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Daydream Believer
In a large leather chair, with his feet up on the desk, sat Micky Dolenz, almost horizontal. He thought he was alone as he allowed another wisp of smoke drift towards the ceiling. As he reached for another sip from the bottle of whisky he saw that he was not. He tipped his hat back, sat forward and stubbed out the cigarette before releasing the last of the smoke from his mouth. He never smoked in company.
You Micky Dolenz?” asked his visitor, throwing a folder onto the table.
“That’s what it says on the door,” said Micky Dolenz, holding the man’s glance for an uncomfortably long time.
“Yes, but are you the Micky Dolenz, the one that was in ‘The Monkees’?”
“The one and only. But I assume you’re not here, to discuss my pop career.”
“That rhymed, you know,” the man said, surprised.
“Cause it did. I’ve still got it, you know, mister?” enquired Micky Dolenz with a smile.
“Dan Kovic. I’ll get straight to the point. It’s my wife, Stacey, she’s cheating on me,” said Dan as he settled in a chair.
“So what’s this?” asked Micky Dolenz as he picked up the folder and started flicking through it.
“Pictures. I had her followed,” said Dan, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“So who followed her?”
“Another P.I. When I asked him what I’m about to ask you he said go see Micky Dolenz” said Dan before taking a deep breath.
“So go ahead, ask me”.
“I want you to find out who that man is. I wanna know who’s been in my bed, with my wife,” said Dan, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“These photographs – why is it that her face is so clear, but his is unseen, always in shadow?” asked Micky Dolenz, holding the picture closer to his face.
“That’s the thing, Micky Dolenz, I don’t think he has a face.”
Micky Dolenz reached for the bottle. He poured into a glass – drinking direct from the bottle was often frowned upon by potential clients – and closed his eyes as he slowly drank. Could it be true? Memories swamped his mind, lost hours returned. In company he’d often seem lost in a daydream, and every time, inside his mind, was a man without a face of flesh, but a face of smoke.
When Mickey Dolenz opened his eyes he was alone. He took a cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips. He struck a match and, just for a second, watched it burn, the smoke circling up towards the ceiling. He flicked through the photographs again, looking closely at the faceless man with Stacy Kovic. Each picture placed them in locations familiar to Mickey, the tasteless décor of the Hammerhead Club could not be mistaken, and only Benny’s had a bar like that. Micky had been propped against it too many times to mistake it. Micky cursed the varying locations. Waiting and watching would be no good, if he was to find this mystery-man he was going to have to follow Stacy.
The rain swirled in the wind, not heavy enough to fall with a splash, but strong enough to make Micky Dolenz pull the collar of his trench-coat up around his neck. Wherever Stacy Kovic was going, she walked alone. Her hurried footsteps dodged puddles – but only the large ones. She was anxious, almost frightened as she continued down the street, glancing over her shoulder with a consistency usually reserved for only the paranoid and those that genuinely had something to be afraid of. He followed her into a busy bar in the centre of town. He stood at the bar and ordered a whisky, watching her disappear into a back room. He waited for a moment before taking a long sip, savouring the taste as if it could be his last. Mickey Dolenz approached a man that was seated at one of the tables. Around him were empty glasses and his head hovered unsteadily inches away from them.
“How would you like to cause a diversion for me?” asked Micky Dolenz, holding a fifty discreetly under the table.
“Hey, aren’t you Micky Dolenz?” said the man.
“Yes,” said Micky Dolenz.
“The Micky Dolenz that used to be in ‘The Monkees’?” he slurred.
“Yes, I’m that Micky Dolenz,” said Micky Dolenz, “now do you want this or not?” Micky let the fifty brush against his new friend’s leg. As soon as he saw it, he seemed to sober up a little, sitting up straight.
“What do you want, Micky?” he asked.
“Watch me until I’m near that door,” said Micky Dolenz, pointing to the place he’d last seen Stacy Kovic, “then knock a table over, pick a fight, make a lot of noise.”
Micky slipped through the door unseen as the bouncers were distracted by a chair crashing into the wall. As he progressed through a corridor he heard cries of pain and pleasure in equal measure. He laughed to himself, he did still have it – but there were bigger matters to resolve. He peered through a crack in the door. Stacy was on a bed, and on top of her the body of a man, writhing furiously, but where there should have been a head was a ball of smoke, ever swirling.
Micky Dolenz had seen this man before. When frolicking on the beach with the boys he’d seen him kick a sand castle to pieces. When he was in the recording studio he’d seen him slit the throats of producers. When he was with a woman he’d seen him in her eyes.
Micky opened his eyes and found himself on the bed, alone. The smell of perfume clung to the room, and to his clothes, but she had long since gone. Confusion swelled within his mind as he tried to fill in the gaps. What had he done? Had they seen him? He found no answers, only further questions. He cautiously got to his feet and returned to the bar, which was now heaving with people.
“Whisky – no ice,” he said to the bartender.
“Certainly Mr Dolenz,” the bartender replied with a wink. All around him were staring faces, all offering a cheeky grin and a flash of teeth. Micky drained the glass in one go. He made to leave, but in the corner he caught sight of Daniel Kovic, smoking a cigarette. He wasn’t the only one smoking, everyone held a cigarette in hands or between lips. The smoke drifted to one corner, thick, menacing.
Micky forced himself out of the bar when he wanted nothing more than to stand and watch the smoke. He surmised that if Daniel was out, Stacy may well be at home. He stuck out his arm to hail a cab, thankful that the one that stopped had a ‘no smoking’ sign in the back.
The rhythm of the rain crashing down on the windscreen and the swish of the wiper-blades was hypnotic. Micky found himself wandering in his mind once more, always trying to make sense of the missing moments. Only the screech of brakes as the cab came to a stop brought Micky back, and as he spotted a light on at the Kovic house he told himself to focus. He walked up to the house concentrating on the bedroom window, and the movement behind the curtain. Stacy was in there, of that he had no doubt but there was no sign of any other. He pulled on the door knob, and was unsurprised to find that it didn’t turn. He reached up to the top of the door frame, his fingers exploring the wet wood until they hit metal. The key slid smoothly into the door, and with a turn he was in. He made his way up the stairs, avoiding a step he suspected was creaky, and ventured along the landing to the master bedroom. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Sat on the bed, beside Stacy, was the man with a face of smoke. Micky looked at him, tried to look through him as it formed a pair of piercing eyes.
“Who are you?” asked Micky, wanting to thrust his hand into the smoke, wanting to breathe it in, taste it.
“A little bit me, a little bit you,” drifted into Micky’s mind as the body crumbled in front of him. The smoke danced around the room, around Stacy’s naked body, then over Micky’s shoulder.
“Dan!” cried Stacy as a blast pierced the air. Micky fell to the floor, his hands resting over the wound. The smoke trailed from the barrel of a gun, and lingered in front of him. As Stacy pleaded, Mickey looked up to an unfamiliar face. This was not the same man who had earlier visited him.
“Sleep with my wife, would you?” asked Dan.
“No…” said Micky, weakly, “you hired me.”
“Hired you? You’re crazy, who are you?” Dan said, waving the gun around.
”I’m Micky Dolenz, P.I.” said Micky watching the wisp of smoke drift towards him. He opened his mouth to breathe, but all he took in was the smoke, leaving a taste like nothing he could name, but something he had tasted every day. As he released it from his mouth, life was released from his body, and off he drifted, as smoke.
In a large leather chair, with his feet up on the desk, sat Micky Dolenz, almost horizontal. He thought he was alone as he allowed another wisp of smoke drift towards the ceiling. As he reached for another sip from the bottle of whisky he saw that he was not. He tipped his hat back, sat forward and stubbed out the cigarette before releasing the last of the smoke from his mouth. He never smoked in company.
You Micky Dolenz?” asked his visitor, throwing a folder onto the table.
“That’s what it says on the door,” said Micky Dolenz, holding the man’s glance for an uncomfortably long time.
“Yes, but are you the Micky Dolenz, the one that was in ‘The Monkees’?”
“The one and only. But I assume you’re not here, to discuss my pop career.”
“That rhymed, you know,” the man said, surprised.
“Cause it did. I’ve still got it, you know, mister?” enquired Micky Dolenz with a smile.
“Dan Kovic. I’ll get straight to the point. It’s my wife, Stacey, she’s cheating on me,” said Dan as he settled in a chair.
“So what’s this?” asked Micky Dolenz as he picked up the folder and started flicking through it.
“Pictures. I had her followed,” said Dan, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“So who followed her?”
“Another P.I. When I asked him what I’m about to ask you he said go see Micky Dolenz” said Dan before taking a deep breath.
“So go ahead, ask me”.
“I want you to find out who that man is. I wanna know who’s been in my bed, with my wife,” said Dan, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“These photographs – why is it that her face is so clear, but his is unseen, always in shadow?” asked Micky Dolenz, holding the picture closer to his face.
“That’s the thing, Micky Dolenz, I don’t think he has a face.”
Micky Dolenz reached for the bottle. He poured into a glass – drinking direct from the bottle was often frowned upon by potential clients – and closed his eyes as he slowly drank. Could it be true? Memories swamped his mind, lost hours returned. In company he’d often seem lost in a daydream, and every time, inside his mind, was a man without a face of flesh, but a face of smoke.
When Mickey Dolenz opened his eyes he was alone. He took a cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips. He struck a match and, just for a second, watched it burn, the smoke circling up towards the ceiling. He flicked through the photographs again, looking closely at the faceless man with Stacy Kovic. Each picture placed them in locations familiar to Mickey, the tasteless décor of the Hammerhead Club could not be mistaken, and only Benny’s had a bar like that. Micky had been propped against it too many times to mistake it. Micky cursed the varying locations. Waiting and watching would be no good, if he was to find this mystery-man he was going to have to follow Stacy.
The rain swirled in the wind, not heavy enough to fall with a splash, but strong enough to make Micky Dolenz pull the collar of his trench-coat up around his neck. Wherever Stacy Kovic was going, she walked alone. Her hurried footsteps dodged puddles – but only the large ones. She was anxious, almost frightened as she continued down the street, glancing over her shoulder with a consistency usually reserved for only the paranoid and those that genuinely had something to be afraid of. He followed her into a busy bar in the centre of town. He stood at the bar and ordered a whisky, watching her disappear into a back room. He waited for a moment before taking a long sip, savouring the taste as if it could be his last. Mickey Dolenz approached a man that was seated at one of the tables. Around him were empty glasses and his head hovered unsteadily inches away from them.
“How would you like to cause a diversion for me?” asked Micky Dolenz, holding a fifty discreetly under the table.
“Hey, aren’t you Micky Dolenz?” said the man.
“Yes,” said Micky Dolenz.
“The Micky Dolenz that used to be in ‘The Monkees’?” he slurred.
“Yes, I’m that Micky Dolenz,” said Micky Dolenz, “now do you want this or not?” Micky let the fifty brush against his new friend’s leg. As soon as he saw it, he seemed to sober up a little, sitting up straight.
“What do you want, Micky?” he asked.
“Watch me until I’m near that door,” said Micky Dolenz, pointing to the place he’d last seen Stacy Kovic, “then knock a table over, pick a fight, make a lot of noise.”
Micky slipped through the door unseen as the bouncers were distracted by a chair crashing into the wall. As he progressed through a corridor he heard cries of pain and pleasure in equal measure. He laughed to himself, he did still have it – but there were bigger matters to resolve. He peered through a crack in the door. Stacy was on a bed, and on top of her the body of a man, writhing furiously, but where there should have been a head was a ball of smoke, ever swirling.
Micky Dolenz had seen this man before. When frolicking on the beach with the boys he’d seen him kick a sand castle to pieces. When he was in the recording studio he’d seen him slit the throats of producers. When he was with a woman he’d seen him in her eyes.
Micky opened his eyes and found himself on the bed, alone. The smell of perfume clung to the room, and to his clothes, but she had long since gone. Confusion swelled within his mind as he tried to fill in the gaps. What had he done? Had they seen him? He found no answers, only further questions. He cautiously got to his feet and returned to the bar, which was now heaving with people.
“Whisky – no ice,” he said to the bartender.
“Certainly Mr Dolenz,” the bartender replied with a wink. All around him were staring faces, all offering a cheeky grin and a flash of teeth. Micky drained the glass in one go. He made to leave, but in the corner he caught sight of Daniel Kovic, smoking a cigarette. He wasn’t the only one smoking, everyone held a cigarette in hands or between lips. The smoke drifted to one corner, thick, menacing.
Micky forced himself out of the bar when he wanted nothing more than to stand and watch the smoke. He surmised that if Daniel was out, Stacy may well be at home. He stuck out his arm to hail a cab, thankful that the one that stopped had a ‘no smoking’ sign in the back.
The rhythm of the rain crashing down on the windscreen and the swish of the wiper-blades was hypnotic. Micky found himself wandering in his mind once more, always trying to make sense of the missing moments. Only the screech of brakes as the cab came to a stop brought Micky back, and as he spotted a light on at the Kovic house he told himself to focus. He walked up to the house concentrating on the bedroom window, and the movement behind the curtain. Stacy was in there, of that he had no doubt but there was no sign of any other. He pulled on the door knob, and was unsurprised to find that it didn’t turn. He reached up to the top of the door frame, his fingers exploring the wet wood until they hit metal. The key slid smoothly into the door, and with a turn he was in. He made his way up the stairs, avoiding a step he suspected was creaky, and ventured along the landing to the master bedroom. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Sat on the bed, beside Stacy, was the man with a face of smoke. Micky looked at him, tried to look through him as it formed a pair of piercing eyes.
“Who are you?” asked Micky, wanting to thrust his hand into the smoke, wanting to breathe it in, taste it.
“A little bit me, a little bit you,” drifted into Micky’s mind as the body crumbled in front of him. The smoke danced around the room, around Stacy’s naked body, then over Micky’s shoulder.
“Dan!” cried Stacy as a blast pierced the air. Micky fell to the floor, his hands resting over the wound. The smoke trailed from the barrel of a gun, and lingered in front of him. As Stacy pleaded, Mickey looked up to an unfamiliar face. This was not the same man who had earlier visited him.
“Sleep with my wife, would you?” asked Dan.
“No…” said Micky, weakly, “you hired me.”
“Hired you? You’re crazy, who are you?” Dan said, waving the gun around.
”I’m Micky Dolenz, P.I.” said Micky watching the wisp of smoke drift towards him. He opened his mouth to breathe, but all he took in was the smoke, leaving a taste like nothing he could name, but something he had tasted every day. As he released it from his mouth, life was released from his body, and off he drifted, as smoke.
Awesome, that's cheered me up no end
You had me fooled. I thought there was going to be some terrible pun on a Monkees song at the end or something. Very nice story, though an odd choice of PI. Not sure about the over egged uses of Mickey Dolenz's full name all the way through though.
Mmm ... a proper, proper story.
And wonderful, too. Solid and obscure and just plain strange - I wonder how your mind works sometimes.
Thought I may have had this one in the bag.
No more.
And wonderful, too. Solid and obscure and just plain strange - I wonder how your mind works sometimes.
Thought I may have had this one in the bag.
No more.
I only woke up an hour or so ago and I found it quite difficult to follow the story on a whole.
I enjoyed it in a way, It's just; I don't get it.
Bah!
I enjoyed it in a way, It's just; I don't get it.
Bah!
Made a few changes...
thanks for the comments so far though, much appreciated.
thanks for the comments so far though, much appreciated.
I liked that mickey dolenz was repeated every time, and the comical moments the story had. Also the style of an early PI black and white film, was well portrayed. good job.
That was awesome. How the hell do you write such good stories?
I liked that, it wasn't one of your best, but a good read.
I think the character of Dan was portrayed really well. The instability of him as he repeated Dolenz's every sentence, and general paranoia of the character, as confirmed at the end as he follows Dolenz. I also liked the character of Dolenz, and all his smooth traits, particularly the way you rhymed during the narrative and referred back to this point.
All in all it was a good piece that inspired some deep thought on reflection. Nice stuff.
I think the character of Dan was portrayed really well. The instability of him as he repeated Dolenz's every sentence, and general paranoia of the character, as confirmed at the end as he follows Dolenz. I also liked the character of Dolenz, and all his smooth traits, particularly the way you rhymed during the narrative and referred back to this point.
All in all it was a good piece that inspired some deep thought on reflection. Nice stuff.
Daydream Believer
In a large leather chair, with his feet up on the desk, sat Micky Dolenz, almost horizontal. He thought he was alone as he allowed another wisp of smoke drift towards the ceiling. As he reached for another sip from the bottle of whisky he saw that he was not. He tipped his hat back, sat forward and stubbed out the cigarette before releasing the last of the smoke from his mouth. He never smoked in company.
You Micky Dolenz?” asked his visitor, throwing a folder onto the table.
“That’s what it says on the door,” said Micky Dolenz, holding the man’s glance for an uncomfortably long time.
“Yes, but are you the Micky Dolenz, the one that was in ‘The Monkees’?”
“The one and only. But I assume you’re not here, to discuss my pop career.”
“That rhymed, you know,” the man said, surprised.
“Cause it did. I’ve still got it, you know, mister?” enquired Micky Dolenz with a smile.
“Dan Kovic. I’ll get straight to the point. It’s my wife, Stacey, she’s cheating on me,” said Dan as he settled in a chair.
“So what’s this?” asked Micky Dolenz as he picked up the folder and started flicking through it.
“Pictures. I had her followed,” said Dan, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“So who followed her?”
“Another P.I. When I asked him what I’m about to ask you he said go see Micky Dolenz” said Dan before taking a deep breath.
“So go ahead, ask me”.
“I want you to find out who that man is. I wanna know who’s been in my bed, with my wife,” said Dan, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“These photographs – why is it that her face is so clear, but his is unseen, always in shadow?” asked Micky Dolenz, holding the picture closer to his face.
“That’s the thing, Micky Dolenz, I don’t think he has a face.”
Micky Dolenz reached for the bottle. He poured into a glass – drinking direct from the bottle was often frowned upon by potential clients – and closed his eyes as he slowly drank. Could it be true? Memories swamped his mind, lost hours returned. In company he’d often seem lost in a daydream, and every time, inside his mind, was a man without a face of flesh, but a face of smoke.
When Mickey Dolenz opened his eyes he was alone. He took a cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips. He struck a match and, just for a second, watched it burn, the smoke circling up towards the ceiling. He flicked through the photographs again, looking closely at the faceless man with Stacy Kovic. Each picture placed them in locations familiar to Mickey, the tasteless décor of the Hammerhead Club could not be mistaken, and only Benny’s had a bar like that. Micky had been propped against it too many times to mistake it. Micky cursed the varying locations. Waiting and watching would be no good, if he was to find this mystery-man he was going to have to follow Stacy.
The rain swirled in the wind, not heavy enough to fall with a splash, but strong enough to make Micky Dolenz pull the collar of his trench-coat up around his neck. Wherever Stacy Kovic was going, she walked alone. Her hurried footsteps dodged puddles – but only the large ones. She was anxious, almost frightened as she continued down the street, glancing over her shoulder with a consistency usually reserved for only the paranoid and those that genuinely had something to be afraid of. He followed her into a busy bar in the centre of town. He stood at the bar and ordered a whisky, watching her disappear into a back room. He waited for a moment before taking a long sip, savouring the taste as if it could be his last. Mickey Dolenz approached a man that was seated at one of the tables. Around him were empty glasses and his head hovered unsteadily inches away from them.
“How would you like to cause a diversion for me?” asked Micky Dolenz, holding a fifty discreetly under the table.
“Hey, aren’t you Micky Dolenz?” said the man.
“Yes,” said Micky Dolenz.
“The Micky Dolenz that used to be in ‘The Monkees’?” he slurred.
“Yes, I’m that Micky Dolenz,” said Micky Dolenz, “now do you want this or not?” Micky let the fifty brush against his new friend’s leg. As soon as he saw it, he seemed to sober up a little, sitting up straight.
“What do you want, Micky?” he asked.
“Watch me until I’m near that door,” said Micky Dolenz, pointing to the place he’d last seen Stacy Kovic, “then knock a table over, pick a fight, make a lot of noise.”
Micky slipped through the door unseen as the bouncers were distracted by a chair crashing into the wall. As he progressed through a corridor he heard cries of pain and pleasure in equal measure. He laughed to himself, he did still have it – but there were bigger matters to resolve. He peered through a crack in the door. Stacy was on a bed, and on top of her the body of a man, writhing furiously, but where there should have been a head was a ball of smoke, ever swirling.
Micky Dolenz had seen this man before. When frolicking on the beach with the boys he’d seen him kick a sand castle to pieces. When he was in the recording studio he’d seen him slit the throats of producers. When he was with a woman he’d seen him in her eyes.
Micky opened his eyes and found himself on the bed, alone. The smell of perfume clung to the room, and to his clothes, but she had long since gone. Confusion swelled within his mind as he tried to fill in the gaps. What had he done? Had they seen him? He found no answers, only further questions. He cautiously got to his feet and returned to the bar, which was now heaving with people.
“Whisky – no ice,” he said to the bartender.
“Certainly Mr Dolenz,” the bartender replied with a wink. All around him were staring faces, all offering a cheeky grin and a flash of teeth. Micky drained the glass in one go. He made to leave, but in the corner he caught sight of Daniel Kovic, smoking a cigarette. He wasn’t the only one smoking, everyone held a cigarette in hands or between lips. The smoke drifted to one corner, thick, menacing.
Micky forced himself out of the bar when he wanted nothing more than to stand and watch the smoke. He surmised that if Daniel was out, Stacy may well be at home. He stuck out his arm to hail a cab, thankful that the one that stopped had a ‘no smoking’ sign in the back.
The rhythm of the rain crashing down on the windscreen and the swish of the wiper-blades was hypnotic. Micky found himself wandering in his mind once more, always trying to make sense of the missing moments. Only the screech of brakes as the cab came to a stop brought Micky back, and as he spotted a light on at the Kovic house he told himself to focus. He walked up to the house concentrating on the bedroom window, and the movement behind the curtain. Stacy was in there, of that he had no doubt but there was no sign of any other. He pulled on the door knob, and was unsurprised to find that it didn’t turn. He reached up to the top of the door frame, his fingers exploring the wet wood until they hit metal. The key slid smoothly into the door, and with a turn he was in. He made his way up the stairs, avoiding a step he suspected was creaky, and ventured along the landing to the master bedroom. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Sat on the bed, beside Stacy, was the man with a face of smoke. Micky looked at him, tried to look through him as it formed a pair of piercing eyes.
“Who are you?” asked Micky, wanting to thrust his hand into the smoke, wanting to breathe it in, taste it.
“A little bit me, a little bit you,” drifted into Micky’s mind as the body crumbled in front of him. The smoke danced around the room, around Stacy’s naked body, then over Micky’s shoulder.
“Dan!” cried Stacy as a blast pierced the air. Micky fell to the floor, his hands resting over the wound. The smoke trailed from the barrel of a gun, and lingered in front of him. As Stacy pleaded, Mickey looked up to an unfamiliar face. This was not the same man who had earlier visited him.
“Sleep with my wife, would you?” asked Dan.
“No…” said Micky, weakly, “you hired me.”
“Hired you? You’re crazy, who are you?” Dan said, waving the gun around.
”I’m Micky Dolenz, P.I.” said Micky watching the wisp of smoke drift towards him. He opened his mouth to breathe, but all he took in was the smoke, leaving a taste like nothing he could name, but something he had tasted every day. As he released it from his mouth, life was released from his body, and off he drifted, as smoke.
In a large leather chair, with his feet up on the desk, sat Micky Dolenz, almost horizontal. He thought he was alone as he allowed another wisp of smoke drift towards the ceiling. As he reached for another sip from the bottle of whisky he saw that he was not. He tipped his hat back, sat forward and stubbed out the cigarette before releasing the last of the smoke from his mouth. He never smoked in company.
You Micky Dolenz?” asked his visitor, throwing a folder onto the table.
“That’s what it says on the door,” said Micky Dolenz, holding the man’s glance for an uncomfortably long time.
“Yes, but are you the Micky Dolenz, the one that was in ‘The Monkees’?”
“The one and only. But I assume you’re not here, to discuss my pop career.”
“That rhymed, you know,” the man said, surprised.
“Cause it did. I’ve still got it, you know, mister?” enquired Micky Dolenz with a smile.
“Dan Kovic. I’ll get straight to the point. It’s my wife, Stacey, she’s cheating on me,” said Dan as he settled in a chair.
“So what’s this?” asked Micky Dolenz as he picked up the folder and started flicking through it.
“Pictures. I had her followed,” said Dan, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“So who followed her?”
“Another P.I. When I asked him what I’m about to ask you he said go see Micky Dolenz” said Dan before taking a deep breath.
“So go ahead, ask me”.
“I want you to find out who that man is. I wanna know who’s been in my bed, with my wife,” said Dan, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.
“These photographs – why is it that her face is so clear, but his is unseen, always in shadow?” asked Micky Dolenz, holding the picture closer to his face.
“That’s the thing, Micky Dolenz, I don’t think he has a face.”
Micky Dolenz reached for the bottle. He poured into a glass – drinking direct from the bottle was often frowned upon by potential clients – and closed his eyes as he slowly drank. Could it be true? Memories swamped his mind, lost hours returned. In company he’d often seem lost in a daydream, and every time, inside his mind, was a man without a face of flesh, but a face of smoke.
When Mickey Dolenz opened his eyes he was alone. He took a cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips. He struck a match and, just for a second, watched it burn, the smoke circling up towards the ceiling. He flicked through the photographs again, looking closely at the faceless man with Stacy Kovic. Each picture placed them in locations familiar to Mickey, the tasteless décor of the Hammerhead Club could not be mistaken, and only Benny’s had a bar like that. Micky had been propped against it too many times to mistake it. Micky cursed the varying locations. Waiting and watching would be no good, if he was to find this mystery-man he was going to have to follow Stacy.
The rain swirled in the wind, not heavy enough to fall with a splash, but strong enough to make Micky Dolenz pull the collar of his trench-coat up around his neck. Wherever Stacy Kovic was going, she walked alone. Her hurried footsteps dodged puddles – but only the large ones. She was anxious, almost frightened as she continued down the street, glancing over her shoulder with a consistency usually reserved for only the paranoid and those that genuinely had something to be afraid of. He followed her into a busy bar in the centre of town. He stood at the bar and ordered a whisky, watching her disappear into a back room. He waited for a moment before taking a long sip, savouring the taste as if it could be his last. Mickey Dolenz approached a man that was seated at one of the tables. Around him were empty glasses and his head hovered unsteadily inches away from them.
“How would you like to cause a diversion for me?” asked Micky Dolenz, holding a fifty discreetly under the table.
“Hey, aren’t you Micky Dolenz?” said the man.
“Yes,” said Micky Dolenz.
“The Micky Dolenz that used to be in ‘The Monkees’?” he slurred.
“Yes, I’m that Micky Dolenz,” said Micky Dolenz, “now do you want this or not?” Micky let the fifty brush against his new friend’s leg. As soon as he saw it, he seemed to sober up a little, sitting up straight.
“What do you want, Micky?” he asked.
“Watch me until I’m near that door,” said Micky Dolenz, pointing to the place he’d last seen Stacy Kovic, “then knock a table over, pick a fight, make a lot of noise.”
Micky slipped through the door unseen as the bouncers were distracted by a chair crashing into the wall. As he progressed through a corridor he heard cries of pain and pleasure in equal measure. He laughed to himself, he did still have it – but there were bigger matters to resolve. He peered through a crack in the door. Stacy was on a bed, and on top of her the body of a man, writhing furiously, but where there should have been a head was a ball of smoke, ever swirling.
Micky Dolenz had seen this man before. When frolicking on the beach with the boys he’d seen him kick a sand castle to pieces. When he was in the recording studio he’d seen him slit the throats of producers. When he was with a woman he’d seen him in her eyes.
Micky opened his eyes and found himself on the bed, alone. The smell of perfume clung to the room, and to his clothes, but she had long since gone. Confusion swelled within his mind as he tried to fill in the gaps. What had he done? Had they seen him? He found no answers, only further questions. He cautiously got to his feet and returned to the bar, which was now heaving with people.
“Whisky – no ice,” he said to the bartender.
“Certainly Mr Dolenz,” the bartender replied with a wink. All around him were staring faces, all offering a cheeky grin and a flash of teeth. Micky drained the glass in one go. He made to leave, but in the corner he caught sight of Daniel Kovic, smoking a cigarette. He wasn’t the only one smoking, everyone held a cigarette in hands or between lips. The smoke drifted to one corner, thick, menacing.
Micky forced himself out of the bar when he wanted nothing more than to stand and watch the smoke. He surmised that if Daniel was out, Stacy may well be at home. He stuck out his arm to hail a cab, thankful that the one that stopped had a ‘no smoking’ sign in the back.
The rhythm of the rain crashing down on the windscreen and the swish of the wiper-blades was hypnotic. Micky found himself wandering in his mind once more, always trying to make sense of the missing moments. Only the screech of brakes as the cab came to a stop brought Micky back, and as he spotted a light on at the Kovic house he told himself to focus. He walked up to the house concentrating on the bedroom window, and the movement behind the curtain. Stacy was in there, of that he had no doubt but there was no sign of any other. He pulled on the door knob, and was unsurprised to find that it didn’t turn. He reached up to the top of the door frame, his fingers exploring the wet wood until they hit metal. The key slid smoothly into the door, and with a turn he was in. He made his way up the stairs, avoiding a step he suspected was creaky, and ventured along the landing to the master bedroom. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Sat on the bed, beside Stacy, was the man with a face of smoke. Micky looked at him, tried to look through him as it formed a pair of piercing eyes.
“Who are you?” asked Micky, wanting to thrust his hand into the smoke, wanting to breathe it in, taste it.
“A little bit me, a little bit you,” drifted into Micky’s mind as the body crumbled in front of him. The smoke danced around the room, around Stacy’s naked body, then over Micky’s shoulder.
“Dan!” cried Stacy as a blast pierced the air. Micky fell to the floor, his hands resting over the wound. The smoke trailed from the barrel of a gun, and lingered in front of him. As Stacy pleaded, Mickey looked up to an unfamiliar face. This was not the same man who had earlier visited him.
“Sleep with my wife, would you?” asked Dan.
“No…” said Micky, weakly, “you hired me.”
“Hired you? You’re crazy, who are you?” Dan said, waving the gun around.
”I’m Micky Dolenz, P.I.” said Micky watching the wisp of smoke drift towards him. He opened his mouth to breathe, but all he took in was the smoke, leaving a taste like nothing he could name, but something he had tasted every day. As he released it from his mouth, life was released from his body, and off he drifted, as smoke.