Wayward Characters In Kansas City

Untitled Part 1

Wayward Characters In Kansas City

By

Patrick Glancy

 He walked into my office carrying a sleek leather briefcase and a slightly condescending grin that made him look more goofy than smart. His shirt was untucked and his hair was slicked back with the same kind of disgusting goop lounge singers and greasers used. Without being offered, he took a seat across from me and told me his name was Sebastian. Paul Sebastian. “I’m a screenwriter,” he said, almost with a wink. “You know, the pictures and such.”

I must have chuckled. “Screenwriter. Doesn’t anyone in this town write books anymore?”

“Sure,” he said, a bit too enthusiastically. “Only problem is no one reads em anymore. And even us poor scribes gotta make a living somehow.”

“Fair enough,” I said, prepared to drop the subject. “What can I do for you then, Mr. Sebastian?”

He leaned back in his chair, making himself comfortable. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, striking a match to my own cigarette. It was petty, but I didn’t care. Moments like that gave me a chance to remind potential clients that while I might soon be in their employ, I was not their employee. If that made any sense.

He stiffened a bit in his chair. The grin had left his face. “Okay,” he said. “I need your help tracking down a missing person.”

I nodded, probably looking a little bored in the process. That was pretty much the job. Most of the cases that came my way were cheating spouses or runaways with no real desire to be found again. Usually it had to do with debts or some sort of personal falling out. Never had I come across some kind of vast conspiracy or priceless treasure like the Maltese Falcon. Only rarely did the job get anywhere close to as interesting as Humphrey Bogart made it look like in the movies, a fact that I was sure Mr. Sebastian would fail to grasp.

He laid his briefcase down on my desk and popped it open. The lid formed a small barrier between us and I could not see what was inside. Sebastian reached in and tossed a bound sheaf of paper across to me. I glanced down at the title page. “Johnny Bullets” by Paul Sebastian. Jesus Christ, I thought, what a lame title. I suppose it didn’t say much for Hollywood that I could immediately picture it on a marquee with Jimmy Cagney’s name underneath. There was a coffee stain in the shape of a perfect circle in the lower right hand corner.

“I lost him on about page sixty-six,” Sebastian informed me.

I didn’t say anything for a moment until I realized that what he had just said made perfect sense to him. “I’m sorry,” I said. “What?”

“Johnny Bulletino,” he said, keeping a straight face. “The man I want you to find for me.”

Christ, he’d actually named his hero Johnny Bulletino. These fucking hack screenwriters, I thought to myself. I had to get out of L.A. Little did I realize that the crazy little bastard in front of me was about to give me a chance to do just that. I picked up his bundle of paper and waved it back and forth. “This is a screenplay, Mr. Sebastian,” I said, pointing out the obvious.

“I told you I was a screenwriter,” he said. The grin had returned to his face.

I sighed. “So this guy you’re talking about is a fictional character,” I explained, as if I was talking to slow-witted child. I wasn’t trying to insult him, but I wasn’t exactly trying to spare his feelings either. “A fictional character that you created. You can’t just lose him.”