I am sometimes asked why we have a shop in Chicago. Mind you, no one ever asks why we have a shop in London, but I suppose the question is reasonable just the same.

Over the years, I have spent a great deal of time in the United States. The more time I spent, the more I became convinced that the country could benefit from more reading. Surely, then, a bookstore would be a step in the right direction.

My first choice was actually New York City. Crowley tried to dissuade me. He insisted that New York had been converted to a walled maximum security prison, and that the only way in or out was to hire someone called “Snake” who would fly me into the city on a glider. I do not know where Crowley gets these ideas, but I have noticed that in nearly all his stories, there is a snake playing a critical role.

Undeterred, I traveled to New York City and took a cab from the airport. We ran into horrible traffic on the way. The cause, it turned out, was a battered pink sedan, driven slowly and with grave determination by a furious bald man. He continued relentlessly, in spite of the fact that there was an enormous device clamped around the car’s left front wheel, shearing metal from the fender with every rotation. I began to suspect that the horror stories I had heard about Americans’ driving might be true.

Nonetheless, when I arrived at the prospective location for the store, I was very encouraged. The building was spacious and quite beautiful. I was also pleased that it was practically across the street from what appeared to be a fire station: Books are highly flammable, and one cannot be too careful. However, it turned out that the fire station was in fact empty. Apparently it had last been occupied in the 1980s by a team of “phantom smashers or werewolf busters or something like that,” according to my guide.

I stayed in the building until it grew dark, imagining how I might best utilize the space. Shortly after dusk, however, I noticed that there many people walking in the streets – far more than there should have been, in fact. I went to the door to investigate. They appeared to be grouped into teams of some sort. There was a group wearing brown leather vests with winged skulls on the back. There was a group of mimes, wearing red shirts, suspenders, and top hats. There was a group wearing overalls, on roller skates. There was a group of baseball players, with their faces painted black and white.

Their lack of fashion sense was decidedly unsettling. The worst, however, was yet to come. When night fell, I called for a taxi. I was waiting outside the building when I heard the sound of metal scraping in the middle of the street. I looked up to see a manhole cover being lifted from below. A creature of some sort climbed out. It had glowing yellow eyes, and was vaguely reptilian. It stood up on two legs and began to make its way menacingly toward me. Fortunately, it was at that moment that the taxi arrived, parking between myself and the creature.

The driver rolled down the window. “Which one of yous called for a taxi?” He turned toward the creature and pointed at it. “It better not be you. I ain’t taking no more Chuds anywhere. Always stiff me on the fare!”

I climbed into the taxi hurriedly, and as we drove away, I considered the possibility that perhaps New York was not the best location. I recalled hearing about an intriguing neighborhood in Chicago known as The Shambles, and decided that it might be worth a look.

The rest, as they say, is history.