My phone crackled and hissed every few paces as I stepped onto the sidewalk from the hotel. These new phones never seemed to be able to clean up the audio from an old stick in the mud who insisted on using a rotary dial model. "Mick. Man, are you sure you want to do this?" The voice of my long time friend and private investigator.
"I know this great place down in the Caribbean where the girls will act out any fantasy you got, provided that it's not anything weird like snuff films or donkeys right?" His hard boiled humor always leaked through the friendly warnings.
"You Jersey boys always have to put a little extra death and destruction in your jokes don't you?" I chuckled with my response. Jimmy had been watching my back at the publisher's request for at least the last five years. Writing gave you a certain amount of stalker attention, especially when your name landed on the best sellers list and there was always some fan that would take it just a little too far at book signings and the book shop "meet and greets". My stories were particularly gruesome murder mysteries with conniving wives and angry jilted lovers. "Sickness and Health" had been my breakthrough title, landing me a good spot on the middle shelf of most newsstands and book shelves. The critics seemed to love poking at me in general lately. Questioning my mental stability and whether or not I had learned these acts of murder and revenge from personal experience or some torrid voyeurism with the macabre.
Their opinions didn't matter to me much. So long as I had the royalties coming in with enough to pay for my favorite sport.
Gentle mist threatened to turn into rain overhead as I made my way down the slick pavement. Brightly lit windows from the cafés and boutiques looked like the images from the satellite view that Jimmy had sent me earlier.
"Give me the details again Jim. I'm looking down this street and all these old store fronts look exactly the same. For fuck's sake! Did they all get built by the same company?"
"You should really think about drinking this Kava-kava tea I got here in the office Mick, it calms you right down...." He was deflecting. "Name of the store Jim? And her name is Stacy right?" Putting him back on track when he wandered off was a full time job.
If it weren't for the golden intel he could deliver on short notice, I'd replace him in a heartbeat.
There was a pause and an awkward silence. "Come on old friend, remind me why I pay you so much by the hour."
Jimmy sighed and started to rattle off the details of a young woman he believed to be just under the age of thirty, an employee at one of the oldest book stores in the historic district. Her posts to various fan groups and a couple of websites, different screen names and the details of her fan fiction about meeting the lofty Mick Sebring and what she fantasized about doing to him in those secret meetings.
"I gotta tell you man. She looks like a genuine nut bar to me!" I grinned as Jimmy gave me his assessment. The crazy ones were always more fun.
This one appeared to be deeply involved with a love affair with her ideal of me. The hunt had just started. My heartbeat quickened as I glanced up and noticed the swinging shingle with the store's name. Rare Copies, this was my destination. My other spotter had called ahead of time and asked if they had various first edition books and signed memorabilia from other well known authors. A young lady named Stacy had answered the phone and cheerfully rattled off the inventory or expensive and prestigious items they carried.
Per his instructions, he said that he would be sending someone authorized to buy for him today at around four PM. I had to admit a bit of anticipation and eagerness when pursuing this one. Her stories of meeting the author she enjoyed so much were delightfully graphic and highly sexual in every detail. I was willing to wager that she would have several copies of old paperbacks in her purse. In one posting to another female fan, she had mentioned a discrete sex toy that she kept in her hand bag for reading those "steamy sex scenes with the detective in every book". She was practically gift wrapping that pent up erotic energy for me. My skin flushed and tingled as I passed by the window, catching a glimpse of this "Stacey" through the old leaded glass panes.
I eased into the front door and slowly pressed it open, placing my thick rimmed glasses on my face. A quaint jingle from a lone brass bell overhead gave me away as I wiped my feet on the mat.
"We can have these for you in about three days if you want to pay for the express shipping....No, there has always been an extra charge for that service Mr. Donaldson....You can try to get it through the shopping mall if you want, go ahead. You know you're going to end up paying twenty percent more for each of those books?"
Stacey was obviously in the middle of some debate with a long time customer on the other line. She hardly noticed me as I passed the front display of travel magazines and tabloids. The layout was impressive to say the least.
The ornate wood carving on the shelves dated them to at least 1900 and the central display case looked like something from a general store in pre-industrial New York from the 1800's. Even if she turned out to be a lame duck, conquering a woman in this store alone would be worth the effort and time.
My eyes lingered on the spines of various titles, looking at none of them really but maintaining a disguise as an interested customer. The smells of old leather and floor polish came to me in a rush. There was something intoxicating about these old locations. Most of my crime scenes had taken place in abandoned warehouses or museums specifically for this captured essence of humanity. My stories tended to blend the antique with modern themes as a sort of personal fetish.
Then there was Stacey, diligently on the line with this old man who continued to give her grief. I began to inspect her work space for clues. The canvas bag with a logo from the local community college was obviously hers. As was the brown leather purse in the far corner near the register. I wondered if that was where she kept her favorite toy, for pleasuring herself while she read my sex scenes.
Her occasional glances in my direction showed that she had noticed me, but was unable to pull away from the business line long enough to acknowledge me. I took note of the simple gold chain around her neck. Something was tucked into the pale blue sweater just above her breasts. Locket with an old portrait? I would make it a point to take it as my trophy. My gaze lingered at the exposed skin around her collar bones, the supple curve of her breasts beneath the fabric. She had a pleasant, olive skin tone. Her hair was pulled back into a simple bun with a pen holding it in place. The wave and tell tale curls gave her away as being part Italian. "Sicilian mistress" I recalled from Jimmy's report of the various screen names used to submit her devious and clever erotic fantasies.
