The Knights of the Cornerstone by James P. Blaylock

actually,” he said. “I bought one of these Fourteen Carats productions yesterday, out along the highway. They’re a local press, aren’t they?”
    “That’s right. Out in Henderson.”
    Calvin nodded. “I heard that they moved out here to Bullhead City.”
    “Who wants to know?”
    “Pardon me?”
    “Who the hell are you?”
    “Me? I’m just passing through. I can’t drive past a bookstore without stopping in for a look. I was coming out of the Safeway when I saw your sign.”
    “Is that right?”
    The man obviously didn’t believe him, and had no reason to hide the fact. “This is a little pricey for me,” Calvin said. “I was hoping to
find
the Fourteen Carats Press, actually, and see what they had to offer, maybe if they had any old stock lying around.”
    “I can’t help you there. Like I said, as far as I know they’re still out in Henderson. It’s right on the way if you’re headed toward Vegas. But maybe you’re already familiar with Henderson.” He looked at Calvin expectantly, as if this
meant
something.
    “I’ll be heading in the other direction, back out to L.A.,” Calvin said. He glanced down at the desktop, where the photo of Postum was still half visible, although the photoshad been pushed together into a pile now, so that the rest were hidden. “I’ll be damned,” Calvin said, “isn’t that old King Baldwin?” He pointed at the photo, having no idea where he was going with this rash question.
    The man was silent for a moment, with no particular expression, and then he reached down and slid open the top desk drawer, revealing a black revolver with a wooden grip. “King of what?” he asked, leaving the drawer open. “Big-screen TV?”
    “He just looks like a guy I ran into once,” Calvin said, “a real eccentric. Probably it’s not him.”
    “What can you tell me about him, this guy you ran into?”
    “Nothing much. We had a conversation at a gas station. He lives out here in the desert somewhere. Maybe they call him King because he drinks a lot of Budweiser.”
    “Budweiser?”
    “King of beers, like the commercial.”
    “Could be,” the man said. “I was thinking maybe he was an Elvis impersonator, or maybe Elvis himself, incognito. Lots of impersonators out here these days. Pretty much everyone you meet is really someone else. Take you, for example. What you don’t know is that I saw you come in on the ferry about ten minutes ago, from downriver. Nobody comes in on the New Cyprus ferry unless they’re staying in New Cyprus, and nobody stays in New Cyprus unless they have a reason to stay there that’s copacetic with the Knights. Now, word has it that your man the King isn’t copacetic with the Knights. You wouldn’t see him riding on the New Cyprus ferry. So when you walked in, I wondered what you wanted, because I don’t think it’s books.”
    Copacetic with the Knights
—that wasn’t the sort of thing Calvin would willingly deny unless it was dangerous
    “What were you doing out on the island?”
    “Trying to take a couple of photos, but you came along and screwed things up. Now tell me what you’re doing in New Cyprus.”
    “I’m Al Lymon’s nephew. I’m just out here visiting. Photos of what?”
    “Never mind that, if you don’t already know, although I think you do. You seem pretty curious for someone who’s just visiting and who doesn’t know anything. A person who doesn’t know anything doesn’t ask questions because he doesn’t know the questions.”
    Calvin shrugged.
    “What put you onto me? I don’t think it was your uncle.”
    “Like I said, I bought one of your books from the Gas’n’Go out on the highway. It involves the Templars back in the fifties—the severed head thing.”
    “That’s my father’s work. He actually used to hand-cut the blocks for the illustrations and set the type on that old press in the back. I’m more of a journalist, so I just tell a computer to do the etching. All I do is clamp the block onto