The Squiggly Stuff

By Mel Nicolai

The Squiggly Stuff is a detective novel. An accurate classification, but a bit like describing a kaleidoscope as a cardboard tube. A kaleidoscope is a cardboard tube, but when you look inside, you discover something colorful, sparkly and non-cardboard with many unexpected dimensions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mel Nicolai
• Release date: Mar 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370611560

Mel Nicolai

I am a carbon-based life form.

Book preview

Part I

Cognizant of this folly,

we shall promptly succumb to it.

— The SMALL Concerns Manifesto

1

I heard the phone ring in the outer office, but with the door closed I couldn’t hear what my new receptionist, Peizhi, was saying. It was a short conversation, so I figured it was probably someone trying to sell me something. A peaceful minute passed before Peizhi opened the door, crossed the two-step gap to my desk and placed a note dead center between my cell phone on the left and an empty candy wrapper on the right, the note’s top edge aligned true north:

Check $5,000 in mail

+ 1st class ticket to Antibes

Meet at Nice Cote d’Azur Airport

Wed 23rd, 11:00 A.M.

Sincerely, Your New Client

I read the note about eleven times before regaining sufficient control of my neck muscles to raise my head and stare, perplexed, into Peizhi’s dark defiant eyes.

Antibes? Are you joking?

That’s what she said.

She?

Your New Client.

Does she have a name?

I couldn’t spell it.

But you could spell Nice Cote d’Azur?

I’m better with place names.

Could you maybe sound it out?

Sorry, Boss, my short-term memory file-dumps after about thirty seconds.

I couldn’t remember what my reasoning had been when I’d hired Peizhi. I’ve never put much stock in résumés, so I hadn’t been particularly bothered by hers, even though I’d only read the first eleven pages, which was about half. Unusually impressionistic for a résumé, it consisted of heavily Photoshopped head shots layered over garish and bizarre background scenes, all with one-word captions: TREMENDOUS, AWESOME, WICKED, and such. She’d seemed completely unfazed by my description of her job duties, which I’d chosen to interpret in a positive light, and I was particularly impressed by her tidy appearance and bone-crushing handshake. But what had inspired me to actually hire her, I couldn’t recall.

It was now the 18th. If I had to be in Antibes on the 23rd, there wasn’t much time and there was a lot to do, a lot of questions to be answered. Like, for starters, where the hell was Antibes? That and other interrogatives, like a swarm of toxic nano-zombies, threatened to clog my circuits. Then it hit me that Peizhi was still standing in front of my desk.

What? I asked, unable to frame a more articulate question.

Peizhi pointed to the empty candy wrapper. Do you have any more of those?

2

Meme Disposal was the only bar I could spend much time in without feeling like I’d been sidelined as an embarrassment. Why MD, of all places, never undermined my self-image wasn’t all that clear to me. Whatever the reason, no matter how many hours I might sit at the bar nursing my beer, all the usual complexities of life never seemed to coalesce into anything more urgent than the bubbles collecting on the inside of my glass.

Sitting with a fresh cold one, I’d taken out my note pad and pencil and started a list: Things To Do Before Wed. 23. Below that, I’d added three bullets, neatly aligned. It seemed reasonable that there would be at least three necessities to deal with before leaving the country. Halfway through my second beer, I still hadn’t come up with one. I was just about to doodle in another empty bullet when Laura Nails slid onto the stool next to me.

Koji, she said, with characteristic authority, placing her hands palm down on the bar, her fingers spread as if she were trying to absorb something through the polished wood surface.

I closed my note pad and sipped at my beer while Laura scrutinized the backs of her hands.

It’s curious, she said, wiggling her fingers. You can examine a human hand all you want, but there’s no way of knowing what the person connected to it might be good at.

I was always amused by Laura’s knack for dropping me into the middle of something off-center. I guess there are a lot of things you can do with hands.

And most of them only exist because the hand came first.

I suppose you’re right, I said, not really considering the matter.

I am right. The hand has given us a world of infinite handles.

I drained the last of my beer and sat the glass down with a germane flair. Indeed, the handleless beer glass no less a handle than the handled mug.

Laura held up her hand and I gave her a high five.

Hey, Dig, how ‘bout a little service down here! she yelled at the bartender.

Dig Marx was leaning over the other end of the bar, reading something on his Kindle. Dig was a man, like many, whose aspirations served to insulate him against the monotony of a life he would never transcend. And like many, this insulation was by far the most interesting thing about him. He put his Kindle to sleep, stashed it under the bar, and, as if acquiescing to the dubious compromise of his principles, proceeded to make his way in our direction.

Beer, Dig, Laura said, before Dig had traversed half the distance, and another for Koji.

Dig veered left like a sleepwalker interrupted by someone else’s dream, snagged two clean glasses with one hand, spun a languid one-eighty, his empty hand snaking gracefully to the beer tap’s carved oak handle. With only a slight decrease in momentum, and no detectable trace of ideological overtones, Dig delivered the two cold beers, winked at Laura and returned to his Kindle.

Laura and I clicked glasses and sipped our beers.

I’m wondering if you might do me a little favor, Laura?

How little?

Littleish.

Big, eh?

Not so big, really.

Let’s hear it.

I have to go out of town for a bit. I’m wondering if you could drop by my place a couple times a week and collect my mail?

A couple times a week? It sounds like you’ll be gone for a while.

Maybe. I’m not sure yet.

Where you off to?

Antibes, I said, as if I were asking myself a question.

Laura looked at me like she was trying to see something through a dirty window. No offense, Koji, but you don’t seem like the Antibes type.

I wasn’t sure what type I was, geographically speaking, but I suspected Laura was right. It’s work related.

Now I’m curious, Laura said, turning on her stool to face me. France?

Don’t know much about it, yet.

Laura gave me a skeptical look. You don’t know much about it, but you have to cross the Atlantic?

All I know so far is that I’m supposed to meet someone at the Nice Cote d’Azur airport on the twenty-third.

You’re shittin’ me?

Not intentionally.

Laura still seemed to have her doubts. "You said you’re meeting someone?"

I sighed, fiddling with my beer glass. Yeah, Peizhi’s still refining her job skills.

Laura turned back to her own beer. That woman is one zany equation!

She’s not that bad, I said, coming to Peizhi’s defense, for reasons I couldn’t begin to fathom.

Whatever you say, Koji.

So, will you grab my mail?

Sure. Not a problem.

I fished an extra key out of my jacket pocket and placed it on the bar. There’s stuff in the fridge that won’t last too long, so if you’re hungry when you’re there, help yourself.

Laura pressed the tip of one finger on the key, as if to keep it from getting away. Mind if I ask a more general question?

Ask away.

On second thought, she said, picking up the key and scooting off the stool, I’ll ask you when you get back from France. Right now I have to go throw up.

3

On Wednesday morning, I stopped by the office to give Peizhi a few last-minute instructions. When I got there, she was sitting at her desk, engrossed in a book. As I approached, I saw that the book was a travel guide. Peizhi was studying a map of southern France. This struck me as an unexpected degree of attention to the possible contingencies of her job, and I was impressed.

Good morning, Peizhi, I said, inclined as always to embrace even the most gratuitous opportunity for optimism.

Boss, she said, looking up, it is a shame.

A shame?

Antibes, she said, failing to explain.

A shame?

A shame you won’t be going.

I won’t be going? I said, confused.

Your new client called. She said Antibes was off. She needs you to stay here. She will be in touch soon.

Circumstances had apparently drifted south. She’ll be in touch? was all I could manage to say.

Peizhi closed the book. Bultanski, she said, a fragment of sound so decontextualized I wasn’t sure what language she was speaking.

Come again?

I got her name. Lucy Bultanski.

What?

Lucy B-U-L-T-A-N-S-K-I. Bultanski.

I was free falling through a neuron cloud of charged memories. The last time I’d seen Lucy was right after her escape from the cartel kidnappers. I could still vividly recall my confusion, seeing her shoot past the cafe on a skateboard. I could still vividly remember the frustration of the following weeks as I’d hit dead end after dead end trying to locate her.

Boss, are you OK? Peizhi said, breaking the spell.

What? I said, wondering.

You look very weird, even for you.

Are you sure about the name? Lucy Bultanski?

I am sure, Peizhi said, seeming to take offense at the question. What? You think I just pull this stuff out of my tight little Chinese cortex?

No, of course not, I said, heading for my office.

I wasn’t sure I’d be able to process this newest turn of events without augmenting my normal intake of antioxidants. I went straight to the mini-fridge and fixed myself a Perrier with pomegranate juice. I took my drink to the window where I stood for several minutes, staring into the motionless sky, wondering what it might mean that Lucy was back in my life, feeling more than a little menaced by the gnat-swarm of possibilities.

4

I spent most of the day drifting back and forth between my desk and the window, waiting for the phone to ring. At some point, Peizhi must have caught me at a particularly distracted moment. I don’t know how else to explain giving her permission to reorganize the file cabinet according to the Chinese zodiac.

Lucy didn’t call.

What I needed was to put Lucy Bultanski out of my mind. Find something else to think about. Something that would stabilize the synaptic chaos that had sabotaged my whole day. It was late. Peizhi had gone. There was nothing to do but lock up and head home. I arrived a little after six and found Laura in my kitchen.

Koji? Aren’t you supposed to be in France?"

Was I? I wondered. I went into the living room, sat on the sofa, put my feet up and closed my eyes. I imagined the scene before me: the small flat screen TV, the framed photograph of Raymond Chandler buying a jar of mayonnaise in Santa Monica, the bullet hole under