by J. S. Volpe
Rumor has it that even the major file-sharing websites received notices from those selfsame attorneys notifying them that if any of the pictures in question turned up on the site, the site’s owners, those who shared the files, those who uploaded the files, and anyone who aided and abetted those individuals in any way, shape, or form would be subjected to a legal blitzkrieg that would leave little in its wake except tiny bits of charred and smoking flesh. Apparently these notices went into great and excruciating detail outlining exactly how these individuals would be tracked down and precisely what would happen to them when they were. Given the prodigious assets at the disposal of she-who-shall-not-be-named, it’s a pretty safe bet these threats were anything but empty. Suffice it to say, none of the pictures are currently available online.
Lesser men would quail when presented with a job like this. Not me. It was a challenge, yes, but hardly the biggest I’d ever faced. (The biggest would have been my hunt for the Viridian Diamond, but that’s a story for another time.) Experience told me exactly where to start looking—with the one man most likely to have kept a copy of the first issue: Pink’s creator and editor-in-chief, “Uncle” Sam Stearns.
* * *
Ten minutes of Internet research revealed that ever since Pink went bust in 1998, Stearns had been breeding cats in his Chicago home. Apparently he earned a nice profit from it. I’m tempted to make a joke about pussies, but I shall refrain.
Stearns’s phone number was unlisted but his address wasn’t, so I flew out to Chicago the day after my meeting with Ramsey and drove a rental car to Stearns’s house, a ghastly edifice with bare wood siding, pea-green shutters, and a front door that had been painted a sort of periwinkle color. A self-satisfied Siamese sat in the front window, staring at me as I got out of my car and ascended the steps.
I rapped on the door hard enough to startle the Siamese and send it leaping out of sight. I was still gloating over this when the door opened and a scrawny, anemic-looking fellow with lank brown hair peered out at me. For a moment I thought maybe I had the wrong house. This didn’t look like the sort of guy you’d expect to publish a porn mag. The sort of guy who’d read one, sure; but not really the go-getting publisher type. For some reason I always picture porn publishers as fat balding men puffing on big cigars.
“Can I help you?” he asked. He looked irritated at having been interrupted from whatever he’d been doing.
“Samuel Stearns?”
“That’s me,” he said slowly, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to admit it. He probably feared I was an attorney sent by you-know-who.
I stuck out my hand. He took it, looking a little surprised.
“My name’s Gilbert Solomon. I’m what you might call a procurer of rare items. I’ve been hired to—”
“You want a copy of the first issue of Pink.” He said it with weary disgust. Obviously I wasn’t the first person to come calling about it.
“Yes. In fact—”
“You can save your breath; I don’t have one.”
“You’re kidding. You didn’t keep a copy of the first issue of your own magazine?”
“Oh, I have a copy. My copy. I only have the one, and it’s not for sale.”
“Not even for the right price?”
He shook his head as he used his foot to shoo away a fat fluffy white Persian that was trying to sneak out between his leg and the door jamb. “I told you: It’s not for sale. Not for any amount of money.” He started to close the door.
I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I’d hoped to be able to finish this job without any further fuss. But no: Time for another trade.
“Who said anything about money?” I said quickly.
The door stopped closing. Stearns blinked at me, puzzled and intrigued. “What?”
The cat tried to escape again. This time he bent down and grabbed it. It meowed in protest.
“Come on in,” he said, a little reluctantly.
I followed him inside. The moment I entered the living room five different cats, including the Siamese, shot out from behind five different pieces of furniture and streaked off into a room at the back of the house. Several other cats, who were either braver or lazier, simply glanced over at me from where they lay sprawled on tables and chairs like satiated Roman emperors. A tiny black kitten staggered up to me on legs it still wasn’t sure how to use, fixed me with a pair of big blue eyes, and emitted a forlorn mew. I ignored it. I had business to do, involving large sums of money. And large sums of money always trump cute.
I looked past the cats at the room itself. It was obviously the home of a single man. In other words, it was messy as hell. A layer of cat hair covered the carpet. Stacks of magazines tottered on the arms of the couch. Papers, remote controls, and assorted knickknacks littered the coffee-table. The only oasis of neatness in this mess was an oak bookcase against the wall opposite the front door. The books lining its shelves were in excellent condition, well-dusted, and neatly arranged. I started to wonder if Stearns wasn’t a more literate and intellectual fellow than I’d assumed, but then I took a closer look at the books and discovered that every single one of them was a trashy horror novel.
Stearns set the Persian on the carpet, then turned to me and said, “If not money, then what?”
“A trade.”
He looked dubious. “What do you mean?”
I gave him the same explanation I’d given Ramsey and concluded by asking him if there was any object he’d be willing to trade the magazine for.
He thought about it for a minute, then turned to look at the bookcase behind him.
When he turned back to me, his eyes glimmered with wild hope—a hope I could tell he’d never dared harbor before.
“You know J. Eric Howall, right?” he said.
“The novelist.” Actually, I thought he was a third-rate hack, but admitting that probably would not have gone over too well with Stearns. Howall wrote extremely violent horror novels with titles like Flaytime and Holiday in Hell and plots that were little more than meandering streams of sexual sadism, nihilistic philosophizing, and senseless murder via the creative use of power tools.
“Yes. I’m something of a collector of horror novels, especially Howall’s. The problem is, I’ve collected nearly everything of his there is to collect. I’ve got first editions of all his books. I’ve got foreign editions. I’ve even got one of the rare misprinted copies of Gore Orgy. The only thing that would make my collection truly complete is a first edition of his first book, Maggotbrain, autographed by Howall himself.”
Crap and double crap. Howall was a notorious recluse, sort of like a splatterpunk J. D. Salinger. He never accepted awards in person (not that he’d won many), he never gave speeches, he never corresponded with fans, and he most especially never signed anything. His address and phone number were a closely guarded secret known only to his agent and a few select friends. Just arranging a meeting with him was going to be well-nigh impossible.
Despite my vexation, I maintained my professional poker-face and said, “So if I get you a first edition of Maggotbrain signed by Howall, you will exchange it for the inaugural issue of Pink, cover dated December 1988, correct?”
He hesitated a moment, as if he feared I were trying to trick him somehow. But then he said, “Yes. Yes, I will.”
I nodded. “Okay, then. I’ll be in touch with you soon.” I started to turn toward the door.
He grabbed my arm, his eyes huge with amazement. “You honestly think you can get it?”
“Buddy,” I said as I opened the front door, “if I can’t get it, no one can.”
* * *
Tough talk, to be sure. But I had a sinking feeling this could be one of those things no one could get. Authors—hell, all artists—are a fucked-up, temperamental bunch. Dealing with them tended to give me a headache, not to mention an urge to punch a wall. Still, I’d come too far on this job to quit now.
A little online digging revealed that Howall had recently switched agents. Appa
rently he felt his old one hadn’t been doing enough to increase the size of his bank account. His new one, a woman named Crystal Berman, ran an agency called, unsurprisingly enough, The Crystal Berman Literary Agency, which had been founded only a couple of months before Howall made the switch. The bio on her website stated she used to be an FBI agent. Further digging revealed that this was true, as far as it went, but it didn’t go very far. She’d been an agent for all of nine months, not counting her training period. I couldn’t find any explanation of why she left the Bureau to become a different kind of agent.
Her client list was composed entirely of authors who specialized in low-rent genre fiction. Aside from Howall, I’d never heard of any of them. Over half of them wrote romance novels with titles that sounded like the names of perfumes: Passion Flower and Midnight Surf and things like that.
When I called the number listed on the agency website, Berman herself answered the phone, which surprised me; I’d figured I’d have to sweet-talk my way past some lowly assistant agent who had been consigned to secretarial work.
I explained who I was and what I wanted and that I would not under any circumstances divulge Howall’s personal info to anyone else. She laughed.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I cannot release Mr. Howall’s address without his express approval, and I’m sure he will not give it in this instance.”
“Uh-huh. Did I explain what I do for a living?”
“Yes, but—”
“I don’t just buy things; I trade, too. I could, for instance, get someone something they dearly want in exchange for, oh, say, an address scribbled on a piece of paper.”
“Mm-hmm,” Ms. Berman said. “It all sounds very nice for you, but I simply cannot tell you Mr. Howall’s address.”
“I assure you I wouldn’t let him know where I got it. This would be strictly between you and me.”
“Yes, but—”
“Isn’t there anything—any physical object—that you want so badly you’d be willing to divulge one measly little address in exchange for it? And I’m talking any physical object. Anything at all.”
There was a long pause.
“And let me remind you,” I added, “this will be strictly between the two of us.”
“So you said,” she muttered. The pause resumed. It dragged on and on.
Finally she cleared her throat, and in a low, furtive voice said, “You know…there’s this little bakery called Eleanor’s I visited once in Baltimore. They make the most delicious chocolate-cherry cheesecake I’ve ever had. I always meant to go back there for more, but I never seem to have the time. So, um, if you could get me a slice of that…no, wait. Make it an entire cake. Yeah. Bring me one whole Eleanor’s chocolate-cherry cheesecake. Fresh.”
I was speechless for a moment. I couldn’t believe this. This woman was selling out her number-one client for a fucking cheesecake. Even more amazing than that, though, was that for the first time on this job I didn’t have to go hustling about in search of some unbelievably obscure item. I was actually getting a freebie. I don’t get those often.
“I can get it to you tomorrow, if you like.”
“Oh, that would be perfect. Just stop by the office around four p.m.”
“I’ll be there.”
* * *
Her “office” turned out to be the cluttered front room of her New York City apartment. I winced when I saw her desk: Contracts, manuscripts, and checks lay scattered across it in no particular order, many of them imprinted with coffee rings and dotted with what appeared to be cookie crumbs. A CD player on a nearby table blared Heart’s greatest hits.
Crystal Berman herself was about thirty years old and was one of those women who would have been attractive if someone had taken the time to give her some fashion tips. And contact lenses. And hairstyling products. And acne cream. And perhaps a brain.
“You must be Mr. Sullivan,” she said with a big, sunny smile.
“Solomon,” I corrected.
“Right.” She nodded vigorously. I don’t think she understood what I meant, but I didn’t really care.
“Here’s your cheesecake.” I held out the box. She snatched it from me with a joyful squeal.
“I just adore this stuff,” she said with a coy roll of her eyes as if she were admitting to something naughty.
“Now about that address…”
“Oh, yes! Of course!” She went to her desk, scribbled down the address on a hot-pink Post-It, and handed it to me. “You didn’t get this from me, remember.” She wagged a finger at me.
“Of course not.”
She giggled. “This is like a spy movie or something. Isn’t it fun?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“It reminds me of when I was in the FBI…” She said it in that pregnant tone people adopt when they’d like to tell you something but, fearing it might be rude or pushy to just come right out and do so, hope to prompt you into asking about it.
The hell with that. I made a show of looking at my watch.
“You know, I’d love to hear all about it—it sounds fascinating—but I really have to get going.” I held up the Post-It. “You’ve been a huge help. Thanks for putting up with me.”
“Any time. I live to serve.”
Not if it’s your clients, I thought. I wondered if she’d last any longer as a literary agent than she had as an FBI agent.
Somehow I doubted it.
* * *
J. Eric Howall lived on a pleasant tree-lined street in Charleston, South Carolina. His house was bland and white, with a bright green lawn, a row of rose bushes underneath the front picture window, a tricycle on the front walk, and even a white picket fence. Hardly what I expected from an author who was sometimes referred to as The Slaughterhouse Kid. But then again, if I lived in a suburban nightmare like this, I’d have to relieve my middle-class angst one way or another.
I rang the doorbell. A freckled brown-haired woman in her late thirties opened the door. A wedding ring sparkled on her finger. Howall’s wife, I presumed.
“Can I help you?” she said.
“Yes, I’m looking for J. Eric Howall.”
She drew in a sharp breath. Her eyes narrowed to slits and swept me up and down as she assessed my threat level.
“What is this about?” she said, both her voice and her expression colder than the inside of an Eskimo’s Frigidaire.
I explained what I did for a living, and that I needed to speak to her husband as part of a job I was on.
“How did you find out where we live?” Her Arctic attitude had thawed a little, but frost remained.
I shrugged. “It’s my job to find things.” Which wasn’t a lie, of course.
She stared at me a moment longer, then sighed and said, “Wait here.” Her footsteps receded into the depths of the house.
A minute later footsteps louder and faster than Mrs. Howall’s came thumping toward the door. This was it.
J. Eric Howall stepped out onto the front steps and shut the door behind him. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dirty blond hair and a long, angular face that reminded me of those giant heads on Easter Island. He wore glasses, a white polo shirt, and tan Dockers. Ladies and gentlemen, the author of Gore Orgy.
Howall gave me a disdainful glance, then fixed his eyes on the two-story Victorian across the street. “What do you want?”
I started to tell him what I told his wife, but he cut me off.
“I know all that. What’s this case you’re on? And what exactly do you want with me?”
“I need to procure a valuable item from a man who will relinquish it only for a signed first edition of Maggotbrain.”
He snorted. “I don’t sign things for anybody. I prefer my anonymity, my peace. Surely you know that. What makes you think I’ll make an exception for you, or for your client?”
I explained again what I did for a living and added, “In return for your autograph I can pay you a hefty sum”—I saw him start to wrinkle his nose in disgust,
and hurried on—“or I can offer you a trade.”
The wrinkle abated. “A trade? Explain.”
“I can try to get you any object you want in return for your John Hancock. Any object you consider of equivalent value.”
His eyes left the house across the street, and he regarded me with interest.
“Any object?” he said.
Something in his tone suggested that what he wanted wasn’t going to be easy to get. Then again, nothing in this job had been easy, except dealing with Howall’s agent. It was turning into one big daisy chain of trading. I wondered if it would ever end, or if I’d remain on this job for years, never finding anyone who wanted cash for anything, only trades, hard trades.
“Yes,” I said, sure I’d regret it.
“And, uh, any item I ask you to find—that would remain strictly between us?”
“Strictly.”
“You wouldn’t tell anyone?” He said this with a slight incline of his head toward the front door.
“Nope, not anyone.”
“Excellent. I think we can do business, then.”
I nodded, waiting for the blow.
“The only item I can think of that I both want and consider valuable enough to recompense me for helping you is…” He paused, glanced back at his house to make sure the dear wifey didn’t have her face pressed against the window in an effort to read his lips, then turned back to me and in a low voice said, “A pair of Nikki Pow!’s used underwear. Signed.” He flashed a nervous smile, then stole another glance at the window. The wifey still wasn’t there.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
“Thank you. And, uh, please contact me only on my cell phone.”
He gave me the number, then returned inside, no doubt to tell Mrs. Maggotbrain he’d seen to it that they wouldn’t have to deal with that nasty interloper any more. No, they sure wouldn’t; but he would.
* * *
Nikki Pow!, in case you’re wondering, was a porn actress, or star, or performer, or whatever you call them. The exclamation mark was part of her name.
Again with the porn. First Ramsey wanting beaver shots of you-know-who, now Howall with Ms. Pow! What is it with guys and porn? Never mind; I know. I’m a guy after all. Even so, it’s astonishing how many of my jobs revolve around sex one way or another.
