San Diego Noir

a comics illustrator.”

“Yeah, I know, but—”

“Why don’t you tell me a little about your novel. So I’ll know whether or not it’d even be worth your while to see more of my work.”

Rather than argue, Fenderson gave her the bare bones of it, as careful as ever not to say more than was absolutely necessary. People were always on the lookout for what Fenderson had to offer, a fresh, new idea with endless commercial possibilities, and even a nobody like Alcott could get him ripped off if he took her too far into his confidence.

She listened to his pitch without comment, sipping her tea and picking at her salad, her face as devoid of expression as a porcelain doll’s. If he hadn’t known better, Fenderson would have thought she was bored by it all, until he wrapped things up and she nodded her head and said, “Wow. That’s really something.”

“It is, right? It’ll make a hell of a movie, but I thought selling it as a graphic novel first would be the best way to get a film deal done.”

“Sure.”

“Which brings us back to you and your work. I’d love to have you onboard as the illustrator, but I haven’t seen enough of what you can do to know whether or not you’d be right for the project. Have I?”

Without further encouragement, Alcott opened the portfolio propped against the chair beside her and eased a page out of it, handling it with the care of an obstetrician delivering a newborn. It was the pencil-and-ink page she’d allowed Fenderson to have a look at earlier; the text seemed to suggest some kind of weird superhero/sci-fi hybrid. The words meant nothing to Fenderson but the artwork was striking, proving that his initial impression, based on just the first panel, had been accurate. Alcott was damn good. Certainly good enough to illustrate his proposal. And beyond that, who gave a rat’s ass? Once he had his novel sold, the publisher could sign Alcott up or replace her with whomever they liked.

“Yeah. I think you’re my illustrator,” Fenderson said.

Alcott took her artwork back and returned it to her portfolio. “Wonderful.”

He thought she’d be excited, but she almost looked more sad than happy.

“Now, about what I can pay you …” he started to say.

But Alcott cut him off: “I know. It won’t be much. I’m just a beginner and you’re a real pro. I’m sure whatever you offer me will be more than fair.”

Fenderson couldn’t believe it. This had to be fate, the Big Break he’d been waiting all his life to get. There was no other explanation for how easily it was all falling into place. He would have felt better if the fog lifted and he could remember something, anything, about this frumpy broad from her time as a student in his classroom, just so he’d have a frame of reference as he continued to play her for the fool he was counting on her to be. But what he knew about her now was enough, at least for the moment: she was talented, hungry, and willing to work with him at any cost.

“Cheers,” Fenderson said, lifting his beer mug.

“Cheers,” Alcott replied, tapping it with her water glass. And now the smile that stretched across her face seemed to hold no hidden meaning at all; it was just the smile of a lady on the brink of having her greatest dream come true.

“Ken Fenderson. Wow,” she said. “Do you know how long I’ve been hoping to run into you again?”

Fenderson couldn’t remember much of anything after that. He ordered another beer, went to the bathroom, they finished their meals and asked for the check.

Then, boom, the next thing he knew, he was in Alcott’s apartment, or what he assumed was her apartment. Between the dim lighting and the excruciating pain he was in, it was hard to be sure where he was.

As near as he could tell, he was sprawled facedown across her bed, naked, hands and feet hog-tied to the frame like somebody about to be drawn and quartered. His mouth had a sock or something stuffed into it and his head was pounding so hard every blink of his eyes came at a price. He tried to scream, yanking at his bonds with the fury of a rodeo steer trapped in the gate, but the gag swallowed up his voice like a sponge. All his muffled cries managed to do was draw Alcott over from another room.

“Ah. Finally awake,” she said, peering down at him.

She was wearing nothing but a bra and panties, both simple and white, without a hint of decorative lace. The sight should have disgusted Fenderson, even in the relative dark, but to his utter amazement, he found himself aroused by it. Rather than the shapeless blob her dowdy clothes had promised, Alcott’s body was full and curvaceous, a balanced blend of generous bosom and wide hips.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “This isn’t the body you were expecting. I don’t dress to impress the way I once did, do I? Or do you still not really remember me, even without my clothes?”

She was crazy. Fenderson had no idea what she was talking about. Why the hell should he remember what Alcott looked like without—

Oh, Jesus.

Jennifer Alcott. That Jennifer Alcott. One of several female students he’d had the hots for during his teaching days, and one of the few he’d taken to his bed. Some willingly, some not so willingly. Every woman was different. Alcott had been one of those who needed a little chemical push.

As the memory of that night finally came into focus, the mystery of how Alcott had managed to get him here today, in this place and in this unenviable position, without any conscious cooperation on his part that he could recall, was all too easily solved. No wonder he had a splitting headache. She must have slipped the drug into his beer while he’d been in the bathroom.

Now Fenderson was afraid. Really afraid.

He tried screaming again.

“Screaming’s good,” Alcott said. “I screamed a lot after you did what you did to me. I know. I hated myself