For three days it had seemed like the rain would never end but tonight it finally relents. Still, a wetness remains. A still wetness. I stare out of the window and watch residual droplets fall from the gutters to the street below, but my reverie is interrupted by the bleep-bleep and vibration of a text message. Withheld number? “Mr. Auster. Must meet you urgently. Will pay handsomely for your services. Head toward Central Park. More instructions to follow.” A dormant film coats the asphalt, reflecting the tall facades, the lampposts, the parked cars. There is an eerie depth that doesn’t belong in this otherwise superficial city. As I walk out into the dark mirrored streets to meet the mystery messenger, I begin to question what the hell I’m doing. Can I really blame this on curiosity? Or have times gotten so bad that I’m prepared to meet a stranger, in the middle of the night, to discuss a job offer that I know nothing about? I suppose if things go South, I do at least have backup. I tap my hand on the Glock tucked into my belt to reassure myself - Old Faithful. Then I turn up my collar against the wind, dip my Stetson down to my brow and head south out of my apartment in Washington Heights. Second message. Withheld. “Stay on foot. Make sure you aren’t followed.” Per instruction, I continue past the night bus that would have taken me all the way to the Duke Ellington corner of Fifth. Feel like I’m being watched. How can I make sure I’m not followed if the person who requested that is following me? The pit of my stomach groans with foreboding anticipation. This is all very odd. Approaching West Harlem, I walk alongside St. Nick’s park. It’s the middle of the night so I’m thankful I’ve got Old Faithful poking out of my corduroys. Not sure I have anything to worry about though. There’s not a soul around. The city is spookily quiet. I tread deliberately, avoiding the cracks like a schoolboy, gleefully watching the rainwater rise up between the slabs as my feet press down on the saturated sidewalk. Every day a little madder! Suppose I’m putting on a show for my mysterious voyeur. Soon I find myself at the corner of Frederick Douglas Blvd. and 124th Street. I turn right down Frederick Douglas, walk four blocks then turn right on 120th. I walk another two blocks and turn right to walk up Morningside Avenue. Four more blocks and I turn right on 124th. Before I know it, I’m back at the corner of Frederick Douglas and 124th. Why did I do that? There’s a blip. A momentary blackout. I find myself on Malcolm X Blvd. I turn left. I’m back on 124th. I walk two blocks. Left on Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Four blocks. Left again on 120th. Two blocks and turn left on Malcolm X Blvd. then I walk eight blocks to 128th before realising that I’ve been walking in the wrong direction. Another blackout. Did I sleep? I’m on the corner of Maddison Avenue and 124th Street. This isn’t where I want to be. I walk two blocks to Mount Morris Park and turn left. Four blocks to 120th. Left. Two blocks and I’m back on Maddison. I turn left and walk eight blocks to 128th. Going the wrong direction again. Is there some meaning to all of this? Odd! I shake myself back to reality. Stay on track. Just follow the instructions and head towards Central Park. Fifteen minutes elapse and I pass the Apollo. Not far now. My pocket vibrates. Message number three. “The plaza in front of the Guggenheim. Watch out for the man wearing a blue pocket flower.” Starting to feel the chill. I pull the breasts of my overcoat tight and hold them in place with folded arms. Another fifteen minutes go by before I see the Guggenheim rising up in the distance. Five more minutes and I’m standing in the centre of the plaza. There’s no one else here but even if there were anyone it’s too dark to see whether or not they have a pocket flower, let alone what colour it is. I find a bench and sit for a moment. Should I head back? What’s this all about? Then, there’s a tap on my shoulder. “Are you Paul Auster?” I nod at this thin, shadowy man who somehow seems more nervous than me. Then I look down at his tweed overcoat. Sure enough, left breast, he’s wearing a small bluebell sprig, tucked into the jacket pocket. He has an English accent. An alien in New York – like Sting. “I’m glad you came. I’ve heard about your detective work. I have a job for you.” “You’ve heard of my work? Which books have you read?” “Books? You write? I want to employ your detective skills. My name is Crispin Thomas but...” “Jesus!” I leap up from the bench, pull Old Faithful from my trousers and aim her at the thin shadowy man in front of me. I know that name. Everyone does. You’d have to be living in a cave to have missed the news reports. “Look, I’m armed. I don’t want any trouble. I’m happy just to walk away now. I won’t tell anyone anything.” The barrel quivers in my shaking hand. What am I doing? I could never shoot true with this much adrenaline coursing through me. Nevertheless, he holds his hands up; the way they do in the movies. I hadn’t even said “Stick ‘em up.” Wish I had, though. “No. Wait. Please. Let me explain. I’m not that Crispin Thomas. At least… I don’t think I am,” he pauses to quell the frenetic tension and slowly lowers his arms, “That’s where you come in, Mr. Auster. I need you to find out who I am.” “You don’t know who you are?” I lower my gun and sit back down. Even in the cold dark of night I can see he is too meek to be a danger to me. Crispin Thomas sits beside me. “Were you following me? Just now? It felt as though…” “I watched you writing the streets.” Writing? Did I mis-hear? “The route you were walking. Odd! Isn’t it?” He did say walking. Ha! A little madder every day. “What exactly is it you want from me, Mr. Thomas?” I see him shivering. Sure, it’s cold out, but I suspect he’s shivering from fear, and it isn’t me he’s scared of. There’s something sinister at play. “As I was saying, my name is Crispin Thomas, not the…you know…well you see…I’m a writer. The writer. I think. Mystery. Thriller. Detective stories about people like you.” I listen intently, though I suspect he’s not all there. “Things were all pretty normal until a year ago; I created a character and I gave him my own name; a fictional serial killer named Crispin Thomas but…that’s when…” his face was ashen, “that’s when the real-life killings started...” Maybe I’m starting to understand his confusion. His grip on reality might have faltered but this scrawny, nervous man is no serial killer. It’s more like he’s muddling up my books, with the stories on the news, and the narrative of his own life; like he’s melded them all into one. I had written some detective books some years back: The New Trilogy. I am the writer Paul Auster, but in my books, Paul Auster was also a character; he was a writer but he was also sort of a detective. Sounds nuts when I say it out loud but it’s all that post-modern, trying to be clever, kind of stuff. “I think you have me confused Mr. Thomas. I’m a writer, not a detective.” “Are you sure?” Weird question. I guess I have questioned my own reality at times. Odd things had been happening lately. Could it be possible that I am Paul Auster the detective? No! That’s ridiculous. Ha! A little madder every day. But what of Crispin Thomas? Which Crispin Thomas am I talking to? This character who believes he is a writer? Or the serial killer who had dominated the news these past months? Or am I talking to a different Crispin Thomas; just a madman who has read some of my books; who has lost touch with his own identity; blurred the lines between fiction and reality? Only one way to find out, I guess. “Ok,” I chuckle, “I am Paul Auster the detective really. I was just joking.” Crispin Thomas frowns suspiciously. “You mentioned handsome payment?” I test my luck. “Name your price. I need to find out who I am. Please!” “I’ll take the case. I’ll find out who you are. You leave it to me!” I pause for dramatic effect, “I’ll need three hundred dollars a day plus expenses.” “Thank you Mr. Auster. I knew you were the man for the job.” He shakes my hand vigorously. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. It’s all too easy but something is making me hesitate. I doubt myself. Moral questions. Sure, I need the money, but I’m no detective. Can I really live with myself if I take his money? Then, the devil on my shoulder reminds me of my love of whimsy and the fact that I have just walked half the city to meet him after an anonymous, cryptic text message. Who am I kidding? I haven’t had this much excitement in years. I watch Crispin Thomas walk away from me, out onto the dark mirrored streets and when he is just about to disappear from view, I stand up and start following him. There is a pitter-patter on the brim of my hat as the rain starts back up again. He seems to walk erratically. I try to get my bearings. I follow him from the corner of Park Avenue and 86th. We walk four blocks along 86th to the corner of 1st. He turns right and I follow him, always half a block behind. We walk seven blocks to 79th and turn right again. Weird? Two blocks more then I follow as he turns left down 3rd. I follow four blocks to 75th and then he vanishes. I have another blackout and wake up on the corner of 3rd and 72nd and see him again. I’m at the point of a question but I can’t see it. Something is troubling me. “Stop!” I shout out. It’s strange. I don’t feel like I intended to do that. Suddenly I see myself, from above, like a departing soul looking down on his corpse. I look menacing. I frighten even myself. Crispin Thomas is cowering in a puddle on the sidewalk, and I am standing over him, Old Faithful pointed squarely at his head. I’m not in control as I feel my finger squeeze the trigger. Bang! The bullet fires through his skull. He has just enough time to croak out the words: “Who am I?” I stare down at his lifeless body and an unsettling, almost indescribable feeling washes over me. It’s like I’m watching myself lying there. Was I ever Paul Auster? Ha! A little madder every day.