Adult Content Warning

The following work of fiction may contain language, violence or themes considered unsuitable for young readers. Parental discretion is advised. (If this story was a film, it would likely pull a PG-13 rating.)

Such A Nice Girl

A Trick Molloy Mystery
©2008 Michael A. Stackpole

Part Three

The two school journals had covered a year each of her college career. Twenty-eight was current and only half full. Lexie had been a Junior at Coast College and according to a journal entry, Doctor Natalia Heron was her advisor. Admin sent me to the Sociology building, which surprised me, since Nicole had said Lexie was majoring in English.

“She was majoring in English, yes, Mr. Molloy.” Natalia Heron cleared a chair of DVDs in jewel-cases and bade me sit with a nod. “She’s started out in sociology, which is how I got her. When she changed majors, she wanted to stay with me. I worked it with the English department. She’s a very special girl.”

“She is. That’s why I’m looking for her.”

Natalia smiled as she seated herself. She had to be my age, maybe five years younger. Looked ten younger—not much older than the co-eds wandering around on campus. Trim with sharp features that gave her a vulpine cast, and bright blue eyes that sparked with life, she could have been very popular at Club Flesh—even with her lack of talent. She wore her white-blonde hair up, and I found myself itching to let it down.

“I’m gathering you work at Club Flesh, then?”

I blinked.

She laughed. “Sarah confided many things to me. She took the job there as a way to study the lower classes and what they have to do to make ends meet. Single mothers, girls with substance abuse problems and, yes, I know there are those who are business-women—they treat dancing as a job. Sarah made that all very clear in a paper she did for me last year. I have a copy, if it would help you.”

“I’d like that, thanks.” I tried to relax, and the state of the office made that possible. It wasn’t quite Nicoled out, but it had a lived-in feel. Things had been gathered into piles, pictures had been printed and tacked to the walls. While there were the few requisite bits of Coast College logo gear and pennants scattered about, most things seemed to have personal significance to Natalia.

“Doctor Heron, does anyone else know about Sarah’s job?”

“Talia, please. Not that I know of.”

“No one had seen her dancing, perhaps, and mentioned it to you?”

Again she shook her head. “It is possible that Doctor Larson knows. He was teaching her creative writing class. He’s big on creative visualization, other creativity exercises and writing what you know. Part of Sarah’s change from sociology to English was a desire to tell the stories of those she’d met on the job.”

“Is she any good?”

Talia nodded. “I think so. The paper she did for me was more than literate, which made it exceptional. I’ve not talked to Doctor Larson, but he had to read samples of her work before he let her into his program, so I assume she passed muster.”

“Her roommate said she’s been spending a lot of time on campus, and that she’d recently broken up with her boyfriend. Do you know if she’s seeing anyone here?”

“I don’t. I know the boyfriend was escorted off campus a couple weeks ago. He’d followed her to the library and was disruptive.”

“I have him on my list to talk to. I’ll add Doctor Larson to that list. Could I get a copy of her schedule?”

She shook her head. “Not without a warrant, I’m afraid. The only reason I can turn over her paper is because you could pull it from the library. We do try to protect our students.”

“I can understand that.” I rose. “Thank you, Talia.”

She stood and offered her hand. I took it. No spark. She had no talent, and that was okay. Her firm grip made up for it.

She held on to my hand. “Might I ask you a question?”

“I guess.”

“What is it like to be there, at Club Flesh, watching people sink…? What?”

I shook my head. “That’s not a game I play. Single mothers? Sure, there are plenty of them among dancers. Name another job where you can clear a grand a night chatting and dancing. Girls with substance abuse problems? Sure, but name me a business where that isn’t the case. And folks sinking? Why is it that people who choose to indulge in carnal pursuits, who admit to being simulated by the sight and touch of beautiful women—unattainable though they may be—are somehow beneath those who don’t? I know, it’s the Puritanical history of this country. It’s Fundamentalism that criminalizes natural urges. That judgment is just a means of social control. It makes people into demons.”

She smiled, squeezed my hand. “Bravo. Your point is well taken, and makes you the perfect man to answer the question I was going to ask.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And that was?”

“How do you keep from going insane in that environment? Do you become so desensitized to sexuality that you don’t notice? I should think you’d be in a constant state of arousal.”

I laughed, let her hand go. “Someone working in a chocolate factory will eventually get sick and tired of chocolate.”

“So you’ve sampled extensively and no longer have a taste for it?”

“No. I observe. I watch the patterns. Others are excited by the packages. I enjoy watching the byplay.” I shrugged. “It’s part of the job. If I get distracted, someone gets hurt. I’ve seen the games being played. I know how they end. A friend once told me, ‘Never fall in love with a stripper because, at some point, they all lie.’ Advice I’ve learned to cherish.”

She smiled. “But, still, it can be a pleasure to work in the chocolate factory, can’t it?”

“Just eye-candy to me, Doc.” I returned her smile. “And playing shepherd so none of our lambs get lost.”

Adult Content Warning

The following work of fiction may contain language, violence or themes considered unsuitable for young readers. Parental discretion is advised. (If this story was a film, it would likely pull a PG-13 rating.)

Such A Nice Girl

A Trick Molloy Mystery
©2008 Michael A. Stackpole

Part Two

I wouldn’t have pegged Lexie for suicide. She hadn’t seemed depressed—just the opposite, in fact. Far more squared away than the other girls who danced at Club Flesh. Still, her wrists had been slit and the coroner thought she might have been on anti-depressants, so suicide couldn’t be ruled out.

She didn’t leave a note, but Cate Chase had found a journal and sent me a photocopy of its contents. Everything had been dated properly, but wasn’t arranged in a “dear diary” format. Kind of reminded me of case notes, but with less facts or at least a greater emphasis on feelings.

I gave things a quick read, trying to link dates with incidents. I found a little of that, but nothing so specific that it locked things in. One thing screamed at me almost immediately, however: journal Twenty-nine dealt exclusively with people and incidents from Club Flesh. The entries barely hinted at her life away from the club. This meant there had to be more journals that covered those other aspects.

The stuff that involved me came toward the end of journal—which was three-quarters full and covered six months time. It’s weird reading what others say about you or choose to remember. I liked being described as ruggedly handsome—who wouldn’t? But terms like “aloof” and “cold” grind a bit. Not that they’re not true, but all the bullshit from growing up that makes you want to be liked is hard to escape.

I saw where the last couple of entries set alarms ringing in Cate’s head. Lexie must have been watching me closely, times when I never noticed. She tagged my moods just right, especially around the beginning of the previous month. It had been two years since I’d been boosted off the force, and roughly three years since I’d almost died from a botched hit. Tax time, too. Triple witching hour.

Her observations about my moods bled down into some erotica involving her and me, a torrid night between the sheets, on top of them, and on any flat surface in my apartment. Pretty hot stuff. I read it over and tried to remember that happening. I mean, I would have remembered.

Hell, if it had happened, I could go home and find smudges in the dust.

But none of that had ever happened. Lexie had never seen the inside of my apartment. Aside from Chrystale, none of them had.

Except Nicole.

I pounded a hand against my forehead. Nicole had been there once. She’d told me about a customer who was stalking her, and she’d thought she’d seen him around her apartment. She needed a place to stay. I let her crash on my couch—and refused her offer of joining me in bed. The stalker had been a ruse; and once I refused her she found someone else to play with.

But Nicole shared an apartment with Lexie and, it appeared, shared some vivid recollections of things that had never happened.

Nicole let me into an apartment that was all Lexie—save for where Nicole’s influence grew like mildew. The spare, cheap furnishings had survived a couple generations of student housing, but were clean and impeccably ordered. Bricks and boards made up shelving, and things had been arranged on them with precision. Nicole’s contribution were some clothes tossed on a chair, and a couple of magazines left open on a beat up coffee table. Everything else was in keeping with the neatly-folded clothes in the hotel room.

“What can I do for you, Trick?”

“When did you last see Lexie?”

The little Latina frowned. “Yesterday. Breakfast maybe. I wasn’t here last night. I figured she was out before I came in this morning. Is there a problem?”

“Tiny one.” I debated breaking the news to her. Television puts a lot of weight on that sort of revelation. You watch the reaction. That’ll tell you if the suspect knows more than she should. If I said Lexie was dead, and Nicole came back with “I never thought she’d commit suicide,” we might have a winner.

Television makes it all too simple. “Lexie didn’t show up for work.”

Her roommate shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Was she seeing anyone?”

“She dumped Craig. You know him. White power tats, grommet earrings.”

“Right. How long ago? Anyone new?”

“Three weeks. Might be someone new. She spent a lot of time at school.” Nicole shrugged. “We didn’t talk much.”

I nodded. “You ever tell her about coming to my place that night?”

Nicole blushed. “No, never.”

“Why the blush?”

“I haven’t told anyone. I don’t share humiliation.”

“And the blush?”

The girl smiled coldly. “Well, I had this dream and in it…”

I held my hands up and stepped back. “Which bedroom is hers?”

“You’d like mine better.”

“Probably, but I need to see hers.” I moved deeper into the apartment and hooked a right down a short corridor. We had a winner. The room was neat as a pin, with clothes in the closet sorted by length and color. Over on the desk, beside a laptop computer, Lexie had amassed a small collection of the leather-bound journals, all numbered in sequence. Only Twenty-nine was missing.

I took a quick look through the last several. Twenty-eight covered family stuff. Her family didn’t know what she was doing to make ends meet. They also didn’t know her brother was gay and afraid to come out of the closet. If I read things right, he didn’t know it, either. A lot of thought got put into Lexie seeing how she was becoming her mother. She admired her mom—once a talented artist who gave it all over to raise her kids. Lexie hoped she had the strength to make such a decision if she ever had to.

Twenty-four and Twenty-eight covered school stuff. Pretty banal stuff, most of impressions of other students rather than reflections on her studies. I got the name of her advisor from Twenty-eight.

I pointed to the journals. “Any more of these about?”

Nicole leaned in the doorway, toying with the top button on her blouse. “If they’re not there, she has them on her. They’re full of character sketches.”

“Yeah? You peeked?”

“Duh!” Nicole yawned behind a hand. “Lexie is an English Major over at Coast, doing a creative writing thing. I read some of her stuff on her blog. Boring. All feelings, no sex. I mean, life’s all about sex, right?”

“From a certain point of view, I guess.” I smiled. “Certainly pays the bills.”

“For the most part.” She undid that first button. “But there can be other benefits you know, Trick.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You could find out.”

“Some lessons cost too much.” I squeezed past her and headed for the door. “Sweet dreams, darlin’, and try to keep them to yourself.”

Issue 104 of The Secrets went out today. I’d hoped to have it out sooner but just as I was ready to send it, power went out here and my local DSL provider was not working well with computers. It was very odd that none of the machines I had in the house could get online, but my iPod Touch could hit the web and do my email for me. Good thing, too, but weird.

Classes

I teach writing classes here and there. Last evening I gave a presentation titled 21 Days to a Novel to a packed house at the Changing Hands bookstore here in Mesa/Tempe, Arizona. The two hours flew for me—and for the participants, from what they said. I’m looking forward to doing more classes through the store.

21 Days is one of seven different writing seminars I’ll be offering at Gencon Indy just over a week from now. If you’re going to be at the convention, please take a look at the Writer’s track of programs. There’s a lot of great writers there offering advice and information. It’s a great place to learn, especially when you get blown out in the first round of a tournament.

I’ll also be teaching an internet course for Arizona State University’s Piper Writer’s Studio. The class will last for 8 weeks and is titled Writing Fiction in Genres. The course will involve analyzing genre fiction for core common elements that appeal to readers, then working on delivering those same key elements. Emphasis on characterization and plotting will drive most of the exercises.

Office Hours in Second Life

Tomorrow night (Wednesday, 6 August 2008) I’ll be in Second Life at Third Life Books at 6 PM Pacific/game time. The agenda is open, but I should have some news on new projects and the whole iPhone/Touch fiction release. We can also talk about what I’m doing with Such A Nice Girl.

Such A Nice Girl is the first of many stories I’ll be serializing here, to my website, for free. This is how it’s going to work. The stories will come in roughly 1,000 word chunks, three times a week. Most stories will run ten to twelve pieces. They’ll be available here for your reading pleasure until the next story starts its run. I’ll make the old stories available in the store for the same price as the rest of my fiction.

This story involves Trick Molloy, a character who made his debut in the Wizards, Inc. anthology edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Loren L. Coleman. Because of contracts, I can’t make that first story available until November, nor the other two that precede Such A Nice Girl until a year after they see print. The world of these stories is gritty and nasty, full of magic in an urban setting. Molloy is an ex-cop who works as a bouncer in a strip club. The setting, language, situations and violence are the reason for an adult content warning.

I really think that the web and electronic devices have already changed the way we read. Writers are going to have to change how they write to synch up with this new mode of communication. Writing serialized fiction like this is just one way to take a step in that direction.

I want to thank Kat Klaybourne for the great art for the project. She’s been doing all my graphics for the fiction in the store, turning out eye-catching images that really fit the work.

If you like the story, please direct your friends to it. If you want to more fiction done this way, I invite you to hit the Stormwolf Store and make a purchase. I regularly review what sells, so you can vote with your dollars for stories and universes you’d like to see sequels to and more work in. (Plus, voting with your dollars buys me the time I need to write these stories.) If this experiment works here, more authors will do it, and we can bring publishing at least into the 20th century.

See you in Second Life, or at Gencon, or right here tomorrow, for Such A Nice Girl>/b> Part Two.