Empty Funeral

A Look Back at Robert B. Parker

2011-05-11T12:58:00.012-04:00

Another new site on the block is CriminalElement. There's a lot of great stuff on there from various people in the crime fiction web world. Like this piece on Robert B. Parker from The Night Editor's Jake Hinkson.

I haven't read much Parker, so a couple of Jake's recommendations ended up on my to-be-read list.

Ross Macdonald's Landscape

2011-05-09T11:46:00.020-04:00

Messing around on the 'net the other day, I stumbled across the site for the LA Times Review of Books. There's some nice stuff on there, like "Soft-Voiced Big Men" by Megan Abbott, which is about Robert Crais's most recent book centered on Joe Pike.

The one I really liked was the entry "Ross Macdonald and the Oil Spill". Author Jefferson Hunter talks about how Macdonald always used his California setting as part of his stories. Hunter is particularly fond of the moment in Sleeping Beauty (1973), when Archer sees an oil spill from an airplane and describes what he sees:

An offshore oil platform stood up out of its windward end like the metal handle of a dagger that had stabbed the world and made it spill black blood.

Damn. I love me some Ross Macdonald.

I also love the line StephenD quotes from The Ivory Grin:

I looked straight up into its dark blue well, moon-washed and dripping with stars, and wondered what the man at the window was seeing there, or looking for.

Citizen Kane (1941)

2011-05-01T10:38:00.000-04:00

Released 70 years ago today - May 1, 1941.

I remain your obedient servant.

A Sentence I Like

2011-04-13T11:24:00.000-04:00

"Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour."

-The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Second Act

2011-02-25T10:22:00.024-05:00

Here's my entry for the Patti Abbott "Scarry Night" flash fiction challenge:

"On Saturday night, we passed a young woman on the street who was talking to her male companion and said, "I really don't mind the scars." A good startup line for a little challenge perhaps. I looked for a picture to go with it but 1) they scarred (make that scared) me too much to post and 2) I felt like the pictures steered the story.

So how about a 800 or so word story that contains that line in it. How about an end date of February 28th? What do you think?"

Hope you enjoy.

----------------
Second Act

"I really don't mind the scars."

Fingers on her back. Angry white lesions contrast with smooth, brown skin. Lola reaches for cigarette.

Enrique says, "You are still beautiful. But they make me angry at the maricón who hurt you."

Lola turns, pulls rumpled sheets over her breasts. Bed, warm and comfortable. Perfumed with lilacs and sex. She inhales. Smoke lazily drifts toward the ceiling, wraps itself around the slowly moving fan.

"He's my husband and he loves me. At least he used to."

Enrique propped up on an elbow, looking down at her face. "He should treat you with respect. You are Lola Montez - The Goddess of Cinema! The obsession of a nation."

"I am Lola Montez - the star who hasn't had a hit in five years. The faded beauty whose charm has run out."

"No. It's not true. You must not say such things."

Lola sits up. Face to face with Enrique. "If only I had met you sooner. These last few months have been heaven. I should've known better than to marry a director. They crave power and control. They do not know how to handle women like you do, Enrique."

He leans, kisses her forehead. He takes her cigarette and mashes it in the ashtray. "I would do anything for you, my love. I would walk barefoot across the desert. I would cut off my right hand for you."

Her fingers in his curly black mop of hair. She traces the line of his jaw from earlobe to chin. His eyes black as a moonless night. Lola says, "I believe you would."

Lola leans back. Spinning fan entrances her. Memories flood back, debut at 19, Oscar nomination at 26. Not yet 40 and roles start to dry up. Magazine covers and photo spreads: gone.

Marriage to Phillip Crosby, director of her breakout hit Hot Tamales. She 22, he 45. Shrink said father issues. Her own abandoned her at 6. Lola said love. Love can fade.

Enter Enrique: valet at Bell Air restaurant. Chance encounter one night when his hand brushed hers. Sparks flew. A weekend locked in a hotel room. Repeated for months.

Enrique stares at Lola's beautiful face. "What are you thinking about?"

Lola turns. "You love me, don't you?"

"Yes."

Lola moves closer. "You would do anything for me wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

Very close to Enrique. Lips almost touching. Her breath causing goosebumps on his lips. She whispers, "Kill my husband."

"Yes, my love."

With her left hand, she pulls his head back and kisses him hungrily on the lips. Pushes him down on the bed and climbs on top, letting the sheet fall away. Lola watches Enrique's eyes drink her in.

****

Lola checks her hair one last time. Never up except for awards ceremonies. She stands and smooths the wrinkles in her gown - v-neck, black, sheer. She picks up her handbag and exits the bedroom.

She hasn't seen Enrique since planning Phillip's murder. Home invasion gone wrong. They came up with the perfect date.

Oscar Night.

Lola at the top of the half-circle staircase that hugged the outer wall of their living room. Straight ahead, a wall of curved glass. LA at dusk. Phillip in the middle of the room, checking his cufflinks. Dashing with tux, salt-and-pepper hair, soulpatch. He hears Lola, turns to watch her walk down the stairs. Her grand entrance.

Lola walks to Phillip. His hand on the small of her back. Kisses her. "You look more beautiful every day."

Lola smiles and looks away, "Thank you."

"The car's waiting out front. Shall we?"

Lola doesn't move. Eyes scanning the room.

"Is something wrong?" said Phillip.

"No. It's just..."

Enrique enters from kitchen. Lola left the back door open. Enrique in ski mask, all black. A .38 in his hand. Lola steps away from Phillip, who stares at Enrique in disbelief.

"What's going..."

Enrique fires twice. Red spots grow on Phillip's white tuxedo shirt like roses. He falls to the ground, dead. Enrique pulls off mask and Lola runs to him. They kiss passionately.

"It is done," says Enrique.

Lola's hand moves from Enrique's shoulder to his gun hand. She wraps her slender fingers around his wrist. Warmth emanates from the gun. "Yes. Just a little longer and we'll be together forever, my love."

"I only wish we could've made him suffer. Make him pay for each one of those scars."

Lola lookes at Phillip's lifeless body. "Phillip didn't do that." She turns to Enrique, "Those are the only thing my father ever gave me."

Enrique's brow furrows. Lola twists his wrist up, fires a shot through Enrique's heart.

Enrique drops to the floor, coughs blood.

Lola kneels. "I loved Phillip, but he was never around. He was always off shooting pictures while I was stuck home alone. Don't they realize that I'm the one with the talent?"

She removes an earring and drops it next to Enrique. Opens her purse and tosses it across the room. "Don't you see? This is the beginning of my comeback. Famed director Phillip Crosby slain in his own home. Beautiful Lola Montez valiantly shoots his attacker. I can play the grieving widow better than anyone. You saw me in Forever, My Love, right?"

Enrique tries to speak, only a bloody gurgle.

Lola takes off her shoe and snaps the heel. "I wish there could have been another way, my dearest Enrique. Just lay still and be quiet. Your role is almost complete. All you have left to do is die."

----------------
Author's Note: If you've read my last couple blog posts, you'll see that I had trouble trimming this down to size. For comparison's sake, I could post the last non-Ellroyified draft sometime next week if anyone's interested.

I look forward to reading everyone else's stories.

I Need A Drink

2011-02-23T10:10:00.000-05:00

I'm still working on my story of the "Scarry Night" flash challenge. It's seriously kicking my butt.

First draft: 1397 words
Second draft: 1153 words

I channeled my inner James Ellroy and chopped out every third word.

Third draft: 925 words.

I'm afraid I'm going to start cutting bone. This story can't be told in any fewer words.

At what point do I just throw in the towel? One more pass and I'm going to post it as is and beg for forgiveness for going over the word count.

Snip Snip

2011-02-19T12:24:00.000-05:00

I've talked before about the Patti Abbot & crew flash challenges. They're always a blast and you get to know some cool writers who also hang around the internet. The other week, a new challenge was thrown down. I had an idea, so I jumped in.

It's funny how inspiration works. I had a good story with interesting characters, but after I wrote the first two sentences (yes, two sentences), everything changed. The protag's motivation, the relationship with a secondary character, even one character's gender changed.

I finished the first draft this morning, and I dig it. The only problem is the challenge calls for a story of "800 or so words". First draft clocks in at just under 1400.

Time to trim the fat.

Touch of Evil

2011-02-14T09:55:00.000-05:00

Over on Movie Morlocks today, they have a blog post on Orson Welles's brilliant noir "Touch of Evil". There's not much there that hasn't been said before, but it's still nice to see the movie get some love. Go read the article and if you haven't seen the movie, go see it.

"He was some kind of a man. What does it matter what you say about people?"

(Nota bene: I have this poster hanging in my living room)

Ode to Februrary

2011-02-09T12:13:00.000-05:00

The sky's rolled up and peeled away.
A winter chill invades the land;
The well's run dry and chokes the hand.
It seems I've not much to say.

Birnam Wood Comes To Dunsinane

2010-11-08T10:31:00.000-05:00

AICN has been running a feature called "Behind the Scenes Pic of the Day" for a while now. I had to share today's installment because it features Orson Welles. This is from Welles's version of Macbeth shot in 1948. I'm not sure, but I would bet that's Jeanette Nolan as Lady Macbeth in the distance.

(click to make bigger)

Terriers

2010-11-04T10:54:00.003-04:00

Terriers is a great new PI show on FX. Dave White's been pimping it on Twitter and our friend Stephen has been posting (relatively spoiler-free) reviews almost weekly on his blog. I watched it based on their gentle prodding and was hooked instantly.

It's from creators Ted Griffin (Ocean's Eleven) and Shawn Ryan (The Shield, The Unit), so it's got good pedigree (if you'll pardon the pun). The stories are great with a healthy mix of serialized and standalone elements. The acting (especially Donal Logue) is top-notch.

Too bad the ratings aren't good, so it looks like it'll be another one season wonder. I'll watch the rest of the season and more than likely buy the DVDs once it comes out.

Give it a shot.

Would I steer you wrong?

Discount Noir

2010-10-26T16:09:00.000-04:00

Word is spreading around the 'nets about a collection of flash called DISCOUNT NOIR. The anthology contains works by: Patricia Abbott, Sophie Littlefield, Kieran Shea, Chad Eagleton, Ed Gorman, Cormac Brown, Fleur Bradley, Alan Griffiths, Laura Benedict, Garnett Elliot, Eric Beetner, Jack Bates, Bill Crider, Loren Eaton, John DuMond, John McFetridge, Toni McGee Causey, Jeff Vande Zande, James Reasoner, Kyle Minor, Randy Rohn, Todd Mason, Byron Quertermous, Sandra Scoppettone, Stephen D. Rogers, Steve Weddle, Evan Lewis, Daniel B. O’Shea, Sandra Seamans, Albert Tucher, Donna Moore, John Weagly, Keith Rawson, Gerald So, Dave Zeltserman, Dorte Hummelshoj Jakobsen, Jay Stringer, Anne Frasier, Kathleen A. Ryan, Eric Peterson, Chris Grabenstein and J.T. Ellison

Some of those names sound familiar? Yup, this is a collection of stories from one of the (in)famous flash challenges from the mind of Patti Abbott and Steve Weddle.

I've taken up the flash challenges before (see here, here, here, or check out the flash label on the side), but this is one I skipped out on. Sucks because this challenge got made into an book. *sigh*

Anyway, go here to buy a copy. You won't be disappointed.

Longhand

2010-10-13T09:30:00.013-04:00

Hang around a group of writers long enough and you'll hear someone say they overcome writer's block by picking up a pen and paper and working on their story longhand? Why is that? Comfort level? Regression to our childhood days when creativity seemed so much simpler?

Actually, there may be some science behind this. A recent study shows that children who spend more time writing by hand show greater progress in brain development and cognition. Some research shows "the sequential finger movements required to write by hand activate brain regions involved with thought, language, and short-term memory."

Even if you are skeptical of the science, we can all relate to what novelist Robert Stone said. "...I write in longhand in order to be precise. On a typewriter or word processor you can rush something that shouldn't be rushed — you can lose nuance, richness, lucidity. The pen compels lucidity."

Twenty-Five Years Ago

2010-10-10T09:28:00.001-04:00

Twenty-five years ago, Orson Welles (May 6, 1915 – October 10, 1985) passed away. He hit the trifecta of being a genius actor, writer, and director and his innovations changed the way movies were made.

The well-known story goes as follows: Orson was scheduled to be a guest on Merv Griffin's talk show on October 10th. In any interviews with anyone, Orson always stipulated that there were to be no questions about his past. Before this particular interview, he went into Merv's dressing room and said he could ask him any questions he wanted. Any questions at all.

Two hours after the interview, Orson died at home at his typewriter.

Here is the interview in two parts:

The New York Times obituary (click for a text version):

Fortune and Glory (FFF #41-ish)

2010-10-01T09:13:00.012-04:00

The last poll over at Friday Flash Fiction had some really nice choices. I was able to spin a Twilight Zone-ish tale off the winner, but there was another one on the list that I thought I could use as a starter for a western. My first attempt didn't go so well. Here's the second. Still not completely thrilled with it, but it's something. And away we go!

Fortune and Glory

"When you came right down it, I guess it was better this way."

Jonah Blane looked across the sand strewn floor to the rival bounty hunter. Roscoe Chance was crouched next to the window of the adobe hut with his revolver in hand. Chance's trademark sawed-off shotgun lay on the floor next to him.

"How's that?" he said.

"After Page kills you, the bounty's all mine," said Chance.

"In case you haven't noticed," said Blane, "we're out-numbered and out-gunned. They've got us surrounded and we got no more horses."

Blane looked out of his window. Page's men were situated about 100 yards away from the hut, crouched behind large boulders. Their horses were staked down in the distance. Chance and Blane's own horses were lying dead in the expanse of dry, cracked land between them and the outlaws. Page's men had killed both horses during the chase, but Chance and Blane made it inside the hut before they could befall the same fate.

"So?" said Chance. "I figure you can take out two or three of his men before they get you. I'll get the other five and Page."

"You think you're that much better than me?"

"I know I'm that much better than you. Who was it that brought in Milo Huggins last month? Me."

"Yeah," said Blane. "After I tracked him to Los Cruxes and figured out he was posing as the sheriff. I still owe you for that bump on the head you gave me."

"We make it out of this alive, I'll kiss it and make it better," said Chance. "Would that make you happy?"

The two-room hut was abandoned long ago. The windows were just openings in the wall and there was nothing covering the door. Time and windstorms helped the desert start to reclaim its territory.

Blane looked out and noticed a shadow moving around the side of the house. The setting sun made it hard to tell, but it looked like a man-shaped shadow.

"Watch the back," he whispered.

Chance put down his revolver and picked up the shotgun. Blane cocked the hammer of his Colt.

The air in the house was still. The only sound they heard was a coyote barking in the distance. Chance's eyes darted back and forth and he licked his lips. There was a faint sound of fabric brushing over stone and a slight jungle of an ammo belt brushing against the wall. A man stepped out of the back room and Chance immediately unloaded both barrels into his chest.

At the same time the body flew backwards, another man jumped through the front door and aimed a gun at Chance. Blane fired two shots into his back and the man fell to the floor.

"You saved my life," said Chance.

"I have a feeling I'm going to regret that."

Chance laughed. "I owe you a mezcal when we get out of this."

Chance turned his head out the window and yelled, "That's two."

After a moment, Page's voice replied, "Impressive, Mr. Chance. But there's more on the way. I sent Pete out an hour ago to round up a posse. They should be here any minute. How long do you think you can hold out all by yourself?"

"I got some help."

"Is Mr. Blane still with you? My, my. You certainly are resilient, Mr. Blane. I thought I'd taken care of you a long time ago."

Chance looked at Blane. "What's he talking about?"

Blane shook his head.

"Though I wouldn't count on him in a fight, if I were you," said Page. "He's got a yellow streak as wide as the Rio Grande. Why don't you ask him about the last time we met? Or maybe how we used to ride together? Did you know that, Mr. Chance? Your friend was once part of my gang."

"He's no friend of mine," said Chance. He turned the shotgun on Blane and said, "Is what he saying true?"

"It was a years go. Around the time Page's gang stopped robbing banks and stagecoaches and started stealing from the ranchers. Now, stealing from businesses and money men is one thing, but messing with somebody's livelihood is another thing." Blane turned his head and showed his scars to Chance; three vertical white strips on his cheek where his beard didn't grow. "I got this when I tried to leave. Sliced my face up pretty good and gutshot me. I was able to get to a doctor in time to patch me up. Since then, I've been hunting down every member of Page's gang and bringing them to justice."

"So this is a vendetta thing for you?"

Blane nodded.

"Good," said Chance. "You've got strong motivation to see this through. Now I know I can trust you in a fight."

Blane said, "Why're you doing this? The whole bounty hunter thing."

Chance smiled broadly. "Fortune and glory."

Blane slid the Colt into his holster and picked up the rifle. "You got some kind of a plan?"

Chance nodded. "Well, we got two and he just said he sent Pete away. So that leaves Page and four others. I figure we can sneak along the ridge and catch them by surprise. Shouldn't be too much of a fight."

The two men got up into a crouch position. Staying low, they moved to the back of the house and slipped out the bedroom window. The brittle soil crumbled under their feet, muffling their footsteps. They climbed up to the ridge and kept low in the wild feverfew bushes. The sun was now completely down and clouds obscured most of the stars. It was getting harder and harder to see.

"You boys haven't gone to sleep on me, now," said Page.

Blane held up a hand and they stopped. They were almost on top of Page's men and they hadn't noticed. Blane squinted and was able to make out the outline of the outlaws. He turned to Chance and held up two fingers, pointed to the near side of the boulders, then pointed to himself. He held up two more fingers, pointed to Chance, then pointed to the far side of the boulders.

Blane watched as Chance moved around behind the outlaws, using a tall mesquite tree as cover. Chance's shadow stopped moving and Blane raised his rifle to fire.

He fired two shots into the man closest to him, wheeled and fired two shots into the other man. Responding to his shots, Chance fired his own gun into his intended targets. Page, realizing what had happened, vaulted over the boulder and started off in a run.

Blane slung the rifle over his shoulder and slid down the slope, drawing his Colt as he did so. He and Chance checked that their targets were dead and turned to chase after Page. The outlaw fired blindly behind him; his bullets whining as they ricocheted off the rocks.

Chance said, "He's mine now. I run faster than you."

Blane said, "Yeah?"

He raised his Colt and fired, hitting Page in the leg. The outlaw dropped to the ground and a big dust cloud rose.

Chance said, "That's cheating."

Blane shrugged. The two men rushed to Page and got there in time to stop him from retrieving his gun. Blane picked up Page's gun and stuck it into his belt. Chance held the shotgun on Page and said, "Get up."

Page stood up and dusted himself off. Chance jerked he shotgun in the direction of the horses and said, "Move."

"Looks like you finally got me," said Page. "How long you been chasing me? Four years? Five?"

"Five," said Blane.

Page whistled. "That's a long time. Chase a man for that long and he becomes a part of you. The quest consumes you. Sending me to prison isn't going to give you much satisfaction. No, to quench this fire you need blood. You've got to kill me. That's how the game is played."

Chance looked at Blane. Blane said, "He's just trying to get into your head."

They got to the horses and Blane grabbed a piece of rope. He tightly tied the rope around Page's wrists and ankles. "I wouldn't trust him if I were you. See that bloodlust in his eyes. The Jonah Blane I knew was a stone cold killer. The minute you turn your back, he'll kill you and then me."

Chance eyed Blane. "Maybe you better ride up front."

"You're not listening to him, are you?" said Blane. "He's playing mind games. That's how he works."

"You can't trust the big bad man, now can you?" said Page. "He'll say anything to get his way. How well do you know Jonah, Mr. Chance? How much are you willing to trust him? You owe him nothing. Now, Jonah and I, we have a history. Did he tell you about how he got those scars? About what happened to his wife? She was a peach, your dear sweat Olivia."

Blane shot forward and punched Page in the mouth. Page spat blood on the dry ground and looked back at him with a big smile on his face. A sick light shone behind his eyes. Blane said, "Don't you dare say her name."

Chance turned the shotgun on Blane and said, "I really don't care if you kill him. He's starting to get on my nerves, too. Just do it now and let me go collect the bounty. He's worth half as much dead, but it's still something. He's probably gonna die anyway. Look how much his leg is bleeding."

Blane looked down at Page's leg and saw his pants were soaked through with blood. He tore the sleeve off of Page's shirt and tied it around the wound. "That's an expensive shirt you just ruined."

Blane said, "Shut up."

He turned to Chance and said, "He's just gotta make it alive as far as the marshal's office in Pasodobles. After we collect, he's the marshal's problem."

Chance thought about it for a second and said, "OK."

He picked up Page and laid him across one of the horses. He mounted another horse, rode it over to Page's left and grabbed hold of the reigns. Blane mounted a third horse and positioned himself to Page's right. The three of them started off in the direction of Pasadobles.

Chance said, "What do you mean 'we collect'? You just wanted the man, I want the money."

Blane said, "You couldn't have done it without me. We have to spit the reward."

"Next thing you're going to tell me is you want to split it 50-50."

"You still owe me for Huggins."

"Oh, you're gonna bring that up again?"

Page said, "If you two are going to bicker the whole way, would someone please just shoot me now?"

Blane and Chance both said, "Shut up."

Southern Lights (FFF #41)

2010-09-07T11:11:00.000-04:00

It's that time again. Yes, boys and girls, it's time for Friday Flash Fiction. This week's sentence comes from The Professor and is quite a good one. It would've been very easy to go in the PI direction, but why always take the easy road? Without further ado, I give you.....

Southern Lights

He walked in and slid the photograph across my desk.

"There. I have proof this time."

"Proof of what, Zeke?"

"The UFO. I told you I saw one."

I picked up the grainy photograph and looked at it. The photo was almost completely black with a fuzzy white blur in the middle. "This is your UFO?"

Zeke hitched his thumbs in straps of his overalls and said, "Yup."

The townsfolk have been worried about Old Zeke for a while now. Ever since his wife died, the farm's gone to shit. His cattle died. He fired all the hands. He rarely leaves his property these days. From the smell wafting across my desk, I could tell he hadn't bathed in five or six days. The acrid stench of sweat and desperation filled my nostrils.

"Have you shown this picture to anyone else?"

Zeke shook his head. "Nobody but you's gonna believe me, sheriff."

"Hell, I'm not even sure I believe you, Zeke."

"Come out to the farm. I'll show you where the alien craft touched down."

I sighed and agreed to go with him. I grabbed my hat and walked out into the bullpen. The police force of Hope, New Mexico wasn't much to look at. Then again, we didn't get much crime in these parts. The occasional complaint about neighbors burning trash in their back yards. People, mostly tourists, speeding down the main drag through town. Apart from me, we had two full time deputies, a dispatcher, and a woman who comes in to do the paperwork a couple times a week. I saw Deputy Hill was on duty today. I told him if anyone needed me, I'd be at Zeke's farm and that he could reach me on the radio.

Zeke and I got into my squad car and I rolled down the windows, even though that probably wouldn't make much difference. It took us about fifteen minutes to get to the farm. It was in much worse shape than I had seen it last. The fields were overgrown with weeds, the barn was crumbling down, and his house was in desperate need of a new coat of paint.

Gravel crunched under my car's tires as I pulled up to the left of the house. Zeke got out and pointed left toward the clearing between the house and the barn. "It touched down right over there."

I got out of the car and walked in the direction Zeke indicated. I noticed a burned out spot in the grass and knelt down next to it. The spot was a perfect circle - about the size of the bottom of an oil drum. The ground was completely black and was covered with an ashy powder. "Have you been burning your trash out here again, Zeke?"

Old Zeke shook his head vigorously. "Nuh-uh. There's two more over there."

I stood and looked around. Sure enough, there were two more burned out spots in what looked to me like a triangle pattern. I stood in the middle of the triangle and put my hands on my hips. I felt a funny feeling in my chest as I stood there. Like there was a huge buildup of static electricity in the air.

"This is, what, the second time you said you saw a UFO?"

"Third."

I nodded. "You get any kind of warning before they come?"

"The TV goes out during the middle of Jeopardy. The sometime later that night, they show up. Their craft hovers for five or ten minutes and then flies off."

I looked at Zeke's house. There was a giant oak tree growing in the sad patch of grass he called a front yard. They say his grandpappy brought the sapling from back east when his family moved here all those years ago. My gaze then drifted to the front of his house and I spotted the satellite dish over the front porch.

"Couldn't it be just a tree branch getting in the way of your satellite?"

Zeke shook his head. "Nope. Never had any problems at all with that there dish. Not even during those big storms we had last winter."

I rubbed my chin. Old Zeke was obviously crazy, but I couldn't have him scaring the townsfolk with tales of aliens and their spacecraft. Leave all the nonsense that brings to the folks up north in Roswell. "Tell you what, Zeke. Next time that happens, you give me a call. I'd like to see your spacecraft first hand. In the meantime, we'll keep this just between you and me. That sound like a deal?"

Zeke nodded. "Much obliged, sheriff."

I got in my car and drove off. It still smelled like Zeke in there, so I left the windows down.

I finished out the rest of my day without much change in routine business. I had to break up a domestic between Scotty Anderson and his wife again. Every month or so, Scotty drinks too much whiskey and starts mouthing off to the missus. This time, like most times, just showing up put him in a more civil mood. I was thankful for that because I didn't feel like throwing him in the drunk tank again.

Around six thirty, I grabbed a quick dinner and a slice of pie at Mabel's Diner. Best apple pie in the state and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I paid my bill, left the tip, then walked out to my car.

The radio was squawking. "Sheriff Heindricks, Sheriff Heindricks, this is dispatch. Please respond."

I leaned on the side of the car and reached in to grab the receiver. "This is Heindricks. Go ahead."

"Sheriff, we just got a call from Old Zeke. He was complaining that his cable went out and was adamant that I get in touch with you. I told him to call his cable operator, but - "

"That's fine," I said. "I told him to call me. I'm gonna head up to the farm and see what's what."

I got in the car and drove off. Zeke was starting to be a pain in the butt, but I sure as hell hoped he hadn't seen a UFO - for both our sakes.

I pulled up next to the farmhouse again and Zeke came running down the front porch to meet me. "I'm sure glad you're here, sheriff. The TV went out during Jeopardy again. The aliens should be along any minute now."

"Uh-huh."

The setting sun painted the horizon a bright orange. The sky above was dark and clear. The first stars of the night were just starting to come out. There were no birds or crickets around making any noise. The silence was deafening.

I felt the static charge like I had felt in the afternoon. This time it was much more intense. I looked at my watch and noticed the hands stopped moving.

"They're coming! They're coming!" shouted Old Zeke.

I looked up into the sky and three lights in a triangle pattern appeared. Without warning a larger, brighter light appeared in the middle of the triangle and engulfed both me and Zeke. A hum started to build and I covered my ears. The light kept getting brighter and brighter until it almost blinded me.

Suddenly, I was plunged into darkness. I blinked to readjust my eyes and I noticed I was alone on the hilltop.

Days passed. Then weeks. Men from the state police and the FBI came and went, but nobody had found any sign of Old Zeke. Eventually they all left and things got back to normal in Hope. The case file on Zeke's disappearance stayed open, but got shuffled off to the cold case room in the basement.

Every once in a while people still talk about Old Zeke. Some say he finally went off his rocker and got himself committed to a mental hospital. Some say he wandered off into the desert at night and died. A handful of people even claim that he was abducted by aliens.

You gotta keep your eye on those last folks. The High Council don't take too kindly about people poking into their affairs.

Until Gwen

2010-09-01T09:24:00.000-04:00

On Monday, friend of blog StephenD posted a link to a Dennis Lehane story entitled "Until Gwen". How's this for a kicker of an opening line:

Your father picks you up from prison in a stolen Dodge Neon, with an 8-ball of coke in the glove compartment and a hooker named Mandy in the back seat.

Sold! It's a great story and told uniquely in second-person (how often is that done?).

Stephen also links to an interview that Lehane did with The Atlantic. Here, Lehane talks about his books, his writing process and his thinking behind writing the story. Here's a brief quote:

At the time, I'd been teaching a lot and trying to get my students to understand that a character is defined most adroitly by his actions. I eventually decided to practice what I preached, and "Until Gwen" became a story in which the main character reveals himself entirely by what he does, as opposed to by what he thinks or says.

"Until Gwen" has just made it onto my list of favorite short stories.

Honor Among Thieves (FFF #40)

2010-08-31T08:50:00.011-04:00

After a couple weeks off, it's back to Friday Flash Fiction. I like to switch things up now and then, but Cormac provided a sentence that suits my particular sensibilities. On with the show...

Honor Among Thieves

I heard footsteps on the wet sidewalk and the sound of keys.

Jeff Frasier opened the Buick's door and slid behind the wheel. He didn't notice me in the back seat until I pulled back the hammer of my .38 and touched its barrel to his neck.

"Hello, Richie." His voice was cool as a cucumber but his eyes had that shine that comes with fear.

"Drive. And don't make any sudden moves."

He turned the key and pulled the car out into traffic. We cruised down the crowded street, the flashing enticements of the clubs had no effect on us. The sidewalks were full of respectable people having a respectable night on the town. Jeff had a room at the Hotel Carlisle to keep up his image while swindling nice old heiresses out of their late husbands' fortunes. I knew he was too vain to give up the room - even after they left me for dead.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"You're taking me to see Velda."

"I don't know where she is."

I pushed the barrel harder into his neck. "Why don't I believe you, Jeff? You know exactly where she is. You're worried she's going to double-cross you same as you did to me."

He looked at me in the rearview. "It was her idea. Honest, Richie. You and me, we had a deal. You know my reputation. I always honor my deals."

The old canard of honor among thieves is the last refuge of the damned. Jeff didn't have an honorable bone in his body. But what he lacked in scruples he made up for in gutlessness. Stealing from old ladies is a good way to make a buck without too much confrontation. Jeff certainly helped her, but I'm sure it was Velda's idea to leave me gutshot and take my share of the jewels.

"I got a new deal for you, Jeff. We split the take 50-50 and leave Velda flapping in the breeze."

Jeff swallowed hard and stared at the road ahead. "OK, Richie. You got it."

I leaned back in the seat, but kept the gun trained on Jeff's back. I didn't trust him, but what other option did I have?

We made our way to an apartment house in the outskirts of town. The streets were deserted and Jeff parked right in front. A light burned in the second floor window.

"That's where she's staying," Jeff said. "Second floor, on the right."

"Let's go see her."

We got out of the car and walked up the front steps. I stayed behind Jeff, keeping the gun trained on him in case he decided to scram. We went in the front door and up the steps. A thick runner of red carpet muffled our footsteps. Jeff stopped at Velda's door, raised his hand to knock, and looked at me nervously.

He knocked and the door opened a crack. Jeff said, "Velda...."

I pushed him through the door and Velda stumbled backward. I closed the door behind me and trained the gun on her. She cocked an eyebrow at me and said, "Hello, Richie."

"Hello, angel."

It was a nice apartment with a large fireplace and vase-lined mantel. A curved-back sofa sat in the middle of the room on a broad Oriental rug. I could see the bedroom off to my left through the half-open door. Velda had done well for herself. She was dressed like she was about to go out. She had on a pure white v-necked dress that was loose around her calves and tightened as you got to the interesting bits.

"You're looking well, Richie. I hope there are no hard feelings from what happened before." She slinked her way over to the fireplace and laid an arm across the mantle. "A girl's gotta look out for her own interests."

"Can it, angel. That was your plan from the beginning and like a sap I fell for it. You're velvet on the outside, baby, but sandpaper on the inside."

"All's fair in love and war," she said.

I took a step toward her and said, "You're going to hand over the jewels and I'm going to walk out of here. In the interest of fairness, I'm not going to ask you to repay what you've already spent."

Jeff lunged at me and grabbed my gun with both hands. The guy had more guts than I gave him credit for. I slammed him into the wall, but his grip didn't budge. He pushed against the wall with all his strength and we rushed as one toward the sofa. We hit hip high and tumbled over the sofa onto the coffee table, smashing it to bits.

Jeff stood up, but I still had the gun in my hands. A shot rang out and Jeff collapsed in a heap. Velda held a smoking gun that she pulled from one of the vases on the mantle.

I stood up and she looked at me and said, "I was ready to split it 50-50 anyway. It doesn't matter to me if it's with him or with you."

"I fell for that one once already. Goodbye, angel."

I shot Velda.

Wiping my fingerprints from the gun, I placed it in Jeff's hand. Desperately, I searched the apartment for where Velda hid the jewels. Pavlov may have salivating dogs, but he's got nothing on police response to gunfire.

Velda kept the jewels in a box hidden in the chimney. I grabbed the box and rushed out of there. The sirens were getting awfully close as I shut the door to her apartment.

Halfway down the stairs, my shoe caught on the runner and I stumbled. Down and down I went, tumbling onto the hard wood floor at the foot of the stairs. I hit bottom with a thud and the box flew out of my hands.

The lid popped open as the box hit the floor. A fireworks display of green and red exploded in front of me.

At that moment, the door opened and a stunned policeman came in.

Decision. Consequence. (FFF #37)

2010-07-31T14:44:00.000-04:00

Another week, another Friday Flash Fiction challenge. I'm going out of town for a convention next wee, so I probably won't be able to comment on anyone else's stories right away. Rest assured, I'll read them all when I get back. Without further ado...

Decision. Consequence.

As with juggling, the key to life is to keep the procession moving steady and don’t look down. That's what Joe would always say. Fact of the matter is, I'd rather be juggling right now.

With chainsaws.

Flaming chainsaws.

While blindfolded.

Instead, I'm in the trunk of a dark green 1972 Comet with my hands tied behind my back. The road is bumpy and I bounce off the roof each time we hit another hole. The car either needs new shocks or this is their way of softening me up.

We turn off the main road onto gravel and the car comes to a stop. The car's engine keeps running and I hear both doors open and shut. Keys jingle by my right ear and the lid of the trunk flies open. Four hands come in and drag me out.

I'm in some kind of quarry. A dump truck is on my left and a pile of gravel to my right as the two goons march me to the middle of a clearing. I call them Mike & Ike because I can't think of better names right now. Mike is the taller one. His punches felt like a bag of hammers and he probably had the same amount of brains. Ike is two inches shorter with a perfectly shaved head and he holds a gun on me. He says, "That's far enough" when he thinks I'd gone far enough.

"On your knees."

"Listen, fellas," I say. "It's all a misunderstanding."

Ike hits the base of my skull with the gun and I fall to my knees. Out of the shadows in front of me, steps a man in a jet black suit with a purple silk tie held in place by a diamond pin. The pin catches the light from the overhead lamps as he steps toward me.

"You have something that belongs to me."

I look at him and say, "I've been trying to explain to your boys, you got the wrong guy."

Mike punches me in the temple and I pitch forward. I suck in a lungful of dust and dirt and start to cough. Mike grabs me by the shoulders and returns me to my upright and locked position. Tie Man says, "Let's try this again."

I blink the floaties out of my eyes and concentrate hard. I know exactly what they're looking for, but I'm not ready to give it up. I work at a bar down by the pier and money's always tight. A couple days ago on my way home from a shift, I hail a cab because it's raining. In the back of the cab is a satchel. I was about to tell the cabbie someone lost their bag when I get a glimpse of what's inside and shut my mouth. Back in my apartment, I count it. Close to a quarter million dollars.

"Whatever you lost," I say, "I can help you find. I've got some connections. I know some guys."

Tie Man raises an eyebrow at Mike and the big lug hits me again. He picks me up and keeps hitting me until the world goes swimmy. This time when I cough, I cough blood.

"You stole something from me," says Tie Man. "Nobody steals from me and gets away with it."

"Look," I say. "I didn't steal anything. I found it, OK? There was this bag in the back of a cab. No names on it. No tags. What was I supposed to do?"

"You took something that didn't belong to you." Tie Man is the kind of guy who doesn't get loud when he gets angry, he gets quiet. And his voice is so very quiet. It chills me to my bones. "When you take something that doesn't belong to you, that's called stealing."

Yeah, I kept the money. Wouldn't you? As a bartender in his late twenties, any free money is good money. I was on top of the world for a a full day. Then on the TV at the bar, I saw a news report saying a cabbie had been brutally murdered. I recognized the picture as the guy who picked me up in the rain. I asked my boss for the rest of the shift off and headed home to find my apartment on fire. Mike and Ike were waiting for me when I went to look for Joe.

"OK," I say. "I've got your money. Look, it was an honest mistake. You can have it back and I'll repay you what I spent. That sound fair?"

"Where is it?"

"In a locker at the bus station. The key's in my shoe."

Tie Man nods to Mike who rips off my shoe. I see the key and the little orange keychain fly through the air toward Tie Man. "You have what you want. Can I go now?"

Tie Man strokes his chin. "You see, with every decision there is a consequence. You decided to take my money and the consequence...."

His voice trails off, but I know what he's implying. Ike steps behind me and I hear the hammer of the gun being pulled back.

I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as I can and grit my teeth.

The Last Voyage of the Rebecca (FFF #36)

2010-07-19T22:27:00.002-04:00

It's Friday Flash Fiction time again. This time the polls broke and mass hysteria ensued. Writers were allowed to choose whatever sentence(s) they wanted to use. I, naturally, used my own.

The Last Voyage of the Rebecca

In the distance I saw all kinds of birds circling over something, but I couldn't tell what from where I was. I turned my boat around and started rowing in that direction.

I'd never seen the water as clear and blue as it was that day. I could see all the way down to the sandy white bottom and all the fish that lived there. It was a big difference from the night before.

We left port from Wilson City about five days ago on the Rebecca. She was a salvage ship chartered out of The Bahamas. The deeper parts of the Atlantic are filled with old shipwrecks. Find a ship first and you could set up your own mint. That's what we were doing.

The captain got wind of a wreck southeast of Bermuda. Some old ship, maybe even one of the fabled lost ships of the Spanish Armada. My mouth watered at the thought of a hold full of Spanish doubloons.

We were on our way back to port when the storm hit. The sky was black and the wind sounded like a wounded animal. I am convinced that the ship floated on its side at one point. The captain and first mate tried all they could to keep the ship afloat. Chances of survival in a life raft in the middle of the Atlantic are slim to none, but it's better than staying on a sinking ship. Adams tossed bucket after bucket of water overboard, but he couldn't keep up. I took off alone.

The birds took flight as I approached and they circled over my head - squawking. I knew then what Tippi Hedren must have felt like.

There was something under the water. A large shape; dark against the white sandy bottom. I grabbed my mask, one of the few pieces of equipment I was able to save, and held it under the water. The shape looked to be the wreck of the Rebecca. It was eerie. The calm ocean, the birds, and no debris floating in the water.

I took my shirt off, put the mask on, and dove in. I swam and I swam and I swam. The water was deeper than it looked. I surfaced and drew in a lungful of fresh sea air. Without the proper diving equipment, I doubted I could reach her. I took a couple deep breaths and dove again.

It wasn't a Spanish ship we found, but a French one. None of us were experts, but it looked like a wreck from the 1700's. The hold was full of rusted rifles and crates that had long ago become homes to sea creatures. We did, however, find some tarnished jewelry and an unbroken crate of glass bottles with wax seals.

The deck of the Rebecca was almost in reach and it felt like my lungs were on fire. My hand brushed against something and I realized it was a mooring hook. I grabbed hold of it and started bashing it against the nearest porthole. The glass held and I banged harder and harder. I was almost out of air and my vision grew blurry. I swung the hook once more and the porthole cracked. I had to stop.

I burst through the surface of the water, gasping and coughing; taking in much needed oxygen. I pulled myself into the life raft and ripped off the mask. Blood trickled from my nose and I wiped it on my shirt. I laid there, resting; letting the hot sun dry the saltwater on my skin.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't dive again until the next day. But these weren't normal circumstances. I put the mask on, grabbed the mooring hook, and dove back in.

I swung at the porthole with all my might. I jabbed it with the blunt end of the hook. I hung onto the deck and kicked it with my heel. Finally, it gave way. I thrust the moor inside and hooked the first thing I touched and clawed my way back to the surface.

Blood was now pouring from my nose. I put a finger under it and leaned forward until the bleeding stopped. I was thankful there were no sharks in the water. I was as good as dead anyway, but I knew it would be suicide to go back down.

Opening the bag I grabbed, I had to laugh. It was just my luck. It wasn't any of our supplies. It wasn't any of the jewelry we found. It had two of the sealed bottles we salvaged. I tore off the wax seal, popped the cork, and drank a toast to my lost friends with the finest champagne I ever tasted.

****

Welles here again. I had this idea, so I proposed the sentence. Over the weekend, I read this article and got the idea of a different ending to the tale.

Cross-Country Trip (FFF #35)

2010-07-13T07:13:00.001-04:00

It's Friday Flash Fiction time again. This week's sentence comes to us courtesy of Flannery Alden. My entry this week is my attempt at a Cornell Woolrich type story. It's a bit long-ish, and could definitely have been longer. Hope you enjoy.

Cross-Country Trip

"I don't disagree with you, but you have to admit, this puts me in a delicate position." The man who called himself Alex sipped his drink and flashed a dazzling smile at Meghan. "You see, if I tell you I'm not, you'll be disappointed. But if I tell you I am, you'll no doubt call the police."

Meghan reached out and touched his arm. "Then let's leave it a mystery, shall we? I simply adore mysteries."

The band struck up a swinging tune behind them and the dance floor quickly transformed into a mass of swirling dressed and flailing limbs. It was a typical Friday night at El Mocambo. Meghan often stopped off for a quick cocktail in hopes of finding Mr. Right.

She spotted Alex right away as he was just her type: tall, dark, and handsome. It wasn't too long before he came over and bought her a drink. There was an air of danger around him that Meghan liked.

"Well," she said, "I hate to be a wet blanket, but I should be getting home. I have to get up early for work tomorrow."

"But it's Saturday."

"They're doing their twice a year inventory. All the girls have to be there. It's so boring."

"Let me walk you home."

She blushed and thanked him. Alex slipped some money out of his pocket and laid it on the bar. His hands were large and strong and Meghan couldn't help notice how nicely manicured his fingernails were. He offered her his arm and they left the revelers to their bacchanalian delights.

Outside, the sun had nearly finished dipping below the horizon. In the distance, the sky glowed red as if it had applied rouge before going out to meet its beau. Meghan's apartment wasn't far away, so they walked slowly, hand in hand, enjoying each other's company.

"I had a lovely time," said Meghan.

"Me too. May I call on you again sometime?"

"I'd like that very much," said Meghan. "You know, you really do look like him."

Alex leaned in and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek. He turned and walked away. Meghan felt a warm glow growing inside her as she reached for her keys. She slid the key into the lock and suddenly a hand wrapped her waist and another covered her mouth. She dropped her purse and tried to scream, but only a muffled noise came out. The hands dragged her into the alley next to her building and roughly threw her to the ground.

Meghan rolled over and saw Alex. He said, "I really wish you hadn't recognized me. Like I said, this puts me in a delicate position."

He was on her before she could scream, his rough hands squeezing her neck. She dug her fingernails into his hands and struggled, but she couldn't break his grasp. She thought, "He seemed so nice", and her world went dark.

***

"Honey, I'm home."

Suzie looked up from her knitting and said, "I'm in the living room, dear."

Her husband hung up his hat and coat on the hooks by the stairs. He came into the living room and kissed the top of her head. The smell of his cologne made her smile. "I've got some bad news," he said.

Suzie put down her knitting. "We're moving again."

Her husband nodded. She looked at her flower print sofa, wood coffee table, and felt the familiar disappointment again.

"That's the third time this year."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I guess that's just the life of an efficiency expert. Once I get one office in order, they send me to the next one."

"But do we have to move to each new city? I just got to know the neighbors. Mrs. Gunther is such a nice woman."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll make it up to you somehow. I promise."

Suzie sighed. "Once we get settled, I want you to talk to your supervisor and ask him to stop moving us around so much. We barely get unpacked and it's time to move again. We shouldn't have to live like this. I want you to promise me you'll talk to him. Will you do that?"

Her husband promised.

"Good. Where are we going this time, Alex?"

"St. Louis."

***

The morning sun shone brightly off the streets. It rained overnight, leaving the asphalt a shimmering black gem. Agent Campbell pulled his car in front of the two-story brick apartment house. The local police were already there. Once word got to him that they found another strangled body, he told them not to touch anything.

"Agent Campbell, FBI." He flashed his badge at the young patrolman who stood by the yellow caution tape. Campbell ducked under the line and felt the pinch in his back again as he straightened up.

The scene was well preserved. Only a handful of local LEOs hovered around the body, taking pictures and notes. Caucasian female, mid-20's, medium height and build with brown hair. Even with her face bloated by death and exposure, she was a looker. Campbell shook his head. Her type always fell for the wrong guy instead of the cop.

"Got an ID on the vic?"

An overweight detective in a brown suit looked over at Campbell, who flashed his badge again. "Name's Meghan Hume. She lives in the adjacent building. Found her purse on the front steps."

Cambpell saw the red hand prints on her neck. Large, masculine hands just like the others. "Strangled?"

"ME's on his way, but yeah, looks that way to me. Why the feds interested in this?"

Campbell squatted beside the body. Her necklace and earrings were still on. "Anything in the purse?"

"Typical lady stuff," said the detective. "And about $50 cash, so it wasn't a robbery."

Campbell stood up. "You heard the story of Flatbush Frank?"

"Ex mob tough. Killed a cop last year, then disappeared. He's dropped at least five more bodies since then."

"Six," said Campbell. "The cop in New York, one in Albany, Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, and now here. I've been tracking him ever since the first. Every time I get close, he drops another body and vanishes. This is the first time I've been in the city when he did it, though."

Campbell reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. He offered one to the detective who shook his head. It was only a matter of time before Flatbush Frank went down. Campbell took a drag and slowly exhaled. He was the Bureau's rising young star and this would cement his reputation. By this time next year, he'd have his pick of cases.

A uniformed officer approached them and said, "Detective Frazier? I just finished talking to the landlady. She said Miss Hume lived alone, but usually went out for drinks on Friday nights. She figured it was someplace close because she'd always walk home."

Frazier said, "Get a picture and start canvassing the nearby bars and clubs."

Campbell handed his card to the detective. "Give me a call if you turn up anything. I'll have my office send over a picture of Frank. If anyone remembers seeing our girl, maybe someone will recognize him too."

***

Suize taped another box shut and carried it into the hallway and placed it with the six others she'd done this morning. All the packing was becoming tiresome. She just recovered from the last move, and now they had to move again. She really wished Alex would talk to his boss and convince him to stop moving them around so much.

Suzie wiped a forearm across her head and exhaled deeply. Alex would be getting home soon. He went out early this morning to get their train tickets to St. Louis and arrange for movers to ship the rest of their belongings in a few days. There was a knock at the door.

"Mrs. Delacroix? I'm Agent Campbell with the FBI." The man showed her his badge. "I was wondering if your husband was home."

Suzie shook her head. "I'm sorry, Alex just stepped out for a few minutes. He should be back soon. Would you like to come inside and wait for him, Agent Campbell, wasn't it?"

The FBI man removed his hat and said, "Thank you, Mrs. Delacroix."

Campbell stepped inside and noticed the boxes. "Are you folks moving?"

"Yes," said Suzie. "My husband has to move a lot for work. We're off to St. Louis this evening."

"What does your husband do?"

"He's some kind of efficiency expert," she said. "Whatever that is. We've moved quite a lot in the last year. Would you like something to drink? Some tea? Some lemonade, perhaps?"

"Lemonade sounds fine," said Campbell.

Agent Campbell sat on a sofa decorated in a blue and green flower print. Knickknacks and mementos were still on the walls, so the wife probably hadn't been packing long. She seemed a nice type, not the typical broad who goes for hoods. Kind of mousey.

The front door opened and Campbell stood. In walked Flatbush Frank, or Alex Delacroix, as he was calling himself these days. Frank/Alex froze and stared hard at Campbell. He made him as a cop right away.

"Suzie knows nothing. I'd like to keep it that way."

Campbell started to say something, but Suzie walked in carrying a silver tray with two glasses of lemonade on it. He simply nodded. Suzie said, "Alex! This is Agent Campbell with the FBI."

Alex shook Campbell's hand. "Nice to meet you. What can I do for you? I think I'm all paid up on my taxes."

Campbell fake smiled at the joke. "Nothing like that. I'm afraid a girl's gone missing. A Miss Meghan Hume."

Campbell showed them Meghan's photo. Alex showed no sign of recognition. He was cool as a cucumber. Suzie stood next to her husband and said, "She certainly is pretty."

"I've never seen her before," said Alex.

"That's unfortunate for you," said Campbell. "We have several eyewitnesses who saw you talk to Miss Hume late last night at El Mocambo."

"Alex?" said Suzie.

The skin along Alex's jaw got tight as he clenched his teeth. A distant fire started to grow behind his eyes. "Can I see that photo again? Ah, yes. Now I see it. Her hair is much shorter these days. She's a secretary down on the third floor or something. Some of the boys took me out last night for a going away party and she must have been there."

"I'd like you to come down to the station with me," said Campbell. "Help us establish a time line for last night."

"I can't," said Alex. "As you can see, we're packing. We have to get everything ready to catch the 6:00 train to St. Louis."

"Oh, that's fine, dear," said Suzie. "You go along and I can finish up packing."

"Thank you, Mrs. Delacroix," said Campbell. "This way we don't have to bother you after you move. You get get all this business behind you."

There was no way out for Alex. He was boxed in tight. Campbell felt sorry for Mrs. Delacroix. She'd have to learn what kind of a lout her husband was from the papers, but there was nothing he could do about it. The families of Meghan Hume and the others need to know the man who killed their loved ones didn't get away.

"All right," said Alex. He hugged his wife and gave her a long, passionate kiss on the lips. "I love you. Goodbye, sweetheart."

Campbell opened the door and let Alex/Frank go in front of him. He said, "Thank you for that. Suzie's a good girl. She deserves better than me."

They walked down the step and Campbell pointed the direction to his car. "Why'd you do it, Frank?"

Frank stopped walking and looked Campbell dead in the eye. "That cop in Flatbush was self-preservation. He caught me ripping off a pharmacy. I couldn't let Suzie know I was a hood, and not an office manager like she thought. I used the name Alex Delacroix when we met, so she wouldn't know my reputation. She never knew who or what I was really. The others were pretty much the same story. Somebody would recognize me in the new city, so I had to get away. You were looking for me. The folks back home were looking for me. I just wanted Suzie and me to be able to start over somewhere."

Campbell nodded. "The things we do for love."

Frank looked down at his shoes and continued walking. Then he gave Campbell a shove and took off. Campbell flipped over the railing and into the bushes that lined the street. He felt something in his back pop and a familiar numbness crept down his leg. "Not this time," he said as he drew his weapon. He sat up and fired three times, hitting Frank squarely in the back.

Frank bounced off one of the parked cars lining the street and flopped to the sidewalk. Suzie rushed down the front steps, past the fallen Campbell, and knelt beside her husband. "Alex! Oh, Alex!"

Campbell leaned back into the shrubbery. He almost fell for it. That Frank or Alex or whatever his name was was one charming bastard.

Recent Reading

2010-07-12T12:22:00.046-04:00

I've been working my way through The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. Frequent readers of this blog will probably have guessed that by how many times I've reference him in the past couple months. I tend to read a couple stories, go on to another book, then come back for another dozen or so stories.

Of course, there are the greats that everyone talks about: "The Snows of Kilimanjaro", "Hills Like White Elephants", "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber". But I'd like to talk about one that I just read last night called "A Canary for One".

Luckily, the full text of the story is available on Google Books, so you can read it online here. In fact, I suggest you do so and then read the rest of the post hidden after the jump.

Well, I hope you've read it. I'd like you to be a complete blank slate when reading it (like I was).

That was a kicker, wasn't it? In lots of short stories, the writers go for a twist ending. Here Hemingway gives us a swift jab to the gut. Not a "I see dead people" or "The killer is inside the house" twist, but a HOLY CRAP! ending that makes you want to read the story again immediately.

Even with his trademark sparse style, Hemingway paints a vivid picture of the three Americans traveling through the country side on their way to Paris. You get a clear sense of the chatty, middle-aged American woman who our narrator is obviously trying to ignore. She's prattling on about her daughter, where she buys her clothes, and how great American husbands are. She's completely oblivious to the fact that the narrator and his wife are taking their last train ride together before they divorce.

Sure the "set up separate residences" line is a gut punch. And you think of how uncomfortable it must have been for the narrator and his wife to listen to the middle-aged woman talk about American husbands (a little foreshadowing perhaps?). But here's something else: The narrator and his wife never exchange a single line of dialogue. I'll wait while you go back and look.

Clever bastard, that Hemingway. The narrator tells the tale like an eavesdropper on the conversation. Doing it this way, Hemingway has already created a separation between the narrator and his wife that works on a subconscious level well before we get to that last line.

Many writers like to throw a shocking last line in (I've done it too). Something that jars the reader. Makes them gasp for more. Completely changes the picture you've been painting the reader. But Hemingway's last line fits perfectly inside the jigsaw puzzle of the story. He just makes you realize you've been looking at the picture upside down.

There's a reason many call him the greatest short story writer who ever lived.

The Flower Garden

2010-06-29T11:15:00.002-04:00

The Flower Garden

As Paulo crested the hill outside of town, he encountered an old man heading back toward Maricopa. Paulo grabbed him by the arm and said, "Where are you going, old man?"

"You don't understand," he said. "I have to go back."

"Are you crazy?" asked Paulo. "The whole town has been evacuated. The rebels are almost here."

As if to punctuate his point, machine gun fire chattered on the other side of town. It was much closer than it had been just ten minutes ago.

The old man turned and stared at him. There was something fierce in his eyes that Paulo didn't recognize. "Esmeralda’s flowers. Who will take care of Esmeralda's flowers?"

"Who cares? The rebels will probably burn them and the rest of the town. Come on. We must get going. Now."

The old man jerked his arm free and shuffled back toward town. Paulo set down his pack and ran after the old man. He again grabbed the old man by the arm and said, "We must hurry. The rebels are almost here."

The old man struggled to free himself from Paulo's grasp. "Let me go. Let me go. I must attend to Esmeralda's flowers."

Paulo let go of the old man's arms and waved his hands dismissively. "Go on, old man."

He climbed back up the hill and picked up his pack and put it on. He turned around and watched the old man enter Maricopa. Paulo pitied the old man.

Tired and sweaty, Paulo entered the town of Curzon hours later. Curzon was one of the first towns razed during the uprising and now served as a resting place for refugees traveling along El Rastro de Lágrimas. Just inside the town walls, there was a burned out building which had no roof. Paulo entered it and found a place along the wall to rest for the night. The room was full of other refugees from Maricopa

Paulo leaned his pack against the wall and sat down. He removed his shoes and his feet felt better. A filthy man with a thick black beard approached him. "Water? Do you have any clean water? I will trade you an orange for a drink of fresh water."

Paulo nodded. "I haven't eaten all day and I have an extra canteen which is half full. For two oranges, you may sit with me and drink as much as you want."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you."

The bearded man sat down next to Paulo and gave him two medium sized oranges. Paulo handed the canteen to the bearded man and peeled his first orange. The bearded man asked, "Have you come from Maricopa?"

Paulo nodded. "Yes. I was one of the last to leave and something very strange happened outside of town. I ran into an old man who was coming back into town."

"Why didn't you convince him to come with you? Surely the rebels have him by now."

"I tried," Paulo said. "He kept saying something about Esmeralda’s flowers. The old man was obviously crazy."

The bearded man put the canteen down. "What did this old man look like?"

Paulo shrugged. "He was very old. He had a bald head and shuffled as he walked. He didn't look very well."

The bearded man said, "I know this man. His wife grew the most beautiful flowers. She always won first place in the competition at the town fairs. They were very much in love, but had no children of their own. She died several months ago, shortly after the uprising started. The flower garden must be all he has left to remind him of her."

The bearded man stood and handed the canteen back to Paulo. "Thank you for the drink."

Paulo looked west and stared at the red glow in the horizon that must be Maricopa burning. He now understood that fierce look in the old man's eyes. Paulo pitied himself.

Notes and Asides

2010-06-16T09:34:00.014-04:00

As you can probably tell, I slapped a new coat of paint on the old blog last week. I like it, but then I think....is it too bright and cheery for the kind of stories I write?

I wrote the first couple hundred words of a new Jack Duncan tale yesterday. I'm not sure if the current story will have one or two more parts. I guess that depends on where things lead. Already making a return is the Duncan Spy Tips, which were missing in chapter 2. Hopefully it won't be too long until it sees the light of day.

In other news, it's summertime here. Time to fire up the old backyard grill.

(No, that is not really my grill).

Dames and Dimes (FFF #33)

2010-06-15T07:17:00.000-04:00

Greetings, cats and kittens, and welcome to another exciting installment of Friday Flash Fiction. This week features, what else, another noir tale from your humble servant. Big thanks to David Barber for this week's prompt. And away we go....

Dames and Dimes

It was a shortcut that I would regret for the rest of my life.

It was another rain-soaked night in the big city. The slick pavement shined like obsidian under my headlights. The rain stopped, but it had long ago driven everyone inside for the night. That's why I was surprised to see a blonde struggling to get a cream colored convertible started.

I pulled my car in front of hers, got out, and walked over to the door. She looked up at me and rolled down the window. She looked like Lana Turner in Slightly Dangerous. "It won't start."

"Let me take a look."

"All right." She slid over to the passenger seat and I opened the door.

"Some night."

"Yeah, some night."

"I was surprised to find anyone else out," I said.

"I was visiting a friend."

"Must be some friend. That's quite a dress you're wearing."

"We were going to go out. She wasn't home."

"If you came calling on me looking like that, I'd make sure I was home."

She smiled and I felt like somebody had kicked me in the head.

"Let's see if I can get this started." I turned the key and the engine sputtered like a nun after hearing you take the Lord's name in vain. "It's not flooded. Let me take a look under the hood."

I got out and popped the hood. She turned the car over with the same result. I closed the hood and walked back over to her door. "Looks like you're not getting any spark."

She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips and said, "No?"

"I hate to leave you all alone on a night like this. How about I take you back to your place? Of, if you want, we could go to my place and try to call some garages."

She got out of the car and said, "Surprise me."

In the days that followed, we saw a lot of each other. Most nights she'd come to my place, have a few drinks and listen to the radio. She'd curl up into my arms on my sofa and I'd enjoy the soft warmth of her body.

"Kurt?"

I mumbled something and nuzzled her hair. She turned and looked at me with her sparkling blue eyes.

"Kurt. There's something I've been meaning to tell you. Something that's hard to talk about, but we have to. You see, I had a boyfriend when we met."

I stood up and walked over to the bar. She looked so small, sitting there on the sofa. So alone.

"I tried to tell you so many times," she said. "But it was never the right time. That night we first met, we had a quarrel. It was the last straw. I was going to leave him. But Mike...."

She stood up and walked over to me. "Mike's a bad man. He robs banks and I'm sure he's killed people. I'm afraid of what he'd do to me if I broke things off with him."

She threw her arms around my neck and laid her head on my chest. The scent of wild orchids filled my nose. "I'm so afraid, Kurt. Please, please forgive me."

"If he's such a bad man," I said, "why don't you go to the cops?"

She sobbed. "Oh, I can't. I can't. You see, everything I have, he bought me. These clothes. My car. The lease on my apartment. They're all paid for with his dirty money. If I go to the cops, they'll take everything away and I'll have nothing."

"You'll have me."

"Oh, Kurt." She looked up at me with tears in her eyes. "Mike's coming to my apartment tomorrow night for me to run away with him. The papers say he stole two hundred thousand dollars during his last job. If we can get that money, you and I can run away together. Start somewhere new. Think of it, Kurt. A new beginning for us in a new town with more money than we'd know what to do with."

I put my arms around her and squeezed her tight.

Ann lived in apartment 402 at the Lexington Arms. The place made my flop look like two steps up from a hobo camp. The carpet in the lobby was slate gray and deep enough to lose change in. Leading to the elevators was a dark red runner that looked so expensive that I wiped my feet before I stepped on it. A bell chimed the elevator's arrival and I stepped aside to let a middle aged woman by. She eyed me with acute disgust.

I took the elevator up to Ann's floor and leaned on her buzzer. She opened the door and flung herself into my arms. "Oh, darling. I'm so glad you're here. I've been getting worried."

I closed the door behind us and we walked as one to the window. She had a view overlooking Grant Park.

"What's the plan?" I said.

"Mike is going to call me some time tonight," she said. "If all is clear, I'm to say the phrase 'I don't have the radio on right now' and he'll show up within 15 minutes. If I say anything else, anything at all, he won't show."

"And what are we going to do when he gets here?"

"After he calls, you hide in the closet over there." She pointed a long, slender arm toward a door by the entrance. "When he comes in, you can surprise him and take the money. Did you bring your gun?"

"Yeah," I said and patted my coat pocket. "What if he doesn't scare easy? I don't want to have to kill him."

The phone rang. She said, "That has to be him. Hello? I'm sorry, I don't have the radio on right now."

She hung up and looked at me. "That was Mike. He has to be on his way. Quick, get into the closet."

The closet was small and cramped. The cold steel of the gun was heavy in my hand. I left the door open a crack so I could see and hear what was going on. Ann sat on the sofa in the middle of the room smoking a cigarette and looking as cool as a creek on a hot summer day.

The doorbell rang and she answered it. A gruff voice said, "Hiya, doll. You ready to go?"

"One second," said Ann. "Come in out of the doorway. I just need to get my suitcase from the bedroom."

Mike stepped into view and I knew he wasn't going to scare easy. The guy had a couple inches on me and his back was as wide as a streetcar. I saw Ann shoot a frightened look over her shoulder. She wanted me to act now.

I stepped out of the closet and said, "Hand over the money."

Mike dropped the bag and turned around. His face was hard and mean. "What is this? Some kind of a setup?"

He pulled a gun and fired. The vase to my right shattered sending flowers to the floor and shards of china flying into the air. I fired my gun three times into his heart and the big man fell.

I kept my eyes glued on him and took a step forward. Ann said, "Is he...is he dead?"

I nodded and turned my eyes to the bag of money now on the floor. I heard a gunshot and felt a warm explosion in my gut. I staggered back toward the wall and collapsed in a heap. Ann stood in the middle of the room with a smoking gun in her hand. Her blue eyes were now cold and distant.

She took a few steps forward and picked up the large leather bag Mike had been carrying. "Thank you, sweetheart."

She put on her fur coat and leaned down next to me. Her breath was warm and tickled my ear. "We sure had some fun together."

I stared at Ann's back as she slinked out of the apartment. Mustering all the strength I could, I raised my gun and fired a shot right between her shoulder blades. Ann crumpled to a heap in the middle of the hallway like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

We sat there on the floor like a grotesque dinner party: two dead bodies, a bag of money, and me with a growing red stain on the front of my shirt. A siren wailed in the distance, letting us know the cops would be here soon to brake up our little trio.

Party crashers.

This Is Most Certainly True

2010-06-11T09:38:00.004-04:00

Wow. This could possibly be the only writing quote anyone would ever need. Again, from Ernest Hemingway:

We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.

Bullet the Blue Sky: Chapter 2 (FFF#32)

2010-06-08T07:46:00.009-04:00

After two vacations (one mine and one Cormac's), I'm wading back into the fray of Friday Flash Fiction. I saw Nicole's sentence this week and it immediately sparked an idea. The first draft of this story was written before her sentence even won the vote. This is chapter 2 (well...parts of 2 and 3) of a longer story started way back in FFF23 with Bullet the Blue Sky. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, it's the return of super spy Jack Duncan. This isn't as wham-bang as the first installment, but it sets up future actions in the tale.

Bullet the Blue Sky, Chapter 2

“So much for Plan B.”

Sid Lane turned to face Jack Duncan, who was leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed over his chest. The two men were in a darkened observation room, staring through the two-way mirror at Amy Chen. The only thing they’d learned from two rounds of interrogation was a few more Chinese curse words.

“Let me have a crack at her,” said Duncan.

“Hold on,” said Sid. “Let’s give them a little more time. These folks are trained in psychology and can break anyone with enough time. There’s no need to resort to torture.”

Duncan fixed his cold, blue eyes on Sid. “Who said anything about torture? This is a spoiled little rich girl who’s also a double agent for the Chinese. What makes you think she won’t say whatever we want to hear in order to stop the pain? All I need is five minutes.”

Sid looked through the two-way at Amy Chen and then back at Duncan. He nodded and said, “What are you going to tell her?”

“The truth,” said Duncan. “Call this one Plan D.”

Two Days Earlier

From his penthouse suite in the Beijing Park Hyatt Hotel, Ambassador Chen looked out at the sunrise. The thick cloud of smog that hung over the city made the red glow of the early morning look like a fire, slowing rolling in from the plain. Before too long, the pollution and the heat of the day would make the air outside hard to breathe. Chen sucked in a lungful of the air-conditioned air and turned to the interior of his suite.

He stepped off the thick carpet onto the hard, wooden floor of the living area. The cool surface felt good on his feet this early in the morning. It filled him with energy and a sense of optimism about the day. The negotiations yesterday had gone well, he felt. It was certainly the most challenging summit of his career, but Chen felt up to the task.

Through the spring and early summer, massive protests sprung up everywhere in the Chinese mainland. Citizens, young and old, were becoming more forceful in their denunciation of the communist regime. The Chinese government was brutal in their shutdown of the protests, but only one incident, so far, had gathered the amount of international attention that the Tiananmen Square protests of twenty years ago did.

About a week ago, roughly 10,000 protesters marched through the streets of Beijing en route to the capital building. Before they could get there, they were intercepted by members of the Chinese military. The clash was swift and brutal, leaving nearly 100 protesters dead and an additional 200 wounded. The Chinese military suffered minimal injuries, including two soldiers beaten to death. Two of the men arrested for the murder of the Chinese officers were Chinese-Americans – soldiers in the U.S. Army, visiting relatives while on leave. The Chinese government viewed this as a sign of American involvement in the protests and wanted to make an example of the men on the world stage. The President immediately dispatched Chen to soothe over China’s fears and to secure the release of the captured soldiers.

Chen ran a hand over his blue silk tie and plucked an apple from the fruit basket on the glass coffee table. He took one bite of the apple and was reminded of his childhood in Liaoning province, before he immigrated to the United States. Washington has good apples, but nothing compares to the Fuji apples he used to pick fresh from the trees growing in his parents’ back yard.

He felt the stab of regret that his daughter didn’t join him on the trip. She didn’t show up at the plane and the Air Force officers couldn’t delay any longer. They had been so close when she was younger, especially after her mother had died. But Chen felt them growing apart as Amy got older. Her years in college had made her cold and distant to him. He wanted to bring her back home and share their culture – a culture she missed out on growing up in the US. He also wanted to show her that communism wasn’t the great idea her leftist professors told her it was. It’s all well and good that everyone should be treated equally and nobody was better off than anyone else, but it never worked out in practice. The violent putdown of protests is a good example of the brutality committed in the name of “maintaining order”.

Chen took another bite of his apple and slid the fruit basket to the side. He was surprised that it was a lot heavier than it looked. He put his apple down and removed the top level of apples and bananas. At the bottom of the basket, there was a small black box. He flipped it over and saw a red numbers on a digital display, counting down from five.

Chen’s eyes opened wide as he realized what he was holding. He dropped it and leaped over the leather sofa but it was too late. The bomb went off.

**

Jack Duncan opened the door to the interrogation room. Amy briefly looked over at him, then back at the blank spot on the wall she’d been staring at for hours. Duncan closed the door and dragged the steel chair directly into Amy’s line of sight and sat down. She looked down at the table, trying to escape from his steely gaze.

Duncan was prepared to wait as long as necessary. He was trained as a sniper to sit still for long stretches of time. SEALs are trained to move swiftly and quietly. It didn’t work going off half-cocked. Slow and steady wins the race.

Finally, Amy said, “What do you want? Why are you doing this to me?”

Duncan said nothing.

“I want my lawyer. I’m an American citizen. I have rights!”

“You’re a Chinese agent and a traitor to your country,” said Duncan. “The best your lawyer could do is get you life in prison instead of execution.”

“You don’t scare me. You’re just mad because you were played for a fool. My father’s an ambassador. He...”

“Your father’s dead.”

Amy was quiet for a second and said, “He’s a traitor to his country.”

Duncan looked into her eyes and saw pain. Her words were full of bravado, but there was no feeling behind them. They were just slogans repeated like she was a doll with a pull string Duncan said, “Do you want to know how he died?”

Amy said nothing.

Duncan opened the manila folder he carried in with him and placed five black and white photos in front of Amy. Each photo showed what was left of her father’s hotel room. The curtains were black with soot. The sofa was a charred hulk of what it once was. Her father laying on his face, bloody and burned, with a banana peel resting at his shoulder.

Amy began to cry. Big, wet tears streamed down her face and her chest was wracked with sobs. Duncan said, “You did this.”

“No.”

Duncan slammed a meaty hand on the table and stood up. “You did this,” he shouted. “These are the people you work for. The information you send them? They use it to hurt people. Innocent people. People like your father who want to make the world a better place.”

“The revolution….”

“The revolution be damned! They don’t want to make a workers’ utopia. All they care about is staying in power and killing anyone who is a threat to that.”
Amy was overcome with tears. Her shoulders convulsed like she was working a jackhammer. Nothing but sobs and gasps escaped her mouth. Duncan turned and looked at the two-way mirror where he knew Sid would be watching.

Turning double agents is tricky. The key is to find a person’s motivation. If money is the key, then it’s easy. Just pay more than the other guy and you have a terrific asset. If it’s ideology, then you have your work cut out for you. You need to find one thing they care for more than their ideology.

Re-doubling an agent is trickier still. You could think they’re on your side and playing those who flipped them in the first place. Or they could pretend they flipped back and feed you false information given to them by an enemy agency. Shifting alliances are hard to read, so you need to take a leap of faith and verify later.

“Amy,” said Duncan, “we need your help. The Chinese government is holding two of our soldiers captive. We need you to help us find them, so we can rescue them. Your father was in China to secure their release, but his assassination shows that China no longer cares about averting a war. If you help us get our men back, I promise you, we’ll find those responsible for your father’s murder and bring them to justice. We need you to finish your father's work. Will you help us?”

Amy looked up at him. Her eyes were puffy and red from tears. She sniffed twice and took a deep breath. “Yes. Yes, I’ll help you.”

Breaking Radio Silence

2010-05-14T09:32:00.025-04:00

From the preface to The First Forty-nine:

In going where you have to go, and doing what you have to do, and seeing what you have to see, you dull and blunt the instrument you write with. But I would rather have it bent and dull and know I had to put it on the grindstone again and hammer it into shape and put a whetstone to it, and know that I had something to write about, than to have it bright and shining and nothing to say, or smooth and well-oiled in the closet, but unused.

-Ernest Hemingway

I've not been attending bullfights nor have I been serving as an ambulance driver. Rather I've spent time with family, and reacquainted myself with seldom seen friends, and explored the riches offered by our great cities. I don't know if any of it will be sufficient fodder for future stories, but are at the very least the stuff that makes our short time in this world more enjoyable. Time to rest and then re-sharpen my writing instrument.

I remain, as always, your obedient servant.

Sweet Dreams: Cool Blue

2010-05-03T07:04:00.004-04:00

About a month ago, Patti Abbott issued another Flash Fiction Challenge. I've done this a few times before (in fact, my story for "Shifting Gears" is probably one of my favorites of what I've written) and it's always a lot of fun. When you're finished here, drop me a line and head over to Patti's site and read the rest of the stories.

Cool Blue

"Dave."

"Richie." Dave sat on the stool next to Richie and rested his heavy forearms on the wooden bar top. The bartender delivered a River Horse Hop Hazard without being asked and left without saying a word. "You said got something for me?"

Richie's left hand tapped an inconsistent beat on the counter and he took a swig of his Sam Adams. "You sure we should be meeting out in the open like this?"

Dave looked around the bar. Four o'clock in the afternoon and the joint was empty. "It was either here or in the park. Less of a chance someone sees us in here, don't you think?"

Richie absentmindedly nodded his head. "It's just with everything going down, it might not be a good idea if someone saw us together."

The kitchen door to their left swung open; the sounds of “Sweet Dreams” wafting out before it swung shut again. Richie said, “That's why you should never eat here. Who plays The Eurythmics anyway? You wanna eat at a place where the kitchen is full of Mexicans. Those guys know how to cook. Good music, too. All them horns and shit? You can't be depressed listening to Mexican music.”

“Thanks for the advice. I'll send it along to Zagat's.” Dave's beer sat untouched in front of him.

The front door opened and in walked five feet nine inches of perfection poured into an electric blue dress. Her wavy red hair fell neatly onto white shoulders. The dress ended just above the knee and showed off her amazing calves. Richie's eyes followed the swaying of her hips as she took a booth along the far wall.

"That's what I call a woman," he said and took another sip of his beer. “Did I ever tell you about my ex-wife? My sweet, darling Marie. Smoking redhead like that one. When we were in a room together it was like the rest of the world didn't even exist. I'd come home from a job and we'd just stay in bed all weekend, if you know what I mean. Divorced me when I did my time upstate, though. Couldn't stand being without me, but couldn't stand being alone either.”

"Boo-frickin-hoo. Quit dickin' me around, Richie. You got something or not?"

Richie sighed. "I'm trying to be cautious."

Dave twisted his glass on the coaster, still not taking a sip. "Everyone's saying the grand jury thing's got everyone buttoned down pretty tight. The report I read yesterday said the crime rate's down sixty percent just because the hard guys are worried about it. I said we should run a grand jury every three weeks. You guys would have to start shining shoes or pimping or collecting unemployment. Makes my job a hell of a lot easier."

Richie took another sip of his beer. His glass was now over half gone. "I don't know what this means. Could be something big going down or it could mean that they suspect something."

"What is it?"

Richie looked around and leaned in closer. "You and I know the bosses aren't the sharpest tools in the shed, but they're smart enough not to do anything with indictments hanging over their heads. Everybody's busy planning shit instead of doing shit. No reason to let you guys catch them with their hand in the cookie jar. Thing is, I haven't heard a peep out of anybody."

"So?"

"So? You know how connected I am. How could I be the only one out of the loop? Unless they suspect I'm the guy putting the finger on them. Then there are the phone calls. I keep getting calls for guys like Eddie Fingers or Johnny Sack."

Dave furrowed his brow. "Those guys haven't been around for years."

"Exactly," Richie said. "They were 'disappeared' a long time ago."

"All right." Dave stood up and reached into his pocket. "We were trying to wait a little bit longer, but we should probably get you into WitSec right away."

Dave threw some crumpled bills next to his untouched beer and looked up into the mirror. Standing behind him was the redhead who entered the bar a few minutes earlier. She shot him in the back of the head.

"Christ!" said Richie. "Did you have to do that right here?"

"What did you want me to do?" said the redhead. "He was getting up to leave."

Richie reached over the bar and grabbed some wet napkins. He tore one open and rubbed it on his cheek and neck, trying to clean up the blood spatter. “And right next to my head. I'll probably go deaf now.”

"I could just as easily put a bullet in your head if that'll stop your whining."

Richie chuckled. "When did you become such a hardass, Marie?"

Marie smiled. "I learned from the best."

Richie opened another napkin and wiped the blood from the sleeve of his leather jacket. "So does this clear things between me and Fucilli?"

"It's a start. Just don't let anyone else see you talking to the cops."

Marie dropped the gun into her purse and snapped it shut. She turned and Richie watched her ass as she walked toward the door. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder, "Don't forget the alimony is due on Thursday."

Writing Quotes

2010-04-30T11:06:00.000-04:00

The famous Saul Bellow satirized Hemingway's style as "Do you have emotions? Strangle them."

But, Hemingway had his own way of expressing emotion. Here are some wise words that every writer should keep in the back of his/her head:

"Find what gave you the emotion; what the action was that gave you the excitement. Then write it down making it clear so the reader will see it too and have the same feeling as you had."

The Warehouse Job (FFF #29)

2010-04-27T08:52:00.001-04:00

It's once again time for Friday Flash Fiction. In case anyone missed it, I posted part 2 of "Band on the Run" last Tuesday. You can read it here and refresh yourself with part 1 here. Anyway, this week's prompt started with two simple ideas, and I was able to incorporate both. Hope you guys enjoy it.

The Warehouse Job

"I said that you don't have to believe me, and I certainly wouldn't if I were in your shoes." Burkle cradled the Styrofoam cup in his hands and sipped the coffee. It looked funny, but it was the most efficient way to drink with handcuffs on.

"Listen, Burke..."

"It's Burkle." He stared at the cop with the crew cut. He was trim, in a dark blue suit that fitted him like a glove. His partner was a heavy, beaten down veteran. Burkle figured Crew Cut was the hardass and figured Pops had the better-honed bullshit detector.

"You were apprehended leaving the scene," said Crew Cut. "There was nobody else around. You tested positive for gunshot residue. Do you still stick by the fact that you didn't kill Mel Maltese?"

Burkle looked over at his lawyer. The lawyer said, "My client has offered to name the man who killed Mr. Maltese in exchange for dropping the larceny and weapons charges against him. Might I remind you that you have no physical evidence linking him to the crime and doesn't have to offer you anything."

"Yet," said the older cop. "Nothing physical yet. The lab still hasn't gotten back to us."

Silence hung heavy in the harshly lit interrogation room. Crew Cut finally said, "All right. Tell us your story."

Burkle took a deep breath and said, "It all started a couple days ago. I stopped off at my neighborhood bar for a quick drink when Maltese came in....."

----

"Hey, I got this really big score tomorrow night. You want in?" he said.

I took a sip of my scotch and said, "I'm getting a little old for heists. Thinking of hooking up with Jimmy O'Flaherty and getting into the numbers game. Maybe just retire."

Maltese looked shocked. "You're the best in the game. The best I've ever seen. Hey, maybe you can become a planner. You know, plan the heists for us and I'll get a couple guys to do all the muscle work. How's that sound?"

I didn't commit to anything because, truth is, I'm getting a little tired of the game. I'm not even 40 yet, but this has always been a younger man's racket. "We'll see."

"Come on," said Maltese, "I'll show you the place and tell you all about it."

We got into his car, a late model Volkswagen of some kind, and drove to the warehouses down by the docks. We parked across from one next to those big cranes and he pointed to it. "That's the one. It's an import location for some kind of wholesale distributor. They sell everything. Catch it on the wrong day and you get linens and kids toys and shit. Catch it on the right day and jackpot. I heard tomorrow night they got a shipment of electronics coming in. Flat screen TVs, DVD players, iPods, shit like that."

"You got a fence lined up?"

"Yeah, a guy I know outside the city. Real good. Discreet."

"What's the plan?"

"They don't have any guards around here at night. Just lock the front gate. I figure all we got to do is get a van, get in here early and hide out until they pull the gate shut. Then we can load the van up and drive right out."

"Security cameras?"

Maltese chewed his lip. "I didn't think about that. There aren't any back here, but I didn't check by the gate. I guess we'll have to check that out. I got some guys that I can call for muscle."

I said, "I wanna meet them before the job. I like to know who I'm getting involved with."

Maltese nodded, "Sure, sure. Makes sense."

The security cameras by the gate were nothing to worry about. Cheap little jobs. I would've been surprised if they were even hooked up to anything. The hitch was they were high up and hard to get to. Nothing we couldn't handle, though.

I met the two goons the next day. Bobby Capp and Titus. I didn't catch if Titus was a first or a last name. Not too bright, but seemed level-headed. The best you can hope for with muscle is someone who won't fly off the handle without warning.

I made a couple changes to Maltese's plan, but overall it was sound. We got in early and hid out until dark. Since we showed up well before closing time, dock security probably figured they forgot to clock us out. Exactly what I planned.

Titus used pincers to break the lock on the warehouse. He slid the door open while Maltese pulled the van up to the loading dock. We found exactly what we were expecting to find inside. Capp and Titus loaded the heavy stuff like TVs while Maltese and I stacked the DVD players and PS3s in as tightly as we could. Everything was going according to plan until Maltese opened his fucking mouth.

"What did I tell ya?" he said. "Great score. These HDTVs will go for a bundle. I think I saw some 52" ones around. The bigger the better."

"Shut up," said Capp.

"All I'm saying is...."

"Keep your mouth shut." Capp put down the TV he was carrying. "Why you gotta talk so much?"

"Take it easy," I said. "That's just the way he is. He doesn't mean anything by it."

"Yeah," said Capp. "Who's asking you? I thought we were all here to make some fucking money. Not to chit-chat and share beauty secrets."

Maltese said, "I'll shut up, OK. Will that make you happy?"

Capp said, "I don't know why you wanna talk so damn much. You wearing a wire or something?"

At this point Titus had stopped moving and started watching us. Capp grabbed Maltese and shoved him deeper into the warehouse. He said, "I think this guy's wearing a wire."

Maltese put his hands up. "No, no. Come on, guys. I'm not wearing a wire. This is my score. Why would I be wearing...."

Capp pulled a gun from out of nowhere and shot Maltese through the forehead.

"Shit." I looked down at Maltese's body as it twitched and then went still. "Shit. Why'd you do that?"

Capp turned the gun on me and said, "Be quiet or you're gonna be next."

It was at that point we heard the sirens. Titus said "We gotta go" and jumped in the van. Capp followed him, keeping the gun trained on me the whole time. He slammed the back door of the van closed and they sped off, leaving me alone in a warehouse empty except for Maltese's cooling body. So I ran.

---

"And that's where you guys came in," said Burkle. "I guess I'm not as fast as I used to be."

Crew Cut gave Burkle a hard look while his partner sat there like a sack of potatoes. Burkle's lawyer said, "Now if there isn't anything further, you need to release my client."

Pops uncuffed Burkle, who rubbed his wrists to get some warmth back into them. He said, "You wouldn't happen to know where we could find Bobby Capp or Titus would you, Mr. Burkle?"

Burkle shook his head. "The only time I saw them was at a pool hall on 53rd. I don't know if they were regulars. I'm afraid I can't help you much."

Burkle took a copy of his immunity agreement and signed his release papers. He and the lawyer walked though the cop bullpen and pressed the "down" button to call for the elevator. Once inside, the lawyer said, "Was that really wise, Mr. Burkle? You might get a reputation of helping the cops. Don't you think Capp and Titus will come looking for revenge?"

Burkle laughed. "There is no Capp. I put the bullet in Maltese myself. He was a no good dirty snitch who needed to be dealt with."

"But you just told the cops..."

"I know what I told the cops." The elevator dinged for the lobby and Burkle stepped out. He turned to look at his lawyer and said, "The first thing I told them was they shouldn't believe a word I said."

Writing Quotes

2010-04-23T09:33:00.005-04:00

From George V. Higgins, author of The Friends of Eddie Coyle and others:

"If you do not seek to publish what you have written, then you are not a writer and you never will be."

And

"The secret remains that there is no secret. The way to determine whether you have talent is to rummage through your files and see if you have written anything; if you have, and quite a lot, then the chances are you have the talent to write more. If you haven't written anything, you do not have the talent because you don't want to write. Those who do can't help themselves. We do it for the hell of it, and those who raise a lot of hell, and then get very lucky, well, we make a living, too. There are worse ways to travel through this vale of tears than by doing the things you love, and making a living at it."

Band on the Run, part 2 (FFF #28.5)

2010-04-20T07:59:00.011-04:00

Due in part to the tremendous feedback on last week's Friday Flash Fiction entry, I wrote a follow up story. I figured since Cormac is taking a vacation this week, Tuesday would be a good time to post the second half. I feel expectations are running high, so I'm hoping I haven't let you guys down. Enjoy!

Band on the Run, Part 2

The pain was starting to get to me.

I hadn't been waiting that long, but the bullet in my shoulder and the image of what Travis was doing to Brenda wedged in my mind made it feel like the world was moving in 12/8 time. I checked the makeshift bandage on my shoulder and leaned against the wall.

I had waited a couple minutes to make sure Bernstein was gone before I sat up. Then I went into the store and tore open one of the trumpet polishing kits they kept along the back wall. I put two of the soft polishing cloths on either side of the wound and tied it tight with a couple guitar strings. Not an easy task with just one arm.

Opie's beat up red pickup pulled to the curb and the door opened. "Shit, man. What happened?"

I got in and said, "Take me home as fast as you can."

The key to reading Opie was his eyes. They were pretty much the only part of his face that you could see. He always wore a bandana pulled down close to his eyebrows and his bushy beard stood up nearly two inches from his cheeks. "No way, man. We gotta get you to a hospital."

"Brenda's in trouble. I'll explain on the way."

He peeled out and we were off.

Opie looked like the bastard son of a biker and a roadie, only twice as surly. We met in prison through an inmate known only as The Bishop. Prison has all sorts of programs to rehabilitate convicts, but if you were serious about staying straight, you went to The Bishop. Opie got paroled a month before I did and gave me a place to crash while I looked for work.

"When you called me, you didn't mention anything about you getting shot."

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Gee, thanks."

I told him what happened and what Trevor was doing to Brenda. Opie ran a red light.

"What about Bernstein?"

"I'll come up with something. The priority right now is to save Brenda."

Opie gripped the wheel tighter and his muscles made the woman tattooed on his forearm dance a striptease.

We pulled up to my apartment and Opie jumped out and grabbed a tire iron from the bed of his truck. He bounded up the steps to my second-floor unit and crashed through the door. In the bedroom, we saw Trevor with his pants around his ankles, plowing my girlfriend.

Opie pulled him off Brenda and threw him into the closet door. He set about tenderizing Trevor's ribs with the tire iron as I pulled a sheet over Brenda. I looked over at Trevor and it took all the self restraint I had not to shove a drum stick through his eye.

I said, "Where's Bernstein?"

“Fuck you.”

Opie swing the tire iron a couple more times.

“Listen, dipshit,” I said, “I know you're not ambitious enough to come up with an idea like this yourself. Tell me where Bernstein is or we'll start to get rough.”

"I don't know. I swear, I don't know."

Opie looked at me and said, "Is he a rightie or a leftie?"

"Rightie."

Opie straightened out Trevor's right arm and laid it palm down on the floor. He put his thick-soled work boot on top of the hand and started to press down.

"OK, OK," said Trevor. "Victory Gardens. Apartment J2."

We tied Trevor up and threw him in the bed of Opie's truck.

---

Bernstein's lights were out, so Opie parked his truck across the street, and we waited for Bernstein to come back. I hated waiting.

I drummed a beat on Opie's dash with my right hand and I felt a numbness starting to set in in my left. I looked at the bandage and saw the wound was still bleeding.

Opie said, “After we do this, you're going to the hospital.”

“You'll get no argument from me.”

Around a quarter after two in the morning, Bernstein stumbled home with a girl on each arm. They bobbed and weaved up to the front door like they were one giant drunk beast with six legs. He dropped his keys twice before he was able to open the door. He didn't shut it after them and that gave Opie and me our opportunity.

Bernstein must have heard us because he turned around just in time to get a right cross to the jaw from Opie. The two hookers were worn out old hags with dead eyes. They gave each other a look and walked out, leaving us to our business.

Bernstein started to say something, but Opie punched him again, sending him backward onto the couch. I said, “What did you do with the money?”

“Ha! Thash funny.” It was hard to understand him the way he was slurring so much. He was obviously drunk, high, and full of himself. “It's my money. If you said yes, you could've had a cut. But noooo. You made me get nashty.” He waved a hand in the air. “Bye bye. No money for you.”

“Do you think I want it? I'm going to kick your ass and put it back where it belongs.”

He tried to stand up, but Opie shoved him back on the couch. “You kick my ass? Don make me laugh. Tell him to back off and I'll show you an ass kicking.”

I grabbed his Martin, the only acoustic guitar he owned, and said, “How about one more joke? What's black and blue and laying in a ditch? A guitarist who's told too many drummer jokes.”

I smashed the guitar over his head, splintering it into a hundred pieces.

---

I hadn't told Bernstein the whole truth. I didn't put the stolen money back in the safe. Instead, I put something even more valuable.

It wasn't hard to find where Bernstein put the money – at least the part he hadn't spent. The remaining money we laid out on the kitchen table, making it look like they were divvying up the take. We left him and Trevor, still without his pants, unconscious and handcuffed to each other in Bernstein's apartment.

After Opie dropped me off at the hospital, he went back to The Den to clean up my blood and anything that might have my fingerprints on it. He took a crowbar and scuffed up the safe so it would look like amateurs tried to open it. He then gave the police an anonymous tip that he saw two suspicious men walking out of The Music Den.

The police called Erik, The Den's manager, and asked him to get to the store as soon as possible. They looked at the damage and made Erik open the safe. That's when they found my present.

Bernstein and Trevor's driver's licenses were inside.

A Question of Tone

2010-04-16T09:47:00.000-04:00

As I mentioned in the comments the other day, I'm working on a follow up to Tuesday's Friday Flash Fiction story. I'm struggling a little bit with it. The narrative this time around seems to be taking on a bit darker tone, which isn't how I heard the original in my head. Then again...if your lead has been betrayed/shot and his girlfriend kidnapped, anyone would probably want to go Death Wish on their enemies.

Act 2 is a kind of shift from heist story to revenge story, so maybe I should just get out of my own way and let the story tell itself.

Band on the Run (FFF #28)

2010-04-13T08:50:00.012-04:00

This week's Friday Flash Fiction starter sentence comes from good old Paul D. Brazill. You may remember him from such stories as the SPINETINGLER nominated "The Tut", "Smudge", and "Stop the Planet of the Apes, I Want to Get Off!" (ok....that last one's not real). Had a couple different ideas about this one that I merged together. I also tried to get back to a shorter story after a few long ones in a row. Hope you guys enjoy it.

Band on the Run

The trouble with me is that I never realize how deep in the shit I am until I'm choking on the stuff. And this was probably the steamiest, foulest pile of shit I've ever found myself in.

“What's it gonna be, Weaver,” said Bernstein. He looked like a ghoul under the garish glow of the emergency lights. His skin was a pale orange and his eye sockets were pitch black under the shadow cast by his forehead. He rubbed a bony hand across his closely shaven scalp.

“All right.” I stuck out my hand and he gave me the bag of tools. I unzipped the outside pocket and picked the back door of The Den in under three seconds.

The Music Den had been a second home to me for the past couple years. After my parole, I wanted to do something with my time to keep me on the straight and narrow. I chose music. It worked for a while, too. Until Bernstein found out about my former line of work.

“Come on. Come on. Let's go. Let's go.” Bernstein almost ran to the manager's office. He'd been jittery all night. I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew he was high.

He tried the handle of the door, but found it locked too. Instead of waiting for me, he kicked it in, sending the doorknob through the flimsy drywall that separated the office from the rest of the store. I looked beyond the racks of sheet music to all the drum sets and pianos on the showroom floor. I had a feeling this would be the last time I would be in the store.

“Shake a leg, Weaver. We haven't got all night.”

The manager's office was a dinky little ten by ten square with a desk shoved against one wall and two ratty chairs for guests. The most interesting thing about it was the Amsec B2200 floor safe in the corner. Which was the reason he brought me along.

“I was planning to pry the fucker open, but I figured since we've got a safecracker hanging around, might as well earn your keep.”

I said, “You couldn't have pried this thing open. It was designed with very few pry points. And there's a dead bar behind the hinges. Even if you got the hinges out, you still couldn't get the door off.”

“Can you open it?”

I nodded my head and knelt in front of the safe. Unzipping my bag, I exposed the tools. It wasn't as nice as the set I had before I got sent away, but I didn't expect numbnuts to know anything about quality.

“Good,” said Bernstein. “Cause I'd hate to have to give Trevor a call.”

I'd kicked around a bit before hooking up with Bernstein and Trevor Nixx, our bass player. We formed a band and called ourselves Earth in Grayscale. Covers, mostly. We played dive bars all around the state and got a decent following. But Bernstein played the rockstar role to the hilt - hookers and blow. He must have run up a pretty big debt with his dealer to want to knock off The Den. I don't know what pissed me off more: him getting me involved or him wanting to rob the only place in the area that gave us practice time for free.

“Hey, Weaver. How do you know when there's a shitty drummer at your front door?”

I didn't answer him.

“The knock speeds up.” He laughed his head off.

“Hey, Bernstein. How do you confuse a guitarist?”

“I don't know. How?”

“You put sheet music in front of him.”

His face got mean and he stalked over to where I was. He pointed the gun at my head and said, “That's not fucking funny, man. Now open the damn safe.”

“Look, this is an Amsec B2200. It has a group II key changeable lock with relock and 1 million possible combinations. The primary locking mechanism has five 3/4” diameter locking bolts that are drive resistant, chromed steel with a long throw. It's a pretty decent safe for a second rate music store in a third rate North Jersey strip mall. If you understood even half of what I just said, you'd know that it's going to take me some time and some quiet to open this thing. The way I see it is you can either go stand by the door and keep your mouth shut or you can shoot me now.”

Bernstein stared at me for a second, then slumped his shoulders and walked away.

I took a deep breath and snuggled close to the safe. I put my right hand on the knob and gave it a gentle turn. I couldn't hear the tumblers as clearly as I remember. It was probably a combination of the 3/4” solid steel plate door and the few years of drumming that muffled them. Sure, I wore ear protection, but every drummer suffers from hearing loss of one degree or another.

The first number clicked into place and all the old sensations came rushing back. I closed my eyes and started to breathe through my mouth. I teased the knob at first. Then I turned it more forcefully.

The second number clicked. She was reluctant to my charms, but I persisted.

The third number. We were locked in a sort of tango. I pulled her body close to mine. My heart beat faster.

The fourth. She was nearly mine.

Fifth. Seduction complete.

Spent, I gasped for breath as the door slowly opened. I opened my eyes to see Bernstein standing above me. He said, “Do you two need a room?”

He flung open the door and started stuffing his backpack with the cash inside.

“That's it?” I said. “You'll tell Trevor to let Brenda go?”

Bernstein stood up and zipped his bag closed. “Yeah, about that...”

He leveled the gun at me and fired. I felt the bullet rip through my left shoulder and I fell flat on my back. I gritted my teeth against the pain as blood oozed from the wound.

Bernstein took out his cell phone. “Yeah, Trevor. It's me. It's done. Have your fun with the girl and get rid of her.”

Bernstein tucked the gun into his waistband and walked out the office door.

The only mistake the bastard made was leaving me alive.

Iceberg! Right Ahead!

2010-04-09T13:02:00.001-04:00

The Iceberg Theory, popularized by Ernest Hemingway, is to know more about what you're writing than what you tell your reader. If your knowledge is deep enough, the subtext will communicate that unsaid information and emotion to the reader.

To us mere mortals, the Iceberg Theory can also refer to that huge mountain of self-doubt that creeps up on us after we've written some crap and wonder why we didn't spend more time picking up a more marketable skill like flipping burgers or washing windows or accurately guessing the number of jellybeans in a glass jar.

In other words: stay in school, don't do drugs, and use the Iceberg Theory.

An Apology (FFF #27)

2010-04-06T11:41:00.001-04:00

With Good Friday and Easter and lots of traveling, I didn't have time to write something that I really liked for this week's Friday Flash Fiction. As a way of apologizing, I've composed a short poem. If you dare to read it, you'll come to understand why I don't write poetry.

Excuses are normally something I eschew,
But, you see, I found a cache of cashews.
When I finished, my time for writing was through.
There'll be no tales of noir from me this week.
I hope I've not made you blue.

Beer Money (FFF #26)

2010-03-30T08:56:00.001-04:00

Yet another entry into the world of Friday Flash Fiction. After a couple weeks in different genres, I decided to go with a more traditional (for me) route. I kind of dig this Brenner cat.

Beer Money

What do you see when you close your eyes?

I see the face of a woman. It's a face with round cheeks and wide eyes. It's a face framed by a short bob of curly red hair.

It was the face of Alice Hawke. And this is the story of how we met.

---

It was a typical Friday night and I was on my usual stool at Sharkey's, a dive bar down by the pier. I had a beer in my hand and it wasn't the first of the evening. A lot of my old army buddies wouldn't set foot in a bar this close the water, but I liked the emptiness and quiet. Besides, if things got boring I could always insult a couple of swabbies and we'd have ourselves a nice old fashioned brawl.

I stubbed out my cigarette and drained my glass. I was about to motion the bartender for another round when she walked in. At first glance, she wasn't much to look at. She was short and kind of on the chunky side. Her eyes were big and brown and her nose was the shape of an overripe eggplant.

She scanned the bar until she spotted me, then walked over and pulled up the stool next to mine.

"Brenner, I presume?"

"Presume? No, I'm Dr. Livingston." She either didn't get the joke or chose to ignore it.

"I was told you're a man with a certain set of skills. Skills that would be of great use to me."

"If the skills you're looking for involve drinking and playing darts, then I'm your man." The bartender dropped off another pint for me, but she didn't order anything.

"Well, it appears Kenavey was wrong about you." She got up to leave.

Kenavey was my rackmate before he washed out of basic. Kept in touch with him and he started throwing some work my way after my "other than honorable" discharge. Not much, but enough to keep me in beer money.

"Wait, lady. I'm just sassing you. What do you need?"

She sat back down and eyed me suspiciously. Kind of the way you look at that box of Chinese food that's been in the back of your fridge so long that you can't remember when you ordered it. Eventually she said, "I could use some protection. I'm meeting a man tonight. You see, I work at Costington's department store downtown in their accounting department. While going over last month's books, I noticed some irregularities."

I took another swig of beer and half tuned her out. "Cliff's Notes version please. I have a short attention span."

She sighed and gave me the hairy eyeball again. I'd get up and leave, but this is my bar and if anyone was leaving, it was going to be her. "Bottom line. I found out my boss was embezzling. He got fired. Now he's threatening to implicate me in it if I don't give him $10,000 tonight. I need someone to come with me to the meeting to make sure he lives up to his end of the bargain."

"How much?"

"I'm willing to offer your $300."

"Six."

Her eyes bugged even further out of your head. "That's absurd!"

"Blackmail is tricky business, m'am. You're willing to give someone ten gees and hope they go away, but you're not even going to pay a measly 6 percent of that for guaranteed muscle?" I threw a little math at her hoping to impress her.

"Fine," she said. "I'm meeting him at Gemini's on fifteenth street in one hour. I'll give you half up front and half after the meet."

"Four hundred now. The other two when we're done."

She closed her eyes and made a face like she just swallowed some cheap tequila. "You win."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a wad of bills. She peeled off four hundreds and slid them across the scarred top of the wooden bar. I deftly made them vanish.

It occurred to me that Gemini was a funny place for a blackmailer to meet his victim. There wasn't any room for violence because the place was stuffed to the gills with people and egos. Too loud music blared from one side of the room. I followed her through the crowd until we got to a booth in the back. The guy sitting there was wearing a sharp suit and a smug expression. His bald and shiny top and close cropped black hair on the sides made him look like that guy they cast as the snooty maitre d' in almost every movie.

"Who is this?" he asked.

"He's...."

"I'm her dance instructor," I interrupted.

He turned up his nose at me and then pretended I wasn't there. Alice sat and I stood. "I brought you your money, Mr. Bloom."

"Oh, 'Mr. Bloom'? So nice and formal, aren't we." He mocked her. "Did you bring all of it?"

She pulled a large envelope out of her purse and slid it across the table. "As much as I could get my hands on at such short notice."

His long, narrow fingers reached out and drew the envelope closer to him. It looked like a spider trapping a fly. Bloom opened the envelope and slid a finger across the greenbacks. "I'm afraid you're a little light, my dear Alice."

"It's all I have," she said.

Bloom eyed me, then looked back at Alice. "Is he here to make me take this insult?"

Bloom tossed the envelope back on the table and leaned back into the booth. He stared at Alice and Alice stared at him. They looked like a couple in some painting at a classy art gallery. I don't know much about art, so I kept my mouth shut.

He cracked first. "I deserve my fair cut. There should be a lot more than that coming my way. Don't think I'm going soft just because I didn't alter our deal after I got canned."

Alice stole a quick glance at me out of the corner of her eye. I was starting to get the feeling that she was more than an innocent victim in all this. "Consider it a down payment," she said.

"Listen, sister, if I don't get out of here soon, I'm going to be facing jail time. I need that money so I can high-tail it to a South American country that doesn't have extradition."

His eyes flicked in my direction and I realized just in time that he wasn't looking at me. I spun to see a gorilla swinging a folding chair in my direction. I got my arms up just in time to absorb the shock intended for my head. My hands tingled like I'd slept on them all night. I kicked the gorilla in the nuts, crumpling him to his knees. I landed a left hook to his temple, sprawling him on the ground like a giant bearskin rug. I said, "Watch the head, it's where I keep all my wisecracks."

While I was distracted, Bloom and Alice had both left. I don't know if it was together or separately, and I didn't really care to find out. My little dance with the gorilla had attracted unwanted attention from the club's bouncers, so I booked it out the kitchen.

I went back to my apartment and tried to get some sleep. There was a knock at my door around 2:30. I tried to ignore it, but it didn't take the hint.

I stumbled over to the door and opened it. The gorilla was standing there and he pulled my into the hallway by both shoulders. He took me to see Bloom.

Bloom had a nice room over on 52nd street. It was all Oriental rugs and velvet drapes. I figured the chair I was sitting in would cost me a whole month's worth of beers down at Sharkey's. And I can drink a lot.

Bloom sat in an identical chair across from me, bridging his fingers the way some people do when they're trying to look smart. "Tell me where Alice is."

"In Wonderland."

He wasn't amused. "If you don't want to tell me where she is, at least tell me where she keeps the money. That's really all I'm interested in."

"I don't know anything about her or the money. I only met the girl a couple hours ago."

"Loyalty is an admirable trait. Let's see how loyal you really are. Bruno?" He motioned to the gorilla who moved from his position by the door. As he got closer, his girth started to block out the overhead lamp. His shadow must have weighed 50 pounds by itself, easy.

Bruno clamped a catcher's mitt sized hand my hand and started to squeeze. Bloom said, "Now, Mr. Brenner. Where is the money?"

"I don't know," I said. "I'm telling the truth. She came into my bar a couple hours ago. Said you got fired for embezzling money and were blackmailing her. She wanted me to come along for backup in case you got violent."

Bloom said, "How much was she paying you?"

"One thousand dollars." I lied.

Bloom laughed. "You really should've asked for more. You see, the embezzlement scam was her idea. Cooked it up all by herself, but she needed my help to doctor up some of the customer accounts we used to hide the funds."

Bruno was still squeezing, and I couldn't pry his hand from my throat. Spots started dancing The Nutcracker before my eyes. Bloom continued, "In the time we were running the scam, we siphoned off nearly a quarter of a million dollars. It was all going so well until that bitch decided to cut me out. I tell you what. I'll let you go on one condition: find Alice for me. You can keep her thousand dollars and I'll pay you another two thousand once I get my money. Deal?"

Before I could answer him, there was a knock at the door. Bloom turned and stood and opened it. Before the door was even opened halfway, a gun went off and Bloom slumped to the ground. Bruno let go of my throat and tore into the hallway. A few seconds later I heard two shots and knew Bruno was down too. As a strong believer in the saying "discretion is the better part of valor", I climbed out the window and down the fire escape.

In the alley, I lit a cigarette to calm my nerves. The smoke burned my raw throat, so I coughed. I turned the corner around the front of the building and a short, stocky figure in a tan raincoat ran down the front steps. I grabbed her and spun her around to face me.

It was Alice alright. She stared at me with those wide eyes for a second, and I said, "Hello, angel."

She tore herself free and pointed the gun at me. "Stay back or I'll shoot."

"Out here in the middle of the street? Well, you've already killed two men tonight. I guess a third won't make much of a difference."

"I'm warning you."

I'd seen combat during the war. My life was on the line on more than one occasion. But it's different when it's not in the middle of a battle. You seem to notice all the little things. The sweat on her upper lip. The slight tremble of her eyebrows. The white knuckles wrapped around the dark metal grip.

"What do you want?"

I said, "I want the rest of my thousand dollars and I want you to forget you ever saw me."

"The deal was for six hundred."

"That was before two men lost their lives."

Alice licked her lips and contemplated my offer. "That's it?"

"That's it."

Her gun hand lowered and she reached into her raincoat for the fat wad of bills. She peeled off $600 and tentatively reached out toward me. I took the bills from her and put them in my pocket.

"And we just walk away?"

"We walk away."

She started to walk away, not turning her back on me. She was probably suspecting a trick. If I didn't know me so well, I'd be expecting a trick too. The trick is to know how the cops work. Any time there's money and murder involved, the cops get involved. It wouldn't be too long before they connect the dots between Bloom, the missing money, and Alice. They certainly didn't need my help and I had a stool down at Sharkey's where they could come and find me if they did.

Alice finally took her eyes off me as she turned the corner. I hoped I'd never see her face again.

I flicked away my cigarette and walked off into the cold city night.

The End (FFF #25)

2010-03-23T11:29:00.003-04:00

Yet another entry into Friday Flash Fiction. Kinda rushed this week, so this is a first draft of a story and also my shortest entry to date. It's a little melancholy, but I blame that on reading some more Hemingway.

The End

He had been told crawling would get him nowhere. A man had to stand on his own two feet. The admonitions of Nick's father echoed in his head as he lay on the floor of his bedroom.

Nick gritted his teeth and planted his hands firmly on the wooden floor. He grunted as he pushed the floor away. Nick grabbed the edge of his bed and pulled himself up into it.

"Let me help you." Doris took a few steps in from the doorway.

"No. I can do it myself." He strained from the bed as the crutch had fallen out of his reach. A sharp pain shot through his back, reminding Nick the bullet he had taken in Bremen was still there.

"Is the pain bad?" Doris had seen him wince.

"The pain is what keeps me alive." He caught the end of his crutch with numb fingers and dragged it closer. The doctors said he'd never be able to use his left leg again and he was losing more feeling in his left hand every day.

"It doesn't have to be that way, Nicky. I was talking to Eric the other day..."

"Who's Eric?"

"He's Judy's husband. He works downtown."

"A doctor?"

"Yes."

"No more doctors."

Doris slumped her shoulders and looked at her hands. "They can help you, Nicky. I have some money now. They gave me a raise at the factory. I'm making close to $30 a week now."

"A man has to be able to stand on his own two feet."

Doris fixed her teary eyes on him. "There's no shame in letting me help you. Women proved that we can work every bit as hard as a man. We don't need to be secretaries and teachers any more. The world changed while you were away."

"And who says this change is for the better?" Nick hoisted himself up on his crutches and hobbled over to the small table in the corner. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and knocked it back in one gulp. He poured another glass.

"It's not fun any more, Nicky."

Nick finished the second glass and poured a third.

"You said we'd be married after the war, but you changed too. I don't even know if I'd say yes any more."

"Who's asking you?" Nick threw his half-full glass at the door behind Doris. The brown liquid scattered as the glass broke in two and fell to the hard wood floor.

They stood there without talking, and listened to the taxi cab bleat its horn outside.

"Do you think things will ever be the way they were between us?" Doris asked.

"I don't know." He was afraid to look at Doris. Then he looked at her. She stood there staring at him. Nick hobbled over and sat on his bed.

"Do you still love me, Nicky?"

"I don't know."

Doris lowered her head and a single tear fell and splattered on her shoe. She reached into her purse and pulled out his key and put it on his dresser.

"Goodbye, Nicky."

Writing as an Addiction

2010-03-18T11:50:00.001-04:00

Hi. My name is WellesFan and I’m an addict.

HI, WELLESFAN!

This year I’ve completed 8 stories, started 2 others, and written in the neighborhood of 15-20K words. Not much, but it’s a lot higher than my 2009 output. In this post (my 200th, btw), I’d like to thank the Friday Flash Fiction crew and Cormac Brown – who invited me to join – for starting me on the slow road to recovery.

Writing is an addiction. Like any addiction it can be rough and painful, but it can also lead to great highs. Writers often talk about the “need” to write. Very few of us enjoy the actual process. I think Gloria Steinem said it best “I do not like to write - I like to have written.”

That is where the high exists. In having crafted the perfect sentence. In having found the right word to use at the right time. In producing a tale that evokes an emotional response from our reader.

A bad story is like a bad trip. Something so awful that you question why you do it. But a good story is like the perfect high. You keep writing again and again so you can get that feeling back.

To get better, an addict must wake up every day and say “I will NOT do XXX.” To get better, a writer must wake up every day and say “I will write.”

The reason each writer writes is as different as the reason each junkie has to get high. Your reason could be to perform a kind of self therapy or to become a better writer or to finish that damn novel. Whatever your reason is, the only way to get better is to take each day as a new beginning.

To paraphrase Paul McCartney: I’d like to think I’m getting better / Getting better all the time.

Bullet the Blue Sky (FFF #23)

2010-03-09T07:44:00.001-05:00

This week's Friday Flash Fiction is another new genre for me to try out (anyone like Vince Flynn-style thrillers?). Not to mention it's also my longest entry yet, clocking in at just under 1900 words.

Bullet The Blue Sky

Jack Duncan had to kick out the back window to escape. He wrenched his body over the seat and through the shattered remnants of the car's window. Glass cut his arms and tore at his shirt, but he was more worried about what would happen next. Duncan rolled off the trunk of the Mercedes, bounced, rolled, and skittered to a stop on the blacktop. Lucky for him, the car behind them wasn't tailgating.

Duncan heard tires squeal and saw the Mercedes's tail lights turn on. He scrambled to his feet and to the edge of the Teddy Roosevelt Bridge. Both passenger side doors of the Mercedes swung open and Duncan heard yelling in Chinese. His hands were handcuffed behind his back, so he didn't want to do this, but he had no choice. He swung both legs over the guardrail and plunged feet first into the icy waters of the Potomac.

Six Hours Earlier

His SEAL days were long over, but Jack Duncan still liked to run five miles along the beach every morning at sunrise. It help keep him in shape and keep the edge on; an edge he hoped wasn't being dulled by his current desk job. He stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He looked at the scar in the mirror. It glowed white against his otherwise tanned skin. An eternal reminder of the stab wound he got last fall from Abu Saif in the mountains of Afghanistan.

His phone chirped and he flipped it open. “Go for Duncan.”

“Jack, it's Sid.”

Sid Lane was Duncan's handler at the CIA. “What's up, Sid?”

“We got a rush job for you. It has to do with the recent unpleasantness with China.”

Duncan's brain tingled. He mostly worked the Middle East desk, but anything to get back into the field. “OK. What is it?”

“Now don't get mad,” said Sid. “It's a training op.”

“Oh, fuck me. I'm not a babysitter.”

“I know. I know. But this is important.” Sid took a deep breath on the other end of the phone. “Our ambassador to China is hopping a military flight from Andrews to Beijing this afternoon. His daughter is going with him and has volunteered to provide us with some intel. She goes on trips with him all the time, so she's not going to raise any suspicion.”

“A diplomat's kid? You gotta be kidding me. No way. Absolutely not.”

“She approached us a couple months ago. She's already gotten a quick run-though at The Farm, so she knows the basic craft. We just need her to do one basic training mission here in D.C before we can sign off on her. Listen. You're the best we have. Just put her through her paces and see what she's got. If you give her a thumbs down, we won't send her. I already talked to the bosses and if you play this right, we could get you back in the field sooner rather than later.”

Duncan sighed and against his better judgment he said, “OK. I'll do it.”

Sid said, “Great. Her name's Amy Chen....”

Duncan said, “Really? Amy Chen? That's like the John Smith of Chinese-Americans.”

“That's her name. I'll e-mail you a photo of the girl and a briefing packet. It's a simple bug and follow of two Chinese case officers. They're having lunch at the Ambassador Hotel at 12:30.”

Duncan flipped his phone shut and got dressed.

When you're a spy, begin on time means you're late. Duncan arrived at the Ambassador Hotel nearly an hour before the Chinese spies were set to meet. He made mental notes of all the entrances and exits and emergency exits. The valet out front was manned by two college kids, and had security cameras pointed at the drop-off and key area. Duncan got a table in the outdoor cafe and ordered himself an orange juice.

Around 12:15, he noticed the girl approach the hotel. At least she was taught the value of coming early, even if fifteen minutes wasn't enough time. She took a seat on a park bench across the street, staring directly at the entrance of the hotel. And she was dressed all wrong too: wearing black slacks, a bright yellow shirt, and huge sunglasses. Duncan shook his head. With her location and clothing, the only way she could've been less subtle is if she had a big piece of poster board that said “Look at me! I'm a spy!”

A black Mercedes swung into the entrance of the hotel. Two Chinese men in black suits got out and the driver handed his keys to one of the college kids. The kid tore off and the two men entered the bar and got a seat in the indoor section of the cafe. A few minutes later, the kid came back and hung the Mercedes keys on the pegboard behind the valet podium. Duncan waited another five minutes until another car came in.

He put a few bucks on the table and walked out of the hotel. In a thick Texas drawl he said, “'Scuse me, son. Here's my claim ticket. How 'bout you go get my car?”

“I'm sorry, sir,” said the kid. “Jeremy does all the driving. The hotel doesn't like it when the desk is unattended.”

“Boy, do you know who I am? I'm Congressman Sam Hill from Texas. I think you'd better go get my car right now so I can get back to the Capital before the big vote this afternoon.”

The kid swiped the ticket from Duncan's hand and grabbed the keys from the pegboard. “I'm sorry, sir. Right away, sir.”

He sped off, leaving Duncan alone at the front of the hotel. He reached over the podium and grabbed the keys to the Chinese men's Mercedes. Duncan then calmly walked across the street to where Amy Chen was sitting. Without breaking stride he said, “Wait ten seconds and then follow me.”

Duncan picked a bench in a secluded part of the park, but one that still had a view of the hotel. Amy sat next to him. “So what are we going to do? Go in and pretend we're on a date. Do you want me to spill something on them?”

Duncan held up the keys. “This is one of the greatest advances in tradecraft in the past 20 years. Car keys are a great place to hide a listening device. Modern remotes have enough room for a transmitter as well as a built-in battery for power. All the operation costs is however much you want to tip the valet.”

Duncan unscrewed the back, attached the transmitter to the battery, and sealed the key up again. He handed it to Amy and said, “When there's only one guy at the valet I want you to go up there and start yelling at him. Say they brought back your car and it was scratched. Demand to see the manager. When he leaves, put this key back on spot 23. You got that? 23.”

She nodded her head. Amy crossed the street and started yelling at the valet. After a few seconds, she started to spout off in Chinese. Duncan didn't know what she was saying, but he caught the word gweilo which is a derogatory term for Caucasian. It means “ghost man” or something. The college kid practically ran inside and Amy put the keys back where she was supposed to.

“How’d I do?” she asked when she got back to the bench.

“Not bad,” said Duncan.

“Are you really the best CIA agent? I asked for the best because I want to do the job right,” she said.

“I’ve been running ops for more than a decade and I’m still alive. That’s all that matters to me.”

The two Chinese officers finished their lunch and went to the valet to retrieve their car. Duncan pulled a device that looked like an iPhone from his hip pocket. He switched it on and said, “This is the receiver. We’ll be able to hear everything they say as well as get a GPS fix on their location.”

The men got into the Mercedes and Duncan tuned the device to the right frequency. All he heard was Lady Gaga. He said, “What the…”

The Mercedes squealed to a halt at the curb next to them and he turned his head to the right. Amy Chen had a Beretta pointed at him. “Get in the car. Now.”

*****

After swimming ashore and removing the handcuffs, Jack Duncan made his way to the national museum on Roosevelt Island. The pay phone in the parking lot must be one of the few left in D.C. He picked up the receiver and dialed a number from memory.

“Joe’s pizza.”

“This is Sidewinder. Get me Snake Doc.”

A few seconds later Sid Lane’s voice came on. “This is Snake Doctor.”

“Target’s been compromised.”

“Say again, Sidewinder.”

“The target’s been compromised. Need info on possible exfil routes.”

“Wait one.” After a few seconds of static Sid came back on the line and told him the ambassador’s plane was scheduled to take off from Andrews Air Force Base at 1900 that night.

“Get me cleared with the gate as someone from Homeland.”

“OK. What are you planning to do?” Duncan didn’t respond, so Sid said, “Sidewinder, we need her alive.”

“I’m not making any promises.”

“Damnit, Sidewinder…” was all he heard before he hung up the receiver.

Jack Duncan huddled next to a hanger near where the ambassador’s plane was waiting to take him, his daughter, and the US delegation to Beijing. He was dressed in all black and wore a light-weight Kevlar vest and black leather gloves. A cold wind whipped through the empty alleyways nearby. Air Force bases are nearly all cement and lose their residual heat soon after sunset.

A few minutes before 1900, a black Mercedes pulled up next to the hangar. It was identical to the one Duncan escaped from this afternoon except the rear window was intact. The two front doors opened and the Chinese spies got out. The one on the passenger side opened the rear door and Duncan spotted Amy Chen.

He left his position and fired an expert double-tap to the chest of the driver with his silenced 9mm pistol. He then swung his arm and caught the second spy in the forehead. Amy gasped and reached into her purse. Without a sound, Duncan was on her in seconds. His large hand wrapped around her smaller one, pointing her Beretta away from his body. The gun went off, sending a round harmlessly into the tarmac.

“Let go of me,” she said. “My father’s the ambassador.”

“I don’t give a shit who your father is,” said Duncan. “You’re a traitor to our country.”

“My father is a traitor to his.”

“Is that why you’re doing this? What happened? Did someone approach you on a trip with your father?”

“I don’t have to tell you anything. I know my rights.”

“You have no rights any more. The minute you flipped and became a double-agent, you signed your death warrant. Even your father can’t save you now.”

Amy Chen’s eyes got wide and she swallowed. “Are – are you going to kill me?”

Duncan said, “No. You’re going in a deep, dark hole where nobody will ever find you.”

Booze....It's What's for Dinner

2010-03-05T10:21:00.000-05:00

For some reason, this song is in my head now.

Do You Feel Your Nose Growing?

2010-02-22T11:36:00.002-05:00

Last week, Paul nominated the FFF crew for the

Bald Faced Liar Award

The rules for the award are simple:
1. Thank the person who gave this to you.
2. Copy the logo and place it on your blog.
3. Link to the person who nominated you.
4. Tell up to six outrageous lies about yourself, and at least one outrageous truth - or - switch it around and tell six outrageous truths and one outrageous lie.
5. Nominate seven "Creative Writers" who might have fun coming up with outrageous lies.
6. Post links to the seven blogs you nominate.
7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs letting them know you nominated them.

7 lies or truths.

1. I was once told I look like Ben Affleck.
2. I've played a game of pickup hockey with some members of the Philadelphia Flyers.
3. I am related to a member of the Pittsburgh Pirates' 1979 World Series championship team.
4. I was once nearly run over by James Carville.
5. I've eaten goat, but not calamari.
6. I traveled to 30 of the 50 US states before the age of 30.
7. I spent New Year's Eve 2000 in New York City.

I always say, "If your pants are on fire, being a liar becomes less important."

Create an Inciting Incident

2010-02-19T14:31:00.003-05:00

I recently finished reading A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life, by Don Miller. (Great book. Give it a read.) For those of you unfamiliar with who he is, Miller wrote a memoir called Blue Like Jazz a few years ago which became a big hit with the "under-35, Christian but bored with evangelicalism, politically liberal crowd". Although Jazz was such a big hit, his subsequent books were less successful. Miller felt bored, directionless, and like a failure in his personal life. After being contacted by two indie filmmakers who wanted to turn Jazz into a movie, Miller learned how to tell a compelling story and applied these ideas to his life - energizing him in a way he never felt before.

Now, I'm not going to do a full book review or say that Miller has the answer on how to live a meaningful life (though some of the ideas he presents are worth trying out), the reason I bring this up is what he has to say about story. He learns the elements of story from his two filmmaker friends and also attends a Robert McKee story seminar.

Which (finally) brings me to the reason for this post. I stumbled upon a nice interview with McKee over at StoryLink. The interview, and most likely his seminar, focuses primarily on screenwriting, there is great stuff there for writers of all stripes. I've read the interview twice already and got something out both times.

McKee's got good points about Inciting Incidents, hook/hold/payoff, ground rules ("Art forms have no rules; all art is guided by principles"), rewriting ("It's absolutely critical[...]What's difficult for writers to come to terms with is to recognize that 90% of what we all do, no matter our talent, is not our best work."), and looking critically about your inspiration before sitting down to write ("Talent and time are a writer's only assets. Why give your life to an idea that's not worth your life?").

Bookmarked it. Going to read it again and again.

(FYI: If you're interested in more about Million Miles, read this cat's review).

Moment of Vengeance (FFF 21)

2010-02-15T17:24:00.000-05:00

After a week off, I'm back with the Friday Flash Fiction crew. As I've said previously, I view FFF as a chance to get back into the groove and also to try out new stuff. Speaking of new stuff, check out this week's installment. I hope y'all like westerns.

Moment of Vengeance

In matters of life and death, one could not forever rely on the judgment of his fellow man. Augustus Poole removed the bandanna from his captive's mouth and slapped him hard. When he didn't respond, Augustus dunked his metal cup into the barrel of water and threw it in the man's face. He awoke with a spurt and a sputter. The captive squinted his beady eyes at Augustus and said, "You've got some nerve. Do you know who I am?"

"Do you know who I am?"

The captive turned his head and spat, never moving his eyes from Augustus's face. "I can tell you are a God fearing man. Do you really think you'll get to heaven with my blood on your hands?"

Augustus said, "As it says in the Bible, 'And I will put my spirit within you, and cause you to walk in my statutes, and ye shall keep my judgments, and do them.' You have been judged guilty, Mr. Scott. And I am going to mete out your punishment."

***

Marshall Zeke McCoy pushed his hat back and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. Unscrewing the lid of his canteen, he took a swig of water. He sat tall in the saddle and wore a bushy mustache and guns on both hips. Years of staring out onto the plain with the sun and harsh wind gave him a permanent squint and weathered face of a man much older than his own twenty-eight years. He shifted his weight to keep the blood flowing to his legs. He had to be ready for action at any moment.

McCoy and his Apache guide had been tracking Augustus Poole all day and felt they were close to the end. Word came to McCopy early that morning at Fort Bowie that Poole had kidnapped Rupert Scott and was planning to kill him.

"Aquí."

"Jesus," McCoy said, startled. Even high on the bluff with no cover nearby, he hadn't seen or heard Kaywaykla approach. The Chiricahua knew this land like the back of his hand. "You found him?"

Kaywaykla nodded his head, "A small shack about a half mile from here. Best to go on foot."

McCoy dismounted and tied the reigns of his horse to a nearby mesquite bush. He pulled his Winchester from the saddle and said, "Let's go."

The path was fairly straight, but it was on the side of the bluff. Loose gravel underfoot made the going slow and treacherous. McCoy didn't want to end up sliding into the ravine below. His sweat plastered his woolen shirt to his broad back. Kaywaykla abruptly put up his hand and pointed a gnarled finger ahead. McCoy could see a small shack up ahead. It was a simple structure of clapboard walls backed by a large stone wall. The only opening in the front was the door, but there were several wide slats in the walls that someone could put a gun through.

McCoy motioned to Kaywaykla and the Apache moved farther down the ridge. McCoy climbed down to the land below and walked toward the shack. He stood next to a large boulder and shouted, "Augustus? I know you're in there and I know you have Scott. Why don't you hand him over to me and we'll take him to see the judge."

***

"Sounds like the law's here."

Augustus glared at his captive. "You do not speak unless I've given you permission to speak."

He went over and opened the door and carefully stood to one side. He said, "Marshall? Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me, Gus. Come out here and we can talk this over."

Augustus shook his head, "There's nothing to talk about, Marshall. This man is guilty and he must be punished."

"He will be punished," said McCoy, "according to the law. If he's found guilty by a jury of his peers, he will be hanged."

Augustus's lip curled and he sneered, "This man has no peers. He is a drunk and a scoundrel and a thief. What difference does it make if I punish him or if you do?"

"That's not the way we do things, Gus, and you know that. I know what he did to Annabelle. I know what he did to your daughter and I understand how you must feel."

"You have no idea how I feel." He removed the poker he had laying in the coal stove. Its tip glowed red and white hot. "Listen very carefully, Marshall. You're about to hear what justice sounds like."

***

McCoy heard the scream and knew he had lost. He raised the Winchester and sighted at the front door and fired three shots. He heard Augustus shout, "I know now that you are on the side of the demons, Marshall. After I'm done with Scott, I shall punish you for interfering in the Lord's work."

"Shit," McCoy muttered. He whistled and saw Kaywaykla poke his head over the ridge to the left. "Remember what he did in Contention last July?"

Kaywaykla nodded and his head disappeared back over the ridge. McCoy took cover behind the large boulder and sat down. The sun was starting to set over the plain, casting its orange glow over the red and yellow sand. This must be where the locals got their inspiration for their magnificent sand paintings.

Just as dusk was setting in, McCoy heard an Apache war cry and stood up behind the boulder. He saw Kaywaykla running at the shack and sighted the Winchester at the front door. Kaywaykla approached the shack from the left and hurled a flaming torch onto the roof which burst into flames.

An eternity seemed to pass while the shack was consumed. McCoy loosened and tightened his grip on the stock of the rifle. Come on, Augustus. You don't want to die in there.

Just when he thought all hope was lost, the door burst open and Augustus came running out. McCoy aimed and shot Augustus in the shoulder and Augustus spun and fell into the dirt. McCoy put the rifle down, drew one of his revolvers, and ran toward the shack. Augustus lay on the ground, writhing in pain.

McCoy looked up and saw Kaywaykla carrying the limp body of Rupert Scott out of the burning house. The Apache nodded his head, indicating that the outlaw was still alive.

McCoy pointed his revolver at Augustus Poole and said, "I wish you'd let me take care of this. Now the two of you are going to hang together."

What's Going On?

2010-02-12T09:44:00.000-05:00

I'm sure my legion of fans (i.e. two) noticed I didn't participate in this week's Friday Flash Fiction challenge. There are a couple reasons for that. One, inspiration struck later than normal and I was too busy with work to write it (I guess I could've stayed up to 2am to finish, but I digress). Two, there wasn't much of a story. Just a character and a situation. It probably would've just turned out to be a character sketch and not an actual story. And three, I had something else chewing on my old gray matter.

What's that you say? Something else? I mentioned a while back that I was working on a PI short story (a loong time ago). Well, there are two PI characters. One is the wisecracking first-person Marlowe/Archer type. The other is a modern day young eye - sort of a third person Jackson Donne. I've written four short stories about him and tried to get one published (notice I said "tried").

I always had a hard time finding third-person guy's voice. It's hard to maintain a hard-boiled style over longer works because you don't want the tone to get wearying on the reader. Also, lines like "Rain fell like icy pitchforks" work well in first person, but sound like the writer sticking his nose in when it comes to third person. And if Elmore Leonard is to be believed, that's something to avoid.

About 2300 words over two days, and I think this time I may have something. I hate how overused the word reboot is, but that's kind of what this story is (sidebar: can it really be a reboot if the character hasn't been read outside of me and one other person?). I'm taking elements from his previous introduction and throwing in stuff from the character bio that I haven't used before. I found a tone that works and am getting the character a bit more transparent on the page. No timelines or targeted word counts this time, I'm just going to let the story tell itself.

So....rambling? Done for now. Friday Flash this week? Playing it by ear, but I hope so.

Writing Quotes

2010-02-11T14:36:00.001-05:00

(Yes, I'm borrowing from Cormac....but I like the quote)

Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven on by some [passion that] one can neither resist nor understand.

-George Orwell

In Which I Show Off

2010-02-03T10:04:00.002-05:00

The few of you who read this blog have probably also read most (if not all) of the fiction I've published here. You know that I normally write in short, declarative sentences with the occasional flair. In yesterday's Friday Flash Fiction story, I tried a little something different. On a couple occasions, I used a device known as polysyndeton; simply put - using several conjunctions in close succession, especially where some might be omitted.

How did I come to learn of this? Through Ernest Hemingway. Last week, I read his short story "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place" (do yourself a favor and read it) and stumbled upon his usage of it. It's evident even in the first paragraph:

It was very late and everyone had left the cafe except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In the day time the street was dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference. The two waiters inside the cafe knew that the old man was a little drunk, and while he was a good client they knew that if he became too drunk he would leave without paying, so they kept watch on him.

I think I may use polysyndeton in the future, but only to vary the pace a bit. I want to write good stories for FFF, but I also view these stories as a chance to try something new. It won't always work, but what's the fun in playing it safe all the time?

Luck Be A Lady (FFF #19)

2010-02-02T09:44:00.000-05:00

Luck Be A Lady

As far as Jack was concerned, even a field of four-leaf clovers couldn’t turn things around. He was convinced that because he was born in a leap year, that he was under a secret thirteenth Zodiac sign and its symbol was a giant screw.

The bartender plunked another glass in front of him. "I didn't order anoth-"

"From her," the bartender said, jerking a thumb to the other side of the bar. She had auburn hair and wore a dark blue dress.. Her lips stood out as glowing red smears against her pale skin. Jack lifted the glass and sipped. Single-malt, just what he liked. Maybe his luck wasn't so crummy after all.

The day had been one big shitstorm. The power went out some time overnight so his alarm didn't go off, which made him late for work which made him get into an accident on the way to the train station which made him miss his train which made him miss the 9:00 meeting which got his boss mad which got him fired. Jack stood up, grabbed his glass, and went over next to the girl.

"Hi, I'm Jack," he said. "Thanks for the drink."

She didn't say anything, just gave a single nod. Jack took another sip and sat down. "Let me return the favor.'

Jack turned and started to raise his hand to signal the bartender when she said, "I poisoned your drink."

"What?"

She pulled the cherry from her Manhattan, put it between her lips, and pulled off the stem. As she chewed the cherry, she said "I poisoned your drink."

Jack shook his head. There must be some kind of convention in town. That always brings out the crazies. "OK. Really. Is this your idea of a pickup line? Did you just read The Blonde or something?"

"This is very serious business, Mr. Starkey."

Jack blinked. "OK, who the fuck are you and what do you want?"

"I'm just a woman who wants a thing done," she said. "You can call me Jill."

"Jack and Jill. Cute." Jack put some cash down on the bar to pay for his drink. As he stood up, his stomach gurgled and he paused.

"That's just the beginning. If I don't give you the antidote within two hours, you'll be dead."

Jack said, "Give me the antidote now or I'm calling the cops."

Jill shook her head. "They won't do you any good. Even if you can convince them you've been poisoned, it will take them longer than that to identify it. It leaves no trace behind. I'm fully prepared to give you the antidote if you do one small thing for me."

"What is that?"

"I want you to kill Carlo Barzini. You do that and meet me back here when it's done and I'll give you the antidote."

Jack licked his now suddenly dry lips. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve. He wasn't feeling well. Could it be the poison? Or was it just nerves? "How do I know I can trust you?"

Jill shrugged, "Trust me or not. That's up to you. But if you want to live, do it and meet me where before midnight."

Jack felt his bowels start to grumble. He loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "This is like some sick nursery rhyme. Jack and Jill went up the hill to kill a fucking mobster. I have to be back before midnight or I'll turn into a pumpkin. The papers say he's the top mafia don in New York. How am I supposed to get close to him?"

"You sell restaurant supplies, he owns a couple restaurants. You're a smart boy, Jack," she smiled. "You'll figure something out."

"I don't sell restaurant supplies any more. I got fired today."

"Does he know that? Jeez, Jack. Do I have to paint you a picture?" Jill stood up and placed a hand on Jack's shoulder. "There's a .38 taped to the bottom of your barstool. Use it. And remember - the clock's ticking."

Jack reached under the stool and felt a lump held there by a wad of tape. He pulled it free and sure enough it was a gun. He looked around, but Jill was already gone.

"That you for seeing me so late, Mr. Barzini."

Barzini just nodded and waved Jack to a nearby chair. He was a hefty man, bordering on fat. He wore diamond rings on every finger and a diamond tie tack pinning his red silk tie to his black silk shirt. "What can I do for you, Mr.," Barzini looked at the business card handed to him by his associate, "Starkey?"

The restaurant was empty this time of night. The tiled floors had just been mopped, all the red and white checked tablecloths crisply pressed, and the cheese shakers refilled. "Tell me, Mr. Barzini, who does your restaurant supplies now?"

"We've been doing business many years with the Sollozzo brothers."

"And have you been happy with them?"

The don gave a non-committal shrug. Jack continued, "Now, I know loyalty is a great attribute. Something that has been lost on a lot of people in this day and age. But I also know that you're a shrewd business man, Mr. Barzini. If you decide to switch to American Restaurants Federated, we can save you upwards of 30% a year on all your basic needs."

Jack leaned over to get some brochures from his satchel. As he straightened up, his stomach clenched and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. Barzini said, "You don't look so good, my friend. Is something wrong?"

Jack tried to pass off his wince as a smile, "Sorry. My last stop was at a Chinese restaurant. Something I ate must not be sitting well with me. Do you mind if your restroom?"

The hefty don jerked a finger over his shoulder. "In the back."

Jack said, "Take a look through the brochures and see what services we offer. I'll answer any questions you have when I get back."

He walked as quickly as he could to the bathroom without looking like he was in a hurry. On the toilet, he had the smelliest, most explosive shit of his life. He looked down and saw the .38 he had tucked away in his boxers in case Barzini's goons frisked him. He cleaned himself up and flushed twice.

At the sink, Jack repeatedly splashed cold water on his face. Am I really going to do this? Can I kill somebody in cold blood? He's a mob boss. A criminal. I'm doing the world a favor.

He grabbed a handful of paper towels and dried off. His watch read 11:23. He straightened his hair and tie and said, "You can do this. You've seen The Godfather. Just walk in, do it, and leave."

Jack grasped the .38 tightly, threw his shoulders back, and walked out of the men's room. He approached Barzini from behind, raised his hand, and fired. He quickly turned and shot both of the bodyguards. Jack then dropped the gun and ran out the emergency exit into the alley. His knees gave out and he fell against the dumpster and threw up.

Back at the bar, Jack spotted Jill sitting in the same seat as before. He walked over and said, "It's done. Now give me the antidote."

"Good boy, Jack," Jill said. "I knew I could count on you."

"Antidote. Now."

"There is no antidote."

Jack grabbed her arm. "You bitch. I held up my end of the bargain, now you'd better hold up yours."

Jill wrenched free from his grasp. "There is no antidote because there was no poison. I only slipped a powerful laxative into your drink. Oh, and I called the cops too. They'll be here any minute."

There was a commotion by the door and Jack turned to see two detectives and a couple uniformed officers entering the bar. A detective with a smashed nose and a day's growth of beard said, "John Ryan Starkey, you're under arrest for the murder of Carlo Barzini."

"Wait, I can explain," Jack said.

"This had better be a good story," said the detective. "We found your business card and your briefcase and a gun which I'm sure has your fingerprints all over it at the crime scene."

"It's all the girl's fault," Jack turned, but Jill's barstool was empty.

The uniforms grabbed him and leaned him over the bar and put cuffs on him. Through the mass of arms and badges, Jack saw Jill by the back wall; her Cheshire Cat grin fading out the emergency exit.

Jefferson Street (Friday Flash Fiction #18)

2010-01-26T10:08:00.004-05:00

Another entry into the Friday Flash Fiction world.

Jefferson Street

As the sixth shot of whiskey burnt its way down, I suddenly remembered what I left the house for. I put down the glass, paid my tab, and left. I was going to kill Geraldo Sanchez.

Jefferson Street was a part of the city nobody in their right mind would go to. Which was exactly the way they wanted it. Any kind of sin, vice, or depravity that helped you get your rocks off could be found here if you knew the right place and the right price. I turned up my collar and headed off into the lion's den.

It was raining again tonight. Hard. Like it always did this time of year. Sometimes I wished it would rain so hard it would wipe this whole rotten district off the map, but I knew I wasn't that lucky.

"Hey, baby. You looking for a good time?"

The whore was still dolled up with her short leather skirt, leopard print top, and feather boa. She seemed oblivious to the splattering rain which made her makeup smear like some awful modern painting. A quick glance at the bags under her eyes told me this one was way past her expiration date. I put my head down and kept walking. It's better not to be sucked into the dead abyss of the eyes of a woman who spent so much of her life on her back she didn't know how else to make a living.

I had worked vice for 15 years before I booted for "excessive force", so I knew Jefferson was set up in concentric city blocks - each one worse than the last. If you didn't know the intellectual capacity of the crime lords in the city, you'd think it was a tribute to Dante's Inferno. The first block had the bars, pool halls, and gambling joints. The second block was a seedier version of the first. The third was the whores and smut parlors.

"Woah, man. You gotta try some of this stuff. It's real California grass, man."

I pushed past the stoner into the haze of the fourth block. Weed, blow, and some opiates. The harder stuff could be found in the fifth block. No cop I knew had ever been this far into Jefferson.

Sanchez had a club in the heart of the district. I figured that was a good a place to start as any. By the door was a gorilla in a flashy tux. "Can't let you in, ex-cop."

"Why not? Like you said, I'm not a cop any more, so it's not like I can do shit. I'm just an average citizen out for a fun night."

"Average my ass, ex-cop. Why don't you beat it?"

"Is Sanchez in tonight?" I said. "I want a word with him."

"Maybe he don't want to have a word with you, ex-cop," he said.

I flashed a smile and punched him in the throat. He was gagging and clutching his windpipe, so he didn't fight back as I dragged him into the alley. "Tell me where Sanchez is."

He shook his head and I kicked him twice in the ribs. "Where is Sanchez?"

"He'll kill me if I tell you."

I took out my snub-nose and put it to his temple. "I'll kill you now if you don't tell me."

"Dalmas Hotel. Two blocks east. Room 302."

I smashed the revolver into his head, knocking him unconscious. Then I rolled him over so he wouldn't drown in the gutter. He can't say I never did anything for him.

In the corner of the Dalmas Hotel's lobby was an old man at a desk set in a cage of steel bars. As I walked past, the old man said, "Where do you think you're going? I can't let you just waltz in here."

"That's right, you can't," I said as I peeled a couple twenties off my roll. "And you didn't."

A threadbare runner of carpet sprawled down the center of the hall. Like the rest of the place, it had seen better days. I found room 302 at the end of the hallway on the left. I kicked the door in just like they trained me to do.

The young girl riding Sanchez shrieked and tried to cover herself with the sheet when she saw my gun. I motioned with it and said, "Grab your clothes and get out."

Sanchez just stayed in bed looking every bit the cool customer his reputation said he was. He had a tanned hairless chest and a perfect complexion. A hand slicked back his jet black hair and he flashed a white smile at me.

I said, "What's so amusing?"

He grinned back, "I'm looking at a dead man."

"That makes two of us."

The grin disappeared and he said, "What do you want?"

"Does the name Bobby Mercer mean anything to you?"

Sanchez rubbed his chin and feigned thinking. "He's that singer, right? Oh wait, that's Johnny Mercer. Bobby was that crooked cop who killed himself last week. My abuela used to say, 'you lie down with dogs, who knows what you wake up with?'."

"Bullshit. Bobby wasn't dirty."

"You really believe that?" Sanchez said. "All those years you two tracked me and you never got close. Why do you think that is? Because your partner used to tip me off. He was so hooked on H that he would to anything for his next fix."

"I don't believe you," I said. "You planted those drugs on Bobby and injected him with enough stuff to make him OD."

"The coroner ruled it a suicide, didn't he?"

"Yeah, and because of you his widow and son aren't going to collect his pension."

Sanchez said, "And you came here for a little restitution? I see how it is. You see that black bag over there? It's got ten grand in it. Take it. Buy yourself a good time or give it to the widow. It don't make a difference to me. I got plenty more where that came from."

My eyes flicked over to the bag on the chair momentarily, but Sanchez saw it. "You're considering it aren't you? How about I ask you a question now? Does the name Miles Sedgewick mean anything to you?"

The question hit like a punch to the solar plexus. My hand reached out to the dingy hotel wall to steady myself. Sedgewick was an asset we placed inside Sanchez's operation. He went dark two months before they took my badge. The only people inside the department who knew his real name were me and Bobby.

"How would I know that name? That proves it, right? Even if you could convince anybody that I did kill your partner, they'll know he was dirty and his family still won't be able to collect his benefits. You're fucked either way, amigo."

I said, "Then I guess the only thing left for me to do is what I came here in the first place to do."

I fired five shots center mass, walked over, and placed my sixth in Sanchez's forehead. I dropped the gun, grabbed the money, and walked out the door.

Robert B. Parker

2010-01-21T09:16:00.002-05:00

"Writer's block? That's just another word for 'lazy.'"
-Robert B. Parker.

I'm sure everyone's read all the obituaries and glowing tributes to the man who died on Monday. I just wanted to point you guys to this one in the Wall Street Journal if you haven't seen it.

Rest in Peace.

Red Dunes (Friday Flash Fiction #17)

2010-01-19T09:04:00.003-05:00

My second entry into the Friday Flash Fiction world. I actually did have an idea of how to use "But Vladimir Putin will always permit breakdancing." without it being a non sequitur, but decided to go with this one instead. It weighs in at over 1000 words, but I couldn't find any more fat to trim. Enjoy!

Red Dunes

"I am not supposed to remember any of this."

"Just relax for a moment, Mr. Talek. We just need to recalibrate the machine."

Ro Talek stood and walked over to the window. The New York skyline was gorgeous this time of day - skyscrapers as far as the eye could see. He blinked a couple times as a taxi cab whizzed past the 38th floor window. One of the things he'd have to get used to again.

***

"Hurry up. We're going to be late," she said as she turned and started to run.

"Talia, wait." Ro tried to keep up, but he couldn't weave his way though the crowd as easily as she did. Every few steps he bumped someone into a wall and had to stop and apologize.

"Aren't you excited? Just think, decades from now we'll be remembered the earliest settlers on Mars," Talia said. She was practically beaming. It was her idea in the first place, and Ro took serious convincing before he agreed to leave his job and move to a brand new planet.

"Of course I'm excited, babe," Ro said. "But it's not like they're going to start until everyone is there."

"I just can't wait to actually get out there. To feel the dust blowing against my face. I want to just grab handfuls of the soil and rub it all over myself."

"You know that that's not possible. You're going to be inside an environmentally controlled space suit."

Talia lovingly grabbed Ro's arm. "I know that. It's going to take time to set up the biodome and start the terraforming projects. But I still feel like we're following in the footsteps of our ancestors who settled the American West."

Ro smiled and kissed her on the forehead. "The auditorium's just ahead."

The auditorium was a large, circular room at the other end of the corridor from the shuttle. The settlers filed into the room and stood four or five deep in front of the far wall. After the doors behind them closed, the wall in front of them slowly started to peel back. Beyond the clear Plexiglas was the first look any of them had gotten at their new home. The rolling red hills reminded Ro the sand dunes he saw as a child. The sun rose in the distance illuminating the small village that they were to build into the capital of the Earth settlement. Ro noticed the childlike twinkle in Talia's eye and smiled. It was a sight they would never forget as long as they lived.

***

"We're ready for you now, Mr. Talek," the attendant said. "I don't think we've ever erased five years of memories before. It makes sense there would be a glitch or two. I hope you don't hold it against us."

Ro nodded, "It's fine. I've waited this long, what's a few more minutes."

He sat down in the chair and the attendant tightened the straps around his wrists. Electrodes where then attached to his forehead and a large silver colander was lowered.

The attendant said, "At the beginning, you may feel a little tingling. That's perfectly normal. This will all be over in a few minutes."

***

Ro put the last of his shirts in the bin and fastened the latch. The bedroom was still full of his belongings, but he was only allowed one bag.

"Are you sure about this, Ro?"

Ro looked at Ezri. He'd been Ro's closest friend since they both landed on Mars nearly four and a half years ago. "Yeah, I'm sure," said Ro.

"What about her stuff?" Ezri asked.

"I'm leaving it," Ro said. "Donate it to the clothes bank or something. She would've liked that."

"Yeah, Talia would've - "

"Don't you dare say her name," Ro said, as he grabbed Ezri's shoulders. "You have no right to say her name."

"I'm sorry," Ezri said. "I know this has been tough on you. What you must be going through..."

"You have no idea what I'm going though. But you should know that you're pretty much the last person I want to see right now."

Ezri said, "How many times do I have to apologize? I'm sorry, Ro. I screwed up. I know it was my job to check the blast shields that day. I had no idea the meteor shower was going to be that heavy."

"If you had just done your damn job, she would still be alive."

Ezri looked down at his feet. "I know. And I feel like shit about it. Are you sure you don't want to take her body back to Earth with you?"

Ro shook his head. "I already got an allowance from the governor to bury her here. Talia would be honored to know she'll be in the history books. Probably would've wished it wasn't as the first person to be buried on Mars."

"Listen, I'll let you finish packing. If you can ever forgive me, keep in touch, OK."

The door shut automatically as Ezri walked out.

***

Back on Earth, Ro did everything he could to forget what happened to Talia. He threw himself into his new job, but that didn't help. Every night the broadcasts was full of Mars news and he had to turn them off. After months of agony, Ro saw an advertisement for something that he was sure would take away the pain and emptiness: the Forget-O-Tron by OmniTech.

As the machine spun to life, Ro saw his memories flow backwards. Talia's funeral. The conversation in their home with Ezri. The day the meteor shower took Talia away from him. That summer their terraforming machine failed and the colony almost starved. Ro was glad to see them go.

The memories started to come faster. The first Martian Thanksgiving. The first child born on another world. The first time he met Talia. Her smile.

Shit. What have I done? Ro wanted to stop the machine. He had made a terrible mistake. But he couldn't move. Couldn't speak. He saw their first kiss. The first time they made love. All his memories of her blended together into a white hot light.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Talek?" the attendant said.

Ro blinked and rubbed the spot where the attendant had removed an electrode. "I feel like I want to scream, but I don't know why."

"That's a common reaction. It'll fade in time."

Ro nodded but had the uneasy feeling the emptiness wouldn't go away.

The Seven Seven Club (Friday Flash Fiction #16)

2010-01-12T08:28:00.002-05:00

This is my first, and hopefully not last, entry into Friday Flash Fiction. Enjoy!

The Seven Seven Club

"It was an honest mistake...or it was honestly stupid. Either way, I didn't mean anything by it."

"Is that so?"

Brass knuckles to my chin served as punctuation to his sentence. "Look, I'll make you a deal. You untie me and let me go and I'll skip town. Permanently. You'll never see me again. I swear."

"Is that so?"

Another punch. I spat blood and not for the first time that night. The goon had been pummeling me for what seemed like years. It couldn't have been that long since I wasn't dead yet. And I was in too much pain to be dead.

"Gee...you're quite the conversationalist. You know that, right?"

"Is that so?"

This one was so hard it knocked me and the chair I was tied to over. Maybe mouthing off to Knuckles wasn't the smartest idea I ever had, but it wasn't my dumbest either. Not by a long shot.

*****

The Siete Siete Club was where all of Jimmy O'Flaherty's guys hung out. Most of his joints were pool halls or dingy bars with betting parlors in the back to bleed the suckers and boozehounds dry. Siete Siete was a place to be seen. Working stiffs would put on their best suits and take their girls there. The booze was overpriced and the food inferior, but the mopes didn't bat an eye when the bill came. Beneath the bow ties, spit shine, and glamor, it was still a grift.

The star attraction at Siete Siete was the floor show by Santanico Pandemonium. Five feet, nine inches of raven-haired beauty belting out Spanish love songs while wrapped in a sarong. I felt like telling them sarongs were more Pacific Island than Mexico, but I'm sure they cared more about showing off Santanico's toned, tanned midriff than ethnic authenticity.

I ordered a scotch and soda from the bar. I pulled out my money clip, but the bartender waived me off.

"You're Jimmy's new boy, right?" he said. "All Jimmy's boys drink for free."

I lifted my glass and there was a shriek behind me. One of the patrons had a waitress by the arm. She slapped him hard, but he didn't let go. The mountain of a man in a tailored gray suit next to me at the bar stood up. The waitress said, "He grabbed my ass."

The mountain's hand came out of his pocket wearing the biggest pair of brass knuckles I'd ever seen. He dropped the mook with one swing and motioned to the door. The mook's friends dragged him out the front door while the mountain returned to his barstool and beer.

The bartender said, "Knuckles, meet Jimmy's new boy. He's running collections down on 12th."

Knuckles eyed me with disinterest and said, "Is that so?"

I returned to my drink as the emcee went on stage. "Ladies and gentlemen. Senors y Senoritas. The Siete Siete Club is proud to present Miss Santanico Pandemonium."

Wild applause faded into silence as the spotlight came on. Santanico started singing slowly and tenderly. Nobody moved or spoke. It was as if time had stopped and all that existed was the girl and the song. The band abruptly came in and she started to sing her heart out. As the song reached its crescendo, her powerful voice almost drowned out the trumpets behind her. The place erupted into the loudest ovation I'd ever heard.

"Some show, eh?" said the bartender.

"You can say that again," I said.

Later in the evening Santanico came out and leaned against the bar next to me. She said, "The usual, Sal. And make it snappy."

She was wearing a tight, shimmering gold dress. The top was cut so low that it was on speaking terms with both scandalous and indecent. I said, "Some show you put on tonight."

"Glad you liked it," she said. She pulled a cigarette from her purse and I lit it for her. "I haven't seen you around before. Are you new in town?'

"Couple days," I said.

She tilted her head back and blew a smoke ring. "Been able to find any honest work in this crummy town?'

"I'm a hat salesman."

"Is that so? Men's hats or ladies too?"

"I'm interested in all kinds of hats," I said.

"Is that so? How is the hat business going?"

"With the weather like it is, business has been brisk."

"Is that so?"

"Sounds like you've been taking conversation tips from this guy," I said, nodding in Knuckles's direction.

She let out a long, loud, genuine laugh. She said, "So, funny man, how about you meet me backstage in five minutes. I'll show you my favorite....hat."

Five minutes later, I was knocking on her dressing room door. She said, "Come in."

I opened the door and saw she was wearing her favorite hat. And nothing else.

"Why don't you come over here and get a better look at its shape."

She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me long and hard. The kind of kiss you hear about, but don't quite believe. She purred, "Mmmmm......that's what mama likes."

"Santanico..."

"That's my stage name," she said as she nibbled my ear. "Back here it's just Betty Jo Callahan. The black hair and a little makeup are enough to convince these yabbos I'm at least part Mex."

Her name stuck in my head. Why did it sound so familiar?

The door flew open and Jimmy O'Flaherty was there. His face was as red as his hair.

Then I remembered the story of little Betty Jo Callahan from Uniondale. She grew up to marry gangster Jimmy O'Flaherty.

*****

As I laid on my back on that basement floor, I couldn't help but laugh at what a schnook I was. Knuckles stood over me with a gun pointed in my face. He said, "Any last words? You're about to meet your maker."

I smiled and said the only thing I could think of, "Is that so?"

I Suck

2009-12-22T13:44:00.002-05:00

The year is about to come to a close and I'm no closer to my goals than when it started.

The handful of stories I submitted were rejected.

Productivity was down -

I've made very little progress on the novel.
Started 4 shorts - finished one.
Handful of flash
A couple crummy haiku.
An unplanned five month break in blogging.

Since writing equals ass plus chair, Santa better bring me some crazy glue for 2010.

House of Games (1987) and Devil in a Blue Dress (1995)

2009-12-08T16:39:00.000-05:00

House of Games is David Mamet’s directorial debut. The story follows psychiatrist Maggie Ford (Linsday Crouse) as she is led by a smooth-talking grafter (Joe Mantegna) into the shadowy but compelling world of stings, scams, and con men. Mantegna is charming as con man Mike. Mike Nussbaum is good as elder con man Joey. And there are smaller roles for Mamet staple Ricky Jay and veteran character actor JT Walsh. Acting-wise, the weak link is Crouse, which is unfortunate considering she’s in just about every scene.

The various cons pulled during the flick are fun, but I saw the big twist coming 20 minutes away (which is saying something considering the movie is 102 minutes long). The ending was a bit unsatisfying. For fans of Mamet or the heist genre, it’s a good time. Otherwise, I can’t really recommend it.

Devil in a Blue Dress is a mid-90’s noir based on the Walter Mosley novel of the same name. Denzel Washington stars as plant worker turned private eye Easy Rawlins. Rawlins is hired by DeWitt Albright (Tom Sizemore) to find Daphne Monet (Jennifer Beals), the missing fiancée of a mayoral candidate. Rawlins quickly finds himself pulled into a milieu of murder, corruption, and racism. One of the standouts in the cast is Don Cheadle as Easy’s friend Mouse.

One of the big questions I had was about Sizemore’s character. In the beginning, he’s very friendly with Rawlins and the other black characters. He goes so far as to threaten to kill someone in the verge of hurting Rawlins. But after Easy gives Albright some bad intel on the whereabouts of Daphne Monet, Albright hurls violence and racial epithets at him as easily as other characters do. Was Albright just playing early on? Or is he acting out in front of other white characters so they don’t look down on him for being friendly with the black characters?

While not perfect, Devil is a good flick. Recommended for fans of Denzel, Mosley, and modern noirs.

Haiku Noir

2009-12-02T15:22:00.000-05:00

I thought of posting this on successive days, but whatever. Now, it's just a winter haiku of five parts. Enjoy.

Gloomy winter comes again with
howling winds and naked trees.
The cold chills your bones.

Ominous clouds float
over an abandoned wheat field
The year's first snowstorm.

Dogs sniff in the snow.
It hardly seems necessary.
The blood paints it red.

A dead little girl.
I'm always a step too slow.
She will miss Christmas.

Her father's wet sobs,
fan the flames within my breast.
I will avenge her.

The Power of Voice

2009-07-07T10:02:00.000-04:00

The Woman in the Window (1944)

2009-06-29T10:26:00.002-04:00

I read an article last week about early films noir. It claimed the term "film noir" was applied to American films in French film magazines in 1946, the year when The Maltese Falcon (1941), Double Indemnity (1944), Laura (1944), Murder, My Sweet (1944), and The Woman in the Window were released in France. With such great company, I had to track this one down.

Directed by Fritz Lang and starring such noir stalwarts as Edward G. Robinson, Joan Bennett, and Dan Duryea, it tells the story of psychology professor Richard Wanley (Robinson). Wanley and his friends become obsessed with the portrait of a woman in the window next to their men's club. While admiring her portrait, Wanley meets the the subject, a Miss Alice Reed (Bennett), and strikes up a conversation with her. They end up in her apartment for talk and a few drinks. The woman's boyfriend bursts in, misinterprets Wanley's presence, attacks him. Wanley kills the boyfriend in self-defense and comes up with a plan to dump the body and help cover up the killing. Wanley slowly becomes a suspect as the police uncover more and more clues. To make matters worse, a blackmailer (Duryea) begins leaning on the woman.

Robinson gives a convincing performance as a middle-aged college professor. It’s obvious how easily he can fall for Bennett – who is dead sexy in the role. I can see how the film could be characterized as noir, but there are some un-noir elements in it. On the one hand, you have one mistake causing an ordinary man to fall deeper and deeper toward the bottom and the setting (city, nighttime, rain, etc). Bennett’s Alice Reed has the look and temperament of many a femme fatale, but her actions and her interactions with Robinson’s Wanley don’t fit the standard mold. Not to give too much away, but the ending is almost upbeat compared to the bleak ending of most noirs.

The cinematography is great. The story is tight. The acting is superb. If anyone else has seen it, let me know what you think. Noir or not?

Recommended.

Killshot (200?)

2009-06-22T11:05:00.002-04:00

I got a chance to see the long delayed (and troubled) movie adaptation of Elmore Leonard's novel Killshot.

Armand "Blackbird" Degas (Mickey Rourke) is a hitman for the Toronto Mafia. He hooks up with a young, hothead crook named Richie Nix (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) for a shakedown of a real estate agent. The job doesn't go according to plan, and the two leave behind witnesses in Carmen and Wayne Colson (Diane Lane and Thomas Jane). The Colsons are forced into Witness Protection while Blackbird and Nix hunt them down.

Rourke and Lane give solid performances. There are some areas that are a little choppy, probably because of all the edits (including removing the entire character played by Johnny Knoxville).

It doesn't quite capture the flare of Get Shorty or Out of Sight, but it's better than some of the Elmore adaptions out there. The movie's not great, but it's not bad. It certainly deserved a better fate than it got.

Comings and Goings

2009-06-10T19:46:00.002-04:00

The past couple days, I've been playing with a couple ideas for upcoming stories. I have two that I'm currently working on. One has about 500 words already, the other is merely an idea.

It got me thinking again on the idea of markets. There are a lot of good flash fiction markets out there, but these stories probably won't be flash. For noir, A Twist of Noir seems like a good one.

Along my travels in the past week, I stumbled on this site called Duotrope's Digest (probably clicking on a link on Paulie Decibels's website, then another link, then another...). The Digest says it is "a free writers' resource listing over 2475 current Fiction and Poetry publications". Doing some quick searches, it looks pretty good. You can search by genre, length, type (web or print), payscale, you name it!

Even if your work isn't accepted, it's a good way to find new markets to read and even find some new writers.

Love Lost

2009-06-04T07:18:00.001-04:00

Below is my entry for the latest Patti/Gerald/Aldo Flash Fiction Challenge. I hope you enjoy it.

There was something innately wrong about hotel bars. The lights were too bright. They were too nicely decorated. There was no reason to be bright and cheery when your primary clientele was traveling salesmen in cheap suits who smelled of desperation and women with dead eyes and inch thick makeup.

Kyle smiled and chuckled to himself as he polished off his third Sapphire tonic and ordered another. He was one of them now. He was King of the Losers. All because he lost Adrianna.

They met at a party in the fall. He found out later she had crashed the party. She had a habit of crashing parties. Kyle was grabbing an MGD from the fridge when she walked in. Adrianna was the kind of girl who when she walked into a room, you could feel it.

Kyle turned. Short black skirt. Spaghetti straps. Clasp bag in her left hand. They locked eyes. She crossed the room and jammed her tongue down his throat. She then whispered into his ear the two words that would change his life. Her ragged breath tickling his earlobe, sending shock waves through his body as she spoke that one simple sentence.

“Let’s dance.”

They spent the night bumping and grinding to the DJ’s beats. They spent the next two days in a hotel room bumping and grinding. Without music. And without clothes.

The things he would to for Adrianna just for the things he would do to Adrianna. Their second date ended with a night in jail. Their fourth, a trip to the burn ward. But, like a junkie, he rationalized that it was worth it. After a while, he recognized that continuing the relationship would be hazardous to his health, but her phone calls always had him jonesing for another fix.

Kyle surrendered himself to her. But then she stopped calling. She stopped returning his calls. He went to her apartment, but Adrianna had moved out. He broke in, just to get a faint reminder of her scent, but that was gone too. He cruised all their old haunts, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. The places they loved were all dull and boring without her by his side.

But then he found her. She had moved to another part of the state. She was now engaged to some mope named Scott. A weenie in khakis and shirts from Kohls.

Kyle finished his Sapphire tonic and walked upstairs to Ballroom B. The placard outside read “Wedding Reception for Scott and Adrianna Anderson”. He pushed the door open and and saw a room full of wedding guests. Buffet tables lined the one wall, leading to a four layer wedding cake by the large plate glass window. The evening sun was slowly setting over the lake.

Kyle saw the newly married couple dancing to Peter Gabriel’s “The Book of Love” in the center of the ballroom. The wedding dress what low cut and tight in all the right places. She wore her hair up. Why do they always wear their hair up?

She stopped dancing when she saw him. “What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“I’m crashing,” Kyle said with a grin.

“Please leave. You’re causing a scene.”

“A scene?” he said. “A scene? Look who’s worried about causing a scene all of a sudden. You never used to be worried about causing a scene. Remember the time you stripped naked and jumped in Ryan Thomas’s pool? Now that was a scene.”

Adrianna quickly walked over. “Stop it. Kyle, it’s over. It’s been over between us for a long time. Why can’t you just let it go?”

“Let it go? Let it go?” Kyle said. “How can you say that? All the good times we had together? We belong with each other”

Kyle pulled up his shirt to reveal a “Property of Adrianna” tattoo across his stomach. Adrianna’s hand shot up to her mouth. She said, “My God, Kyle. What did you do to yourself?”

“Nothing you yourself wouldn't do. Didn't you say it would be hot to have each other's names on our bodies when we were in the sack? That's right, Scott. I fucked your wife.”

“You need help, Kyle.”

Kyle said, “Oh, come on. This is just some elaborate prank, right. You're having a fake wedding to show how lame the whole concept is.”

Adrianna said, “No, Kyle. It's real. I love Scott and he loves me. I've grown up and so should you.”

“We belong together. You and I are the same.”

Kyle looked at all the faces staring at him. Shock, disgust, loathing. Then he looked at Adrianna. Was that pity he saw in her eyes? She was pitying him? He pitied her. Marrying a worthless schlub like Scott. He had to save her.

“If that’s the way you want to play it, fine. Just remember, you can’t have a wedding without a cake.”

Kyle broke into a run. His heard neither the yelling nor felt the people lunging or him. His whole world now was the cake and the window. His hands grasped the cold metal of the cake cart. He watched the cake smash through the window. The miniature couple on top of the cake wobbled, but didn’t fall.

Kyle felt more alive than he had in ages. He embraced the freedom of the skies until he felt a sickening crunch, bouncing off the cake cart that had fallen the two stories before he did.

The cake landed right side up in the center of the road – a pile of confectionery carnage.

With cracked and bloodied lips, Kyle smiled. “Fuck that bitch.”

Black Lizard's Ross Macdonald

2009-06-03T09:48:00.002-04:00

I've started buying the Black Lizard reprints of Ross Macdonald to fill the gaps in my library. First off, I love Black Lizard. Second off, these new editions are awesome. I've always loved Lizard's designs for books (all my Chandler books are from their collection), and the new Macdonald books are no exception.

FaceOut Books has pictures of the covers and a nice behind the scenes (including some rejected covers). Here's a quick look:

(hat tip to swierczy).

In Which I Write

2009-05-19T12:29:00.002-04:00

I just finished the first draft of my story for the latest Flash Fiction Challenge. The theme for this one is a wedding cake in the road. The first idea I had would've been a humorous story in the vein of Douglas Adams. Though, that kind of thing really isn't in my wheelhouse. Along the way I had a couple other ideas, one of which I actually stared writing. I got about 400 words in and the thing just collapsed like a poorly made cake.

Then I hacked out 3/4ths of the words, recast one of the characters, and think I found something. It may or may not be what I use on June 4, but it's a good start.

Week of Welles part 6

2009-05-09T10:06:00.000-04:00

On the concluding day of the Week of Welles, Orson on his World War II experiences and which films would he save if there was a flood and he could only save two films.

Week of Welles part 5

2009-05-08T10:03:00.001-04:00

Welles on Jerry Lewis.

Week of Welles part 4

2009-05-07T10:29:00.000-04:00

Welles and Cavett talking about run-ins with Churchill.

Welles-Day

2009-05-06T10:15:00.001-04:00

Today is the actual anniversary of Welles's birth. He continues to talk about his adventures as a youngster, including a run-in with a young Adolph Hitler. Cavett also asks Welles about the most interesting person he ever met. He tells a story of Cornelia Lunt who knew everyone and knew lots of stories from the grand old days if Victorian England. I also like his story of what kind of a man George Marshall was. Welles was not only a great visual storyteller, but this story of Marshall shows how great a personal storyteller he was as well.

Week of Welles

2009-05-05T10:18:00.002-04:00

Today, Orson has some nice words for Harry Cohn. He also talks about Cole Porter, writing a memoir, and his childhood.

Orson Welles on Dick Cavett

2009-05-04T10:09:00.001-04:00

In honor of the 94th anniversary of Orson Welles's birth this week, I'm going to do a Week of Welles. One of my recent YouTube finds is this interview Welles did with Dick Cavett. I'm not sure what year this takes place, but I'm going to guess the early 1970's.

This first clip is some light banter between Welles and Cavett then Orson talks about how Harry Cohn "ruined" the shootout at the end of The Lady from Shanghai. More from Orson on Cohn in tomorrow's clip.

Duke Ellington

2009-04-29T09:05:00.003-04:00

Today is the 110th anniversary of the birth of Duke Ellington. Called by many America's greatest composer, Ellington was born April 29, 1899 in Washington, D.C.. Ellington lead his band, one of the most successful in history, from 1923 until his death in 1974. His son Mercer Ellington continued the band until his death in 1996 when Duke's grandson Paul Ellington took it over.

Duke, along with Billy Strayhorn and members of his orchestra, wrote and popularized many hits such as "Mood Indigo", "It Don't Mean a Thing (If It Ain't Got That Swing)", "Sophisticated Lady", "In a Sentimental Mood", "Caravan", "Perdido", "I Let A Song Go Out Of My Heart", "Do Nothing Till You Hear from Me", and his most recognizable hit "Take the 'A' Train".

As they do every year, Columbia University's WKCR is celebrating Duke's birthday with 24 hours straight of Ellington music. Click on the link to stream the live broadcast.

A Day at the Men's Hair Styling Salon

2009-04-17T10:33:00.000-04:00

Taking a page from Stephen's book, here's a video of Orson to finish off the week. Here he shows off his comedic chops alongside Dean Martin and Jimmy Stewart. Enjoy!

Orson Welles on Merv Griffin

2009-04-13T22:07:00.003-04:00

It was something I'd always tried to find, but never was able to find. Until now. Here is Orson Welles from Merv Griffin's television show on October 10, 1985 - the day of Orson's death. The Great One appears to be in an expansive mood this evening. He rarely talked about the women in his life (especially ex-wife Rita Hayworth), but he openly answered Merv's questions.

Take a look:

It Was 40 Years* Ago Today...

2009-04-10T09:56:00.003-04:00

Forty years ago today, Paul McCartney left The Beatles. All four formerly Fab members achieved success as solo artists, but never reached anywhere near the heights they did as a group.

I always say The Beatles are the greatest rock band in history. Not only because I love them. Their sound influenced a generation and still influence musicians to this day. All four can stand on their own as great musicians.

Gossip about possible collaborations between Paul and Ringo is still greeted with breathless anticipation.

There will never be another band anywhere near their level of impact.

*Actually 39. But I was going for a Sgt. Pepper reference.

Nightmare Town

2009-04-07T09:41:00.001-04:00

I finished Nightmare Town over the weekend. It’s not a complete collection of Dashiell Hammett’s short stories, but it’s a good cross-section. There are quite a few Continental Op stories and three Spade stories.

One of the more interesting inclusions is the first 10 chapters of an early draft of The Thin Man. It’s more in line with the dark, gritty stories Hammett was famous for in the pulps. Nick and Nora Charles are not present. Instead, our hero is a world-weary private eye John Guild. In these 60 pages, we have murder, attempted murder, a missing person, a double life, embezzlement, fraud, and a suicide. As great as the finished Thin Man is, this story is a tantalizing preview of what might have been.

Hammett fans are advised to pick up the volume.

Road Dogs

2009-04-01T10:27:00.001-04:00

No, this is not an April Fool's joke. It's real. Harper Collins is having a book trailer contest for Elmore Leonard's latest book Road Dogs. The winner will get an autographed copy of the book and a Kindle loaded with the complete Elmore Leonard library.

To inspire you, EW has an excerpt of the book up on their site today. Read On.

Raines on Hulu

2009-03-30T19:28:00.002-04:00

I've talked several times before about the tv show Raines - another brilliant but canceled show. Imagine my surprise and delight when I stumbled across it this weekend on Hulu! They have all seven released episodes up for your viewing pleasure. If you never saw it or just miss it like I do, do yourself a favor and check it out here.

I still love the opening of the pilot episode. Quote the Goldblum:

"Maybe I read too many detective books when I was a kid. Chandler, Hammett, Macdonald. All the great California guys of the '40's and '50's. Even tried writing a story once. Couldn't get past page one...."

Here's a direct link to the ep. Goldblum's narration goes through the first 1:15 and it's awesome.

Raymond Chandler

2009-03-26T10:04:00.004-04:00

It was 50 years ago today that Raymond Chandler died. Arguably the most influential crime writer, he left behind seven completed novels and roughly two dozen short stories. There are some who prefer Hammett or Ross Macdonald, but I’m a Chandler guy all the way.

I read all the novels in order and all the short stories and essays I could get my hands on. I was barely 50 pages into The Big Sleep when I ordered the next two Chandler novels from Amazon (all Black Lizard editions). When I decided to start writing again, it was Chandler’s style I tried to imitate. It was like watching a whale knit.

Some out there dig Hammett more because his writing is spare. They think all of Chandler’s similes are silly and his description superfluous. But they made the stories more meaty and resonant. There are many times while reading a Chandler novel that I smiled at a great line. Sure, it took me out of the story briefly and made me think about the author for a second. But, by God, I was sure enjoying what I read.

Here’s a smattering of links for you on this Chandler day:
An excellent article on the literature side of Chandler from the Telegraph
essay: Writing The Long Goodbye by Mark Coggins

A little peek at my bookshelf:

(the big fat washed out one is The Long Goodbye.)

Clean Slate

2009-03-18T10:09:00.000-04:00

I’ve got the self-loathing part down pat. I haven’t been working on my novel as much as I should and continually beat myself up over it. For some reason, I’m just not feeling it. I think the story is good, but I’m not satisfied with the execution. A couple short story ideas popped into my head recently, so I was going to spend this past weekend working on a couple that I would target to the usual markets for these types of things.

Then….my hard drive crashed Friday night. Luckily, I frequently copy my writing to a thumb drive (so I can work at home and at the office) so I didn’t lose much of anything. So Saturday was spent getting a new hard drive and setting the computer up again. The good thing is that I’m taking this as an opportunity for a clean slate. A lot of the accumulated junk, I’m not going to get back. With a streamlined PC (little music, no movies, few bookmarked websites), I hope to spend more time on the important things….such as writing.

So, here’s a weekend inspired haiku to send us off:

Oh no! Hard drive crashed.
Diligent in your backups?
Rise like a phoenix.

The Random Album Game

2009-03-09T19:18:00.001-04:00

I saw this over on Stephen's blog. It's a lot of fun.

Here are the rules:

1: Go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special:Random
The first random Wikipedia article that comes up is the name of your band.

2: Go to http://www.quotationspage.com/random.php3
The last four or five words of the very LAST quote on the page is the title of your first album.

3: Go to http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/7days
The third picture in the top row, no matter what it is, will be your album cover.

4: Use Photoshop or whatever to put it all together.

5: Post it.

Here's mine:

I got lucky because my random Wikipedia entry was actually a band name. :)

Max Payne (2008)

2009-02-23T08:30:00.001-05:00

I've mentioned before that I had high hopes for this movie since I am a big fan of the video game and its sequel. I finally saw it over the weekend and was severely disappointed. Of course, in any movie adaptation, the filmmakers reserve the right to change elements of the story. They did so, but in ways that didn't make any sense.

In the game, Max was a homicide detective. His wife and child were murdered. Max becomes an undercover DEA agent working against the Punchinello family. He goes to meet his fellow agent Alex Balder in the Roscoe Street subway station in the opening scene of the game. Alex is murdered and Max becomes the prime suspect. The rest of the game is Max hunting down the real killers, trying to clear his name, and uncovering a conspiracy behind his wife's murder.

In the movie, Max was a homicide detective. His wife and child were murdered. Max transfers himself to the cold case squad and goes out at night investigating their murders on his own. He gets set up for the murders of Natasha Sax and Alex Balder and has to clear his name.

There are some cool elements to the movie, but it doesn't capture the style or feel of the source material. There are only two big gunfights and two instances of bullet-time (the real fun parts of the game). The relationship between Max and Mona Sax isn't explored at all, and Jack Lupino has maybe three lines of dialog in the entire picture.

I was hoping the movie would be good and do well at the box office. Not only because I was a fan of the source, but also that it might push the game designers to finish the third installment of the franchise.

Flash Recap

2009-02-12T10:01:00.002-05:00

I think Tuesday's Flash Challenge was a big success. All the stories were great. There are certainly a lot of talented writers in the group.

Patti has a list pairing each story writer with the writer of the opening paragraph. I got Scott Parker's and John McAuley got mine. After reading John's first sentence after my paragraph, I thought "great, he's going to turn Johnny Bix into a child molester." But, I dug the story he told. The ending of it put a big smile on my face. Job well done. Check out "No Pool No Car" at Powder Burn Flash.

Like I mentioned the other day, Scott's paragraph got me a couple story ideas. The first idea had a twist that probably would've seemed forced. The next couple passes were a flirty, Jack Foley/Karen Sisco in the trunk type conversation between Rod and the clerk (named Veronica). Once I introduced the line "Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets", they degenerated into a Tarantino-esque pop culture laced conversation that felt a little hollow.

Then, somehow, the idea of Rod running and being ashamed of his cowardice popped in. It's not a high-energy story like most flash is, but I knew if I was able to find the right emotional notes to hit it would work.

Someone suggested that we use endings for the next flash challenge. I bet that would be a hell of a lot harder, but still loads of fun.

Choices Made

2009-02-10T07:58:00.004-05:00

If he survived the next ten minutes, Rod told himself, he was going to kill that cat. His girlfriend's cat, Lola, was out of kitty litter and his girlfriend had withheld sex in order to force him to go out and pick up some more. Now, here he was, hiding in the meat locker, while those thugs terrorized the shop clerk and took her money. At least they hadn't found him yet. No telling what they'd do to him if they did. Then his cell phone rang and he heard footsteps coming toward him.

The caller ID showed his girlfriend's name: Kelley. Rod thumbed the volume control, sending her directly to voicemail. Maybe they didn't hear it, he thought. He sat as still as a statue, breathing slowly through his open mouth. The coldness of the meat locker turned his breath into white puffs. The footsteps stopped outside and Rod saw the handle start to turn.

Rod only had a handful of seconds to figure things out. Maybe he'd just give the thugs his money and they'd leave him alone. Maybe he could disarm this one, sneak up on the other one, and be a hero. The door opened a crack and Rod knew what he had to do.

He sprung from his crouch and exploded through the door. The thug was knocked down and his gun slid across the slick linoleum.

Rod turned left and ran out the emergency exit. His shoulder immediately rammed into the dumpster across the alley and he turned. Dodging trash cans and puddles, he sped down the alley. The thick soles of his boots thudded along the wet pavement. His ears were filled with the zip-zip sound of his arms pumping inside his ski jacket.

The alley spit him out onto Harrison and he beat two more blocks to Nassau before he slowed down. His body gave out and Rod fell to his knees next to a blue USPS mail box. The bitter night air was colder than that inside the meat locker. Snow fell like ash from the end of a cigarette. Rod hurled.

The next day, Rod wandered the streets of town, replaying the night in his head. Maybe he couldn't have been a hero like he thought, but at least he and the clerk would've gone through the robbery together. Being in that situation with somebody else must be better than going through it alone. Instead, he acted like a coward.

Rod shocked himself with the harshness of the word: coward. But that’s what he was. The shock of the word woke him up from his reverie. He had wandered his way back to the store. He figured his subconscious was telling him to go back and make things right.

The store seemed none the worse for wear. The aisles were cleaned up and there was no police tape anywhere. Rod grabbed a bag of kitty litter and went up to pay.

The clerk from last night stood behind the register. She didn't look up as Rod approached, but that was fine with him. He couldn't look her in the eye after abandoning her last night anyway. She was a cute young woman with a smallish build. Her black hair was slicked down and held in place by clips. The thugs had done a number on her, though. She had a fat lip and a black eye. A half inch red cut jutted perpendicular to her left eyebrow. It was held together by a great number of stitches.

Rod reached down and put a pack of Chewlies gum on the counter so he wouldn't have to look at her any more. The shame he felt at abandoning her to those jackals was unbearable. He was glad she was ok, but the urge to leave grew stronger with each passing second. He wanted to get out before she recognized him.

Rod slapped his money on the counter, scooped up his purchase, and headed for the door. He had to will himself not to run.

"Hey," the clerk shouted.

Rod's spine stiffened. He knew she recognized him. He was the only customer in the store last night and he abandoned her to the hands of a couple hoodlums. He wanted to keep walking. Pretend he didn't hear her call. But he stopped.

Rod turned around and took a couple steps back to the counter. His mouth opened, ready to spew out an apology. To say he was sorry for abandoning her.

Before he could speak, the clerk said, "You forgot your receipt."

Rod took the receipt, jammed it in his pocket, and left.

Note: Since I saw the name of the cat, I desperately wanted to use the line "whatever Lola wants, Lola gets" somewhere. It made it into the early drafts, but those didn't quite work. Then the idea came to show the aftermath of the robbery instead of the actual event itself (and a darker tone).

Patti has links to everyone's stories for this challenge here.

Hope you enjoyed it.

Sesame Street Is Not How I Remember It

2009-02-06T18:43:00.002-05:00

I found these videos the other day. You can tell the impact Sesame Street has on young viewers. Now that they're all grown up, people are doing parodies.

Example one: Pot Cookie Monster

Example two: Cookie Monster rapping

Welles Update

2009-01-28T14:02:00.002-05:00

Apparently, there was a screening of Orson Welles's unfinished The Other Side of the Wind at a Bay area event celebrating the "Unknown Welles." Here is our obedient servant Lawrence French's comments on the event at Wellesnet:

The two programs Stefan presented lasted over five hours, but I was personally most delighted to see the rough cut of The Other Side of the Wind that was shown in a special “after hours” session for a select group of Welles scholars.

So, in the grand tradition of Arthur Bannister, here is an Auto-interview about The Other Side of the Wind:

Do you think The Other Side of the Wind is a potential Welles’s masterpiece?

In my own personal opinion, I would say the answer has to be a resounding YES! There are scenes that far exceed anything in Welles work after Chimes at Midnight.

You must be kidding? I thought it was considered far too experimental, or even worse, quite boring by most people who have seen it.

I’ve heard the same stories, but I saw the film long after midnight and it held me in awe. It had scenes of lyrical beauty, great acting and is filmed in beautiful color contrasted with rich black and white. Now, you may also recall that Welles’s Chimes at Midnight The Trial and Touch of Evil also had the same kind of things said about them. The New York Times for instance thought that Chimes at Midnight was a total disaster! And every studio in Hollywood turned down Welles script for The Dreamers, one of the most poetic scripts I’ve ever read! So if we let the so-called “experts” like David Thomson decide that The Other Side of the Wind shouldn’t be finished, it certainly never will be.

So you you really think it can be edited and shown?

Of course it can! Given the footage I’ve now seen, and having carefully studied the script, which I regard as a brilliant piece of work, I not only believe it can be finished, but I regard it as an artistic crime that it hasn’t been finished!

more at Wellesnet...

Got It! (maybe)

2009-01-19T19:33:00.001-05:00

Right before I left work today, I had an idea about the flash challenge (let's call this idea #4). I think this one is going to work. Let's see what it looks like on paper (or screen).

I love what we writers call "inspiration".

Flash Challenge

2009-01-19T10:27:00.002-05:00

I'm involved in another flash challenge from the Patti/Gerald/Aldo group. This one has a bit different setup than previous challenges and should be very fun. I got my starter paragraph last week and started to do some work already.

So far, there are three different threads I'm thinking about. The first has the standard flash twist ending, but I'm not sure it would actually be plausible. The second and third have potential, but they are much different in tone than anything else I've ever written. And that wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing.

We'll see what happens.

Prescott (part 3)

2009-01-09T09:25:00.000-05:00

“Just like we rehearsed. You do anything stupid, I won’t hesitate to kill you. Comprende?”

The Mexican swallowed and nodded his head. His face was a bloody mess after my interrogation. He took the single step up to the porch and knocked on the door. A muscle-bound Mexican in a wife-beater answered the door.

I rushed from the bushes. I used the first Mexican as a battering ram to knock Guillermo down. I slammed the door behind me, turning the gun on the two thieves.

“Is your girlfriend home?”

The tight veins throbbed in Guillermo’s neck. The sloppy ink of prison tattoos stained his shoulders.

Silence was my answer.

The wood floor of the foyer shined with a hard polish. Rugs at the entrance and foot of the steps were Latin in color and pattern. The afternoon sun streamed through the accent windows behind me.

“Is – “

“No, she’s at work,” the first Mexican answered.

Guillermo stared at him. He obviously thought he was a tough guy. It was prison tough. All bravado and no brains.

There’s no reasoning with a man like that.

I wiped down the gun and turned my attention to the first Mexican. “In some ancient societies, thieves were punished by having their hands chopped off.”

His eyes, still glued to his friend’s corpse, went wide with horror.

“If you do exactly what I tell you to do, you can keep your hands.”

The Mexican did what I told him to do. He took the money to the cops and told them the story. He and Guillermo argued about splitting up their take. Guillermo attacked him, but he pulled out his gun and shot Guillermo. He was so tortured by his guilt he decided to turn himself in.

The cops didn’t completely buy the story, but took it anyway. It got them a clearance on a murder and a robbery without having to do any real work.

That night, while lying next to Rita in our shabby motel room, I dreamed of Giovanni Pezzino again.

This time he smiled at me.

This time I didn’t shoot him.

Prescott (part 2)

2009-01-07T09:27:00.001-05:00

The air was thick with dried sweat and desperation. You see this scene in urban areas across the country. Men with a limited grasp of English huddled in the parking lot behind a grocery or liquor store. Back East they would be huddled against the cold. Here it was the wind. It tore through the parking lot - sandblasting anything in its way.

The best workers went early. Now, it was the dregs. The ones too lazy or hung over to show up on time. The ones who usually have something else on the side. The ones I wanted to talk to.

It would’ve been easy to spot my guy back home. Gang colors and ink have a way of announcing who you are. Here I’d have to pick up on subtler clues. The guy by the dumpster. Designer jeans. Blue hoodie that hid his hands all morning long.

I shadowed him from the opposite side of the street. Not as much cover as the time I had to whack Don Alfonso, but doable. I followed him to a rundown house with a patch of dirt for a yard. This passed for a slum in Prescott.

I went around back and slipped in the kitchen. The floor was littered with empty beer bottles. Mexican brands I didn’t recognize. A garbage bag full of marijuana in the corner. They weren’t too worried about raids.

I heard the distinctive click of a hammer being pulled back. A voice said, “You’re in trouble now, esse.”

He held the gun sideways in that stupid banger pose he’d probably seen in a dozen movies. He didn’t realize that pose decreased his accuracy by roughly 50 percent. And it got worse every shot after the first.

Guns have a finite range of efficacy. He was too close. One move and the gun was mine. I pistol-whipped him and he fell. He wiped his mouth and stared at his bloody hand.

“Did you rob the Tick Tock Diner last night?”

He stared at me.

I kicked him in the ribs. “Did you rob the Tick Tock Diner last night?”

“Si.”

“Who was your partner?”

Silence.

I pistol-whipped him again. He spit teeth like Pez.

“Who was your partner?”

“Guillermo.”

“Where can I find Guillermo?”

“No se.”

I hit him again and again, breaking his nose.

“His girlfriend’s. On Wildflower.”

“You’re going to show me.” I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out the back door.

Prescott (part 1)

2009-01-05T09:25:00.002-05:00

“I’ll get it to you tomorrow. I swear.”

“You have no more tomorrows.”

He backed away. “Please. Have mercy. I’m begging you.”

“You know who I am. You know what I do.”

He tried to run - slipped. He struggled to get up, but couldn’t. The stack of plates he knocked over were like ice under his feet. He managed to crawl into the corner where he curled into a whimpering little ball.

I pointed my gun at his head.

The gunshot still echoed in my ears after I woke up. The echo faded by the time my eyes adjusted to the dim light. I rolled out of bed; the thin motel carpet scratchy under my feet. I threw open the blinds and stared out the window.

The smell of Rita’s shampoo wafted from the bathroom. We got to Prescott, Arizona two days ago. The money ran out shortly afterward. She left a few hours ago, searching for a job. She would have to be the bread winner for a while. There isn’t a checkbox for “killing people” in the skills section of most job application.

I was alone except for the ghosts.

Prescott was a little nothing of a town. None of the buildings were more than two stories high and the roads were almost always empty. All the blue sky and open spaces would make any native New Yorker uneasy.

I flipped through the Gideon bible you find in every hotel. Someone had tucked a five dollar bill inside. My lucky day. The page with the five had a verse underlined. Ezekiel 36:27: "And I will put my spirit within you, and cause you to walk in my statutes, and ye shall keep my judgments, and do them."

I slipped the fiver in my pocket and headed to a nearby diner.

Giovanni Pezzino borrowed money from Jack Lupino to open a new restaurant. It was somewhere on Hester, east of Mott. He served authentic Tuscan food - just like his father used to make before coming to the States. Pezzino’s restaurant quickly became a favorite spot for New Yorkers. It was just outside the main section of Little Italy, so it wasn’t overrun by tourists during the summer months. Lupino got his money back with a nice bonus on top. But then, Pezzino decided to stop paying for protection.

Why I dreamed about Pezzino after all these years was anybody’s guess.
Diners are different across the country. But they all have the same key ingredients. Hard booths and shiny table tops. The smell of stale cigarettes and staler coffee. Greasy food for cheap. Sixty cents for a coffee. Eighty for a bagel. Ninety if you wanted cream cheese. A far cry from Manhattan prices.

The bell above the door sounded, and I looked up reflexively. A cop walked in, went over to the register, and began talking to the man behind it. The man, most likely the diner’s owner, had a black eye. I thought nothing of it at first, but the cop was taking notes. I heard the words “Mexican” and “five thousand dollars”. The diner had been robbed.

I hate thieves. I killed dozens of people, but never anyone who didn’t deserve it. They all knew the rules. They knew what would happen if they broke them. Jack Lupino didn’t pull any punches. But thieves are bottom-feeders. You couldn’t trust them. They had no honor. They preyed on civilians who just wanted a nice, quiet life and the Mets to win a game now and then.

Rita and I said we had to stay under the radar. But someone had to pay.

He's Coming

2009-01-02T09:03:00.002-05:00

I've always been intrigued by the idea of serialized stories - especially on blogs. Kevin Wignall did a serialized novel on his blog a couple years back (can't find the link any more). I toyed with the idea of doing that here a while back, but my schedule just seems too erratic. However, I am going to do a small scale test.

Starting Monday, Frankie the hit man (hero of my Shifting Gears story) will be making a comeback. It's a serialized piece, each chapter being a flash story in its own. Each chapter is less than 700 words. New installments Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

If this one week experiment goes well, I might try it again later down the road.

I eagerly await your feedback.

Vacation Update

2008-12-30T16:58:00.002-05:00

I'm enjoying a couple days off from my real job between Christmas and New Year. With that said, I've put down almost 3000 words on two separate projects the past two days. Both are a bit momentous.

One is a short story idea that I think might actually work as a novel. I was going to try and get another story under my belt (and one actually published) before trying my hand at a novel, but I figured what the hell? Here's hoping I don't peter out at 20k words.

The other one is the subject of an announcement I'm going to make on this blog on Friday. Stay tuned for that one.

Heat (1995)

2008-12-22T10:23:00.000-05:00

Continuing on the theme of watching movies I should’ve seen years ago comes this week’s offering: Heat (1996). Billed as the first meeting of Al Pacino and Robert De Niro, this movie is typical Michael Mann. I don’t know if it’s his shot composition or his use of colors/soundtrack, but all of Mann’s films evoke the same general feeling.

De Niro is a master criminal whose crew operates like a finely tuned machine. After a brilliant armored car robbery to open the film, Pacino’s LAPD detective starts to track down De Niro and stop him before the next heist. The rest of the movie splits time between the two hard-edged men who are tenacious in going after their goals.

Many people complain that De Niro and Pacino share almost no screen time (save the diner scene and the denouement). While it would’ve been cool to see them together more, the separation made their eventual meeting(s) all the more impactful.

I’m not ga-ga over this movie like a lot of people are, but it was an enjoyable time. The opening armored car robbery and the bank heist are two awesome set pieces. Well worth the price of admission.

I also liked the familiar faces popping up. De Niro’s crew was Val Kilmer, Tom Sizemore, and Danny Trejo. Their opening score was taken from William Fichtner and fenced through John Voight. Pacino’s cops were Ted Levine and Mykelti Williamson (of the late, lamented Boomtown). Not to mention supporting roles played by Amy Brenneman, Ashley Judd, Natalie Portman, Dennis Haysbert, and cameos from Hank Azaria, Tone Loc, and Xander Berkeley.

The movie’s not for everyone, but if you’re a fan of Mann, definitely check it out.

Swingers (1996)

2008-12-20T10:21:00.002-05:00

I finally saw Swingers (1996) last night. I know, I know. What red-blooded male my age hasn't seen this movie? I'm a bit late to the party. For the record, I will say that I was underwhelmed by this movie.

The gist of the movie is a bunch of wannabe actors hitting the club scene and talking about women. The only character's name I can remember is Trent (Vince Vaughn). That speaks to how well developed I thought they were. The main character (Jon Favreau) just came across as a whiny little bitch who couldn't understand why his girlfriend hasn't called him since he left her and moved across the country six months ago.

I will say I dug the soundtrack (Big Bad Voodoo Daddy is A+ in my book), there were some good lines, and it's easy to see why Vaughn is the breakout star of this picture.

Some people would say this movie is money, but I say skip it.

Winter Wonderland

2008-12-19T12:13:00.002-05:00

The snow is falling.
Too bad that I'm a grown-up.
I want a snow day.

Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas-time

2008-12-10T19:59:00.001-05:00

A friend of mine pointed me to a new (to us at least) site called BeTaMaXMas. They've got some classic (1980's) commercials and some of the cheesy holiday themed episodes that used to sprout up everywhere this time of year. So, come with me and take a trip down memory lane with the folks at BeTaMaXMas!

Who You Gonna Call?

2008-12-03T19:26:00.002-05:00

Man this looks awesome. I feel like a little kid again.

On The Bright Side

2008-11-28T10:20:00.001-05:00

Big Black Friday Deals!
Bad economy means this:
Stocks 50 percent off.

I Want Pie

2008-11-27T10:10:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving his here.
Time for food, family, and fun.
Pass the turkey, please.

It's Over

2008-11-26T08:43:00.002-05:00

Stephen must be sad.
The Shield had its finale.
Tuesdays new empty.

Two Weeks

2008-11-25T09:38:00.002-05:00

Two weeks without post.
Are blogging energies gone?
No! More posts to come.