kabibble nodded. "From the Ghamkatchi Valley. The skin s are wonderfully resilient, and the color stays vibrant for years."

Dover flipped through the book, which was ironically about snakes. There were no photographs, but the full color illustrations were amazingly lifelike. He paused to stare at one picture in particular. It was a snake, no doubt about that, but covered in fur instead of scales. He checked the title to see if it might be one of those Ripley's Believe It Or Not(r) books. The gold foil stamp spelled out Snakes of the Northern Territories. Interesting.

"Are you looking for something specific?" Kabibble asked, stretching over the counter to see Dover better, while keeping the rest of himself completely out of sight. "Or just browsing?"
Dover caught his bottom lip between his teeth, then said, "A little of both, I guess. Just killing time. You have anything about World War II?"

"You'll find the war books in the history section." Kabibble waved a hand at the last aisle. "Bottom shelf."

Dover stepped around the aisle's corner and leapt back when a round, furry object about the size of a saucer and just as flat scurried out from beneath a bookcase. It crossed Dover's path and slithered under one of two ragged armchairs set against a brick wall.
"What the hell was that?"

"What was what?" Kabibble peered where Dover pointed. "Was it round and flat with about a hundred legs, and did it hide under the chair?"

Dover nodded, breathing hard. It was the creepiest thing he'd ever seen. "It looked like a turtle with hair."

Kabibble grinned. "It's part turtle, part rat, and part centipede. I created him myself," he said proudly, then quickly added, "I should say 'it.' They're hermaphrodites."

Dover's eyes widened. "You're doing gene splicing experiments in a bookstore?"

"Of course not." Kabibble chuckled. "Simple alchemy is all. I call them skiddles 'cause of the way they move. They make great pets, and they eat all the silver fish and other nasty pests that could damage my inventory. They're shy creatures, but affectionate once they get to know you. Want me to call one out for you?" He stuck both little fingers in the corners of his mouth, preparing to whistle.

Dover shoved his hand out, palm forward. "No!"

"You sure? They'll crawl right onto your lap if you offer them a treat --"

Dover shook his head, feeling his gorge rise. "I'm sure they're adorable, but I think I'll pass."

Kabibble shrugged and went back to shuffling through the papers in front of him.
Giving the chair a wide berth, Dover checked the floor before continuing on.

He found very few books about war, and none of them had anything to do with World War II. In fact, he didn't recognize any of the wars spelled out in the titles, like The Battle of Harbvera's Twin Peaks and The War Between the Territories of Scavinos. The one called Govotna's Fury: A Fight for Freedom looked intriguing. He liked the title.

Again no photos, but lots of skillful drawings. This Govotna fellow wore peculiar armor that looked excessively heavy and allowed for an enormous hump on the man's back. An advanced case of scoliosis, no doubt. Dover's cousin had it and needed surgery to prevent his acquiring a hump. Govotna must have waited too long.

"Find something?" Kabibble asked.

Dover stepped out from the aisle, hastening past the chair. "Yes, I think so," he said, brandishing Govotna's Fury for Kabibble to see.

The shopkeeper clapped his hands. "Excellent choice."

"How much?" Dover asked, sliding the wallet from his back pocket. "I have both Visa and MasterCard. Which do you prefer?"

Kabibble stared at him blankly.

"You do take credit cards, don't you? I rarely carry cash."

Looking sad, Kabibble shook his head. "I'm sorry, mister, uh..."

"Fisk," Dover said. "Handover Fisk, but everyone calls me Dover."

Kabibble looked pensive while saying, "Handover Fisk, Handover Fisk. Have you been in my shop before?"

Dover grinned. "I'd remember if so."

"How about your father? You named for him?"

"I share my dad's name, but he and my mom died twenty years ago, when I was six. I doubt you ever met him."

Kabibble sighed. "Ah, well. It'll come to me eventually. Now, about that Vizu and Mister
Card --"

"Visa and MasterCard," Dover corrected. "They're credit cards. You mean you're not set up to accept credit cards? How do you stay in business?"

Kabibble spread his arms in a wide arc. "As you can see, I'm not packing them in. But I do okay."

"I don't have any cash on me."

"Have anything to trade?"

"Trade?" What an archaic method of exchange. It was obvious Kabibble wasn't from this country, though his English was flawless. Dover wondered how he ever managed to pay the shopping mall's exorbitant rent.

Kabibble reached over and tapped Dover's watch. "That should do just fine."

"You want my watch?" He began to peel the band from his wrist, thinking it was a good thing he'd left his Rolex at home. "Are you sure it's enough? This looks like an amazing book, a real work of art."

The old man cleared his throat and said, "You have a lot to learn about trading, Mr. Fisk. The object is to get the best deal, not necessarily the fairest one."

"Thanks for the advice," Dover said, then to himself, "I think."

"I'm having a sale on the thirteenth." Kabibble handed Dover a coupon. "Ten percent off everything in the store."

"But if your sales are made in trade --"

"You'll have to trust me."

"If you say so." Dover sidled to the door and grasped the handle.

"Tell all your friends about Ish Kabibble's Books," the old man said. "Best books in the territories."

"I'll do that," Dover said. Territories? "I'll be back." He stepped outside and pulled the shop door closed, the bell issuing a muffled jingle behind him.

The alcove was dark, the jewelry store and baggage shop apparently having closed early. Odd for a weekend, Dover thought. But when he reached the mall's central thoroughfare, he discovered all the stores there were closed as well. He spun around, momentarily confused, and saw that the bookstore's lights were out and the display window seemed to fade as if clouded in mist. He rubbed his eyes, knowing he hadn't been in Kabibble's for more than an hour, but without his watch he wasn't completely certain. Nevertheless, there was no way the mall would close so early. He and Margie had yet to have dinner and see a movie; the last show was at eight o'clock. The mall always stayed open until nine. What the hell was going on?

continued . . .