I was getting impatient sitting around waiting for Robert Crais‘s next book, The Sentry. Yeah, I know it’s coming out January 11 but that’s five lousy months.
So I decided to take matters into my own hands and jumped into my car. Crais lives here in the city of angels, there are only about three million people—how hard can he be to find? They don’t call me the Nerd for nothin’.
After seven hours of driving the neon-dotted streets, begging for scraps of info from hookers and residents of dark alleys, I found him having drinks in a dimly lit bar where you can’t smoke anymore but can still smell it in the bartender’s hair. Someone played blue notes on the sax in the background while someone else danced slowly with himself.
When Crais saw me coming, he gave me weary eyes and simply asked “Why?” without missing a sip. I said, “Because I lose sleep at night and can’t take it anymore.” He nodded as if he’d always known, reached into his pants and handed this over. I ran out of the bar, clutching the manuscript to my bosom, and never looked back.