Live Fantasy Phone-Pick Your Girl!
There were three rows, four girls in each row, all the way down the page. Myron’s eyes scanned down. He could not believe what he was seeing. “Oriental Girls Are Waiting!” “Wet and Juicy Lesbos!” “Spank Me, Please!” “Bitches in Heat!” “Tiny Titties!” (for those who didn’t like the cover shot, no doubt) “I Want You to Ride Me!” “Pick My Cherry!” “Make Me Beg for More!” “Wanted: Robocock.” “Mistress Savannah Demands You Call Now!” “Horny Housewife!” “Overweight Men Wanted.” Each with matching photo-provocative poses involving telephones.
There were some that were far more raunchy. Cross-dressers. Women with men’s equipment. There were some Myron could not even understand. Like unfathomable science experiments. The telephone numbers were what you’d expect. 1-800-888-SLUT. 1-900-46-TRAMP. 1-800-REAM-MEE. 1-900-BAD-GIRL.
Myron made a face. He wanted to wash his hands.
Then he saw it.
It was in the bottom row, second from the right. It read, “I’ll Do Anything!” The phone number was 1-900-344 -LUST. $3.99 per minute. Discreetly billed to your telephone or charge card. Visa/MC accepted.
The woman in the picture was Kathy Culver.
Myron felt a coldness seep into him. He turned back to the cover and checked the date. It was the current issue.
“When did you get this?”
“It came in today’s mail,” Christian said, picking up an envelope. “In this.”
Myron’s head began to swim. He tried to fight the dizziness and get some kind of footing, but the picture of Kathy kept tipping him back over. The envelope was plain manila. There was no return address-that would have been too easy. It was not postmarked and had no stamps, merely reading:
CHRISTIAN STEELE
BOX 488
No city, no state. That meant it’d been mailed on campus. The address had been handwritten.
“You get lots of fan mail, right?” Myron asked.
Christian nodded. “But they go somewhere else. This was in my private box. The number is unlisted.”
Myron handled the envelope carefully, trying not to smudge any potential fingerprints. “It could be trick photography,” Myron added. “Someone might have superimposed her head on-”
Christian stopped him with a shake of his head. His eyes were back on the floor. “It’s not just her face, Mr. Bolitar,” he said, embarrassed.
“Oh,” Myron said, ever swift on the uptake. “I see.”
“Do you think we should give this to the police?” Christian asked.
“Perhaps.”
“I want to do the right thing,” Christian said, his hands balling into fists. “But I won’t let them drag Kathy through the mud again. You saw what they did when she was the victim. What will they do when they see this?”
“They’ll go animal,” he agreed.
Christian nodded.
“But it’s probably just a prank,” Myron continued. “I’ll check it out before we do anything else.”
“How?”
“Let me worry about that.”
“There’s one other thing,” Christian said. “The handwriting on the envelope.”
Myron glanced at it again. “What about it?”
“I can’t say for sure, but it looks a lot like Kathy’s.”
Chapter 3
Myron stopped short when he saw her.
He had just stumbled into the bar in something of a daydream, his mind like a movie camera that couldn’t stay in focus. He tried to sift through what he had just seen and learned from Christian, tried to compute the facts and form a solid, well-conceived conclusion.
He came up with nothing.
The magazine was jammed into the right pocket of his trench coat. Porn mag and trench coat, Myron thought. Jesus. The same questions echoed ad nauseam in his head: Could Kathy Culver still be alive? And if she was, what had happened to her? What could have led Kathy from the innocence of her dorm room to the back pages of
That was when he spotted the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
She was sitting on a stool, her long legs crossed, sipping gently at her drink. She wore a white blouse opened at the throat, a short gray skirt, and black stockings. Everything clung just right. For a fleeting moment Myron thought she was just a by-product of his daydream, a dazzling vision to tantalize the senses. But the knot in his stomach made him quickly dismiss that notion. His throat went dry. Deep, dormant emotions crashed down upon him like a surprise wave at the beach.
He managed to swallow and commanded his legs to move forward. She was, quite simply, breathtaking. Everything else in the bar faded into the background, as though they were only stage props set for her.
Myron approached. “Come here often?” he asked.
She looked at him like he was an old man jogging in a Speedo. “Original line,” she said. “Very creative.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “But what a delivery.” He smiled. Winningly, he thought.
“Glad you think so.” She turned back to her drink. “Please leave.”
“Playing hard to get?”
“Get lost.”
Myron grinned. “Stop it already. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Pardon me.”
“It’s obvious to everyone in this bar.”
“Oh?” she remarked. “Do enlighten.”
“You want me. Bad.”
She almost smiled. “That obvious, huh?”
“Don’t blame yourself. I’m irresistible.”
“Uh-huh. Catch me if I swoon.”
“I’m right here, sweetcakes.”
She sighed deeply. She was as beautiful as ever, as beautiful as the day she had walked out on him. He hadn’t seen her in four years, but it still hurt to think about her. It hurt even more to look at her. Their weekend at Win’s house on Martha’s Vineyard came to him. He could still remember the way the ocean breeze blew her hair, the way she tilted her head when he spoke, the way she looked and felt in his old sweatshirt. Simple fragile bliss. The knot in his stomach tightened.
“Hello, Myron,” she said.
“Hello, Jessica. You’re looking well.”
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“My office is upstairs. I practically live here.”
She smiled. “Oh, that’s right. You represent athletes now, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Better than working all that undercover stuff?”
Myron did not bother answering. She glanced at him but did not hold the gaze.
“I’m waiting for someone,” Jessica said suddenly.
