Negative Space by Mike Robinson (classic literature list .txt) 📗

placed him. “You look familiar. I saw you at The Schoolhouse, didn’t I?”

The man steeled. “Did you? The Schoolhouse?”

“Yeah, the club here, in Venice. I saw you there last week. Didn’t I?”

The man hesitated. “I think so. You look familiar, too. Did you have a session there?”

“Yeah,” Max said, trying to put the guy’s mind at ease. “Yeah, I had a session there.”

“Which girl?”

Now Max froze. Why did he even bother speaking? He didn’t know the real names of any of the other girls, much less their aliases. So, odd as it felt, the only one he did know came tumbling off his tongue.

“Penelope, really?” said the man. “She’s fantastic, definitely the prettiest girl there. She really knows her stuff, on both ends too! Were you a submissive or a dominant? She’s a switch, y’know.”

“Um, I was a...dominant.”

The guy chuckled. “Nice. She’s unbearably cute when she’s a submissive. But she’s so damn sexy when she’s dominating you, too. Both sides are sexy but in different ways. She’s a genius at the stuff, honestly.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.”

“Lots of these videos were produced at The Schoolhouse, right?”

“Yup. Most of them.”

“Is Penelope in any of them?”

“I don’t really know, actually. I think she’s too new a face there. She might be in the upcoming videos.”

No no but really she’s missing, right? She can’t go traipsing in front of cameras.

The man asked, “Do you know when those might come in? The new videos?”

“Not sure. I could look it up. Or ask Tyler or Danny. They’re usually the ones who sign for them. You can always ask them directly, too, whenever you’re there.”

The man kept looking over the cassette spines. “I’d love to see Penelope in a film. She’d just light up the screen. And it’s not just her smile or that...kind of bad-girlness she exudes, but the way she bubbles over with character.”

“What’s your name?” Max asked, now gesture-sketching the man and the space around him.

“James. Yours?”

“I’m Max.”

With a playful salute, James said, “Good to meet you.”

“You know, it’s too bad for the rest of us,” Max said. “Penelope has a boyfriend.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, lucky guy, huh?”

“Yes...yes, very much so.” He rubbed his chin. “How do you know? Do you talk to her outside The Schoolhouse?”

“Kind of. We talk during her sessions. Sometimes during her breaks.”

James gestured toward Max’s sketchbook. “That’s nice. Do you draw her at all? Or any of the girls there?”

“Not really.”

“I haven’t drawn in so long. But I’ve always loved art. I know some people who know some people, though, and I also still have connections from my own short-lived days as an artist. I could probably get you a big showing.”

“That’d be great.”

“Yeah, we could invite anyone and everyone. Get you exposed. That’s where it is.” James stared hard at him. “Anyone you know could come.”

The two men fell silent, the space of their conversation filled now by the soft rough scratch of Max’s sketching. A show. Wow. Nice. Was this guy serious? He certainly looked like he had the cash for it. Probably because he bullshitted for a living, and bullshitters made the most. They also, well, bullshitted, so who knew how authentic this James was.

Moments later, he presented Max his purchase: a cassette of The Basement—Mad Dr. Spankenstein! screamed the back cover, has kidnapped and shackled in his dungeon basement a trove of lovely ‘assistants’. How will they get out? Or can they?

James gave Max his card. “Call me, and we’ll talk,” he said, with rubber enthussiasm.

“Thanks.”

“Can I see what you were drawing?” James asked, craning his neck around to get a better view of the sketchbook. “Is that me?”

“Yeah, I was just warming up,” Max said.

“Cool. See, that’s what I want to be able to do. Capture that one spark of life, that jazz, so quickly. The best ones can always do it fast. They’re like artistic short-order cooks.”

With a thoughtful nod, Max approved the phrase. He handed James his change and the receipt and the bag that now contained the man’s new private fantasy. He tried not to think about what went on with those videos and with the people who bought them, but his imagination was too slippery. He would drown the unwanted imagery in sketch.

“Take it easy,” James said, scooping up his purchase. “Maybe I’ll see you at The Schoolhouse.”

***

III

Dwayne pulled up to the curb outside Higgins’ apartment complex. God, he wanted to leave. Frickin’ downtown Los Angeles. The stinking urban entrails of the city. He was reminded of New York and...and....

No stop. Don’t think about her now. Later.

From the entrance alcove burned the eyes of a small man in a black derby and tattered overcoat. They watched one another.

Higgins was due any moment.

Dusk moved in, twinkling pores opening in the sky. Seven stars visible—not bad for a big city. Astronomy had always been a keen interest of Dwayne’s, but, for lack of time and money, he did little else beyond taking occasional glimpses through his old portable telescope—useful in the star-splattered desert sky—and casual trips to various observatories. His UFO studies, involving as they did information on star distances, light years, comets, wormholes, made for a sufficient compromise.

All that good shit, as Jenny used to say.

The derby man watched Dwayne, and Dwayne watched him. Something small scurried under a dumpster just behind the complex. A rat, most likely.

Somewhere close, a siren wailed. Dwayne stared motionless at his dashboard where a color copy of John Baxter’s famous watercolor depiction of the Dover Demon stared a dead orange soul back at him.

The Dover Demon was still on his list. No sightings of it had been made public for nearly thirteen years now. Probably it had been nothing more than an interdimensional traveler just passing through. In either case, it was worth a stay in Massachusetts, when he was in the area. Who knew when that would be.

Next on his list, after Twilight Falls, and once he’d sold a few more pieces in L.A., were the giant birds spotted in Washington and Vancouver, the supposed inspiration for