The Lunar Eye

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The Lunar Eye by Robert Moore Williams CHAPTER ONE "Phone for Art Harper," the waitress said. She brought the instrument from the counter to his table and plugged it into the wall outlet near him. "For a hamburger joint in the desert, this place has downtown ways," Art Harper said, and then added, "You've also got downtown looks." "For a grease monkey from a service station in the desert, you're plenty bold," the waitress answered, smiling. "One of your women is on the line, sir. Try and be a gentleman when you talk to her." She handed the phone to him. "How do you know it's one of my women?" Art asked. "Because she asked for you," the waitress answered. Art Harper spoke into the phone, then listened. There was a woman on the line. She was scared. "If you're Art Harper, I have to talk to you, at once," the woman said. It was an odd voice, one that Art Harper had never heard before. The English was perfect, but there was the trace of an accent in the voice, a haunting accent that seemed to echo out of the lost world of his dreams. The voice, and the accent, made him uncomfortable, and somehow, afraid.

He looked up from the phone. A tire salesman, wearing black-rimmed, thick-lensed glasses, was sitting across the table from him. The salesman had brought him across the street to this restaurant for lunch, using the old sales technique of softening up a prospective customer with food. Looking at tikrs