I entered the library, this grand gothic elizabethan victorian masterpiece building, and remembered how I felt when I first moved to the City: amazed, enthusiastic, and energized. I decided to get another venti black coffee when i left, even if it would upset Mara — but, then again, i didn't need to tell her everything . . . .

I saw a librarian and walked directly to her and said, "where are the phone directories?" She was a small woman, driving herself toward an inevitable spinsterhood. I winked to thank her (channeling Mike Hammer or Sam Spade was getting easier), and her thin lips blossomed with a radiant smile. If she just let her hair down and kept that smile, she might find herself a man. "Gosh," I thought, "I could get used to being a detective."

She directed me to a back room, unlocked the door, and showed me in with an open palm. Miss Adams closed the door behind her and sat, acting as chaperon as I investigated the dusty room. Phone books for each borough dated back to 1950. I looked in about half of them and found 9 solid leads. I borrowed Miss Adams's pencil and jotted the names on a Starbucks napkin. I resolved to buy a fancy detective notebook.

I couldn't hide my glee at my success, and it must have been contagious, for I saw Miss Adams thaw from her frigid stance as she escorted me out of phone book dungeon. I watched her long skirt dance as she walked, showing her smooth calfs, and I had a fleeting thought: "Maybe I should buy Mara a skirt like that."

After we returned to her librarian's desk, I asked her where the computers were. Alexa Ovet wrote, "don't forget what happened with the Dragon's Teeth," and it was a good place to start.

She pointed to the computers behind me and said, "There's at least a three hour wait for the Internet. It looks like you're doing research, Mr. . . ."

"Minkus. Myron Minkus."

"Mr. Minkus. Why don't I show you to our newspaper archives." She abruptly stood and walked me to the newspaper search engine. Before I had a chance to daydream, I was looking at microfiche, like a real P.I.

I printed three articles:
December, 1997, New York Post: "Rudy Clubs Leather-Clad Club": "The Dragon's Teeth Club, located at 166 Stanton St. was raided yesterday on suspicion of drug sales. Mayor Giuliani's office released a statement alleging freely available heroin, ecstasy and pornography in the establishment."
May, 2005, The New Yorker: "Death Flesh headlines at The Pyramid. Come early for the exciting new band Dragon's Teeth."
April, 2003, Wall Street Journal: "Jujitsu finally scraps A.I. Project"

It was 10:45. I wasn't going to be late for Charlie. I just needed to borrow a detective book and I'd high-tail it out of this pop-stand.

Miss Adams was doing paperwork when I gently called her name. "Miss Adams, excuse me, can you direct me to the detective book section? I want something with Mike Hammer or Sam Spade."

She brought her eyes up to meet mine and squinted; she wasn't happy. "Dear, there's no circulation desk here. You'll have to go to another branch. Do you even have a library card?"

"No."

"Hrmph. Well, if you want it today, you'll have to go to a book store. . . . Go to the Strand — I like it better than the big chains."

"The Strand. I've heard of that. It's, um, downtown?"

Miss Adams rolled her eyes again and took out a card from her wallet. She wrote down the address on the back of her business card and said, "I wrote down my mobile number in case you need some help. I'll be done with work at four. . . . You have the greenest eyes I've ever seen." Her tiny lips pursed after the compliment. I thanked her and left to meet Charlie.

Lunch with Charlie was like any other lunch with Charlie; it almost brought me back to my routine, but I needed to do some more investigating. I went to the Strand first and got lost along the way — I couldn't stop thinking about Alexa's pleading, throaty voice.

The bookstore claimed "six miles of books," and I got started with the one-dollar books outside. A man in a yellow hat seemed to look at me as I fingered through them. Eventually, I found a simply bound screenplay. No publishing house. It was titled Dragon's Teeth and was written by Jason Argos. There were coffee mug stains on nearly every page and red notes everywhere. "Olive's" lines were highlighted in a faint yellow. I didn't know too much about plays, but I found it odd that Jason Argos used the first three pages to describe every facet of Olive's appearance. I emailed Mark and told him to meet me after work for drinks — he used to "do some acting" and would know about this sort of thing.