There were even two customers here right now, in what was ordinarily an off-hour. One of them, Jason Ling, found an old James Blaylock paperback on the sci-fi shelf and brought it up to the counter for purchase. “So tell me,” he said, “why did they call these books ‘steampunk?’ I never understood that.”

Kyle didn’t either. From what he could remember, “punk” referred to a DIY ethos in late-1970s rock that ran counter to more polished, technically accomplished music, and instead celebrated roughness, simplicity and a sort of willful amateurishness. How that corresponded in any way to the futuristically complicated Victorian machinery featured in steampunk novels he had no idea. “You got me,” he admitted. “I think they were just putting the word ‘punk’ on everything in those days to make it seem cool and hip. Cyberpunk, splatterpunk, steampunk…”

“Maybe so.” Jason handed Kyle the book and took out his wallet. “Hey, I heard Gary’s working at the bank next door now.”

Kyle nodded noncommittally.

“Heard he’s been acting kind of squirrelly.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s not my bank, but my brother Jim goes there now, and he said Gary’s talking in a weird accent, like he’s British or something.”

My brother Jim goes there now.

Like attending a church, Kyle thought, like belonging to a specific denomination...

He chided himself for getting distracted and going off track. The vagaries of syntax weren’t the point here. Gary’s British accent was the thing to focus on.

Gary’s British accent.

He had not heard about that before, and the information left him confused. As far as he knew, Gary didn’t even have the ability to do accents. Even if he did, why in the world would he?

Kyle gave Jason his change, then looked down at the stack of receipts he’d been tabulating. Originally, he’d thought about opening up a business account next door. It would definitely be more convenient than driving all the way across town to Montgomery Community. But he’d quickly soured on that idea. Part of it was definitely Gary, but part of it was just what he’d heard from other downtown shopowners. Word had it that the bank was financing a consignment store over on Manzanita Street that would be direct competition for Trixie. And supposedly it had turned down Tony Antonucci, one of the very first people in town to open up an account there, for refinancing, while lending that sleaze Gordon Turner enough money to buy into a partnership at Larry Price’s law office.

Kyle shook his head. At one point, he had even considered getting a safety deposit box so he could—

He blinked. Something had been bothering him about the layout of the bank since he’d first gone inside. He’d been unable to pinpoint its origin, but the irritation had been subtly gnawing at him, and he suddenly realized what it was.