Prolog – Before the story
I was half way into my third bottle of lite beer when my head started to spin. Stumbling against the pool table, I handed my "girlfriend" to Sam and said, "Take care of her for me, my cue case is by the ATM machine." Then I fell.
Baby was by me in an instant, too quick and too attentive. Her old boyfriend was peering at me over her shoulder. I tried to focus, "Did you drug me?" Then everything went black.
The next morning I awoke at home to Rosina banging away in the kitchen so I would know she had made it to work and believe she was actually cleaning. I staggered to the bathroom. I looked like hell; troops had been on bivouac in my mouth all night and my head was pounding. My sweet little bedmate had slipped me a mickie to get a night with her ex. Now I understood. She had not been happy, yesterday, when I went to the bar with her early instead of writing late, like I usually did.
The bowl of oatmeal was bland and lumpy but it helped settle my queasy stomach. When she arrived four months ago on my doorstep, Baby was battered and bruised, carrying two black trash bags of worn, dirty clothing. Now she had a lot of newer, classier things. I called, Carol, one of Baby's friends, to come over. We packed her clothes into the suitcases I had bought her when we went on a cruise. We threw in her make-up and jewelry. "Carol, tell Baby to keep the little car and not to bother me again. She won't be allowed on the grounds and her keys won't work."
"Dave, Baby is making a big mistake. She has been happier with you than at any time I've known her."
"Let it go, Carol. She drugged me to spend a night screwing an ex-con, drug addict who doesn't work and beats her. Besides we knew it wouldn't last, she is way too young for me."
By evening, I still couldn't get into the mood for work. The house was too quiet. I needed to run away for a while. Baby had been a wonderful ego boost. She was great eye candy draped on my arm at events and parties. She wasn't into reading or current events, just rap music, clothes, drugs and parties. Still I will miss her. Her body was tight and demanding. She learned fast and enjoyed sex. She never once said, "No." She even brought Carol into our bed one night. Threesomes are too much of a good thing. It was a great one-time experience but I did not feel I satisfied either woman. I had fun watching them together; still it was not right for me. I'm sure my lifestyle and me, bored Baby to tears most of the time.
I decided to escape from California to New York for a few days. My publisher had been asking for a face-to-face meeting. He wanted a new contract. I'm almost finished with the last book required in the current one. He will want more "David Stone" mysteries and I want to try some sci-fi, even if it has to be under another name. I hope we can work it out.
Carl Tilman is a good man. He even placed my porn stories with another publisher. Publication of the mysteries has made us both enough money over the last fifteen years that we talk on an equal comfortable level. Movie rights, TV rights and my other works have made me rich, confident, sought after and independent. I keep my ego in check every morning when I shave. I look long and hard into the big mirror in my bathroom at my rugged face and aging body; hell, if I were a pretty woman, I wouldn't date me. Years in construction before I started to write full time, took their toll on my joints and left my face tanned, wrinkled and leathery.
My publisher's "Visiting Author's Suite" at a downtown five-star New York hotel was opulent and had breathtaking views of the skyline. I bet it was $5k a night. This was my fourth stay. The staff and I got along. They knew to keep the food portions small, stay away from the rich sauces and that I drank beer even at the fancy cocktail parties.
That first evening, I was tired. All I wanted was a small steak, a salad, a beer and some sleep. Truthfully, I was hurting and missing Baby. She had not been greedy and showy with my money. I sat at a table in the bar for a few minutes before going in to eat. A beautiful "working girl" came over to me and flirted for a few minutes. She had icily rejected my pleasant "Hello" an hour earlier in the lobby. Granted my flannel shirt and dated slacks were out of place in the midst of all the two thousand dollar suits. She must have asked someone who the tall, thin, graying hick was and then decided to come see me. Her name was Susan.
"Susan, you are breathtakingly beautiful. Another time please have dinner with me. Tonight, I'm tired, rejected and need to be alone." She seemed to understand, kissed me on the cheek, wiped away the lipstick residue and returned to her perch at the bar to scan the wallets coming through the door. I wondered if she was as good as Baby. Later during my entrée, she came into the restaurant on the arm of a chubby, short, rosy-faced man with glasses. His pudgy, soft body made his expensive clothes look cheap.
After Leno's monologue, I tried to sleep. I was getting worse and worse at that. Baby's body knew how to make me sleep soundly, better than I had in years. She always seemed to sleep well. But, she wasn't here now. I could never let her come back.
At breakfast, I fit in. I had matched the right suit, shirt, tie and shoes from a picture in a recent GQ issue. I had lots of suits from years ago. They looked all right to me, but the truly observant knew they were out-of-style. I should throw them out, along with good shirts that have the wrong type of collars and ties that are too wide or too narrow. Pudgy was eating alone, working on his second trip to the buffet.
My publisher and I haggled for a couple of days. I only wanted an increase in residual print royalties and return of all print rights after ten years. You would have thought I was asking for the moon. He wanted to be cut into any future movie rights. Carl was so sure that I was going to fail at Sci-fi that he fought hard to keep me out of that genre. I think he just wanted all my time to be devoted to something that he knew would sell. Finally, I agreed that my first Sci-fi would be under another name, compromised to twelve years as long as he did not re-sale any print rights and got a couple more royalty points. We headed out together to celebrate at lunch.
"Dave why aren't you spending your money, enjoying life and having lots of women hanging on you all the time?"
"Just lucky I guess."
"No, really. You produce more than any of our noted authors. Have some fun. Don't burn out on us."
"That's why I want to try some different things. I just got dumped by a lovely sexpot. You know anyone who wants to take advantage of me on the rebound?"
"I know a lot who will keep a smile on your face for a buck."
"I think I am going to start traveling more while I write. I've always wanted to see the art in Europe and sample the wares there."
"Take condoms."
"Carl, for a married man, you know too much and have naughty thoughts. When you are ready to write them, I'll get you into porn."
"I'm no good at writing. I've tried."
"I don't need the competition anyway. Maybe you could act."
"Not in porn. Not with my equipment. Can I talk you into going on tour this year?"
"Where and what type?"
