But not this fellow. Damned if he didn’t reach into his pocket and come out with a gun.

It was a very small gun, a flat nickel-plated automatic with pearl grips, small enough to carry in his pants pocket, small enough to fit in his very small hand. I don’t know what caliber bullet it held-.22 or.25, I suppose-but either one will kill you if it hits you in the right place, and he was right across the counter from me, close enough to put a bullet wherever he wanted it.

If I’d thought it over I’d have been terrified. He was just the right size to be one of those sawed-off psychopaths you used to see on the screen all the time, those little reptilian hit men who seem to kill without hesitation, and certainly without any change of expression. And here he was in my store and pointing a gun at me.

“You idiot!” I snapped. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Put that away this minute.”

Well, see, it looked like a toy. Like a cap gun, say, or like a cunningly disguised cigarette lighter. I’m not saying that’s what I thought it was, I knew it was a real gun, but I can’t think of anything else that would explain my reaction. Instead of reacting sensibly in fear and trembling, I was pissed off. Where did this, this kid, get off coming into my store and waving a gun around? And didn’t the little punk need a stern talking-to?

“Right this minute!” I said when he hesitated. “Don’t you realize you could get in trouble with that thing? Do you know what time it is?”

“Time?”

“It’s four-thirty,” I said. “And there’s a policeman who’s due here any minute, and how would you feel standing there with that thing in your hand and having a cop walk in on you? How’d you like to try explaining that?”

“But-”

“God damn it, put it away!”

And damned if he didn’t do just that. “I…I am sorry,” he said, the spots of color on his cheeks darkening even as the rest of him seemed to grow paler still. He glanced at the gun as if it were something shameful, hiding it in his hand as he lowered it and tucked it back where it had come from. “I did not mean…I would not wish…I deeply regret…”

“That’s better,” I said graciously. “Much better. Now tell me what I can do for you. Is there a book you’re looking for?”

“A book?” He looked at me, his eyes as wide as they could get. “You know what I am looking for. And please, I regret the gun. I only meant to impress you.”

“There are better ways to make an impression,” I said.

“Yes, of course, of course. You are of course correct.”

He had a foreign inflection to his speech, and he hissed his S’s. I hadn’t noticed this earlier; it was the sort of subtlety that slides right past me when I’m looking down the barrel of a gun.

“I will pay,” he said.

“Oh?”

“I will pay an excellent price.”

“How much?” And for what, I wondered.

“How much do you want?”

“As much as I can get.”

“You must understand that I am not a rich man.”

“Then perhaps you cannot afford it.” Whatever it was.

“But I must have it!”

“Then I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

He thrust his narrow face forward, aimed his sharp chin at me. “You must assure me,” he said, “that he does not have it.”

“Who are we talking about?”

He grimaced. “Must I say his name?”

“It would help,” I said.

“The fat man,” he said. “Tsarnoff.”

“Sarnoff?”

“Tsarnoff!”

“Tsorry,” I said.

“He is dangerous. And you cannot trust him. Whatever he tells you, it is a lie.”

“Really.”

“Yes, really. And I will tell you something else. Whatever he will pay, I will pay more. Tell me he does not already have it!”

“Well,” I said honestly, “I can tell you he didn’t get it from me.”

“Thank God.”

“Just to clear the air,” I said carefully, “and to make sure we’re not at cross-purposes here, suppose you tell me what it is.”

“What it is?”

“That you’re seeking from me. You want it and Tsarnoff wants it. Well, why don’t you come right out and say what it is?”

“You know what it is.”

“Ah, but how do I know that you know what it is?”

“No!” he cried, and doubled up his fists and pounded my counter. I hate it when people do that. “Please, I beg of you,” he said. “I am very high-strung. You must not tease me.”

“It’ll never happen again.”

“I need the documents. You may retain the rest, I want only the documents, and I will pay well, whatever you ask if only it is within reason. I am a reasonable man, and I believe you are a reasonable man yourself, yes?”

“Reason,” I said, “is my middle name.”

He frowned. “I thought ‘Grimes.’ Is it not so?”

“Well, yes. You’re quite right. It was my mother’s maiden name.”

“And Rhodenbarr? This is your name also?”

“That too,” I agreed. “It was my father’s maiden name. But what I just said, about Reason being my middle name, that’s an idiom, an expression, a figure of speech. It’s a way of saying that I’m a reasonable man.”

“But I am just saying this myself, yes?” He shrugged. “It confuses me, this language.”

“It confuses everybody. Right now I’m confused, because I don’t know your name. I like to know a man’s name if I’m going to do business with him.”

“Forgive me,” he said, and reached into his pocket. I braced myself, but when his hand came out the only thing in it was a leather card case. He extracted a card, glanced dubiously at it, and presented it to me.

“Tiglath Rasmoulian,” I read aloud. In response he drew himself up to his full height, if you want to call it that, and clicked his heels.

“At your service,” he said.

“Well,” I said brightly, “I’ll just hang on to this, and if I ever come across these mysterious documents, I’ll certainly keep you in mind. In the meanwhile-”

The red patches blazed on his cheeks. “You are treating me like a child,” he said. There’s not a single S in that sentence, so I don’t see how he could have hissed it, but I swear that’s what he did. “That is not a wise thing to do.”

And his hand went into his pocket.

It stayed there while his eyes swung toward the door, which had just opened. “Ah,” I said, “just the man I’ve been waiting for. Ray, I’d like you to meet Tiglath Rasmoulian. Mr. Rasmoulian, this is Officer Raymond Kirschmann of the New York Police Department.”

I didn’t get the impression that this was what Rasmoulian had been hoping to hear. He took his hand out of his pocket but did not offer it to Ray. He nodded formally to Ray, then to me. “I will go now,” he said. “You will keep it in mind, what we discussed?”

“Definitely,” I said. “Have a good weekend. Oh, don’t forget your book.”

“My book?”

I turned around and grabbed a book off the shelf behind me. It was the Modern Library edition of Nostromo, by Joseph Conrad, with slight foxing and the binding shaky. I checked the flyleaf, where I’d priced it reasonably enough at $4.50. I picked up a pencil, casually added a two to the left of the 4, and smiled at him. “It’s twenty-four fifty,” I said, “but your discount brings it down to twenty dollars even. And of course there’s no sales tax, since you’re in the trade.”

He went into his pocket again, but it was the other pocket this time, and he came out with a money clip instead of a gun, which struck me as a vast improvement. He peeled off a twenty while I wrote out a receipt, carefully copying his name from his card. I took his money, slipped his receipt inside the book’s loose front cover, and slid the book into a paper bag. He took it, gave me a look, gave Ray a look, started to say something, changed his mind, and scuttled past Ray and out the door.

“Odd-lookin’ bird,” Ray said, reaching for the card. “‘Tiglath Rasmoulian.’ What kind of name is Tiglath?”

“An unusual one,” I said. “At least in my experience.”

“No address, no phone number. Just his name.”

“It’s what they call a calling card, Ray.”