Chapter 100: Room with a View

There’s a ding, and the doors slide apart. It’s late now, around 11 at night, and the corridors are completely empty. Still, I move slowly down the hallway to avoid any other guests or members of the author’s entourage.

I reach the room, and put my ear to the door. I hear the TV, running water, maybe a hair dryer? I’m taking a risk, but I’m pretty sure that she’s rooming alone, especially since the girl at the front desk didn’t ask about a boyfriend or a husband just letting me back into the room.

I slide the keycard into the lock.

Chapter 99: Deviouser and Deviouser

And just like that, I know where to look for myself.

Surprise, surprise, getting another key to Margery’s room is easy. We look a little different, but when you’re star-struck, I guess you overlook the minor details. I play up the lack of glasses, saying I left them somewhere and can’t see well enough to find my key. The girl at the front desk is SUPER helpful, and gives me two keys. Just in case.

I sign her copy of “my” book, and take the elevator up ten flights to Margery’s room.

I hate confrontation. But I hate mysteries even more.

Chapter 98: Celebrity Complications

The hour grows late, and a car collects the author Jones.

Now, the question becomes more complex. How do I get five minutes alone with myself when I’m a celebrity author with an entourage?

I walk back in the bookstore after the other Margery leaves and make a beeline for the only male employee.

“I seem to have lost an earring during the signing. Could you let me know if it turns up while you’re cleaning tonight? Just send it over to my hotel. You know where I’m staying, right?”

“The Avon, right? I heard your publicist mention it before.”

Chapter 97: Greasy Panes

It’s not a big city, and this isn’t the biggest chain bookstore I’ve stumbled across. There’s not a lot else open on this street, no cafe to warm myself in, no burger joint to refuel at. I don’t want to miss her as she leaves, so I stick close, lurking in the shadows with my umbrella, every inch the obvious noir character.

It’s nice to not be caught in the bar loop with another Sam Hobbes, but I’m disconcerted by my own celebrity. It didn’t really dawn on me that Sam was just one of many fans until just now.

Chapter 96: Paper and Ink

Of all the gin joints.

It’s a damn good thing I had this umbrella, because I’m using it now to cover my face as I duck behind a shelf.

Margery Jones, noted author of “The Worldwalker”, is having a book signing. A BIG book signing. Whoever said print was dead never heard of this Margery’s body of work.

She’s rail thin, and has big horn-rimmed glasses and a very thin red mouth.

Something tells me its not a good idea to have both of us here at the same time. I duck back outside to wait for this to wrap up.

Chapter 95: Gallant Gesture

Eventually I manage to extricate myself from a slightly amorous Sam Hobbes. He tries to kiss me as he calls us a cab, but he’s too drunk to pull it off. I pick him up from the wet gutter and tuck him safely into a cab. He makes me take his umbrella and says he loves me. I close the door and let the cab take him away.

I never see him again.

Clouds overhead, I stalk the streets in search of a bookstore that’s still open. I find a chain and walk in, shaking the water off my umbrella.

Chapter 94: Casus Belli

I’m sure we talk for a while longer, but I can’t remember what about. I’ve got a one track mind, and all I can think about is getting my mitts on a copy of this book.

I’ve got a nasty little thought worming its way into my heart. What if it was the publication of this silly little novel that first got the attention of those bastards in black? There’s a kernel of truth in every book I suppose, but I don’t imagine every book on the shelf is a thinly veiled roman à clef about the world’s first great traveler-between-the-worlds.

Chapter 93: Biography

Two pints later, and I know a little more about Sam. Probably.

He works in a library, owns two cats, and has a degree in American history.

I also know what this book I wrote is all about. Or rather, the book that some other Margery wrote.

I never thought of myself as the artistic type, but apparently this particular subset of Joneses, the Margeries-Who-Write, have authored a bestselling novel. A science fiction novel, of all things.

As I slowly piece together his praise about the book, the premise is starting to sound awfully familiar.

It sounds like my life story.

Chapter 92: One Last Bar

Two days later, I sit down and go clink, drink, plonk, and clink on the bar.

Right on cue, he walks in, orders his pint, and turns to me.

He’s still utterly nondescript, with the instantly forgettable face of a contract killer or an investment banker. This version of him is dressed casually, with comfortable shoes and a cable knit sweater.

“Oh my god. You’re Margery Jones!”

“Guilty as charged,” I say as I turn to face him.

“I read your book. Actually, I read it like 8 times. Could I buy you a drink?”

“Sure.”

“Sam Hobbes. Great to meet you.”

Chapter 91: The Order of Things

But what other explanation can there be? Either it’s an eerie confluence of events, or something orchestrated by something sinister I can’t understand the motivation behind.

Unless of course, it’s option C: Predestination. If the universe keeps presenting me the same opportunity over and over again, then maybe it’s a sign that I need to follow through.

But I still don’t know what this guy wants from me. Hell, I don’t even know his name. I always manage to sneak away before he can introduce himself.

Alright. Next time. I’m definitely gonna go for it.

What’s the worst that could happen?