I smiled. Carefully, I scooped the coins—worth more at that moment than the check—into my pocket.
Then, from behind the counter, the owner brought me a plate, wrapped in plastic. He uncovered what was left of my bagel.
“Want me to heat it up?”
“No, thanks.”
It tasted great just the way it was.
ANNABELLE THE FARMER LET ME GO WITH A SOFT—AFFECTIONATE, I hoped?—cry of “Traitor!” Then she pressed a Nature’s Meal card in my front shirt pocket and wrapped a plastic bag filled with sour rye around my wrist. Her sturdy, almost painful hold of my neck afterward was arousing, though I would never tell a soul.
I had no time to lose.
If Abner was in such jeopardy that he was nearly killed during brunch, the situation was as serious as he said. Luckily, I had my suspicions about who could help.
The next day, I leafed through an illustrated edition of the entire Seven Ordeals of Quelman, which was too heavy for me to hold. My bruised arms straining beneath its weight, I placed it on a table at Dynomics, the comic book store, which was the first place I’d hit.
The dusty collector’s haven was in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, about half a mile from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway underpass. It used to be on Fourteenth Street between Seventh and Eighth in Manhattan, but that space was now a new and shiny chain pharmacy. Times change.
“Be careful with that.”
I looked up and saw Jeff Losson, the store’s owner, peering at me from an aisle stacked with Supermans. He was a lean, ageless hippie type—probably around thirty-seven—with long hair tied in a ponytail and cold eyes covered by small round glasses. He always spoke in a snide whisper and his snickering laugh betrayed as much self-loathing as amusement.
“Unless you got five hundred bucks,” he added.
With an effort, I closed the massive tome. “I’m not a big fan.”
“You’d have to know how to read, Roy. Not just watch.”
As a comic book/fantasy novel expert, Losson looked down on mere movies. He only featured one meager row on the subject in his store. We knew each other mildly, and usually kept our distance. But I was aware that he edited the online fan site Quelman House.
“I bet you’ll be first in line when the movie comes out,” I said. “The movies, I mean.”
“Yeah, right.” Losson snickered. Then, as usual, he segued into a miserable sigh, admitting I was right. “But at least I’ll hiss Abner Cooley’s name.”
“That’s better than trying to kill him.”
Losson snorted. “I heard he’s been having trouble. Maybe he should think twice about adding the love story.”
“Don’t act so innocent. You pretty much put a price on his head on your site.”
“Give me a break.”
“You at least contributed to a violent atmosphere.”
“It was all in good fun.” Then he stared at me through his tinted lenses. “Since when do you care about Abner?”
“I don’t. It just seems a bit extreme, that’s all.”
Losson shrugged, still confused about my interest. At all costs, I wished to avoid admitting that I worked for Abner; it was too embarrassing. But how much longer could I keep it secret?
Losson was no dummy. His eyes grew wide. “What!” he blurted out. “You’re Cooley’s coolie now? The fat man’s bitch?”
Cursing, silently, I felt myself blush. Then I turned away. “I got a sick mother.”
Losson gave a full-fledged whinnying laugh. Then it melted into one more unhappy moan, before he wondered, “Who doesn’t?”
I turned back, slowly, sensing a connection neither one of us wanted to explore. But its existence allowed me to be direct. “You know who’s hounding him?”
Losson’s slight shoulders went up and down. “Beats me. But no jury would convict.”
It was my turn to sigh. “Yeah, I guess. Well, thanks a lot. For nothing.”
The conversation—and the bonding—was over. It was as far as two hard-boiled nerds could go. Still, the store was empty but for me. So I brought a used Robert Mitchum biography to the counter. I remembered that Peter O’Toole had replaced him in Otto Preminger’s disaster Rosebud.
I flipped out bills. After I had counted out change, he pushed some coins back at me. “Nice try.”
“What do you mean?”
When I looked down, I saw the three dimes I’d gotten at the diner. They were supposed to be evidence; I was using them to buy a movie book. It was only my second case.
“Try that trick on someone else.”
“Aren’t they …” I picked up the dimes, checking the faces of FDR.
“All those movies have ruined your retinas. Can’t you see they’re play money?”
“They are?” I stared, mortified, at the worthless faux-silver. “Well, I’m not a Treasury agent,” I said, abashed. “They were left behind by Abner’s stalker.”
