Chapter 2
Duke was a generous barkeep, sometimes refilling my glass without adding it to my tab. Before I left the joint, he handed me the whisky bottle I had been working on – you know, for the road. I often limited myself to one or two fingers of whisky per visit, and I nearly declined. Perhaps I wasn’t very hardboiled, just pretending to be. But not today – if Dorothy Gale had faded, then I was going to drink the entire bottle.
Well, quarter-bottle. There were some limits to Duke’s generosity. Not that I blamed him. He had a business to run, and yet he gave me what was left for free. Taking a swig, I headed down a side street, continuing tipsily for another block and a half. There was little traffic back here. Only a lone Oldsmobile drove past, hoping to get back into the busy gridlock. At night, a few bums would usually congregate around a trash can fire, but at this early hour, I had the block to myself. I staggered down the narrow sidewalk, avoiding mounds of trash and dirty puddles of water.
My apartment was on a main thoroughfare in Downtown Los Angeles, while my office was on this quiet side street. Had it been up to me, I would have switched my office and my apartment. Makes a helluva lot more sense to sleep in the quiet neighborhood, and have a place of business right in the thick of it. Duke’s bar would still be right in between no matter what, and I’d be happy as Captain Haddock visiting a Loch Lomond distillery.
But that’s the way my world was written, so there wasn’t much I could do about it.
I lifted the bottle for another shot of sharp, warm booze, draining it. Letting go of the bottle, I listened with satisfaction as it shattered against the pavement. I was perhaps buzzed, but not drunk. Had Duke been just a little more generous, I could have gotten good and wasted, and then I would have gone to Some Like it Hot and demanded a cup of coffee. It sounded like a great way to spend the rest of the day.
My office was on the third floor of a building that had seen better times. The foundation appeared to be sagging, despite only being a couple of decades old. The paint flaked off of the walls, and the concrete beneath it threatened to crumble. Thankfully, the smog and caked soot kept the loose bits and pieces glued in place. Forgotten, derelict, and structurally unsound, the building didn’t exactly inspire confidence in any prospective clients.
I entered the vestibule and took the stairs two steps at a time, as was my habit. On my floor, there were several other businesses. Their doors lined the long hallway on either side, with simple signs advertising things like tailoring, tarot-readings, or tax accounting. I’d never paid much attention to my practically anonymous neighbors. The hallway had been written to highlight my plots, giving my business the focal point for anybody coming off of the stairs. Down at the end, the corridor ended in my office door. It looked like any cliché detective office entrance, with a dark wooden frame and frosted, rippled glass – perfect for casting stylish silhouettes of gumshoes wearing fedora hats. Large gold letters spelled out “Richly Drawn – Detective for Hire,” just in case those diligent enough to find my office were amnesiacs or forgetfully eccentric professors.
You think I’m kidding? I am not. Both the people who hired me for my second and third novels were amnesiacs. And the man who put me on the trail of the Silver Phoenix was a forgetful, eccentric professor named Farnsworth Ellegy. He hired me to find the Silver Phoenix statuette, which belonged to a murdered friend of his named Hamilton Hawks. Hawks, naturally, was an “industrialist antique enthusiast.” Say those three words quickly and repeat ten times.
I hadn’t reenacted any of my plots for ages, and had no casework waiting for me at the office. The only reason I stopped by was to tell my secretary Dora that she should go home to her mother. This was routine. She insisted on always being present in case we got an important phone call, and I always told her that this had never happened in any of our books, and that she should try to enjoy life outside of my office. Same song and dance every day, yet Dora hardly ever left early. None of my other supporting characters remained loyal to our plot, and neither did I, so why should she? Yet, in the office she remained. Still, once in a blue moon, she’d go do something nice for herself, occasionally even travelling off world. That made it worth my time to stop by.
I opened the door and stepped inside. Dora bounced up from behind her lacquered, wooden desk. It was much too large for her, and she seemed to vanish further behind the oversized rotary phone, the green-glass desk lamp, and the stacks of newspaper clippings she always made, hunting for new potential cases for me. The leads never panned out, but she kept at it.
Dora was a tiny woman with a sturdy, compact frame. She was shapely and put-together, always smiling at me with a mousy grin and a can-do attitude. Her eyes bugged excitedly out behind her thick glasses, and her curly blonde hair bobbed when she talked.
“Richly, we have a customer,” she beamed.
I stared at her for a beat, and then over at the rippled glass windows separating Dora’s reception and my private, inner office. When I first rented the space, I’d had workers come by and put up a separating wall to give the clients a sense of privacy. Not that it mattered, I told Dora everything about them anyway. She was helpful, methodical, and effective in a way that confounded me. If I needed a group of suspects gathered, she never failed to make it happen.
The blinds to my inner office were drawn. That was unusual. I liked leaving them open, even though the wavy glass was nearly impossible to see through.
“Professor Ellegy?”
“No, not him, and neither John Doe nor Jane Doe,” she said.
John Doe put me on the trail of the Crimson Cobra, while Jane Doe pitted me against the Undead. The two Does weren’t related. They were just… well, as I said, amnesiacs. John Doe had turned out to be the bad guy, even though he couldn’t remember it himself. No wonder I liked my second book best. It had a flash of fun in its mystery.
But, if it wasn’t either of the Does or Professor Ellegy, then this didn’t make a lick of sense. Those were the only three clients I’d ever had, and I knew my author had long since given up on writing me a new story. Also, the two Does and Ellegy were all bigger characters in my universe. Unlike the ever-loyal Dora, my supporting leads didn’t feel much like keeping up the façade. With no one reading us, they’d all given up hope, simply going about their daily non-plot lives. Come to think of it, I hadn’t reenacted any of my stories in nearly five years.
So who the hell was the character in my office?
“I, uh, um…” I said, at a loss.
Dora looked at me, as if I was going to say something significant. I didn’t.
“Richly, you don’t suppose the author blessed us with a new story?”
“Nah, doll, that’s impossible. He’s long since moved on,” I said, trying not to slur my words.
“Then I don’t understand.”
“Me neither. Say Dora, give me a description of the man.”
“Oh, he’s a great big corpulent fellow. With a fez he carries in his left hand. And he has an immaculate pinstriped suit. Said his name was Dr. Mercutio Torquemada, and that he needed to speak with you at your earliest possible convenience. I gave him your home address, but he insisted on waiting here. Oh, and the darndest thing, he looks exactly like Sydney Greenstreet.”
“The human actor Sydney Greenstreet?” I asked, quickly sobering up.
“Yes.”
Greenstreet starred in the 1941 film version of The Maltese Falcon. He played Kasper Gutman, chief nemesis to Sam Spade. Also, bonus fact, Greenstreet wore a fez in Casablanca, where he had a smaller, supporting part.
“Thanks, Dora. Say, why did he pull the blinds?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Richly. Should I have left the door open?”
I looked over at the closed office door, and then back at Dora’s concerned face.
“Nah, doll. You did fine.”
I opened the door, carefully. The unoiled hinges screamed like banshees. In the human world, the act of entering a door is fairly mundane. But here in the fictional realms, doors often have a more symbolic meaning, and every time a character steps through one, the action may have some deeper purpose. It could be anything from crossing a threshold on their journey to self-discovery, or stepping into an ambush soon to be followed by an exhilarating chase, or entering a new scene that turns the plot on its head. Or, of course, it could be a writer who felt the need to describe every little detail, including passing through doors. The problem was, we characters could never know which, and in all the fictional realms – even one as obscure and forgotten as mine – entering a new room could play out in surprising ways.
I hoped it would. What would a man who looked like Sydney Greenstreet want in my world? If it was an actual character played by Mr. Greenstreet that would be quite an honor.
Troubling thing was, I didn’t know of any Greenstreet performance called Dr. Mercutio Torquemada. For most characters, and humans for that matter, that would be normal. People don’t go around knowing obscure details about entertainment. I was different. Living on borrowed time and without a great story to call my own, I sought out better narratives, becoming a student of richer worlds and richer characters. Dora could attest to that – having to listen to me go on and on about the stories I loved.
If Greenstreet had portrayed a character named Torquemada, I hungered to learn more about him.
My private office always seemed much darker than Dora’s reception, despite the fact that I had windows facing the street, and she had none. The reception also seemed larger, probably because Dora was so small, and because she liked to keep all the lamps in the room turned on.
Little sunlight entered the private office, partly because the windows were grimy, and partly because we were only on the third floor of an eight-story building, which itself was nestled among ever taller ones. My leather-swivel chair and desk faced away from the window. Clients, sitting in one of the two provided wooden chairs, looked out at the admittedly limited exterior view. I’d set up the office this way for a reason. When it was bright outside, I’d be backlit, making me both seem inscrutable and radiantly angelic – a savior they could trust. Perhaps the trick would have worked if I ever bothered hiring a window cleaner.
The large man hadn’t sat in the chairs. They were much too small for him. Instead, he had placed himself behind my desk, gazing out at the street. Using his handkerchief, he’d made a clean spot to look through. It wasn’t the only thing he’d cleaned. My office was immaculate. I was bad about closing drawers completely, and now they were all neat and shipshape. The good doctor had been snooping.
“Find what you were looking for?” I asked.
In the darkness, illuminated only by the single desk lamp on my bulky cedar-wood desk, I thought I saw a small guffaw. He faced away, keeping me in anticipation. After another moment, he slowly turned around, a big mea-culpa smile on his face. I was slightly disappointed. He wasn’t an exact match for Sydney Greenstreet. Sure, he had the same rotund form as the great actor, but his hairline was a little fuller, and though he was jowly, his eyes were darker and rounder. Also, the man was clearly a Spaniard, and not a Brit, like the esteemed actor whom he resembled. Still, I could see why Dora made the mistake – she was always eager to please me, knowing how much I revered anything and anyone involved with The Maltese Falcon. And the man had, if not a perfect physical resemblance, at least a related resemblance and a very similar way in which he carried his massive, bulging body.
“Pardon me, my good sir,” he said, betraying just a hint of a Spanish lisp in an accent that somehow sounded more mid-Atlantic American. “But when I visit a new world, my Creator-given nosiness takes over, and I cannot resist acquainting myself with it. By Jove, it is a bad habit, and I do apologize.”
I knew the feeling. He was gray like me, which meant he came from an unread world, likely literary, as most forgotten characters come from books. But the fat man didn’t have as much life force as I did. I guessed he was from a single work, several decades older than mine, and even more seldom read.
“Allow me to introduce myself. The name is Dr. Mercutio Torquemada, and I have come to call on your services.”
“I’m Richly Drawn. But you already knew that.”
“Indeed. I had the better part of an hour to myself in here, and having rather scrupulously searched your private office, I feel I have a most splendid understanding of your character.”
“And?”
“And you are exactly whom I’d like to hire.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, unable to hide my puzzlement.
“You are the lead character of this world, am I correct?”
“Sure.”
“And you are a detective for hire, as advertised on your most inviting office door?”
“Uh-huh.”
“So then naturally, young man, it follows that I should like to make use of these two facts, and engage you in solving an eminently challenging mystery.”
The man had the most peculiarly idiosyncratic dialogue I’d ever heard uttered in my world. My writer’s supporting characters were usually not that verbose, and they all tended to sound alike. This fellow, however, was something different. Everything that came out of his mouth sounded like it had come from a 1930’s Hollywood film by way of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta.
“You do realize we’re fictional characters, right?” I asked.
“Of course,” he laughed.
Most characters were aware of being fictional, save for a few, like Buzz Lightyear on one of his bad days.
“Then you should know I only take cases that are written by my author. That’s my purpose. That’s why I exist.”
“My dear friend, are you one of those characters who slavishly follow only their plot, and never go to visit other worlds?”
There weren’t many of those, neither among lead characters nor background characters. Who would want to be, when one could delight in all of fiction, visiting worlds as far and wide as the human imagination?
“No,” I answered, “but I’ve never taken a case that wasn’t story canon. Come to think of it, I’m not sure any character ever has.”
Torquemada nodded, a mixture of amusement and sadness flickering across his loose-jowled face.
“That may change,” he said, taking a deep breath and then exhaling for what seemed like a full minute. “Mr. Drawn, can I offer you some advice?”
“Go ahead.”
“Times are a-changing. The realm of fiction isn’t what it was, it hasn’t been for some years, not since, well, 2003.”
“Um,” I said.
That was the year I was created.
“Now, those changes are… shall we say… coming to the surface. With this, I believe we have to alter the way we conduct our business. That brings me to my advice: live a little, hear me out, and consider the assignment I’m offering.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“By Jove, then I shall explain it, post-haste.”
Dr. Torquemada walked around my desk, approaching me. He smiled a wide smile, stretching his lips thin without ever showing any teeth. Like this, he looked a bit like Dr. Seuss’s Grinch, though not quite as wicked. While he rested his right hand on his bulging stomach, he held his left hand behind his back. The fez, which Dora had observed in his hands earlier, was now atop his large head. It created an oddly stylish effect.
“I am a scholar,” Dr. Torquemada said. “My degree as a doctor was not granted by a medical institution, but is rather a degree of an academic nature. Research is my game and my only claim to notoriety. The classics are of particular interest, as they should be to any learned gentleman. And no, I am not well known, as you can plainly see from my lack of life force. I do wish to keep up appearances and look my best, but we fringe characters have to work with what our authors gave us, and what readers never did. Anyway, pardon my rambling. Get me started, and I can talk about many a fascinating subject for hours on end.”
“Oh?” I said, eloquently contributing to the conversation.
“By Jove, I have done some rather extensive research throughout my nine plus decades of existence. I have knowledge un-possessed by most, and I have learned a great many things. And how did I come by this knowledge, you ask?”
I hadn’t asked, but the man was on a roll.
“You see, I was written by an unknown American author who was, alas, killed in the Spanish Civil War. The lad had only ever written one short story, as well as the first chapter of his first novel – about yours truly. I was his villain, meant to engage in battle with a hero he never got around to creating. Sadly, as the specters of war would have it, a bullet struck my creator, and, shall we say, wrote his final chapter. So, I am the only character in my world – the only copy of which, I believe, is preserved in a small museum in Badajoz, Spain, near the Portuguese border. Do you know Badajoz? A most charming place. Of course you do.”
I didn’t.
“Naturally,” he continued, “I felt the need to explore other worlds. Are you following, master Drawn?”
“Um, sure,” I confirmed without much confidence.
“Splendid. In my research I came across a rather mysterious passage that guided me here, to this particular office, in this particular realm. Well, to be blunt, it guided me to you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, I believe you are the Chosen One.”
“Oh come on mister, I’m not the chosen one. That literary trope is the oldest, most threadbare concept in storytelling. I’m not Anakin Skywalker, I’m not Neo, and I’m not Harry Potter.”
The rotund Spaniard simply looked at me with his stretched, narrow smile. He remained silent, waiting for me to ask the obvious question.
“Chosen for what, exactly?” I finally said.
“I believe that you are the one who will solve the murder of young Miss Dorothy Gale.”
“So you’re the one telling Duke stories?”
“The bartender? Guilty as charged, good sir.”
“Why lie to the man? Duke hasn’t done anything to you, and he sure as heck doesn’t need the headache.”
“I haven’t done anything to him, other than present him with the cruel news of Dorothy Gale’s untimely passing. As for headaches, I saw the gentleman sampling his own wares, and thus I cannot take any responsibility for his throbbing crown.”
I stared at him. Who the hell talks like that? The answer was, someone with a ridiculous writer. I took a step closer. Dr. Torquemada turned, keeping his mountainous gut aimed straight at me.
“You’re saying Dorothy Gale is really faded, erased from existence?”
“If you won’t take my word for it, why don’t you venture to Oz and see for yourself? I assure you, it happened in the early hours this morning, and word of her demise has spread like Greek fire. Nay, my young sleuth, there is no putting this genie back in its bottle.”
“But characters like her can’t fade from existence,” I said, no longer entirely sure I was right.
“That is what makes it a mystery worthy of a detective like yourself.”
I smiled, flattered, then reality came back and hit me like a fridge hitting Roger Rabbit. Dr. Mercutio Torquemada was spinning a yarn. If he wanted to hire a private investigator to solve the murder of a fictional character, he had hundreds of well-regarded, highly respected detectives he could go to. They’d all be interested in the case, if for no other reason than that this was the first true murder that happened in the realm of fiction, or at least the first one that hadn’t been invented by an author. Also, if Dr. Torquemada was telling the truth, then what happened to Dorothy could happen to any other character as well. He could have his pick of sleuths, so why me?
Of course, I wasn’t convinced anything had happened at all. Dorothy Gale was, by any standard, immortal. She was harder to kill than Jason Voorhees, simply because she was one of the most vital and popular fictional characters ever created. Dorothy Gale, I felt sure, was going to outlast us all.
“Dr. Torquemada, thanks, but no thanks.”
“But why not?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Every private dick ever written would want this case. There are some really great ones out there. Miss Marple ring a bell? I, however, am entirely unread. I’m nobody’s first or even last choice for this case. If there even is a case!”
“And I, Dr. Mercutio Torquemada, am even less imbued with the life force of readers than you are. I cannot simply go to 221B Baker Street and engage Misters Holmes and Watson. They’d show me the door in an instant. And I don’t blame them. If they were to entertain each and every star struck tourist, they’d never have a moment of peace. I am but a humble academic with a classical bent, and thus, I need to abide by the rules of my social standing. You are the detective most suited for my query.”
“I… why do you insist on talking like that?”
“Now, now, it is impolite to single out those of us who are badly written.”
“And it’s also impolite to search the office of a private detective without asking permission.”
“Duly noted, but I was written to be a villain, thus I’m afraid I occasionally may behave improperly, despite my best intentions.”
“Come on, level with me. Why are you really here?”
Dr. Torquemada hesitated for a second, and his thin-lipped grin collapsed into a troubled grimace.
“Because I am unnerved by the recent developments in Oz. If a character like Dorothy Gale, who is supposed to be everlasting and immortal, can suddenly fade, what does that mean for those of us already on the cusp of oblivion?”
“Nah, that’s not it. We already know we’re going to fade. We don’t matter to human readers. When the last copies of my novels are lost, I’ll be permanently dead. Same goes for you, though you’re lucky a museum has your book. That’ll buy you some time.”
Torquemada nodded, conceding the point. With my books being self-published, they were far more likely to vanish forever.
“The threat of fading constantly faces us, each and every day,” I continued. “And Dorothy Gale isn’t gone. You made a mistake. Her books and games and films still exist – and so does she!”
“I assure you, no mistake was made. And I never said Oz was gone. Just Dorothy.”
“That makes no sense!” I protested.
If all copies of the Oz books were lost, all characters and the entire world surrounding them would be gone. Dorothy Gale couldn’t have faded on her own. She was linked to the books, and the films. The two were impossible to separate.
“As for my motivations, would you believe me if I told you that I wish to hire you because of my love of stories? To protect them from wanton destruction?” Torquemada said.
“No, I would not.”
“Well, Mr. Drawn. If I can’t convince you that I’m telling the truth, then perhaps I should go.”
He made a move towards the doors, still facing me. Then the large man stopped, reacquainting himself with his sly grin.
“I did actually read your first story, that marvelously silly tale about the hunt for the Silver Phoenix.”
I gave him a long, hard look. Yes, we can read books in the fictional world as well. Books that exist in the human world also exist in the fictional one. All you need is to find a portal to a story that is supposed to realistically represent the contemporary human world, and then track down a copy of the book as it would be duplicated there. For Dr. Torquemada to unearth Richly Drawn and the Silver Phoenix, he must have been searching for a good long while – certainly for longer than Dorothy Gale had been faded.
“I was struck by the narrative, even though the quality of the writing was sub-par. I reckon you will not find such a statement insulting, as your creator’s skills are, how shall I put it…lacking grace. But the book is striking nonetheless.”
“What about it is so striking?”
“Well, I do quite appreciate the fantastical aspects of the story. Like say, the statuette… the Silver Phoenix.”
“Yeah?”
“It had some rather remarkable attributes.”
“You mean, like giving me the ability to see the dead?”
“Yes. Indeed, but also the description of it. How it was linked to past cultures, from the dawn of our history, and the dawn of our culture as a species. It was an icon of storytelling. In fact, your author wrote that it bore a perfect resemblance to the first character ever written...”
“Sure,” I said, disinterested.
“Say, Mr. Drawn, at the end of the story, you hid the Silver Phoenix statuette, but the book fails to mention where. It merely says it was buried somewhere clever.”
“That’s my author for you. Not much for detail in his narratives.”
“No, I’m afraid he wasn’t,” Torquemada laughed. “It left me wanting. I have a great sense of curiosity, you see, and I feel unfulfilled if a story leaves out key details. Would you indulge me and share with me the location?”
I stared at him, at his oh-so-innocent smile. Why did he want to know that? He’d been ransacking my office, searching for something. And he’d admitted he was written as a villain. Perhaps it was wise to keep mum. Not that it mattered. I knew exactly where I’d buried the Silver Phoenix icon, keeping detailed notes in my case file. Which was here, in my office.
I cast a quick look down at the bottom shelf of my overflowing bookcase. There it was, safe, inside the leather-bound diary I had used.
“It wouldn’t be proper of me to reveal its location, even to a tourist with no connection to my plot.”
“Richly, you shouldn’t feel beholden to your stories. They are not all that you are. They do not define you. Take it from someone whose tale was left unfinished, and who had to make due with very little purpose. You can break ranks, and find some worth in such actions.”
He smiled at me. It was a genuine smile. I felt taken aback. Why did these words sting so much? And how the hell did he, with so little life force to his name, remain so irritatingly confident? I shook my head.
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, mister,” I said. “We’re not worthy of more than we have, and if Dorothy Gale is dead, then better characters than us will find out why.”
Dr. Torquemada sighed and reached for the door handle. He stopped, and put something he’d been hiding in his hand into his pocket. I was about to ask what it was, but he distracted me by pulling out his wallet and withdrawing several crisp hundred-dollar bills from it.
As a fictional character, I don’t actually need money. I just covet it because I was supposed to – my penniless author was preoccupied with money, and added that preoccupation into the text of my stories. But more than money, he wanted validation. He wanted to be read, to matter, to actually have an impact on the world. I admit, that too had rubbed off on me. And Torquemada knew just how to stoke it.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious?” Dr. Torquemada said.
“No.”
“Mr. Drawn, why don’t I believe you?”
“Well, you are a villain. Villains usually aren’t very trusting, or very trustworthy.”
“Perhaps not, but what do you have to lose? Truly, there must be more to life than just enduring…and waiting to fade.”
I stared at him, unable to come up with a good answer. I didn’t believe Dorothy Gale was dead, but I had to see for myself. And I’d happily take his money. If this entire thing turned out to be a con of some sort, then I still got to go see the Land of Oz. I had visited that world many times before, but I would gladly return. It was one of my favorite stories.
Worst-case scenario, Dr. Torquemada would have a laugh at my expense, and I’d poke Dorothy Gale to see if she was dead or alive. She’d tell me to buzz off like a lost little Jitterbug, and that would be the end of it.
“I’ll just leave these with your secretary in the outer office,” Torquemada said, folding the bills into a wad. “Should you decide to accept, you’ll find that the Munchkin Village is the scene of the crime.”
“Fine, you win. I’ll take the damn case.”
“Excellent, I’m glad to hear it.”
“Guess I’m off to find the nearest twister.”
“Godspeed, Mr. Drawn.”
“Just one little thing.”
“Yes?”
“Hand over what you stole from my office.”
Torquemada’s jowls shook, like he was about to mount a vigorous defense. Then he guffawed, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a book. It was a copy of Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw.
“My apologies. I could not resist.”
“It’s a good read.”
“Henry James usually is.”
With a tip of his fez, he was out the door. I heard him deposit the money with Dora, who gasped at the sight.
I left the novella on my desk, amused. Honestly, the book was readily available. It was especially in-vogue these days, with an upcoming gathering of famous characters scheduled to take place in that world. Had Torquemada asked, I would have given it to him.
This was a strange day, and it had only just begun. For the first time ever, I was going to another world not just as a tourist, but as a detective on a case. I had a purpose, a reason to carry on. I hadn’t felt this good since the first few months of my existence, back when the life force of my initial (and alas, only) readers had surged into my stories.
It was so thrilling, in fact, that I forgot to check the case files on my way out. Had I done that, I would have seen that several pages were missing.