Authors: Stan Crowe
Clint looked back at her. “What? Did you plan on filing a police report? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of that as soon as I get done with the hospital.”
“Personal interest.”
Clint sighed. “Well, I guess it really started last night.”
Molly raised an eyebrow, but didn’t look at him. “Explain.”
“It was at Holly’s party,” he continued. “You were there.”
“What does that have to do with this morning?”
Clint chewed on his lower lip for a minute. Would she even believe him if he told her the truth? Maybe if he broke it gently…
“Sorry for bumping into you, last night.”
Molly shot him a quick, sidelong glance. “If you call tripping and landing on top of me a simple ‘bump,’ apology accepted. But that’s irrelevant to my question.”
Clint glanced out his window to see if he could still see the birds. Maybe it wasn’t too late to join them? But no, there was no sight of them now.
Clint exhaled. “Can I, uh, ask you a personal question?”
“The First Amendment guarantees you that right.”
He rolled his eyes. “No, I mean, can I ask you something personal and not have you get offended by it?”
Molly glanced over her left shoulder, waited a moment, and changed lanes. When the maneuver completed, she glanced at Clint. “I may get annoyed at endless caveats tacked on to hints of possible questions. Ask. I’m not obligated to answer.”
He bit his lip again.
Here goes
. “Um, did you… feel funny when I tripped into you?”
“Being crushed by a one-hundred-eighty pound man isn’t on my list of ‘funny’ things.”
She wasn’t making this easy. “No, I mean, skip all that. After the fact, did you feel dizzy, or giddy or, strangely blissful?”
“I’m not actually a masochist. Ask Holly.”
This was going nowhere. Yet, she didn’t seem to have been infected by her contact with him. Maybe it was worth testing?
“Molly,” he probed. “Can I, like, tap your shoulder? Real quick?”
“You already have my attention.”
“Well, yeah, but… let’s pretend this is a scientific experiment. Just a quick tap.”
She shrugged.
This is stupid
, he thought.
This is
so
stupid.
Clint extended an index finger. Slowly, he reached out for her shoulder, silently praying he’d survive what he was about to do.
“I’m twenty inches away, Clint. I’ve admitted contact. You are allowed to move faster.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, and then…
Poke.
Nothing happened. Her shoulder was simply soft, like a woman’s shoulder should be. Clint cracked one eye, expecting to see Molly frothing at the mouth. But no; it was just her and her normal, wonderful face under that coffee-colored hair done up like a ball of lovely passion waiting for the right moment to be turned loose.
“Was that enlightening for you, Clint?”
He watched her carefully as he asked, “Did you feel anything when I touched you?”
She arched an eyebrow. “I’d estimate about half a pound of pressure on a quarter square-inch area of my shoulder.”
“Well, yes, but… do you
want
me?”
She actually turned to look. “Do I want you to what?”
He tapped her shoulder again, this time with two fingers. Her eyes flicked down to follow the motion, and then back up to Clint, clearly curious. He repeated the motion several more times, trying her arm, her cheek, and her knee. Still nothing. This could be very, very good.
“So, when I touched you, you didn’t start…” How did one ask a girl this question? “You didn’t start thinking of that old song about thinking I’m sexy and wanting my body?”
Without so much as a blink she returned her attention to driving. “You fell on your head escaping your bathroom this morning, didn’t you, Clint?”
“No! Well… not very hard. I was only—”
“You’re a man; I’m an attractive woman. Your desires are very natural. If you’re trying to attract me in return, then my ideal date is playing chess in a dark café while he reads Poe to me over two cups of chamomile and mint tea with a touch of honey. Shoulder poking doesn’t do it for me.
“I asked you about Jane, and I still need those details. You answer my questions and I’ll continue to allow you the pleasure of stabbing my deltoid provided you don’t distract me from my driving. I very much need to know about the incident this morning.”
Clint flopped back into his seat, relieved. Inexplicably—blessedly—Molly was somehow immune to the fever brought on by his Touch. Maybe she was more closely related to him than he thought? The gypsy had said something about close family being safe. His story was still the stuff of crazy people or bad movie plots, but at least he didn’t have to worry about whether or not he came in contact with Molly.
“Okay,” he said. “About Jane. I gave her a hug last night.”
“I’m sure she felt like the luckiest girl in the world.”
Clint grumbled. “I wasn’t finished speaking. As I was saying, I hugged her last night. I’ve had my eyes on her since that time we ended up in a coat closet for five minutes after she lost at Truth or Dare.”
“She didn’t lose.”
“So, I… Wait… What?”
“Please continue,” Molly said.
Clint blinked in thought, and then shrugged. “Well, when I hugged Jane I… infected her. See, I’ve got this… curse thing going on.”
Molly’s brow wrinkled. She changed lanes again, and headed for the exit ramp. Gratefully, Clint noticed a sign indicating that a hospital was nearby.
“Look,” he said, “I know this sounds crazy. It took me three months of freak ‘coincidences’ before I believed it myself. Last year, this weird gypsy lady threw a flaming ball of chicken at me.”
Molly’s mouth opened, but Clint cut her off. “Yes, I know that sounds ridiculous. Long story short, I ended up in her little traveling circus and made a wish. It turned out to be a curse. And now I can hardly wave at a girl without having her go gaga over me—unless she’s ‘of age and not descended from my great grandparents,’ is what I was told.”
Molly’s eyebrows came up. “Considering your dating history, Clint, I’d say you’re flirting heavily with arrogance there. Have you been taking testosterone boosters lately?”
He waved it away as the car rolled to a stop at the traffic light at the ramp’s end. “Look, I’m serious. My Touch… It’s like a drug or something. Women totally lose their minds. Especially Jane.
“She came to my place this morning. She had it
bad
. There was no stopping her. I know you want details, but I’d rather not repeat the laundry list of things she said she had in mind for me. She made it
very
clear that she
owned
me. Once she started getting aggressive, I faked the urge to pee and excused myself to the bathroom. I guess you know the rest.”
Molly nodded in quiet repose. “Did Jane ever specifically threaten violence against your person?”
Clint considered. “Well… not criminally. No. Nothing I’d mention to the cops.”
Molly’s head bobbed once. She turned into the parking lot of the Contra Costa Regional Medical Center, and found a spot. Clint opened his door and levered himself out of the vehicle. Molly stepped around and proffered a helping hand. Clint took it, grateful both for the help and for the fact that he could accept her assistance without worry.
“Thanks for bringing me here,” he said. “That Jane incident wasn’t fun.”
“You’re sure it’s not issues with her medication?” Molly asked.
Clint shook his head. “If you knew what I’ve been through over the last several months, I think you’d understand. This
needs
to end.” He couldn’t spend the rest of his life unable to touch half the people he met. Even marriage was right out the window. And he didn’t even want to
think
about what might happen if a future mother-in-law tried embracing him at the reception.
“As soon as the doctors let me go,” he said solemnly, “I will find the old woman and break this stupid curse. My safety and sanity depend on it.”
TWO
8:00 a.m., Monday. Lindsay Sullivan stared at the small, silver letters on the door of her office. Of all the names she could have chosen for a private investigation firm, why in the
world
had she chosen “Sullivan and Self”? She should have gone with her gut and picked something cool like, “Stealthy Sullivan,” or “Lindsay’s Private Eyes” or “Seeking Sullivan,” or any of the other names she had brainstormed the day before she’d applied for the business license. Her Uncle Tom said she should come up with something more professional—it was better for business, he said.
“But Uncle Tom,” she’d replied, “this is an adventure! If you want action-packed cases, you’ve got to sound like you mean it.”
Tom had reminded her that she wasn’t living one of her television programs, and that people were more likely to pay her if she didn’t sound like a teenage kid trying hobby sleuthing. She capitulated, and checked out the names of other local P.I. firms.
She hated them all.
Ultimately, she fell back on her college degree and internships as a paralegal. Every law firm she’d ever heard of went by the names of its several partners. Only, she didn’t have any partners.
No wonder I don’t get any calls
, she thought sourly.
They probably think I’m schizophrenic.
By the time she’d realized her mistake in choosing a name her pride refused to let her change it, especially in the face of her parents’ constant badgering about getting a real job with a nice law firm somewhere in the Bay Area. Her father had arranged a dozen interviews through his business connections, but Lindsay refused to appear for any of them. At least that had gotten Dad to quit talking to her for the last six months. She ignored the small, uncomfortable feeling in the back of her head whispering that maybe he had been right after all. With a sigh and the turn of the knob, she walked into the closet-like space that housed her chance to finally prove herself.
In his typical fashion, Uncle Tom had kindly helped by acquiring acceptably attractive secondhand furniture to replace the bland monstrosities that had come with the rental space. Lindsay didn’t mind “scratch-n-dent” stuff. A little sanding, varnish, and elbow grease and things were good as new. The desk was real cherry wood, the chair was actual leather (a graduation gift from her parents, from when they thought she was still living their dreams), and the computer was only four years old. Tom had also gotten her a cheap desk phone with one of those old-fashioned, tape-recorder style answering machines. The overhead light worked.
And I have a window!
The thought always made her smile.
She squeezed past the stacks of boxes lining the wall as she crossed to her desk, and dropped the day’s mail next to the computer. She sat, luxuriating in the non-Naugahyde embrace of her chair before booting up her computer. Waiting for the machine to rouse itself, she sifted through the mail.
Bill from Pacific Gas and Electric. A reminder to make the last three months’ lease payments or face eviction in thirty days. Buy two, get one free tacos from Burrito Juan’s. Reminder about the oil change. “Get Well” card from Daryl—ugh. Idiot. Overdue utility bill.
She stopped, put on her calm face, removed the taco coupon, and then slid the remainder of the mail under her desk. It would wait. Her computer was active now and she checked her e-mail. The content wasn’t much better than the snail mail. But, oh! Mr. Francis had responded! Her heart picked up the pace as she noticed the subject line: “RE: re: Your services.”
John Francis had come to her five days ago, asking after her prices and qualifications. He hadn’t gone into detail, but he’d hinted at a sneaking suspicion that his wife was stepping out on him—possibly even funding her dalliances with money from his businesses. Lindsay had assured him of her skills and reasonable fees, and when she finished, he seemed impressed. He left with a promise to get back to her soon because he “might now be done shopping around for a P.I.”
Best of all, he seemed rich. Rich clients were the best kind.
Holding her breath, Lindsay opened the e-mail.
“Dear Miss Sullivan,” she read aloud. “Thank you for offering your services. I admit I could not find a more competitive price anywhere in town.”
Lindsay gave a little squeal. At last! A case!
Finally
something to silence the naysayers.
She read on.
“I regret to inform you…” Her heart sank at those words, and she reverted to silent reading. Mr. Francis had decided that the sensitive nature of the case, and the skill of his wife in hiding her deeds, required someone with more experience in the field. He thanked her for her time, and signed it “John.”
He had the gall to include a “P.S.” inviting her to dinner with him that coming Friday. Pig.
Lindsay slumped back in her chair, and kicked absently at the mail protruding from under the desk (she made a mental note to clean that crevice out this month). John Francis had been one of only seven people to ever walk through her office door in the five months she had been in business. Herself, her parents, and Uncle Tom made up most of the rest of that list. She didn’t count the janitor.
C’mon, think, girl. Don’t give up! That’s exactly what Mom and Dad expect! It’s only one little setback. You need some name recognition. Let people know you’re there, and that you’re good, and they’ll be beating down your door.
Her desk phone rang. She snatched it without thought.
“Sullivan and… Self… Private Investigators. This is Sullivan.”
Silence. Then some heavy breathing. Lindsay rolled her eyes and slammed the receiver down. She hated the fact that her business phone pre-dated caller ID. She’d change that as soon as she got her first paycheck. It rang again immediately. She flipped the ringer to “off.” Grabbing the keyboard, she started hammering in search criteria for free, local advertising. Eventually voicemail picked up.
“Hi,” she heard that tinny, grating recording of her voice say. “You’ve reached Sullivan and Self Private Investigators, where we never fail to find what you’re looking for. I’m unavailable to take your call at the moment. Please leave your name, a detailed message, and a phone number I can reach you at, and I’ll return your call as soon as I can. Have an excellent day!”