Low Key is the story of Los Angeles detective and Marfan syndrome sufferer, Illy Robin. Through Illy’s eyes, we see Los Angeles as a nightmare Walt Disney might have.

Low Key: Mystery

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BLURB: Low Key

Low Key is the story of Los Angeles detective and Marfan syndrome sufferer, Illy Robin. In 2025, after the self-driving car has revolutionized transportation and forced thousands into homelessness. Illy is hired by billionaire real estate tycoon Randolph Royce to find his daughter, Dorothy. As a reward, Royce sets Illy on a string of blind dates but every girl winds up dead the next day after the date. Suspected by police for his involvement, Illy must clear his name and find the real killer. Perverting the archetypes of our childhood-favorite animated films, Illy sees every girl that he fancies as a different Princess, showing us the raw streets of Los Angeles through “Disneyfied” eyes.

EXCERPT: Low Key

Chapter Three

Elastic Chastity

Twenty feet above street level. Sound recording. Camera focused. I’m perched up in a palm tree, squatting, as hidden as a raven in the shadows of the mind. A tree husk is crawling up my ass, but I’m unfazed by this discomfort. I keep it cool in the blazing heat.

I’ve snapped ten pictures; Dorothy arriving at the scene, lighting a cigarette, smoking it, putting it out on the bottom of her shoe, dealer X arriving, the hand off, the kiss, Dorothy scampering back into the convent, dealer X lighting a cigarette, dealer X’s car peeling itself out. “X” isn’t code, unless for douche, that’s actually his name. Dorothy Royce is an American princess hiding from her father, Randolph, to pursue her dreams of sado-activist vagabondage, but before she can jump into that street soup, she has to lay low and who would suspect a dame crazy enough to wear all black in this heat? God have mercy.

I glanced down from my binoculars at myself and remembered I’m no better. Dark blue suit and slacks, white button up, black tie. Chill shades of chill colors absorbing the sun’s rays. I’ve been sweating up here for an hour now, waiting for the moment she walks out to feed the birds.

“Hey man, what the hell are you doing up there?” came a shouting from the street.

It was Carino, an old friend, Hispanic of unspecified origin and a B-famous actor living on the streets. He had long curly hair with eyes as shifty as mercury. He would stay skinny no matter how many six packs he drank. Sometimes a pest, Carino would send me long text messages detailing everything he did and saw on a night out no matter how little I cared.

To Carino, masturbation was an institution, masturbation and drinking. Often, he would jerk off with one hand and hold his beer with the other. He was afraid one day he would confuse the two and accidently end up spilling his beer and taking a sip from his cock.

“You can see me down there?”

Jesus, how long have I been poking out of cover? Is it my knees again, protruding up over my head?

“Illy, you’re in a palm tree…I saw you from all the way up the block.”

“Stop screaming. I’m undercover.”

“Really, who are you snoopin’ on?” He lowered his volume but knew some life hack to make his whispers travel long distances.

“Randolph Royce’s daughter, if you must know.”

“Ree-he-she-really? How’d you land a gig like that, big shot?”

“Got referred by a friend, now shut up and scram.”

The convent doors opened and there she was, a little late, with a bag of seeds in her holy water washed hands and her blank clothes failing to hide that spoiled bourgeoisie edge. The angle of her eyes, the point of her nose and chin, the way her lips clasped like closed scissors, covered a skull whose evil no makeup could conceal. She strolled over to the splatter of shade on the convent’s lawn and the birds gathered around. Doves made feral by the times. Carino glanced over to her then back to me.

“That her?”

I nodded like a viper, hissing.

Taking my job into his own crude hands, Carino strutted over to the budding lovely, balancing wealthy confidence and homeless apathy.

“Hell of a day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, this blessed heat has been torture for the sisters as well as myself.”

“Sisters? Well consider me a convert, because if God made more of you then praise his holy name forever.”

“Amen,” giggling, she edged closer to him, dropping the bag of seeds for the doves to devour.

“You’re cute, do you live around here?”

“Here, there, and everywhere.”

She lifted up a finger to curl her hair but realized it was hidden beneath her cap.

“Well, I have a confession to make. I’m not really a nun, I’m just doing this for research.”

“Babe, if you want to know the effects long periods of abstinence have on the human body and mind, I know just the cat.”

“Does he believe in God?”

“Yeah, all of ‘em.”

Laughing again, edging closer, her face an inch from his chest to give the impression of touch but the sensation of longing.

“If you want to see what I look like under all these rags, we can meet up tonight.”

“That’d be nice, I know a guy who will let us use his shower.”

“Take down my number.”

Carino pulled out his phone to jot down her digits.

“310-458-8515, I’m Dorothy.”

“I’m Carino, let’s meet up at the loneliest hour.”

“One it is.”

Smirking, she took that unforgiving step back, like pulling out a meat-hook lodged in him, and with one teasing swoop, she spun on her heel and sashayed back into the convent. Carino reached down, grabbed the bag of seeds to eat and walked back to me. I shimmied down the tree to meet him on equal ground.

“You should hire me full time…did you see that?”

“Don’t give yourself too much credit, she’s easy.”

“Oh, like you could do better?”

“We’re gonna find out.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to set up a time to meet her but I’m going to be there instead of you to talk her into coming back home to her father.”

“What makes you think I’d ever pass on pussy I earned?”

“Think of all the times you got drunk on my dime when you were broke. All the people I talked out of kicking your ass…I’m asking for a favor but call it a demand.”

“Geez, why is it always checks and balances with you? Fine, have her. If this works, then I get half of what Randolph’s paying you.”

“No way, that’s rent.”

“Fine, then I get to crash on your couch.”

“I sold it.”

“Fine, not only does my tab with you get wiped clean but now you’re inmydebt, so when the time comes I ask you for a favor, you have to accept it.”

I paused the moment and let it sink in, to be cemented in time. Barely breaking the silent stillness, the breathless silence, I put my hand out and Carino shook it. The city sensed the score was settled and cooled down as if the Gods turned the temperature and contrast dials to give the blue-black night a tranquil under glow. They spoke inside a breeze, “It’s all good.”

“Deal,” I agreed.

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