Page 96 of Stabby Little

No. It can't be. I only think this because Grant's off-limits and I want to take the next step with him. I'm mixing him up with my mystery man because he's the only person I've enjoyed having sex with in years.

I spin around and rush out of Grant's house.

30

GRANT

Friday, June 12th

My BMW grinds to a halt.I release my grip on the steering wheel and step out of my car. After I slam the door, I walk down the sidewalk toward the prosthetic special effects shop.

I don't plan on being here long. All I need to do is ask the employee on duty for surveillance footage of Kobe's visit. I'm waiting to report the news of Kobe's fake nose to Michael until I have confirmation that he purchased it here. Otherwise, it's hearsay—I refuse to bring him information Crystal could've fabricated.

Fuck knows she has her reasons for doing so. "Trevor" left her high and dry and ghosted her in LA—or so she said. I wouldn't put it past her to purchase this fake nose to set him up.

I push through people until I reach the shop doors. The shop is a small space crammed between two coffee bars. A dumpster overflowing with trash sits in the alley, reeking of garbage and old food. The interior stretches out further than you'd think standing outside, sprawling at least two stories.

Rows of shelves contain special effects gear and movie makeup for filmmakers. Bins with wigs of various colors and lengths line the floors, at knee level for easy access. A staircase leading to a basement section is covered in dirty carpet, and it looks like no one's cleaned it in years. A dim light shines in the basement, illuminating more shelves packed with filmography gear that heralds in memories of a bygone era.

I looked this place up online before I came. It's a Manhattan institution. Independent filmmakers have flocked here since the 1950s. An Italian immigrant partnered with a French businessman who worked in the film industry to fill a niche for high-quality artisan-sourced special effects gear for filmmakers who didn't want to purchase overseas goods. This was before globalization crept in and made cheap foreign products ubiquitous.

Even though the prices are high, college students and aspiring actors frequent this place for its history. Pictures of its glorious past line the walls, images of movie stars signing autographs inside. The tables set up next to the checkout counter are paired with cozy seats, presumably so customers can grab a coffee next door and then come here to shop. A bookshelf laden with filmmaking tomes rests strategically near a door leading to a back room, though the books are caked with dust.

I doubt anyone's picked up a book from here in years. It's more like a place you visit to brag about online. A shop to pick out trinkets and relics of a now-dead Golden Manhattan Filmmaking Age.

I walk to the counter. "Hello."

The woman behind the counter ticks her eyes up. "How can I help you?"

"I need to speak to you about a customer who visited your shop."

She types something on her computer. "I can't help you with that."

"It's important. He's involved in criminal activity and I need to verify he was here."

She narrows her eyes. "I told you I can't help."

I study her auburn hair, twisted into French braids, her pointy nose, dotted with freckles, and her ears that remind me of an elf inLord of the Rings. She wears a polka dot blouse with a bow over her breasts, tied low enough to reveal her cleavage. A gray bracelet sits on her left wrist, one that pairs nicely with the Cartier Tank watch she wears.

I spot a scuff on the blue sapphire Cartier puts in their dials to aid with the watch's time mechanism. It's too small and the gem isn't cut properly.

It's a fake. No doubt about it.

I make a mental note that this woman likely can't afford a real Cartier watch.

"I'll make it worth your while." Pulling out my wallet, I slide two twenty-dollar bills across the counter. "Do you have the security footage?"

The woman stares scornfully at my money. "If you think that'll help your cause, you're mistaken."

"Your watch is a knockoff from Canal Street." I stare dead into her eyes. "You likely come to work every day hating your job. Your employers aren't nice because they run a shop that caters to criminals."

"You're wrong."

"I researched this store before I entered. NYPD has busted you three times for selling disguises to bank robbers. Your bosses likely reprimand you for speaking to clients too freely and encourage you to hold your tongue. Rent is expensive as fuck in the city, so you likely work another job in addition to this to make ends meet. Pair that with this inflation spike and your life isn't easy."

The woman inches toward me. "I'll need a lot more than forty fucking dollars to speak."

"Here." I slide two hundred dollars out of my wallet. "I need your help."

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