Leaving Fantasy Land

By James E. Parker

Leaving Fantasy Land is a crime thriller with heart.

Entering his early forties, Tram Taylor finds himself at a crossroads in his humdrum, boring life. His dream of being a cop died on the vine years ago. His marriage is slowly unraveling one tattered thread at a time. And his comic book store, Fantasy Land, is a brick and mortar testament to a life of failed dreams. However, all of that changes when a mysterious dead body suddenly turns up in the dumpster behind his store the day after the store was vandalized and robbed. When Tram’s wife Becky is discovered to be missing, he’s sure her disappearance has to be tied to the dead body in the Fantasy Land dumpster. It’s only after the Milwaukee P.D. seemingly drag their feet in finding his missing wife that Tram sets out himself to connect the dots between the dumpster-diving dead body and who has his wife. A random burglary, a dire hostage situation, and an unlikely partner force Tram Taylor to become the cop he’s always felt he was destined to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James E. Parker
• Release date: Mar 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476490953

James E. Parker

James E. Parker perfectly blends gritty hardboiled fiction with contemporary heart-pounding crime fiction. If you like the smooth stylistic writing of Michael Connelly or the old school grit and gravel of Raymond Chandler, you are sure to love the work of James E. Parker. James E. Parker's debut crime thriller Leaving Fantasy Land is now available at smashwords for most ebook readers.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I walked out on the patio to check the progress of the smoking burgers on the grill. The cool breeze of a late Wisconsin summer blew across my face as the backdoor shut behind me. The charbroiled aroma of grade-A beef wafted up from the grill when I opened the lid. The chilly breath of Lake Michigan sent spirals of grill smoke around my head.

Tram-- Tram!

Almost done, Becky, I shouted back to my wife through the kitchen window.

Are those burgers done yet? I need to get the corn out of the oven and let it cool.

As I stuck my head up to the window screen for her to hear, and with a hint of irritation rising, I shouted, Becky, I said just a minute. I looked out across the backyard. The kids--Mandy, now eleven and three-quarters according to her calculations, and Cam, who had just turned fourteen--were hitting a kickball back and forth to one another using sticks from the fire pit.

Mandy! You suck at hitting the ball.

Daddy, Cam said ‘suck!’ Mandy screamed in a loud enough voice for the neighbors three houses down to hear. I hardly acknowledged their back and forth banter. Maybe because fourteen years of raising kids had helped me learn to tune out all but the urgent or life-threatening. Like a bad song on the radio, I could change the station with the turn of a thought. I flipped the station back to the past and found myself lost there.

I had been with Becky Morrison since college. Becky’s neat auburn strands were pulled tightly around her serious face in those days, but those ocean blue eyes that sat behind her all-business black frames were what first grabbed me and began reeling me in. After twenty-one years of marriage and two kids, her serious look had given way to a lighter flowing and less pristine, Becky Taylor. I liked the new as well as I had the old, and those ocean eyes still crashed on the shores of my heart every time I gazed into their endless blue.

Becky was a Journalism major, and I was a Criminal Justice major with a minor in History. She had always been extremely focused and a bit of an overachiever. Not that our small Midwestern private college had all that much competition to offer, but Becky was president of the student body twice and editor of the school newspaper. I, on the other hand, drank a lot of beer, had a lot of fun, eked through my major, and barely got the credits to complete my History minor. Mostly because I had my mind set on becoming a cop. At twenty-one years old I knew it all and didn’t see how being Joe College fit into my future plans. Nineteen years later, I saw a scared and scrawny police recruit in the rearview mirror that didn’t know jack shit. If you had told me back in those days that my dreams of serving on the force would crumble like the Berlin Wall, or that I would be here doing what I do now, that young arrogant kid would have tightened his tiny muscles and laughed in your face.

Dad-- Do you hear me? Mandy shouted.

Cam, stop agitating your sister, I shouted as the channel changed and I came swirling like grill smoke back to the present, and come inside. It’s time for dinner.

Over dinner Becky monotonously retraced her day, stop-by-stop, in between bites of the slightly charred burgers. The kids’ banter gave way to silence as they consumed the meal like tigers with a fresh kill.

Did you sell much today? Becky asked as she pulled her laundry list of events into the station bringing it to a stop.

Well, not as much as I would’ve liked.

I let out a single laugh stuffing a soggy baked french fry in my mouth. After years of teaching Intro. to American History in the local high school, I had finally dared to roll the dice on transforming my hobby into my job. I’d said goodbye to my position at the school and had become the not-so-proud new owner of my very own comic book/memorabilia store. Becky had always been patient, if not supportive, of my ever-growing collection of everything eighties. It had, in fact, provided us with some additional income over the years just when we needed it most. Our basement had sprawled out into a shrine and storage unit for everything from old Batman comics to mint condition, still-in-the-box A-Team figurines. For the last several years I had been buying and selling collectibles on eBay, but never had the income--or maybe the balls--to see if I could get my own brick and mortar store off the ground and make it fly. Then one of my college buddies called me out of the blue one day and said, You wanna make some money? It turned out that my friend’s investment company had bought several properties in the city. He knew I’d always had a pipe dream of owning my own store. Becky and I had moved to the suburbs several years back to get the kids in a more stable, and definitely safer, environment. The city had slowly putrefied into a sewer, and we had grown sick of swimming with the rats. But a trip into the city’s historic downtown area was only about a thirty-five minute drive from our new home in the suburb of Grafton. Before I could get my head around it all, I had left my teaching job and become the sole proprietor of a small, but modern looking, collectible store in the newly refurbished part of downtown Milwaukee.

Although it cost me a large chunk of my meager startup budget, I popped for a brightly colored storefront sign that I hoped would eventually bring in lots of foot traffic. It cut a four-by-eight patch from the sky directly above the boardwalk and stuck out of the front of my shop like a lightning bolt. In bright blue and yellow plastic it boldly shouted, Fantasy Land.

We were by no means making even a good living from the store, but we were breaking even and starting to make a small profit just six months into getting the store up and running. That’s not bad for any new business. As a matter of fact, from what the pencil pushers told me, that’s pretty damn good. That small profit coupled with the earnings from Becky’s freelance writing made us able to provide a nice home and good life for our kids, Cam and Mandy. Becky had been writing for several smaller, but nationally syndicated, magazines for the last several years. The lion’s share of our income had always filtered in from her, even right out of college when she worked as the editor of a small paper in the little Midwestern town where we lived.

I swallowed another french fry and took our conversation even deeper into the mundane, Had a strange one come in to the store today.

How can you tell? Did he have more tape around the center of his glasses than your other customers? she responded with a chuckle.

Funny! Those nerds are paying the rent for that place, by the way. Seriously though, there was something off about this guy who came in just after lunch today. I proceeded to walk her through the strange encounter I’d had in the store that afternoon.

I was in the back finishing my sandwich when I heard the door chime. I went out to see if it might be the FedEx guy. He usually comes around one. This guy in--uh--I don’t know, probably his late forties, was standing at the counter. He was chopped off on top with a crew cut that faded into salt and pepper sides and was wearing a cheap looking gray suit with a black tie. He had on mirrored sunglasses. You know, like the ones from the seventies. As the words rolled off of my lips, it dawned on me that my unknown visitor had hit me as a sort of short-cropped Harry Callahan.

Anyway, not our typical clientele to say the least. What struck me about him, though, wasn’t so much the way he was dressed as his overall demeanor. He was kind of, well--

Well, what? Becky asked puzzled.

He was just kind of nervous. Sort of like he was in a hurry, or like he was being secretive or something.

Becky pulled down a long drink of soda and asked, What did he want?

Well, that’s the thing. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out something wrapped in a newspaper. He laid it on the counter and unrolled it. Inside was a Battle Cat figurine.

A what? Becky said as she accidentally let her fork fall to the plate with a solid clank.

It’s this green and orange collectible tiger figurine from an old animated TV series. He looked around the store almost like he was checking to see if anyone was watching.

So what’s so strange about that, Tram? Maybe he was in a hurry or something.

Oh, he was in a hurry alright. He said something to me almost in a whisper. Something about not being able to list the figurine on eBay this time. Then I think he said he decided to drop it off in person, but again, I couldn’t hear him very well because he spoke so quietly. I half suspected that maybe he was on something and had wandered in hoping I’d give him enough cash for his next fix. I picked the figurine up and told him I’d have to take a closer look at it. I reached under the counter to get my magnifying glass. At first I couldn’t find it. So I laid the Battle Cat back on the countertop and bent down behind the counter to look for the magnifying glass. I had to get down on one knee to reach it because it was on the bottom shelf near the back of the counter. I reached in and pulled it out. Then I heard the front door chime again. When I stood up, the guy was gone.

Well, maybe he thought you bent down to call the cops or something. Maybe he got scared and decided to take off. Tram, you know people on drugs never make logical decisions. Who knows what that man was on. I’m so glad we moved out of the city. Becky started trailing off changing her own radio station. I brought her back.

I don’t know. I just got a funny feeling in my gut from him. It was just the way he looked, or maybe his nervousness. Really, it was everything about him I guess. Something was just off. I mean most every guy who walks in my place, whether buying or selling, has to go thumb around whatever section piques their interest. Other than the occasional parents shopping for a toy for their kids, we only get--well, like you said--nerds. This guy just didn’t seem to fit the bill, you know?

Well, maybe he decided it wasn’t worth the risk, Becky said, poking around in her food like she was looking for something I couldn’t see.

"I know it sounds crazy, but the glasses, the suit, the nerves--he just kind of creeped me out, that’s all.

A lot of the people who come in your store kind of creep me out, Becky said.

I laughed knowing how right she was and left it at that. After dinner Becky loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher while I got the kids through their nightly routine of showers, teeth brushing, and bedtime arguments about what lights could be left on upstairs to keep the boogeyman away from Mandy’s room. Later that evening, I drifted off to dream under the glow of the bedroom television and the fuzzy buzz I got off of a cold imported beer. Becky was typing feverishly away on an article she’d been working on for tomorrow’s deadline. The continual tapping of her laptop keys faded next to me as their familiar clicking pulled me toward a deep dark sleep. The beer helped too.

Chapter 2

The noisy exhaust of my old Cherokee rumbled to a stop as I wheeled into the tiny cramped parking space just adjacent to the back alley running down the north side of Fantasy Land. In this particular lot there were only about eight spaces for the shop owners located along our little patch of the lakefront. Being one of the newer shops in this section, my parking placard still bore a shiny finish with the name of my shop sprayed and stenciled in flat black paint.

Running my fingers through my short tussled hair, I glanced up into the rearview mirror. I noticed how my age was beginning to show in the salt and brown pepper splotches around my temples. Crow’s feet had begun to inchworm their way around the corners of my eyes over the last couple of years. Who knew forty could look this good? I said, laughing out loud to myself alone in the Cherokee. Still looking in the mirror, I slightly turned my head to the right while rubbing my hand across the sharp stubble on my jaw. Time for my weekly shave, I thought. I could hear Becky’s voice in my head asking if it would kill me to dress up a little every now and then. She and the kids often joked about how I could start my own fashion style and call it slacker casual. She didn’t really care about my appearance, but she was the first to admit that she did like to see me in the occasional polo shirt rather than my usual jeans and retro T-shirt. My extensive wardrobe of superhero and retro catchphrase T’s fit in just fine with my clientele at Fantasy Land.

Pulling out my shop keys from the console, I slid out of the cracked leather seat and headed down the alley. The damp, fish-infused smell of Lake Michigan hung thick in the air. I walked to the weathered metal door in the back alley that read Fantasy Land in the same stenciled, flat black paint as my parking placard. Unlocking the door, I sauntered in while sucking energy from my stainless steel coffee mug as the wind from the lake blew the door shut with a thunk behind me. Although Fantasy Land’s interior looked much like one of the nationwide chains of movie rental stores with its brightly colored blue and yellow carpet that perfectly matched the color scheme of the sign protruding from the store’s front, the back of Fantasy Land was far from a fantasy. Old metal shelves housed many small wooden and cardboard cubbies filled with various toys and trinkets from a generation now gone by. The mildew smell of dust and old plastic was hardly noticeable to me anymore. I had gotten used to the daily routine of inventory and pack-and-ship in the cluttered back room. I flipped on the large main breaker just to the right of the door. My eyes narrowed to slits as they adjusted from the total dark of the back room to the dim glow of buzzing fluorescents now beginning to flicker on overhead.

What the hell? I swore as my coffee cup slipped from my hand and clanked against the concrete floor with a dull metallic thud. I swept the entire back room in one scanning motion. Everything was pulled from its shelf and scattered across the floor. Boxes, toys, comics, and trinkets were thrown haphazardly all over the back room. My store stood scattered like a trailer park after a tornado. Sliding my way past the carnage and carefully moving collectibles out of the way with my foot as I went, I shuffled down one of the aisles to the blue curtain leading into the front of the store. Sliding the blue blockade just slightly open, I quietly poked my head out, Punxsutawney Phil-style. From my position behind the safety of the curtain, I cautiously surveyed the front of the store for any burglars that I may have inadvertently caught red-handed. Nobody here, I thought to myself. The front of the store might as well have been the back of a garbage truck.

I stepped out from behind the iron fortress of the blue curtain. Suddenly my head began to spin. I looked around the room. Everything was pulled from its place. Barren, yellow metal shelves sat stoic all along the store walls. Their emptiness reminded me of the empty void in my own chest. The one thing I had been successful at in my life was ripped apart and laying in pieces around me on the floor. Just the day before these empty shelves displayed all manner of what I often called nerd porn. Things like A-Team Vans, Star Wars figurines, Star Trek figurines, Phasers, and Light Sabers all now littered the carpeted floor. All of my dreams, as well as any future income, was now scattered like smoldering ashes escaping a rising fire. What wasn’t torn to bits was smashed to pieces. It looked like someone had traveled back to nineteen eighty-five and set off a pop culture bomb.

Hanging movie posters from the eighties were torn, and their streaming remnants cascaded from the ceiling in paper ribbons. What was left of a smashed, plastic collectible Millennium Falcon that once hung proudly over the Star Wars memorabilia section now dangled by a single strand of fishing line. Various plastic superheroes had fallen from their lofty pedestals of superhuman splendor. Boxes that just yesterday had contained sealed comic books and metal collectible cars were ripped to shreds and thrown all over the display shelves and floor. Someone in one fell swoop had taken down the entire Marvel and DC Comic empires. There was a sign above the door at the entrance that read, You are now leaving Fantasy Land. It was hanging ironically askew, dangling from its one still-attached corner.

Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pulled out my cell, unlocked the screen, and pressed 2. Becky’s picture appeared subtitled with the message, Connecting. Her voice came brightly through the phone. Hi, Hon. You sure are calling early today.

Becky, I came back bluntly, we’ve been robbed. The long silence on the other end of the line spread slowly out.

What? Robbed? How? she finally said nursing her hysteria. She stumbled on her words before I could answer. Uhh--Tram, are you okay?

I’m fine. But the store is wrecked.

What all did they take? she asked, not knowing exactly what to say next.

I’m not sure yet. I just got here.

How did they get in? Did the alarm go off? What did they steal? I mean, did they get in the safe? Becky knew that all the money at the end of everyday went in the safe stowed away behind a plastic container in the back room. On Mondays I always took the previous week’s deposit to the bank. But this being Friday, there was sure to be a few thousand dollars in the safe.

I don’t know.

"You don’t know what?" She asked, lightly touching a flame to her already short fuse.

How they got in, or if they got in the safe? I don’t know anything yet, I barked, showing my agitation. Like I said, Becky, I just got here. Everything is in total disarray. That’s all I know right now.

As I talked to her, I inspected the normally bright red light of the alarm that now looked back at me pale red and lifeless. I traced the wires with my eyes down the wall to the floor where it went out through a tiny crack just near the bottom of the glass entrance door.

The alarm seems to be disconnected. It looks like maybe someone cut it from the outside. The front door lock is busted too, I said as I noticed the front glass door lightly knocking against its frame in the wind like a tired stranger.

Becky chimed in, Tram, have you called the police?

Uhh--no. I haven’t. I just--uhh, I drunkenly stammered as I walked out of the open glass door to inspect the wires running up to the small alarm speaker hidden in the building’s front trim just above the Fantasy Land sign.

Tram, hold on, Becky said, the impatience tightening in her voice. Yes, I’m here for a meeting with Joe Standrige in Publications. Thanks. Have a nice day.

Sorry, Hon. I had to get into the parking structure. I’m just about to drop off my article and meet with Mr. Standrige about next month’s publication and deadline. Look, call the police and file a report. Call me before lunch, and maybe we can meet somewhere. It would be good for you to get away from there and take some time to assess what to do next.

Becky’s impeccable plan for everything at a moment’s notice often ruffled my feathers. Today, though, with all the events of the morning swirling in my head like seagulls, it rose in my throat like bile. Fine! I snapped. I’ll call the police.

Becky quickly inserted, And call me later about--

I’ve got to go, Becky. Go to your meeting. I cut her off and pressed hard against the angry red End Call button on the touch screen.

After finding