Welcome to Dullsville

By M. Nick

Mars Black is a big city private detective who works the seamy side of Grayville, a city perpetually cloaked in fog, a city without sights, a city he sometimes calls “Dullsville.” After he is hired by a man named Baker, though, things become a little less dull. The detective is perplexed by this man who looks and talks like a college professor but moves around the city with armed bodyguards. Mars is set the task of finding a character named Sailor Malloy, a seedy type who Baker says has something of his and he wants it back. Baker won't reveal what it is Sailor has, which cramps Black's efforts of finding him. He makes progress, though, and as the story progresses gets more information on the mysterious thing that Baker is actually after. He hangs out in a dive strip bar called The Time Out, like "time out" in a kid's game where cops and criminals coexist and no one brings their work there. He is frequently accosted there by a pair of homicide detectives who are incompetent louts and whom he considers to be a "bad comedy team. Things in this story get weirder and weirder to the point of surreal.

Welcome to Dullsville is written in black and white, like a 30’s gangster movie, and no word of color was used; only black and white and shades of gray.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M. Nick
• Release date: Jan 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310799198

M. Nick

Between 1990 and 1993, artist and writer M. Nick published eight handmade, perfect bound, paperback volumes of fiction. All of these books were short runs. Welcome to Dullsville was the shortest; only 60 copies were produced. Most of M. Nick’s books were purchased as collector items or art objects and very few people who bought them actually read them wanting to keep them pristine.During this period, M. Nick neither had, nor knew how to use a computer. These were all produced with mechanical layouts created from typewritten pages. The reproduced pages were assembled with angle-iron and C-clamps, and bound using binding glue heated on a hotplate.M. Nick did every step in the process except cutting the books. That had to be done on an industrial strength cutting machine by a person qualified as a cutter. The books were each cut twice; first without the cover, then with the cover. All were cut by Bill Boggs, formerly of Pacific Printing in San Jose, California. After the trilogy listed below was cut, Bill, who apparently believed in what M. Nick was doing, cut the rest of the books for free.Three of the volumes were paperback size; two novels and a novella. The other five were miniatures and were short story length. M. Nick did all the cover art. The cover for Dullsville is a scan taken in 2014 of an actual pristine copy of the 1993 book.M. Nick considered all of these works to be experimental. This one, Welcome to Dullsville, is written in black and white, like a 30’s gangster movie, and no word of color was used; only black and white and shades of gray.The other titles, soon to become available as e-books, were as follows:The Random-Chance Investigations Trilogy, 3 miniatures, 1990A Chair with a Grudge, a novella, paperback size, 1991Unglued, a novel, paperback size, 1992Fast Food Love and Suburban Detective, 2 miniatures, 1993The above titles will be published in two e-books. Unglued, and an anthology of the other stories entitled A Chair with a Grudge. Both will appear in 2015.You can contact M. Nick through his blog at New World Orbithttp://newworldorbit.com/

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I was sitting at the counter of the Gray Cafe staring into a cup of lousy coffee. I was half turned on my stool so I could watch the front. It was a downtown corner place with two walls of glass so there was a lot to watch. And, at the same time, nothing to see. Visibility, in the late afternoon fog was about ten feet. I could see out the glass to the curb and no one was moving.

I was the only person in the place. The counterman, Louie, was in the back clanking things. A radio tuned between two stations was playing low behind the counter somewhere, vacillating randomly from one pitch of static to another. The light in the place was supplied by dozens of weak white bulbs and the air had a dusty look to it. There was a lot of chrome and it gave off a dull glow of reflection. It seemed like you should squint, but you didn’t need to.

A large black sedan pulled up in front. I took a sip of coffee and waited. The rear door opened and a big guy in an overcoat got out followed by an older guy every bit as big, but fatter. They were joined by someone appearing out of the fog at the rear of the car, presumably the driver having gotten out the other side. The three of them stood on the sidewalk for a moment peering in through the glass at me. Two young thugs in dark overcoats and the older guy.

The first one through the door was a young thug. Then the older guy. The young one advanced toward me.

You Mars Black?

Yeah, I said.

The older guy came and took the stool two down from mine. The young guys arranged themselves at the other end of the counter and tried to look dangerous. Louie came in from the back.

You guys want anything?

No, I told him and he returned to the back.

I’m Baker, said the older guy.

Yeah, that’s what you said on the phone.

I’m told you’re good at finding people.

I’m good at lots of things, I said.

I lit a cigarette. Something didn’t wash. The guy was big, but I pegged him as a college professor or a judge. What was he doing with bodyguards? He was wearing an expensive overcoat, one with a fur collar darker than the rest of the coat and an expensive hat of the same shade. I wondered momentarily if his name was really Baker and then decided I didn’t care if it wasn’t.

He was taking a large envelope out of the coat, then. He reached into it and pulled out a photograph. He laid the photograph on the counter in front of me. It was a picture of Sailor Malloy.

You know this man?

I see him around, I said.

You haven’t seen him around lately, though, have you?

I haven’t been looking for him.

Now you are, he said.

I nodded and took another sip of my coffee. It was getting cold.

You and your helpers couldn’t find him, huh Baker?

He packed a bag and disappeared.

You think he’s still in Grayville?

Undoubtedly.

Baker was an ugly man. He had a fat round face with big, rubbery lips. His eyes were cold and dead. He looked dead. For all I knew maybe he was, except he kept moving around. The lips bothered me. I’d seen lips like those on guys before. They were always guys who’d gotten a whiff of something they couldn’t resist and they were out to eat the whole thing. A dead guy with lips like those could be trouble. Nothing to lose.

What do you want with Sailor?

He has something of mine and I want it back, he said.

Uh-huh. Want to tell me what it is?

No. All you need to do is locate him and tell me where he is. I’ll take it from there.

You think he’s dead?

I sincerely hope not.

Not yet, anyway, I said, stubbing out my cigarette.

The dead eyes examined me for a moment. Shall we discuss money?

CHAPTER 2

The couple next door was fighting again. I was sitting in my chair, tie loosened, a drink in one hand and the photograph of Sailor in the other. I had the radio on. It was a show called Sometimes He Talks to the Dog. It was a show about a writer working in his studio. All you heard was him typing and sometimes muttering to himself. Sometimes you could hear him get up and walk around, and sometimes he wadded up a page and threw it at the wastebasket. It always sounded like he missed. Sometimes you’d hear the dog walking around, its claws clicking on the hardwood floor and sometimes the guy would talk to the dog. Hence, the name of the show. It went on like that for four hours every night.

The show was about as interesting as staring at your shoe. It was perfect entertainment for a town like Grayville. Grayville is a dull place. Every now and then I called it Dullsville. Usually it was. But once in a while someone would have a dramatic episode. The dull would get to them and they’d try to generate some excitement for themselves. Occasionally, not long after that I’d get involved. I’m a private detective. I like things dull, but drama was good for business.

Next door they were screaming. Something was thrown and crashed against the wall. It was a typical dramatic episode. I took a sip of my drink. My chair was by the window. It was open but the curtains hung slack. The air was dead. It was late now and the fog was impenetrable. It was always foggy in Grayville. A clear day you could see fourteen or fifteen feet.

Right outside my window was the hotel’s neon sign. It was always flashing and making a sizzling electronic sound. It didn’t bother me. The guy next door slapping his woman around didn’t bother me, either. Nothing much bothered me at all, as a matter of fact. Except when I had to get up and get another drink. And that wasn’t much of a bother.

I was looking at the photo of Sailor. It was a bad picture. Washed out, overexposed. Everything was in real light shades of gray. It showed Sailor, though. He was unmistakable. A youngish guy with funny eyes. Women probably went nuts for those eyes, but they showed me was there was something wrong deep in Sailor’s head. Some chemical element left out of his brain, or a bad job of wiring. He was always happy, always working some clever deal or another. Someday he’d get backed into a corner and maybe that day had come. I had no illusions about what Baker wanted to do with him. I didn’t suppose Sailor would live through it. Or, if his fabled luck held out, maybe Baker wouldn’t. It didn’t concern me. I was getting paid to find him. Period. Sailor was always on the dark side of things. It was his problem.

The woman next door was weeping now, and I heard the guy yell something unintelligible and stomp across the room. Their door opened, then slammed closed, and he was clomping down the hallway.

Grayville. A city built in the bend of a river in a fogbank. There was no reason to have a town there. It was just there. It was a miserable place to live. Life was dour and shuffling. It was probably the only big city anywhere that each year the population declined. It was a murky place and nothing was ever simple or obvious. Everything was in shades of gray.

I didn’t care. I lived in a hotel, two rooms and a bath. I had a couple of suits and an extra pair of shoes in the closet. I had a suitcase everything I owned fit into. If I decided to move it would take me four minutes to pack.

What do I care where I live?

CHAPTER 3

A couple of minutes after I knocked on the door it opened. The woman took an abrupt step back. I’d seen that happen before. I’m a big guy, not handsome, and I look a little threatening. She was immediately nervous.

Y-yes?

My name is Mars Black, I said. I’m looking for Sailor.

He’s not here.

I know. I want to talk with you.

Well... she hesitated.

I walked in and she gave way. She closed the door and moved uncertainly toward the middle of the room. She was a tall, skinny woman with dark eyes and hair and she was dressed in a snappy gray suit. She had a thin face and a long straight nose. I took off my hat and looked around. It was pretty bizarre. The room was brightly lit and there were transparent glass cubes piled everywhere. Different sizes. It was some kind of modern decor.

I--uh, don’t know what I can tell you... she said.

What’s your relationship with Sailor?

Um, we’re friends. Sort of. I needed someone to share the rent with me on this house and he was available. It just worked out for both of us.

Uh-huh. So, you aren’t his girlfriend?

"No, no. Sailor is very different from me. I’m an artist.

Which explained the glass cubes. But it didn’t explain Sailor living there. If there was anyone further removed from art than Sailor Malloy, I didn’t know who it was.

Seems odd, you and Sailor living together, I said.

We weren’t ‘together,’ she said crossly. I do interior design. I need a place to display my work, to set up as a model. I couldn’t have afforded a house of this type unless I had help.

How’d you get on to Sailor?

I put an ad in the paper.

So you don’t know much about his personal life?

No, he’s hardly ever here, except to sleep, I guess, and he didn’t spend every night here. He keeps to himself.

You ever meet any of his friends?

No, he never brought anybody here, that I know of.

That seems odd. I glanced around the room. Fancy place like this and he wouldn’t want to bring his friends over to impress them?

She lit up. Oh, you like the place? You see, what I’ve done here is to take the motif of the glass cube and blah blah blah... She was gesturing around and babbling. I could see I wasn’t getting anywhere with this chick, and I could also bet that Sailor wouldn’t have, either. She went on for a few minutes, picking up cubes and showing me how the light went through them and tracing lines in the air with her hand. I knew it was time to get off when she began to probe me to see if I needed any decorating done.

I live in a hotel, lady, I said. Where’s Sailor’s room?

It’s in the back, she said and immediately looked anxious.

I’d like to take a look at his things.

I’m afraid that won’t be possible. He’ll be back in a few days and you can talk with him then.

That what he told you -- he’d be back in a couple of days?

Yes.

Took a bag, did he?

Yes, and I told the other men that were here the same thing.

Who was that?

I’m not sure that’s your business, she said, somewhat defiantly, her nose in the air.

Was it Baker?

Yes, that’s right. He didn’t introduce his associates.

Just one bag?

That’s right.

Nothing else? No briefcase, hatbox, golf clubs...

Hatbox? she said.

Just fishing, I said.

I’m afraid you’re going to have to fish someplace else.

Did Baker look at his room?

Well yes, he did, but Mr. Baker is a close associate of Sailor’s and...

Baker told you that, I bet?

Yes, but --

That’s fine, lady. Sailor didn’t say where he was going?

"No, he