when I was younger," said Spyder, tossing the Thompson back on the pile.
"I knew there was a reason and the reason was emotional, rather than an intellectual attachment. You picked up the book which moved your heart, not some great work of literature meant to impress others. "
"I was a junior varsity criminal and had a few run-ins with the cops, so the book was a big deal to me back then. "
"Of course it was!" said the round man. "If you enjoyed that, may I show you some other, rarer volumes at my stall nearby?"
"Im just passing through. Im not buying. "
"No, no. No buying. Just looking. Come. Its a pleasure to meet a man of similar interests. I guarantee you will enjoys my wares. Books never written. Paintings never painted. Films never committed to celluloid. All only ever existed in the minds and hearts of the artists who dreamed them. " The man turned and said to Spyder, "I am Bulgarkov. "
"Spyder. "
"Are you Spider Clan?"
"Whatever. " Spyder followed Bulgarkov. "Nice zoot suit. You expecting a stampede?"
"Are you referring to my garments? The streets are full of dreams and men, two equally dangerous organisms. The mask keeps the hungry memories of men at bay and the wire keeps away the men themselves. "
"I dont think Im going to have time to look at anything," said Spyder, intending to leave the man at his stall. Spyder picked up a copy of Poodle Springs by Raymond Chandler. He vaguely remembered the book. Chandler had died before finishing it, but left notes and a partial manuscript. His publisher had hired some other hack to finish the novel years later. There was no second name
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