W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

“You’ll have to pardon my ignorance. I didn’t realize a fellow could make a living off comic books. You have formal training for a job like that?”

“Of course. I got my degree from the California College of the Arts in Oakland. I work freelance—currently with a couple of guys I went to school with. My buddy Jocko does the writing. I’m what they call a penciler. There are two other fellows who do the inking and the coloring.”

“I read a lot of comic books when I was a kid. Tales from the Crypt and the like.”

Willard smiled. “I know that one well. The company was originally Educational Comics. William Gaines inherited the business from his dad. In 1947, he and an editor named Al Feldstein came up with the concept, which was a smash success and generated hundreds of imitators. Weird Chills, Weird Thrillers, Web of Mystery. I have hundreds of those old classics.”

“Is that right? And now you’re writing them yourself.”

“As part of the team. I also do freelance editorial cartoons as well. I’m lucky circumstances allowed me to pursue my dream. My parents are still convinced I’ll starve.”

“Well, I admire your gumption. I’ll have to take a look at your work sometime,” he said, hoping the fellow wouldn’t jump right up and fetch his portfolio.

“I think of this as my bread-and-butter money until I can launch the project closest to my heart.”

“And what would that be?”

“A graphic novel. Are you familiar with the form?”

“I’m not, but I’d imagine it’s much like it sounds. Comic book starring a superhero of some type?”

“The graphic novel’s actually a separate genre. A version called manga’s been popular in Japan for years and encompasses all kinds of stories. Action-adventure, horror, detective. I’m not saying mine’s manga. That’s strictly of Japanese origin.”

“Is that right? And yours is about what, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’ve created a character called Joe Jupiter, who’s been crippled in an accident.”

“Writing what you know, so to speak.”

“Except I take the setup in a different direction. He enrolls in an experimental protocol and ends up acquiring supernatural abilities after being injected with a powerful new drug that’s supposed to regenerate nerves and cells. Through some fluke—I’m still working on that aspect—instead of being cured, Jupiter develops unusual powers of telepathy and mind control.”

“No telling what kind of adventures that might lead to,” Pete remarked.

“My wife thinks it’s too much like science fiction, which isn’t my intent. Of course, there’s an element of fantasy, but the premise is reality based.”

“Not my area of expertise, but I can definitely see the possibilities. Is yours a lucrative trade?”

“If you hit it big, absolutely,” Willard replied. The pink in his eyelids had intensified, like a curious form of blushing. Pete wondered which he was exaggerating—the earnings potential or his chances of making it.

Pete kept hoping he’d state his problem and get on with it. So far, he had no idea what the job was and no clue if the fellow had the money to pay. “You’re a married man.”

“I am.”

“How many years is that now?”

“Four and a half. We moved here a year ago from Pittsburgh, which is where we met. My wife’s an associate professor at UCST. She does pharmaceutical research, which is what triggered the Joe Jupiter idea.”

“Promising field.” Pete fixed his gaze expectantly on the young man.

Willard said, “Which actually brings me to the reason for my call.”

Pete said nothing, worried that Willard would get off point and start talking about himself again.

“As it, uh, happens my wife applied for this position without realizing the man in charge of the project was someone she’d worked with before.”

“When was this?”

“When she took this job or when she worked with him before?”

“You already said you moved here a year ago. I’m assuming that was for the job.”

“Right. They were both undergraduates at Florida State. This was several years back. I guess they were involved in a romantic relationship. Nothing serious from what she says. She was the one who broke it off.”

“Because . . .”

“I’m not really sure.”

“Passing fling perhaps?”

“Something like that.”