Pain Management

“Oh sure. That’s Madison’s.”

“Madison, the guy who wrote this?”

“Yep. Only she’s not a guy. She lives around here, you know.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Portland’s really a big town for graphic artists,” he said in a confidential tone, like he was disclosing secrets. “Dark Horse Comics, that’s one of the major independents, they’re right over in Milwaukie.”

“Is that right?”

“Sure.”

“And they publish this one?” I asked, holding up my one copy of Cuckoo.

“Nah. That’s from a real indie operation. There isn’t much money in comics anymore, not like the old days.”

“The old days?”

“Yeah, like, oh, ten years ago, there were all kinds of comics selling hundreds of thousands of copies. Big collector’s market, too.”

“But not anymore?”

“Right. The bottom’s dropped out for everything but the super-primo stuff. But you know what? Comics are coming back, my friend. Those of us who stay the course, we’re the ones going to clean up when it turns around.”

“Uh-huh. So this Cuckoo, is it a good investment?”

“Could be,” he said, stroking his chin, considering. “The early editions, especially the first one, they could be worth a nice piece of change. The later ones . . . I don’t think so. It’s gotten real popular now. Won some awards. Not as collectible.”

“But it would be better to have the whole set, right?”

“Always better,” he assured me. “A mint set, from number one on, well, I’m not promising anything, but that’d be a good play, I think.”

“Okay, I’m sold,” I told him, wondering what I was letting myself in for. “How much for a whole set?”

“Well, see, I don’t have a whole set here. We don’t keep back issues much anymore; it just doesn’t pay. I’ve got . . . let me see . . . okay, I’ve got numbers five through nine.”

“But you could get the others, right?”

“Sure. Might take a while, but . . .”

“You think Madison would have back issues?”

“Oh sure, man. Every creator keeps copies of their own stuff.”

“Creator?”

“Yeah!” He chuckled. “That’s what comics folk call the people who create comics, like the people who draw them, you see what I’m saying?”

“Yeah. Well, could you give her a call, ask her?”

“Uh . . . I guess so.”

When he saw I wasn’t going to move, he fumbled around with some papers behind the counter. Finally he said, “I don’t see her number here, man. Tell you what, okay? I’ll ask around, find it out easy enough. You want to check back in a few days?”

“That’s a little hit-or-miss for me,” I said. “Are these comics like books? I mean, are they worth more if the author signs them?”

“Absolutely,” he said, reverently.

“So, okay, here’s the deal. How about five hundred for a complete set, but all signed, okay?”

His eyes flickered, so I guessed I’d bid a little high.

“I can get that for you,” he said quickly.

“Fair enough. You track her down, give me a call, and we’ll set up a meet.”

“A meet? What for?”

“Well, look—friend—no offense. I don’t know anything about comics, but I know how things work. She’s got to sign them in front of me, so I know it’s legit; fair enough?”

“I can authenticate—”

“That’s the only way I want to do it. Look, I’ll leave you my number, you reach out, find out if it’s okay with her. It is, you give me a call. It’s not, no harm done.”

He was dubious, but he took my number. When I left, the place was still as empty as a senator’s conscience.

It didn’t take him long. My cellular buzzed the next afternoon.

“What?”

“Uh, this is Smilin’ Jack, man. From Turbocomix. Remember, you wanted to buy—”

“Sure, I remember. Madison going to sign them for me?”

“Well, man, here’s the thing. She’s willing to sign them, sure; but—I got to tell you—Madison, she’s a real nice person, we all like her a lot.”

“So?”

“So I told her you don’t look like no comics collector to me, man. And I think I might have made her nervous.”

“So tell her to bring a few friends.”

“Well, she wants to do it a little different, man.”

“Tell me.”

“She wants to meet you at the federal courthouse. Outside, on the steps.”

“Okay.”

“Just like that? You know that address, man?”

“Sure,” I lied, figuring it couldn’t be that hard to find.

“Always a lot of cops around there,” he said, obliquely. “But so what, right? I mean, it’s only going to take a couple of minutes for her to sign your books.”

“Sure. Fair enough.”

“You don’t care?”

“No. I figure, she’s an artist, right? They’re all weird.”

“Tomorrow.” He chuckled. “Eleven a.m.”

I could have sent Gem, but I figured this Madison would be less likely to spook if the person waiting for her matched the comic-shop guy’s description. At 10:52, I strolled up Southwest Third Avenue to the courthouse. I was wearing a charcoal suit with a faint chalk stripe over a white shirt and port-wine tie, carrying a black belting-leather briefcase. Lawyer-look; corporate, not criminal . . . although, if the Portland cops were anything like their New York brothers, they wouldn’t acknowledge a difference.

The courthouse was nothing like the Roman Colosseum monster they have in Manhattan. It was simple and kind of elegant, with a short flight of steps flanked on the left by a slab of black marble, complete with the obligatory quote from some historically significant person. I leaned against the marble slab, put the briefcase between my feet. Then I opened my copy of Cuckoo and scanned it like it was a court decision.

People streamed by on the sidewalk. Hard to imagine a more public spot. Whoever this Madison was, she knew something about self-defense.

Directly across the street was a small public park—just wide enough for a few trees, a couple of benches, and a statue. I saw a guy with long dark hair sitting on a bench, a pair of binoculars to his eyes. Bird-watchers can be some pretty dedicated people, but I’d never heard of one interested in pigeons.

She approached from my left, moving slowly . . . wary and alert, a bright-colored comic book in her right hand. A slender woman with long, wild white-blond hair, scarlet lipstick harsh against a never-seen-sun complexion. She wore black pants, a black thigh-length jacket, and a white blouse, with a big red purse on a strap over one shoulder. I tucked my comic under my arm, spread my hands a little, caught her eye. I knew better than to try a smile.