The all-knowing internet revealed a big fat goose egg, but I was never much of a researcher. I did find Evert Toth, who had a masthead listing as managing editor of elLAy Rag, a local left-wing free paper picked up in coffee shops all over the city. Though one might assume such a paper was trash from front to porn-filled back, it wasn’t. Some of the biggest exposes, blown whistles, and no-bullshit journalism happened inside. I called the paper, got routed all over the place, and finally ended up on voice mail. I left a message.
I walked home, phone in hand, unwilling to put it in my pocket. I had something else to do. Someone else to call.
I was many things. I was submissive. I was masochistic. I was trusting. I was a sexual slave. But obedient?
Not as much.
I rooted around my bag and found a matte white card. I stopped at the corner because if I waited until I got home, I might change my mind. I dialed the number. The voice that came over was silky smooth, betraying nothing, giving nothing.
Hello, you’ve reached the workshop of Jessica Carnes. Please leave a message after the tone, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. If you are a curator calling to schedule a studio visit, please press five.
I choked a little. I knew what I wanted. I wanted to probe her plans. I wanted to represent myself as her friend and ally to bring back information to Jonathan, but I suddenly felt highly unqualified to protect him.
I almost hung up, but her caller ID would reveal who I was, and if I hung up, I’d look weak and manipulative. She wouldn’t trust me. She’d use me. I needed her to respect me if I wanted her to attempt to partner with me.
“Hi, Jessica. This is Monica Faulkner. I’d like to take you up on your offer to talk if it’s still on the table. Thanks.”
I hung up before I could say something stupid or laugh nervously.
Fuck.
What did I just do?