storefront. The window was decorated in the same style as the website, with lots of black and silver, and across the top a sign written in large letters, saying, S TUDIO 31 P ICTURES . The message was very different than the implied sleaze of the website, though. There was an old-fashioned camera in the center of the window surrounded by photographs of families, young women, and pets. Through the glass I could see a reception area decorated in the same style as the window, looking like a budget version of an Art Deco film studio.
There was nobody in the reception area, but the lights were on and the door was unlocked. I stepped in and stood by the low black desk, waiting to be noticed. At the back of the room was an open door, but the space beyond was dark. I tried to imagine Humphrey Bogart or Lauren Bacall stepping out and asking me what I wanted, full of moxie and spunk, but what I got was an elderly man in a suit. He was a few inches shorter than me, probably topping out around five eight, and his hair was silky, a silver crown pushed back from his face. His frame was slight, almost skeletal, and his movements were small and considered. His suit was more an architectural masterpiece than an item of clothing, with sleek dark lines that looked expensive. Something in me turned over at the sight of him, and my skin crawled as I fought the urge to back out the door. The same sense that tells you to step away from certain people in public places was now telling me to find a machine gun and take aim.
“Hello.” Did his voice carry an accent? It was hard to tell with one word.
“Hi. I was looking for,” I took a second, trying to think of Jellyfish’s name, “Jeremy?”
He nodded, small and gentle. “Aren’t we all.”
There was an accent to his words, but I couldn’t place it as anything other than “not English.” Whatever it was, it carried a cold and sterile edge. His features didn’t give a clue either. His skin was a few shades darker than white, but nothing that couldn’t be earned by relaxing weekends in the sun.
“He’s not around?”
“I’m afraid not. We’ve been waiting for him to come back.”
We? That set off a twist of spidey-sense panic in my stomach. The doorway behind him seemed to grow a little larger, and the dark shadow beyond it took on a more solid, menacing form.
“Are you a friend of Mr. Fish?” He took a step forward. “Perhaps you can help us?”
“Oh no.” I noticed nerves touching the edges of my own voice. “I wouldn’t say we were friends.”
“Business partners perhaps?”
He stepped forward, and his face sparked a little as he mentioned business, something igniting briefly in his eyes. For the first time I noticed his hands. They’d been behind his back when he’d first stepped into the room, but now they were at his sides. His left hand was turned away, trying to conceal what it held—
A handkerchief.
Stained red.
I recalled the name Matt had given me. “Is Simon available?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid he’s not. He will be tied up for the foreseeable future.” The hand holding the handkerchief twitched slightly. “We’ve been unable to contact his girlfriend, I don’t suppose you have her number?”
“Uh, no, Sorry.”
I kept arriving at a scene to find blood waiting. My stomach was in a full-blown twist now, screaming at me to get out. I smiled at the old guy and mumbled something that I hoped sounded like a witty kiss-off. Then I turned and stepped out of the shop.
I walked back up the road toward where I’d left my car. I turned back briefly and the old man was standing in the doorway of the shop, watching me. His head was cocked slightly to one side. I thought for a second, with his hair pushed back and his head cocked, that he looked like a gecko in a suit.
I pulled my car keys from my pocket.
I got the hell out of dodge.
I calmed down as I drove, slipping my go-to CD into the slot and letting the voice of Paul Westerberg
There was nobody in the reception area, but the lights were on and the door was unlocked. I stepped in and stood by the low black desk, waiting to be noticed. At the back of the room was an open door, but the space beyond was dark. I tried to imagine Humphrey Bogart or Lauren Bacall stepping out and asking me what I wanted, full of moxie and spunk, but what I got was an elderly man in a suit. He was a few inches shorter than me, probably topping out around five eight, and his hair was silky, a silver crown pushed back from his face. His frame was slight, almost skeletal, and his movements were small and considered. His suit was more an architectural masterpiece than an item of clothing, with sleek dark lines that looked expensive. Something in me turned over at the sight of him, and my skin crawled as I fought the urge to back out the door. The same sense that tells you to step away from certain people in public places was now telling me to find a machine gun and take aim.
“Hello.” Did his voice carry an accent? It was hard to tell with one word.
“Hi. I was looking for,” I took a second, trying to think of Jellyfish’s name, “Jeremy?”
He nodded, small and gentle. “Aren’t we all.”
There was an accent to his words, but I couldn’t place it as anything other than “not English.” Whatever it was, it carried a cold and sterile edge. His features didn’t give a clue either. His skin was a few shades darker than white, but nothing that couldn’t be earned by relaxing weekends in the sun.
“He’s not around?”
“I’m afraid not. We’ve been waiting for him to come back.”
We? That set off a twist of spidey-sense panic in my stomach. The doorway behind him seemed to grow a little larger, and the dark shadow beyond it took on a more solid, menacing form.
“Are you a friend of Mr. Fish?” He took a step forward. “Perhaps you can help us?”
“Oh no.” I noticed nerves touching the edges of my own voice. “I wouldn’t say we were friends.”
“Business partners perhaps?”
He stepped forward, and his face sparked a little as he mentioned business, something igniting briefly in his eyes. For the first time I noticed his hands. They’d been behind his back when he’d first stepped into the room, but now they were at his sides. His left hand was turned away, trying to conceal what it held—
A handkerchief.
Stained red.
I recalled the name Matt had given me. “Is Simon available?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid he’s not. He will be tied up for the foreseeable future.” The hand holding the handkerchief twitched slightly. “We’ve been unable to contact his girlfriend, I don’t suppose you have her number?”
“Uh, no, Sorry.”
I kept arriving at a scene to find blood waiting. My stomach was in a full-blown twist now, screaming at me to get out. I smiled at the old guy and mumbled something that I hoped sounded like a witty kiss-off. Then I turned and stepped out of the shop.
I walked back up the road toward where I’d left my car. I turned back briefly and the old man was standing in the doorway of the shop, watching me. His head was cocked slightly to one side. I thought for a second, with his hair pushed back and his head cocked, that he looked like a gecko in a suit.
I pulled my car keys from my pocket.
I got the hell out of dodge.
I calmed down as I drove, slipping my go-to CD into the slot and letting the voice of Paul Westerberg
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