Today, we’d like you to post a snippet from your WIP in the Comments. Let’s see what everyone’s working on.
43 thoughts on “Reader Friday: Snippets, please!”
“Deputy.” Stush now as avuncular as a statue. “Have you ever given a death notification for a drunk driving accident?”
“That’s not the point, Chief.”
“Have you ever given one?”
“What I’m saying is—” Harriger noticed the hardness in his boss’s eyes. “No. I haven’t.”
“I’ve given eleven. Walk up to someone’s house, usually at night, family watching TV, and I get to tell them Bill’s not coming back from the basketball game, or Susie didn’t get the milk. They come to the door distracted, maybe looking over their shoulder at a movie, thinking whoever was out forgot their keys or something and they see me standing there in uniform. They know something’s wrong—why else would the chief of police come to your house, ten o’clock at night?—still, they look at me like they’re reading the words come out of my mouth.
“The women get it. Open the door, look at me, and you see it in their eyes. They still have to hear it. Half of them start crying soon as I say their name. Husbands don’t get it right away. Men assume things work out, but women, something way in the back of their mind always wonders when someone like me might come to the door and they know—they know right now—whoever’s out isn’t coming home. I’m sixty-four years old. I’ll trade every car in that dump’s parking lot, even jimmy the locks for the crook, to keep from ever having to give that talk again.”
He faced Zywiciel. “Go find us a spot. I want someone there tonight.”
Nice…
I’m shivering at that.
…The gunman appeared to be in his late twenties. His caramel-colored skin was dotted with sweat. A straggling moustache and beard framed lips compressed almost to invisibility. Straight, dark hair was parted in the middle. Every few seconds he moved the barrel of the gun away from his hostage’s temple long enough to wave it around, almost daring anyone to come near him. “I mean it. Nobody move a muscle. My friend needs help, and I’ll kill anyone who gets in the way.” The wounded man was a few years older—maybe in his thirties. His swarthy complexion was shading into pallor. Greasy black hair fell helter-skelter over his forehead. His face showed the stubble of several days’ worth of beard. Mark’s immediate reaction was to look around for the nearest exit, but the gunman’s next words made him freeze before he could move a muscle. “You the Doc?” Now the gun was pointed at him. A hundred scenarios, dozens of ways to escape without being shot, rushed through Mark’s thoughts, but he discarded them as fast as they appeared. For now, he decided his best course of action was simply to answer the man’s question. “Yeah, I’m the Doc.” The gunman inclined his head toward the man in the wheelchair. “He’s been shot.” He snatched two ragged breaths. “I want you to fix him, pull him through.” He swung the pistol to point at Mark. “If he dies…if he dies, I’m going to kill everyone in here.” The gunman turned back toward the nurse beside him. “Starting with her.”
“Wow.” My feelings were mixed. The last thing I needed was a raft of petty divorces and landlord-tenant disputes. On the other hand, as Gerald had said, this was a perfect excuse to avoid Dallas for a while.
“So, did Uncle Jimmy have an office in this building?”
This time the laugh was loud and deep. “Heavens no, chica. He lived and worked out in Cochinelle so he could go to the lake whenever he wanted. Jaime had become rather eccentric, even for him, the last few years. You are going to have to see everything and evaluate it for yourself. However, there are two things I have here that we need to discuss.”
My guard went up, but I saw he was still smiling as he went into a back room. I could have guessed all day and not been right about what he brought back. In one hand was a brass urn and in the other was a tiny black and white dog.
The office was silent until the dog let out with a little bark.
“What the hell is this Mr. Sanchez?” In my consternation, I forgot we were on a first name basis.
“Ms. Martin. This is the last earthly remains of Jaime Rodrigo Delgado and this,” he held out the dog, “is Simon. Would you like to hold him?”
I’m sure I had that same gobsmacked look as when friends had offered me their new babies over the years. I’ve never had a real pet. Mom wouldn’t allow them and dad never thought about them. As an adult, my odd travel and fourteen hour days didn’t make for successful animal ownership. I had a fish, once. The operative words being: had and once.
Great. Could cut yourself on that “edge.”
In a large, sumptuous office on the top floor of the city’s tallest office tower, a man pushed a button and the TV screen flickered off, disappearing behind a sliding panel. The man was dressed in an expensive tailored suit, and everything about him, from his perfectly styled hair to the silk tie artfully knotted at his collar, to the gleaming Italian shoes on his feet, made you pay attention to him. He sat at a mahogany desk big enough to land a helicopter on – not a big helicopter, and the pilot would have to be very careful. Still, it was a big desk, and like everything else in the room, it reeked of power and money. It suggested a person who usually got his way. On the other side of the desk was a man no one would look at twice. He seemed to be as gray as his suit, a non-entity. There was nothing poor or shabby about him, in fact if truth were known his unnoticeable gray suit was more expensive than the other man’s fancy tailored ensemble. It took money to practically disappear, he might have said if he was a man who talked much. Which he wasn’t.
The juxtaposition and the quiet strength of “Mr. Gray” is compelling.
Kelly walked with them toward the range, “I like to come out here for practice at least once a month, but it’s been a while,” she said.
“What you shooting?” Lyle nodded at her pack.
“A nine mill, Millennium Pro with a custom trigger.” Kelly purchased the trigger kit to loosen the squeeze. The light trigger guaranteed her an accurate shot.
When they arrived at the firing line, someone shouted, “Going cold!”
Kelly removed her pistol, dropped the magazine, and loaded it with seven copper-tipped rounds. “I’m killing giant rats today.”
She pulled out a pack of 24-inch square targets, each depicting giant zombie rats munching on rotted meat in a sewer of toxic waste. She marched to the target post, twenty-five yards from the line of fire, and ten from the bunker. She pinned the target to the weathered board. Lyle placed his twelve-inch regulation target on the board next to hers.
“So, you shoot with a custom trigger and you’re using a Halloween poster for target practice?” Lyle laughed.
“Actually, it’s pretty cool.” She lifted the corner of the target to show the other side. “The backing is blood red, so when you hit the target, it gives the allusion of splattered blood.”
“You’re how old?”
She started to say twenty-nine and realized she’d had a birthday. “Thirty.” When they reached the firing line, she placed her muffs over her head and around her ears.
“Going hot!”
Ooo-wee!
Snippet #1: She and Drake had fought two nights before. Sometimes it seemed like she existed only to help him achieve his goals. Her resentment had boiled over. She’d wanted to fight. Now it was a gnawing regret. It wasn’t just his goals—it was their dreams. Kristin saw Rachelle’s tears and her eyes went wide. Her lips pursed then she nodded. “Is it your sadness again, Mommy?” Rachelle wiped her eyes and hugged Kristin tight. “I’m okay, my little love.” A mother must protect her family. That responsibility stood first in Rachelle’s mind—she was drowning in doubt. Kristin rested her cheek against Rachelle’s. “You can’t be sad, mommy.” Rachelle fingered the thick scar overlying her neck and shoulder. Sometimes she woke up screaming. Yes, my baby. Mommy can be sad.(last two sentences in italics)
Snippet #2: Rachelle hugged him but he felt hesitation. When their eyes met, she looked away. The issues had not disappeared. As Drake closed the front door behind him, a police car rolled into the parking lot. He held his breath. The squad car turned and pulled up in front of his unit. Two officers, one with a clipboard, climbed out while looking Drake’s way. Son of a bitch. No. (italics) He stepped off the stoop and approached the officers the way his time behind bars and barbed wire had taught him worked best. Straight up, bold-faced and ready to lie.
TKZers – thoughts/suggestions on embedded dialogue in first snippet?
I’ll throw in my two cents; this scene is a nice, tender moment between mother and child. I think you may want to consider paring back some of the actions and explanations that are currently woven into the dialogue. Right now, the dialogue for both characters is front-loaded with multiple actions, and it’s all structured in a similar way. I’d use a bit of variety to keep the focus on the action-reaction dynamic between the mother and child. Chris Roerdan’s book, Don’t Murder your mystery, offers specific how-to techniques for using dialogue formatting. Might want to check out her book–it has been very helpful to many writers I know.
You know how I feel about embedded dialogue, Tom, but what I love about this is the emotion and your ease at capturing the viewpoint of both genders. Sometimes it can be a challenge to write the opposite sex, but I love how you’ve done it here.
Yeah. I thought it was really touching. And you just know there’s some bad business underneath it all.
Thanks for the input. Jordan – I am not totally clear on the ’embedded’ dialog concept/sensitivity. Is it essentially a matter of formatting? (i.e. character’s initial dialogue always a new paragraph?) I’ll track down the Roerdan book. K – It appears you’ve tumbled on a fun format here! if nothing else it helps one get over the stage jitters. Thanks Jim, Jordan and K!
Roles. We all play them. Some of us decide who we want to be and play that role. Others decide for us and we just slip into those roles. I was a homeless person. Means I fit the stereotype. I reeked of bad booze and bodily odors. The worn and stained raincoat had a brandy bottle corked with a paper towel in one pocket and a screw-top bourbon bottle with a few fingers left in the other. They had wrapped my feet in rags and stuffed them into boots two sizes too big, along with the ragged bottoms of the pants’ legs. I was playing a role. I was trying to become a victim. With all the layers of clothing, no one could guess that I had a Glock in a shoulder holster and a combat knife in my right boot. I’m ready for the SOB. Where is he?
***
The Big rotten Apple is full of people dedicated to role-playing. We have actors and musicians who make the big-time; we have wannabe actors and musicians waiting on us at our eateries; we have bloviating politicians, rabbis, and priests, some in the role of helping, others in the service of greed or perversion; we have our peons on the streets, buses, and subways rushing to their twelve-hour jobs; we have Wall Street bankers cooking up the next scheme to bilk these same peons and many others out of their money—all role-playing, and all making the city a warm and fuzzy place for the bad guys but not the good ones. You have to have people willing to play the roles of victims because there are so many other people who need victims. The homeless and the elderly are obvious choices because no one cares about them. But I cared. Murdering someone is a special kind of role. Keeps me and my partner, Dao-Ming Chen, busy. We solve as many homicides as we can, but there’s always another one. Just turn on the news. Name’s Castilblanco. At that moment, I didn’t look like Detective Rolando Castilblanco. Someone was killing homeless people. Hence the role.
Siren wails filled the night, and the flashing lights of several black and whites could be seen coming up the strip. Chase took a quick look around, memorizing the lay of the scene. He saw Brady squint at the body and glance toward the coming cars. “The other two dead?” Brady asked, bending back down and easing a finger into the breast pocket of the informer’s shirt. He pulled out a piece of yellow paper, a torn receipt with a number scrawled on the back. Brady’s. “Yeah, dead.” “Let’s take a look.” He pocketed the paper and headed toward the beach without meeting Chase’s eyes.
The clattering yanked me right out of my novel, sounding like the gods were pitching stones at tin cans in heaven and the fallout was crashing onto my roof. I looked out the window to see silver-dollar sized hail beating a wild, uncontrolled cacophony against the world, slashing my carefully cultivated geraniums and petunias into brilliantly colored confetti.
Although freak hailstorms were common in this part of the Front Range, even in August, I’d never heard one so ferocious or seen the hail pile up so quickly. Within moments the temperature had plummeted, leaving me shivering in my t-shirt and cutoffs. Our lawn had vanished in a sea of ice, the deck was white and shining, the trees coated with slick. Must be my overactive imagination or a trick of the light . . . but why does it look bluish? Does hail always glow like that?
My new car! I grabbed a sweatshirt and rushed to the front door, watching the icy pellets slamming hard against it. But if it was about to be dinged, there was nothing I could do. No garage to put it in.
Guess I could always run out and fling myself across the hood.
I smiled at my protectiveness toward the three-month-old Toyota, as if it could feel the pain of the hail shredding its shining metal skin, as if it was a car-baby I needed to protect. The smile faded with a twisting lurch as I remembered the baby I would never hold again. The baby I hadn’t protected . . .
Leslie: I went through a hailstorm just like this last April, it punch holes the size of your fist through my roof. It left me homeless. Her car wasn’t going to get dinged, it was going to get destroyed. One car lot lost the glass out of 85 vehicles and over 100 were totaled. Also, hail was coming through the storms/screens/windows and bouncing off the opposite wall. It did $50 million in damage in 13 minutes.
This description is very good, but it pulls some of the punch off what a storm like this does. If you are writing it based on one you experienced, you got off lucky and cheap.
Thanks for the snip!
I’m loving these snippets, guys. Great reads!
I am so impressed with these, Kathryn. Way to go, TKZers!
Absolutely! What a cool idea!
I’m loving these too — thanks for the great Reader Friday exercise, Kathryn. Here’s mine:
****
The nude woman was still there, reclining on the chaise, only with two round holes where her breasts once were.
Cate wasn’t sure what she expected the aftermath of a break-in to look like, but she wasn’t at all certain it was this. The paintings were where they were supposed to be, although some were crooked. The statues were on their proper pedestals, but most were off-center and facing the wrong direction. Nude Woman Reclining on a Blue Chaise, the life-size, 3D version of artist Nolo Romo’s wildly popular painting, that was the kicker. Carved up that way.
“Miss Bennett?”
Cate jumped when the police officer appeared at her side.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You Miss Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Officer Drake. Your uncle owns this art gallery?”
“Uh, yeah,” Catherine said, slowly scanning the room, taking it all in. “What happened here?”
“We’re trying to figure that out, ma’am. No evidence of forced entry so far.Will your uncle be meeting you here? We need to find out what may be missing and get a proper assessment of the damage. In addition to–”
“Her.” Catherine said, pointing to the chaise.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ah, Diane, I remember workshopping this with you. I love the way it reads! Well done. Great first line.
Thanks, Mr. B! The revised version is much better, thanks to you. (Opening disturbance — see, I have been listening!) I’ve got it all mapped out in Knockout Novel, now just need to get all the words down on paper.
By the time I knew where I was, Dad was holding an ice pack to the back of my head. And grinning.
“How do you feel?”
I asked what every man who has just been knocked silly asks. “What happened?”
He smiled wider, the grey in his beard fanning out like the tail of a hawk. “He hit you a little harder than I meant for him to. You set him up for the knee to the ribs, but stopped yourself. He saw the hesitation and clobbered you.”
The ice pack felt cool on my neck, but my head buzzed like a wasps’ nest. I turned my head to look my father in the eye and the wasps got even louder. A wave of nausea jumped on board for extra fun. I closed my eyes and focused on the coolness against my skin, willed it to calm down the raging headache. The hard bench beneath me helped steady me a little, but just then I would have preferred a recliner.
I remembered dad asking me to come by and spar with one of his guys, so I locked up my office early and drove to the gym. AJ Bennett was a boxer, so Dad told me to use hands only.
I remembered getting in the ring with a guy who outweighed me by 30 pounds or so, and thinking I had it easy. Big and slow. Pretty much everything else was fuzzy.
“Was I out?”
Dad shook his head. “Nah, he just rung your bell pretty good. It’ll come back. You should be fine in a little bit.”
How reassuring.
Something he said clicked, and I opened my eyes again, looked sidelong at him. “What do you mean he hit me harder than you meant for him to?”
His rough face took on a sheepish look, and he dropped his eyes. “I kind of set you up. I figured your reaction time would be better. I needed him to see what he was doing wrong.”
Irritation bubbled in my chest. “What are you talking about, Pop? Set me up how?” I didn’t like where this was going.
He shrugged. “Somebody taught him a bunch of junk combos, but he doesn’t use his instincts. He’s so big and strong, he figures that will be enough. Like he doesn’t need to know how to read and react.” He squinted, shook his head. “He fights robotic, like he learned from a video game. I just figured you would catch yourself and still be able to get the best of him.”
I flushed. “So what, it’s my own fault I got caught?”
He pulled back, the muscles in his jaw tight. Then his face softened, and I saw something like sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Max. I’m just trying to help him out. He’s a good kid. But yeah, I should have warned you.”
I breathed in, held it, let it out slow. I never liked it when my anger came out at him. If it weren’t for him, there was no telling how screwed up I’d be at this point. And all because he looked at me once and said to himself, ‘he’s a good kid.’
I glanced around the brightly lit gym, breathed in the sweat and energy of the men and women training on heavy bags or lifting weights. I could faintly hear the garage band that rented the space above us running through a rendition of J. Geils Band’s “Centerfold.” I thought about all the years I’d worked out here and everything I’d learned about life. Hell, if not for him I wouldn’t have amounted to anything at all.
Yeah,thanks, daddy dearest. Ha! I love how you sucked the reader as your character tried to make sense of what happened. You didn’t rush it. Nice, Jake.
I liked it, too. Good timing and flow of words. Your blog says you are unpublished?? Better get on it and not waste time. Read your piece on “Timesuckers.” Yup!!
Looks like these are all mostly crime/mysteries here, but mine always has a mystery and sometimes murder in them–or an attempted murder as in the case with “Six Shades of Hell”. I’m trying to clean up some lines here today with my two new characters…
I tried to ignore the smell of coffee, but that wasn’t happening. Not only that, my stomach growled. If I didn’t have to pee so bad, I’d also try and ignore that as well. I struggled out of bed and found my crutches nearby. I would never be so happy the day I got to chuck these things, even though I’d only been hobbling around on them a few days. I paused in my motions, as my Knowing took in who exactly was here, exactly. Not Hobart and not just one person was in my home, but two. Both male. I had no idea who these two people were, but they were… different. My stomach twisted with my anxiety over meeting them. If I didn’t have to take care of my personal needs right away, I would have walked—well, bumbled—into the kitchen to meet these two head on and find out their story. I already knew their names. Being a clairvoyant sometimes saved me from stupid assumptions before I entered a room. Or a house. As it turned out I didn’t have to go all the way into the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, when I opened the bathroom door, which opened out into the dining room, there they both where. Two young men, who were in their twenties, standing near the dining room table wearing a black jackets over a dark vests and white shirt, white gloves and a conservative ties. In looks they were similar build—thin and around six foot. Blue eyed blond had his long-ish hair was styled in a disarray of locks. The other had black hair, with a bleached blond topknot that fell down over his eyes, and was slightly mussier than his blond counterpart, and the dark lengths in the front were much longer, hanging way down over his eyes, but in trained tendrils. He wore black-rimmed glasses. They were brothers. This was easy for me to get from them, as they were good broadcasters. They beamed at me. “Good morning, mistress,” they said in stereo. I looked at the dining table, surprised to see a sterling silver coffee urn—which I know I didn’t own—and the other aromas, which came from under a domed platter. I could definitely detect eggs and possibly bacon. Okay. So, maybe they could stay. They were cute, in their own way. I twisted my mouth and looked back up at them. “Did Tremayne send for you to come all the way out here?” They nodded, grinning. “He texted us,” the blond said. “Oh, introductions! This is Kaleb, with a ‘K’,” said the one wearing glasses. “And he’s Sebastian,” Kaleb said, holding out his hands toward the other man. “You two are brothers,” I said. “Yes,” they both said, looking somewhat stunned. “You used to work at the Tremayne Towers,” I said, squinting. “I’m getting Letitia from you.” “Oh, she’s good,” Kaleb said, sounding impressed. “Tremayne was right about her.” Sebastian agreed. His brother nodded. “We were Letitia’s servants. Until her death, that is,” Kaleb said, and looked down and away. “There, brother, it’s okay,” Sebastian consoled his brother, patting him on the shoulder. To me he said, “Kaleb was the one who found her in her bedroom.” I nodded with his somber explanation, and at the same time I got the image straight from Kaleb. But he narrated as I saw it happen in a vision. He had walked in that next day, and found Letitia on the floor, dead. She had been impaled in the heart by a wooden bolt from murderer, Toby Hunt. The two contacted Tremayne right away—who lived in a penthouse right across from her—and he was the one who examined her. She had been Tremayne’s life-time mate for many centuries.
This is from the first book of Incognito-Life on the Lam:
The bum thought he’d lost them, when he picked up the sound of a vehicle crossing over a metal plate in the street. There was only a slight bonk as the front wheels contacted the plate, then another bonk from the rear wheels a split-second later. The car seemed to be hauling ass, even though the engine hadn’t made a sound. Fearing the car might nearly be upon him, the bum ducked behind a stoop. A moment later, he saw a small black car whizz past—lights off and moving like a bat out of hell. So strange it was, and quiet as a mouse. One of those new electric cars. Already there had been complaints about them being too quiet. Pedestrians wouldn’t notice the cars, until they were on top of them and scaring the shit out of everybody.
All at once the little car braked hard—no visible brake lights either—and stopped. A subtle click betrayed the opening of a door. No interior lights. Marks of a stealthy operator—a hunter of some kind.
Next, the bum cut back up Polk, staying in the shadows. If he made it across Second without being spotted, he’d be home free. Further down the street, where the buildings no longer abutted each other, there were millions of passageways and open basements within which to hide.
The initial paragraph of my new novel:
The killer’s heart raced with the thrill of a first kill, even when this was his second. The adrenaline rush didn’t ebb with the new victim as he had thought it would. The arduous and long planning paid off as he took the second step in a journey where he got to play God. Another week, another victim. If he kept this pace, he’d complete his goal before the end of summer. Students took summer jobs, the killer took his victims.
This is from my upcoming Steampunk Thriller “Discovering Aberration” which I’m in the process of editing now. It’ll be released in late January.
***
“Well Miss Newton, you are quite right. In point of fact–”
I paused, interrupted by the sudden noise of the protests as an outer door to the building opened exposing the sounds from without. Marching, chanting and disarray leaked into the hall so I folded my arms and waited for the outer door to close, once again muffling the noise.
“They certainly are at it today,” I said and the class laughed nervously. “I saw all manner of creatures in my time in the Orient, Miss Newton. The Elephants were mighty. They were so tall I’d couldn’t reach the top of one without standing atop someones shoulders. But while I always found the larger beasts quite formidable, it was the smaller ones I learned to truly respect lest I regret it. You see, elephants, while large and powerful, are easily avoided. But there are creatures in this world, unassuming things, small things, and pretty things, which burn within them a fire for survival. They survive by any means necessary. By poisons, craftiness, stealth and speed. Do you know what I like most about these types of creatures? They remind me of… of us. Of people like you or I. Listen to the lot protesting outside for example.”
“Their rabble,” shouted a boy from the back.
“Rabble,” I replied, “Indeed. They are not the lowest class, but they certainly are near the bottom. Despite their low standing and relatively low power and means, I would suggest you take care as you walk through the throng. Though they are small, together the have become fierce, they are taking it upon themselves to survive in the only way they see fit. So it was with the smallest of creatures in the Orient.”
I have no idea what a ‘steampunk thriller’ is, but I liked this. Nice.
Thanks Tom. I’m glad you liked it. Steampunk is a subgenre of sci-fi usually taking place in the Victorian era often with steam and gear related technical advances.
From my WIP – ICE HAMMER – a bit of humour before the death and destruction starts … Brad and Youngmi are of course the main characters.
Brad pressed the button on his blue tooth headset and voice dialed Youngmi.
“Yoboseyo,” came his wife’s husky voice. She hated the deep, raspy sound that often got her accused of being a recovered chain smoker, something she had never even tried in her life. Brad loved the sound though. It was low, calming, sexy. Like an Asian Lauren Bacall, her voice was a verbal snuggle every time she spoke.
“Hey baby, the boys are at camp I’m on the way home,” he said. “I hope you took a nap, cuz it’s going to be a long night of sweating under the sheets like newlyweds.”
“Chagi,” she called him with the Korean term of endearment. “I’m with mom and Jiyoung.”
“Oops,” his face reddened with a deep blush even though he was alone in his truck. “Please tell me you’re not on speaker phone.”
“No, I’m not,” she replied. “We just left the PX and are heading home. And to answer your prior statement, everything is ready as per standard operating procedures. I think the sequence should run with full interactive output once you log in.”
“Twenty five years and you are so good at running my code,” he was a network admin and she a web programmer, using computer jargon to talk dirty came natural.
“You just have to make sure to have sufficient hard drive size and may need to do a RAM upgrade. You’ll need all the processing power possible to meet the program requirements.”
“Hard drive and RAM size is not a problem, it all adjusts dynamically during processing,” Brad replied. “My system is nearly overclocked in pre-processing as it is. Of course, we’ll have to run the sequence a couple of times to make sure the results can be replicated.”
“No problem here,” she said with a voice that belied a straight face. “My software is capable of multiple reboots, as long as RAM refresh rate can remain consistent.”
Brad burst out with an abrupt laugh, “Holy cow, I’d better stop this conversation right here or you’re going to make me have an accident. You want me to pick you up at your mom’s or sister’s when I pass by?”
“pssshh…just … pssshh … house … … don’t…”
The connection dropped. He glanced down at his phone’s screen. “No Signal” flashed on the small display.
This is the beginning of the first story in my new collection of short stories, The Ghost Riders. Each stories is named after the person the Riders help.
Shanghai Pierce took off his black Stetson. He knelt beside the dead man. Shanghai’s hand solidified as he reached out to close the lifeless eyes. “He was a good man.” Bits of plasmic energy dissipated from Pierce’s finger tips. “Must be departed already.” Shanghai mumbled, then looked up then made the sign of the cross in the Catholic style. Jesse Driskell and Pete Cody, hats in hand, nodded. A small dust devil twisted toward them, paused, then curved its way around them. This was tumbleweed country. Flat, hot, and dusty. The sun bleached the land. Desert fox, turtles, snakes, and lizards hid during the daytime. Only men were stupid enough to spend time in Texas’ summer sun. Ghosts didn’t care one way or the other. “You know him?” Pete Cody asked. Shanghai looked up. “Not really. I knew his grandpapy’s grandpapy, Matthew Dillion.” “I heard about him,” Jesse said. “Can’t let a lawman die without knowing why. We need to get the bastards who did this.” Shanghai stood up, his spurs jangled and spun off plasmic sparks. “You think there were several outlaws?” Jesse Driskell, once sheriff of Abilene, Texas, asked. Shanghai said, “Someone like Sheriff Russell Dillion don’t go down easy.” The air seemed to snap around Peter Cody as he said, “I looked around. Didn’t find anything that might shed any light on this. They didn’t leave any tracks of their passage.” “Careful,” Jesse said. Shanghai looked at his two companions and said, “Or something else.” All three put their spectral hats back on. They mounted their phantom horses and rode east beside Interstate Ten, toward town. Fort Stockton appeared as they crested a rise. They stopped. Took in the setting sun. Pete Cody, long time Pinkerton Agent, said, “I think we should become corporeal to handle this.” “I hate that,” Jesse said. “I get all itchy, especially around sagebrush.” A white Corvette dashed passed them. Of course, the driver couldn’t see them. “Can we keep the horses?” Jesse asked. “No, we should take the motorcycles,” Shanghai said. Three Harley-Davidson Electra Glides appeared. One each in red, white, and blue. A strike of dry lightening seemed to hit each of the spirits in the head. The three ghosts turned into three men. Jesse flexed his shoulders. “I could use a beer.”
“Houston, we got a problem.” “What is it this time?” Detective Sperling eased back in his chair, careful to stay in range of the laptop’s camera. “Let me guess. Another gator under someone’s car.” Holding his smartphone at arm’s length to Skype himself, Officer Medved shook his head. “What, then? Cats? Dogs?” “It’s different,” Medved said. “Where are you?” Detective Sperling could see behind Medved. He was inside somewhere, and now the officer’s phone slowly panned the room. It had stainless steel tables and operating lights. Water gurgled somewhere. Officer Medved again filled the screen. “You’re in the forensics lab.” “Right.” “OK, you got my attention. Animal Control doesn’t generally ‘do’ autopsies.” Medved smiled and nodded. He was enjoying himself, had something too good to let go of all at once. Something that needed buildup. “What else?” he said. “Meaning?” “What else can you think of, animal control-wise.” “Jesus, not another panther. They get offed every time the developers open a new golf course.” But that didn’t fit with Medved’s being in the medical examiner’s lab. “Time is money, Medved.” “Come on.” The officer was still smiling. “What else?” “Pretty soon, you’re going to piss me off. You’re there already.” “Come on, detective. Just one more thing.” Sperling inhaled and sighed. Spiders? Certain kinds zapped people. A couple weeks later, the place on the body where they got bit started dying. Necrotic flesh-something. Except bugs weren’t handled by Animal Control. That was Insect Control. There were coyotes now, wandering around on the golf courses. A few residents had lost lapdogs that way, little ones like Yorkshire terriers, Chihuahuas. Coyotes also roamed in the remaining undeveloped areas in Naples. That’s where the homeless camped, coming down like everyone else to hang out on the Gulf coast during the winter. Except in tents, in the woods. Medved’s smile was still in place. It was annoying. Sperling wanted now to figure it out for himself. Eagles had made a big comeback in recent years, nesting in trees. But that was also a different department. Conservation. “Give up?” Medved asked. Sperling knew. He closed his eyes, annoyed with himself for taking so long. “Burmese python.”
WIP, working title: Crazy Dead
The old man had not acted at all surprised. Must have been a sixth sense or something. He had a .303 Enfield rifle with a cut-down stock leaned against a granite boulder, but the old man’s gnarled left hand held a knife by the time he got on his feet to see what was going on. “Hey, Fuego! What are you doing here?” said the old man. “Who you calling fay go, old man?” he said. “You, with the red hair. Like you’re on fire – fuego! What do you want? You’re disturbing my sheep.” The old man had let him get too close. His boot knife had been too quick. The old man had given up the Basque blade too easily. It was a nice blade. Razor sharp. Studded olive wood handle. It was one of his favorite stories. He thought that several of his friends actually believed it. He dreaded the thought that one of them suspected that the old Basque sheepherder had bargained hard over the knife, that he had eventually paid a hundred dollars for the damned thing, that he had nearly hyper-ventilated because he was afraid the old man was going to kill him at any minute. But, man, what a knife!
After a few glasses of red wine, I began to feel as though a velvet veil, soft and crimson in color, had fallen over me as I sat in the chair near the hearth. The roaring fire had caught the newly placed logs and the warmth was comforting. The wind lashed at the shutters, throwing them open and then banging them closed. Droplets of rain appeared on the window, and in the distance, flashes of lighting. It was a good evening to be under a velvet veil, next to the warmth of the hearth.
It was also, I was to learn later, a good night for murder.
The inspector for the police was at the door, his hands pushed deep into his overcoat pockets, his head lowered to shield himself from the driven rain. I opened the Door, and as if blown by the wind, he rushed into the room, dripping wet, his hair, what there was of it, matted from the rain. He stomped his feet on the rug as I quickly closed the door.
“Well there,” he said. “What a fine mess it is out there.”
“Please inspector, let me take you coat. Go take the chair next to the hearth.”
When I had put his coat on the hanger next to the door, I went to pour him a drink. “Inspector, are you allowed?” I asked, raising the glass. “I mean, are you on duty?”
“I am on duty, but then I have had a very bad day, and the evening shows no promise.” He reached for the glass.
When the inspector had made himself comfortable next to the fire, having wiped and dabbed at his forehead with a large, blue handkerchief, I raised my glass in a toast. He did the same and we sipped our wine. For a moment we both seemed intent on watching the fire as red, yellow and blue flames licked at the logs.
“Well then,” I started, pulling my attention back to the inspector, “what on earth brings you to Willow Bridge on such a night?” I was ready for another sip of wine, but though better of it. I sat my glass on the small table next to my chair.
“Strange goings on near here, Mister Williamston, not more than a mile from your place, just over the hill to the north.” The inspector again pulled the large blue handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his nose. “On the land owned by old man Clarton.”
“Of course, I have spoken with Mr. Clarton, just in passing, at the market a few times,” I offered. “He seemed a decent fellow, as much as I could tell, seeing him only those few times…at the market”
The inspector sipped at his wine, and looked around the room, no doubt making mental notes to review later. His eyes came to rest on the table and my glass. “You are not enjoying your wine?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the table.
I shrugged. “It has been a nice evening by the fire and I fear I have overstepped my tolerance for this fine wine, but please don’t let me stop you from enjoying your glass.” I smiled, and leaned forward. “And please, what has happened at Mr. Clarton’s place?”
“Terrible murders, two to be exact, a man and women.” He took another sip of wine. “They had no heads.”
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Sierra braked the car with a jerk and stared in awe at the massive house that loomed ahead. Her inheritance. She walked up the gravel walkway to the house. The crunch of the gravel seemed louder with each step.
“So this is it”, she said aloud as she reached for the doorknob with a trembling hand.
The first thing she noticed were the gloomy halls, cobwebs suspended from the doorways, and the musty smell of abandonment. These signs were indicative of the work she had ahead of her. She could almost hear the whispers of the previous inhabitants and the secrets contained within; forever captured in wisps of yesterday, longing to be brought forth into the light.
“Okay, Uncle Bob. I promise I will do as you ask. I hope the renovating service you want is still in business. But of course, it would be. The owner will know what you want. But to recreate it back to the way it looked in 1871, furniture and all–well, that won’t be easy.” A tears slid down one check, then the other. She would do it though, even if it killed her.
“Over there.” Bernie pointed. “They have visitors’ slots.” He turned in his seat and looked out the rear window. “And they’re close to the entrance.”
I backed up and headed toward the spaces he’d suggested. “Damn. They only allow parking for thirty minutes.”
He turned in his seat. “And the problem is?”
“We don’t know how long we’ll be there, but I’m sure it’ll be longer than that.” I turned left and went down another row looking for an available space. I got stuck behind someone waiting for another person to pull out of their space. “There’s an empty space two slots down. Lazy people piss me off!” I drove around the waiting vehicle and glared at the driver as I passed. In my mind, I also gave the driver the finger. Hey, cops are human too.
“Aw, c’mon Syd. Nobody cares how long somebody parks in the visitor spaces.”
“It’s not going to hurt us to walk a little further. And when I say us, I mean you. You’re getting a little pudgy around the middle, Porky.”
He sucked in his stomach. “Ever since Khrystal moved in I’ve been gaining weight.” He pulled his arms through his brown suede jacket, folded it and laid it on his lap. “She gave me this jacket last week. It’ll be ruined by the rain.”
“Far be it from me to ruin Khrystal’s gift to you the first week you’ve had it.” I turned the corner and went up another row.
“Porky or not, I’d still beat you in a 10K.”
“Doubtful.” I slid into a spot five spaces from the entrance, but not in a visitor’s slot. “How’s this? It’s not raining anymore anyway.”
“It’s too warm for the jacket. I think I’ll leave it in the car.”
“Oh, for the love of…” I pushed open my door and stepped out into a puddle. “Crap!” I hopped out of it and stomped my feet.
Bernie stood on the other side of the car, smiled and shook his head. “You’re so easy to mess with.”
I glared at him and narrowed my eyes. “Eat shit.” I strode toward the building entrance, leaving him standing there with that stupid grin on his smug face.
(Caveat – Lady is a male dog) “What the hell you talking about?” His body, tense and tight, begged for a release and I feared I was it. “Today in Beverly Hills. A yellow cab ran her over, a hit and run.” His gaze continued to bore into me as his hands opened, his shoulders dropped. He spoke slowly, not dazed but carefully. “A fucking cab killed my wife?” He thought some more. “Why haven’t the police notified me?” “I assume they couldn’t locate you. It took me all afternoon.” “A fucking cab?” he asked again. I nodded. Would he rather it had been a Rolls Royce? Lady looked at me with the same question in his eyes. “What a minute,” he said. “You were there? Watching her? And you let this tail kill my wife?” His body tensed up again. I didn’t blame him. I felt like punching my own face. “I’m telling you the guy tailing her didn’t do it. It was a cab.” “You let your client get killed crossing the street?” He was shouting now. “I suppose nobody got a good look at the driver? Looked like an accident. Right?” That struck me as odd; he seemed to be familiar with the whole scenario. “It was an accident, unless you know something the police should know?” “Me? I know nothing. Where’s her body?” “Ask the police.” “Okay, now get out of here before I turn Lady loose on you. He’s a killer. Dines on raw meat, loves the taste of blood.” Right on cue, Lady growled. Something still bothered me, so I asked, “Why are you so certain your wife wasn’t having an affair?” “Because I said so.” Silence. He stared at me. I stared back. Lady stared at me. I was out-stared. I opened my dry mouth. “That’s no answer. Your wife was beautiful. She could have any guy she wanted. Why she stayed with an old cretin like you, I don’t know. And what’s more, you don’t even seem upset when I tell you she’s dead. Your wife is dead. Are you listening to me? I’ve been to your store, told Berle, been to your house and told Angel and Kim. They wept. You don’t get it, do you? I’ve been trying to track you down all afternoon, dreading telling you. And all you do is cop a tough guy macho attitude.” “You mean you dreaded telling me that you fucked up, don’t you?” Silence again. He sensed his victory, so I wasn’t sure why he even answered my question. “She wasn’t having no affair. I was. I’m surprised she wasn’t having me followed.” He almost chuckled, some inner joke. “Now get the hell out of here.” “Where were you all afternoon?” “Kid, stop playing detective, I’ve been here all day. Lady can vouch for me, can’t you?” he said grabbing the dog’s mouth. He looked back up at me. “Aren’t you gone yet? Lady,” he said raising his voice. Lady growled. I didn’t need any more urging even if he did call me kid, twice. I slowly backed up. “Oh, Graff, if you’re gonna play cops and robbers, grow a mustache or something.” This time I was sure, Lady snickered.
“Deputy.” Stush now as avuncular as a statue. “Have you ever given a death notification for a drunk driving accident?”
“That’s not the point, Chief.”
“Have you ever given one?”
“What I’m saying is—” Harriger noticed the hardness in his boss’s eyes. “No. I haven’t.”
“I’ve given eleven. Walk up to someone’s house, usually at night, family watching TV, and I get to tell them Bill’s not coming back from the basketball game, or Susie didn’t get the milk. They come to the door distracted, maybe looking over their shoulder at a movie, thinking whoever was out forgot their keys or something and they see me standing there in uniform. They know something’s wrong—why else would the chief of police come to your house, ten o’clock at night?—still, they look at me like they’re reading the words come out of my mouth.
“The women get it. Open the door, look at me, and you see it in their eyes. They still have to hear it. Half of them start crying soon as I say their name. Husbands don’t get it right away. Men assume things work out, but women, something way in the back of their mind always wonders when someone like me might come to the door and they know—they know right now—whoever’s out isn’t coming home. I’m sixty-four years old. I’ll trade every car in that dump’s parking lot, even jimmy the locks for the crook, to keep from ever having to give that talk again.”
He faced Zywiciel. “Go find us a spot. I want someone there tonight.”
Nice…
I’m shivering at that.
…The gunman appeared to be in his late twenties. His caramel-colored skin was dotted with sweat. A straggling moustache and beard framed lips compressed almost to invisibility. Straight, dark hair was parted in the middle. Every few seconds he moved the barrel of the gun away from his hostage’s temple long enough to wave it around, almost daring anyone to come near him.
“I mean it. Nobody move a muscle. My friend needs help, and I’ll kill anyone who gets in the way.”
The wounded man was a few years older—maybe in his thirties. His swarthy complexion was shading into pallor. Greasy black hair fell helter-skelter over his forehead. His face showed the stubble of several days’ worth of beard.
Mark’s immediate reaction was to look around for the nearest exit, but the gunman’s next words made him freeze before he could move a muscle. “You the Doc?”
Now the gun was pointed at him. A hundred scenarios, dozens of ways to escape without being shot, rushed through Mark’s thoughts, but he discarded them as fast as they appeared. For now, he decided his best course of action was simply to answer the man’s question. “Yeah, I’m the Doc.”
The gunman inclined his head toward the man in the wheelchair. “He’s been shot.” He snatched two ragged breaths. “I want you to fix him, pull him through.” He swung the pistol to point at Mark. “If he dies…if he dies, I’m going to kill everyone in here.” The gunman turned back toward the nurse beside him. “Starting with her.”
“Wow.” My feelings were mixed. The last thing I needed was a raft of petty divorces and landlord-tenant disputes. On the other hand, as Gerald had said, this was a perfect excuse to avoid Dallas for a while.
“So, did Uncle Jimmy have an office in this building?”
This time the laugh was loud and deep. “Heavens no, chica. He lived and worked out in Cochinelle so he could go to the lake whenever he wanted. Jaime had become rather eccentric, even for him, the last few years. You are going to have to see everything and evaluate it for yourself. However, there are two things I have here that we need to discuss.”
My guard went up, but I saw he was still smiling as he went into a back room. I could have guessed all day and not been right about what he brought back. In one hand was a brass urn and in the other was a tiny black and white dog.
The office was silent until the dog let out with a little bark.
“What the hell is this Mr. Sanchez?” In my consternation, I forgot we were on a first name basis.
“Ms. Martin. This is the last earthly remains of Jaime Rodrigo Delgado and this,” he held out the dog, “is Simon. Would you like to hold him?”
I’m sure I had that same gobsmacked look as when friends had offered me their new babies over the years. I’ve never had a real pet. Mom wouldn’t allow them and dad never thought about them. As an adult, my odd travel and fourteen hour days didn’t make for successful animal ownership. I had a fish, once. The operative words being: had and once.
Great. Could cut yourself on that “edge.”
In a large, sumptuous office on the top floor of the city’s tallest office tower, a man pushed a button and the TV screen flickered off, disappearing behind a sliding panel. The man was dressed in an expensive tailored suit, and everything about him, from his perfectly styled hair to the silk tie artfully knotted at his collar, to the gleaming Italian shoes on his feet, made you pay attention to him. He sat at a mahogany desk big enough to land a helicopter on – not a big helicopter, and the pilot would have to be very careful. Still, it was a big desk, and like everything else in the room, it reeked of power and money. It suggested a person who usually got his way. On the other side of the desk was a man no one would look at twice. He seemed to be as gray as his suit, a non-entity. There was nothing poor or shabby about him, in fact if truth were known his unnoticeable gray suit was more expensive than the other man’s fancy tailored ensemble. It took money to practically disappear, he might have said if he was a man who talked much.
Which he wasn’t.
The juxtaposition and the quiet strength of “Mr. Gray” is compelling.
Kelly walked with them toward the range, “I like to come out here for practice at least once a month, but it’s been a while,” she said.
“What you shooting?” Lyle nodded at her pack.
“A nine mill, Millennium Pro with a custom trigger.” Kelly purchased the trigger kit to loosen the squeeze. The light trigger guaranteed her an accurate shot.
When they arrived at the firing line, someone shouted, “Going cold!”
Kelly removed her pistol, dropped the magazine, and loaded it with seven copper-tipped rounds. “I’m killing giant rats today.”
She pulled out a pack of 24-inch square targets, each depicting giant zombie rats munching on rotted meat in a sewer of toxic waste. She marched to the target post, twenty-five yards from the line of fire, and ten from the bunker. She pinned the target to the weathered board. Lyle placed his twelve-inch regulation target on the board next to hers.
“So, you shoot with a custom trigger and you’re using a Halloween poster for target practice?” Lyle laughed.
“Actually, it’s pretty cool.” She lifted the corner of the target to show the other side. “The backing is blood red, so when you hit the target, it gives the allusion of splattered blood.”
“You’re how old?”
She started to say twenty-nine and realized she’d had a birthday. “Thirty.” When they reached the firing line, she placed her muffs over her head and around her ears.
“Going hot!”
Ooo-wee!
Snippet #1:
She and Drake had fought two nights before. Sometimes it seemed like she existed only to help him achieve his goals. Her resentment had boiled over. She’d wanted to fight.
Now it was a gnawing regret. It wasn’t just his goals—it was their dreams.
Kristin saw Rachelle’s tears and her eyes went wide. Her lips pursed then she nodded. “Is it your sadness again, Mommy?”
Rachelle wiped her eyes and hugged Kristin tight. “I’m okay, my little love.”
A mother must protect her family. That responsibility stood first in Rachelle’s mind—she was drowning in doubt.
Kristin rested her cheek against Rachelle’s. “You can’t be sad, mommy.”
Rachelle fingered the thick scar overlying her neck and shoulder. Sometimes she woke up screaming.
Yes, my baby. Mommy can be sad.(last two sentences in italics)
Snippet #2:
Rachelle hugged him but he felt hesitation. When their eyes met, she looked away.
The issues had not disappeared.
As Drake closed the front door behind him, a police car rolled into the parking lot. He held his breath.
The squad car turned and pulled up in front of his unit. Two officers, one with a clipboard, climbed out while looking Drake’s way.
Son of a bitch. No. (italics)
He stepped off the stoop and approached the officers the way his time behind bars and barbed wire had taught him worked best.
Straight up, bold-faced and ready to lie.
TKZers – thoughts/suggestions on embedded dialogue in first snippet?
I’ll throw in my two cents; this scene is a nice, tender moment between mother and child. I think you may want to consider paring back some of the actions and explanations that are currently woven into the dialogue. Right now, the dialogue for both characters is front-loaded with multiple actions, and it’s all structured in a similar way. I’d use a bit of variety to keep the focus on the action-reaction dynamic between the mother and child. Chris Roerdan’s book, Don’t Murder your mystery, offers specific how-to techniques for using dialogue formatting. Might want to check out her book–it has been very helpful to many writers I know.
You know how I feel about embedded dialogue, Tom, but what I love about this is the emotion and your ease at capturing the viewpoint of both genders. Sometimes it can be a challenge to write the opposite sex, but I love how you’ve done it here.
Yeah. I thought it was really touching. And you just know there’s some bad business underneath it all.
Thanks for the input.
Jordan – I am not totally clear on the ’embedded’ dialog concept/sensitivity. Is it essentially a matter of formatting? (i.e. character’s initial dialogue always a new paragraph?)
I’ll track down the Roerdan book. K – It appears you’ve tumbled on a fun format here!
if nothing else it helps one get over the stage jitters.
Thanks Jim, Jordan and K!
Roles. We all play them. Some of us decide who we want to be and play that role. Others decide for us and we just slip into those roles.
I was a homeless person. Means I fit the stereotype. I reeked of bad booze and bodily odors. The worn and stained raincoat had a brandy bottle corked with a paper towel in one pocket and a screw-top bourbon bottle with a few fingers left in the other. They had wrapped my feet in rags and stuffed them into boots two sizes too big, along with the ragged bottoms of the pants’ legs.
I was playing a role. I was trying to become a victim.
With all the layers of clothing, no one could guess that I had a Glock in a shoulder holster and a combat knife in my right boot. I’m ready for the SOB. Where is he?
***
The Big rotten Apple is full of people dedicated to role-playing. We have actors and musicians who make the big-time; we have wannabe actors and musicians waiting on us at our eateries; we have bloviating politicians, rabbis, and priests, some in the role of helping, others in the service of greed or perversion; we have our peons on the streets, buses, and subways rushing to their twelve-hour jobs; we have Wall Street bankers cooking up the next scheme to bilk these same peons and many others out of their money—all role-playing, and all making the city a warm and fuzzy place for the bad guys but not the good ones.
You have to have people willing to play the roles of victims because there are so many other people who need victims. The homeless and the elderly are obvious choices because no one cares about them. But I cared.
Murdering someone is a special kind of role. Keeps me and my partner, Dao-Ming Chen, busy. We solve as many homicides as we can, but there’s always another one. Just turn on the news.
Name’s Castilblanco. At that moment, I didn’t look like Detective Rolando Castilblanco. Someone was killing homeless people. Hence the role.
Siren wails filled the night, and the flashing lights of several black and whites could be seen coming up the strip. Chase took a quick look around, memorizing the lay of the scene. He saw Brady squint at the body and glance toward the coming cars.
“The other two dead?” Brady asked, bending back down and easing a finger into the breast pocket of the informer’s shirt. He pulled out a piece of yellow paper, a torn receipt with a number scrawled on the back. Brady’s.
“Yeah, dead.”
“Let’s take a look.” He pocketed the paper and headed toward the beach without meeting Chase’s eyes.
The clattering yanked me right out of my novel, sounding like the gods were pitching stones at tin cans in heaven and the fallout was crashing onto my roof. I looked out the window to see silver-dollar sized hail beating a wild, uncontrolled cacophony against the world, slashing my carefully cultivated geraniums and petunias into brilliantly colored confetti.
Although freak hailstorms were common in this part of the Front Range, even in August, I’d never heard one so ferocious or seen the hail pile up so quickly. Within moments the temperature had plummeted, leaving me shivering in my t-shirt and cutoffs. Our lawn had vanished in a sea of ice, the deck was white and shining, the trees coated with slick. Must be my overactive imagination or a trick of the light . . . but why does it look bluish? Does hail always glow like that?
My new car! I grabbed a sweatshirt and rushed to the front door, watching the icy pellets slamming hard against it. But if it was about to be dinged, there was nothing I could do. No garage to put it in.
Guess I could always run out and fling myself across the hood.
I smiled at my protectiveness toward the three-month-old Toyota, as if it could feel the pain of the hail shredding its shining metal skin, as if it was a car-baby I needed to protect. The smile faded with a twisting lurch as I remembered the baby I would never hold again. The baby I hadn’t protected . . .
Leslie: I went through a hailstorm just like this last April, it punch holes the size of your fist through my roof. It left me homeless. Her car wasn’t going to get dinged, it was going to get destroyed. One car lot lost the glass out of 85 vehicles and over 100 were totaled. Also, hail was coming through the storms/screens/windows and bouncing off the opposite wall. It did $50 million in damage in 13 minutes.
This description is very good, but it pulls some of the punch off what a storm like this does. If you are writing it based on one you experienced, you got off lucky and cheap.
Thanks for the snip!
I’m loving these snippets, guys. Great reads!
I am so impressed with these, Kathryn. Way to go, TKZers!
Absolutely! What a cool idea!
I’m loving these too — thanks for the great Reader Friday exercise, Kathryn. Here’s mine:
****
The nude woman was still there, reclining on the chaise, only with two round holes where her breasts once were.
Cate wasn’t sure what she expected the aftermath of a break-in to look like, but she wasn’t at all certain it was this. The paintings were where they were supposed to be, although some were crooked. The statues were on their proper pedestals, but most were off-center and facing the wrong direction. Nude Woman Reclining on a Blue Chaise, the life-size, 3D version of artist Nolo Romo’s wildly popular painting, that was the kicker. Carved up that way.
“Miss Bennett?”
Cate jumped when the police officer appeared at her side.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you. You Miss Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Officer Drake. Your uncle owns this art gallery?”
“Uh, yeah,” Catherine said, slowly scanning the room, taking it all in. “What happened here?”
“We’re trying to figure that out, ma’am. No evidence of forced entry so far.Will your uncle be meeting you here? We need to find out what may be missing and get a proper assessment of the damage. In addition to–”
“Her.” Catherine said, pointing to the chaise.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Ah, Diane, I remember workshopping this with you. I love the way it reads! Well done. Great first line.
Thanks, Mr. B! The revised version is much better, thanks to you. (Opening disturbance — see, I have been listening!) I’ve got it all mapped out in Knockout Novel, now just need to get all the words down on paper.
By the time I knew where I was, Dad was holding an ice pack to the back of my head. And grinning.
“How do you feel?”
I asked what every man who has just been knocked silly asks. “What happened?”
He smiled wider, the grey in his beard fanning out like the tail of a hawk. “He hit you a little harder than I meant for him to. You set him up for the knee to the ribs, but stopped yourself. He saw the hesitation and clobbered you.”
The ice pack felt cool on my neck, but my head buzzed like a wasps’ nest. I turned my head to look my father in the eye and the wasps got even louder. A wave of nausea jumped on board for extra fun. I closed my eyes and focused on the coolness against my skin, willed it to calm down the raging headache. The hard bench beneath me helped steady me a little, but just then I would have preferred a recliner.
I remembered dad asking me to come by and spar with one of his guys, so I locked up my office early and drove to the gym. AJ Bennett was a boxer, so Dad told me to use hands only.
I remembered getting in the ring with a guy who outweighed me by 30 pounds or so, and thinking I had it easy. Big and slow. Pretty much everything else was fuzzy.
“Was I out?”
Dad shook his head. “Nah, he just rung your bell pretty good. It’ll come back. You should be fine in a little bit.”
How reassuring.
Something he said clicked, and I opened my eyes again, looked sidelong at him. “What do you mean he hit me harder than you meant for him to?”
His rough face took on a sheepish look, and he dropped his eyes. “I kind of set you up. I figured your reaction time would be better. I needed him to see what he was doing wrong.”
Irritation bubbled in my chest. “What are you talking about, Pop? Set me up how?” I didn’t like where this was going.
He shrugged. “Somebody taught him a bunch of junk combos, but he doesn’t use his instincts. He’s so big and strong, he figures that will be enough. Like he doesn’t need to know how to read and react.” He squinted, shook his head. “He fights robotic, like he learned from a video game. I just figured you would catch yourself and still be able to get the best of him.”
I flushed. “So what, it’s my own fault I got caught?”
He pulled back, the muscles in his jaw tight. Then his face softened, and I saw something like sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Max. I’m just trying to help him out. He’s a good kid. But yeah, I should have warned you.”
I breathed in, held it, let it out slow. I never liked it when my anger came out at him. If it weren’t for him, there was no telling how screwed up I’d be at this point. And all because he looked at me once and said to himself, ‘he’s a good kid.’
I glanced around the brightly lit gym, breathed in the sweat and energy of the men and women training on heavy bags or lifting weights. I could faintly hear the garage band that rented the space above us running through a rendition of J. Geils Band’s “Centerfold.” I thought about all the years I’d worked out here and everything I’d learned about life. Hell, if not for him I wouldn’t have amounted to anything at all.
Yeah,thanks, daddy dearest. Ha! I love how you sucked the reader as your character tried to make sense of what happened. You didn’t rush it. Nice, Jake.
I liked it, too. Good timing and flow of words. Your blog says you are unpublished?? Better get on it and not waste time. Read your piece on “Timesuckers.” Yup!!
Looks like these are all mostly crime/mysteries here, but mine always has a mystery and sometimes murder in them–or an attempted murder as in the case with “Six Shades of Hell”. I’m trying to clean up some lines here today with my two new characters…
I tried to ignore the smell of coffee, but that wasn’t happening. Not only that, my stomach growled. If I didn’t have to pee so bad, I’d also try and ignore that as well.
I struggled out of bed and found my crutches nearby. I would never be so happy the day I got to chuck these things, even though I’d only been hobbling around on them a few days. I paused in my motions, as my Knowing took in who exactly was here, exactly. Not Hobart and not just one person was in my home, but two. Both male. I had no idea who these two people were, but they were… different. My stomach twisted with my anxiety over meeting them.
If I didn’t have to take care of my personal needs right away, I would have walked—well, bumbled—into the kitchen to meet these two head on and find out their story. I already knew their names. Being a clairvoyant sometimes saved me from stupid assumptions before I entered a room. Or a house.
As it turned out I didn’t have to go all the way into the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, when I opened the bathroom door, which opened out into the dining room, there they both where. Two young men, who were in their twenties, standing near the dining room table wearing a black jackets over a dark vests and white shirt, white gloves and a conservative ties. In looks they were similar build—thin and around six foot. Blue eyed blond had his long-ish hair was styled in a disarray of locks. The other had black hair, with a bleached blond topknot that fell down over his eyes, and was slightly mussier than his blond counterpart, and the dark lengths in the front were much longer, hanging way down over his eyes, but in trained tendrils. He wore black-rimmed glasses. They were brothers. This was easy for me to get from them, as they were good broadcasters.
They beamed at me. “Good morning, mistress,” they said in stereo.
I looked at the dining table, surprised to see a sterling silver coffee urn—which I know I didn’t own—and the other aromas, which came from under a domed platter. I could definitely detect eggs and possibly bacon. Okay. So, maybe they could stay. They were cute, in their own way.
I twisted my mouth and looked back up at them. “Did Tremayne send for you to come all the way out here?”
They nodded, grinning. “He texted us,” the blond said.
“Oh, introductions! This is Kaleb, with a ‘K’,” said the one wearing glasses.
“And he’s Sebastian,” Kaleb said, holding out his hands toward the other man.
“You two are brothers,” I said.
“Yes,” they both said, looking somewhat stunned.
“You used to work at the Tremayne Towers,” I said, squinting. “I’m getting Letitia from you.”
“Oh, she’s good,” Kaleb said, sounding impressed.
“Tremayne was right about her.” Sebastian agreed. His brother nodded.
“We were Letitia’s servants. Until her death, that is,” Kaleb said, and looked down and away.
“There, brother, it’s okay,” Sebastian consoled his brother, patting him on the shoulder. To me he said, “Kaleb was the one who found her in her bedroom.”
I nodded with his somber explanation, and at the same time I got the image straight from Kaleb. But he narrated as I saw it happen in a vision. He had walked in that next day, and found Letitia on the floor, dead. She had been impaled in the heart by a wooden bolt from murderer, Toby Hunt. The two contacted Tremayne right away—who lived in a penthouse right across from her—and he was the one who examined her. She had been Tremayne’s life-time mate for many centuries.
This is from the first book of Incognito-Life on the Lam:
The bum thought he’d lost them, when he picked up the sound of a vehicle crossing over a metal plate in the street. There was only a slight bonk as the front wheels contacted the plate, then another bonk from the rear wheels a split-second later. The car seemed to be hauling ass, even though the engine hadn’t made a sound. Fearing the car might nearly be upon him, the bum ducked behind a stoop. A moment later, he saw a small black car whizz past—lights off and moving like a bat out of hell. So strange it was, and quiet as a mouse. One of those new electric cars. Already there had been complaints about them being too quiet. Pedestrians wouldn’t notice the cars, until they were on top of them and scaring the shit out of everybody.
All at once the little car braked hard—no visible brake lights either—and stopped. A subtle click betrayed the opening of a door. No interior lights. Marks of a stealthy operator—a hunter of some kind.
Next, the bum cut back up Polk, staying in the shadows. If he made it across Second without being spotted, he’d be home free. Further down the street, where the buildings no longer abutted each other, there were millions of passageways and open basements within which to hide.
The initial paragraph of my new novel:
The killer’s heart raced with the thrill of a first kill, even when this was his second. The adrenaline rush didn’t ebb with the new victim as he had thought it would. The arduous and long planning paid off as he took the second step in a journey where he got to play God. Another week, another victim. If he kept this pace, he’d complete his goal before the end of summer. Students took summer jobs, the killer took his victims.
This is from my upcoming Steampunk Thriller “Discovering Aberration” which I’m in the process of editing now. It’ll be released in late January.
***
“Well Miss Newton, you are quite right. In point of fact–”
I paused, interrupted by the sudden noise of the protests as an outer door to the building opened exposing the sounds from without. Marching, chanting and disarray leaked into the hall so I folded my arms and waited for the outer door to close, once again muffling the noise.
“They certainly are at it today,” I said and the class laughed nervously. “I saw all manner of creatures in my time in the Orient, Miss Newton. The Elephants were mighty. They were so tall I’d couldn’t reach the top of one without standing atop someones shoulders. But while I always found the larger beasts quite formidable, it was the smaller ones I learned to truly respect lest I regret it. You see, elephants, while large and powerful, are easily avoided. But there are creatures in this world, unassuming things, small things, and pretty things, which burn within them a fire for survival. They survive by any means necessary. By poisons, craftiness, stealth and speed. Do you know what I like most about these types of creatures? They remind me of… of us. Of people like you or I. Listen to the lot protesting outside for example.”
“Their rabble,” shouted a boy from the back.
“Rabble,” I replied, “Indeed. They are not the lowest class, but they certainly are near the bottom. Despite their low standing and relatively low power and means, I would suggest you take care as you walk through the throng. Though they are small, together the have become fierce, they are taking it upon themselves to survive in the only way they see fit. So it was with the smallest of creatures in the Orient.”
I have no idea what a ‘steampunk thriller’ is, but I liked this. Nice.
Thanks Tom. I’m glad you liked it. Steampunk is a subgenre of sci-fi usually taking place in the Victorian era often with steam and gear related technical advances.
From my WIP – ICE HAMMER – a bit of humour before the death and destruction starts … Brad and Youngmi are of course the main characters.
Brad pressed the button on his blue tooth headset and voice dialed Youngmi.
“Yoboseyo,” came his wife’s husky voice. She hated the deep, raspy sound that often got her accused of being a recovered chain smoker, something she had never even tried in her life. Brad loved the sound though. It was low, calming, sexy. Like an Asian Lauren Bacall, her voice was a verbal snuggle every time she spoke.
“Hey baby, the boys are at camp I’m on the way home,” he said. “I hope you took a nap, cuz it’s going to be a long night of sweating under the sheets like newlyweds.”
“Chagi,” she called him with the Korean term of endearment. “I’m with mom and Jiyoung.”
“Oops,” his face reddened with a deep blush even though he was alone in his truck. “Please tell me you’re not on speaker phone.”
“No, I’m not,” she replied. “We just left the PX and are heading home. And to answer your prior statement, everything is ready as per standard operating procedures. I think the sequence should run with full interactive output once you log in.”
“Twenty five years and you are so good at running my code,” he was a network admin and she a web programmer, using computer jargon to talk dirty came natural.
“You just have to make sure to have sufficient hard drive size and may need to do a RAM upgrade. You’ll need all the processing power possible to meet the program requirements.”
“Hard drive and RAM size is not a problem, it all adjusts dynamically during processing,” Brad replied. “My system is nearly overclocked in pre-processing as it is. Of course, we’ll have to run the sequence a couple of times to make sure the results can be replicated.”
“No problem here,” she said with a voice that belied a straight face. “My software is capable of multiple reboots, as long as RAM refresh rate can remain consistent.”
Brad burst out with an abrupt laugh, “Holy cow, I’d better stop this conversation right here or you’re going to make me have an accident. You want me to pick you up at your mom’s or sister’s when I pass by?”
“pssshh…just … pssshh … house … … don’t…”
The connection dropped. He glanced down at his phone’s screen. “No Signal” flashed on the small display.
This is the beginning of the first story in my new collection of short stories, The Ghost Riders. Each stories is named after the person the Riders help.
Shanghai Pierce took off his black Stetson. He knelt beside the dead man. Shanghai’s hand solidified as he reached out to close the lifeless eyes. “He was a good man.” Bits of plasmic energy dissipated from Pierce’s finger tips.
“Must be departed already.” Shanghai mumbled, then looked up then made the sign of the cross in the Catholic style.
Jesse Driskell and Pete Cody, hats in hand, nodded. A small dust devil twisted toward them, paused, then curved its way around them.
This was tumbleweed country. Flat, hot, and dusty. The sun bleached the land. Desert fox, turtles, snakes, and lizards hid during the daytime. Only men were stupid enough to spend time in Texas’ summer sun. Ghosts didn’t care one way or the other.
“You know him?” Pete Cody asked.
Shanghai looked up. “Not really. I knew his grandpapy’s grandpapy, Matthew Dillion.”
“I heard about him,” Jesse said.
“Can’t let a lawman die without knowing why. We need to get the bastards who did this.” Shanghai stood up, his spurs jangled and spun off plasmic sparks.
“You think there were several outlaws?” Jesse Driskell, once sheriff of Abilene, Texas, asked.
Shanghai said, “Someone like Sheriff Russell Dillion don’t go down easy.”
The air seemed to snap around Peter Cody as he said, “I looked around. Didn’t find anything that might shed any light on this. They didn’t leave any tracks of their passage.”
“Careful,” Jesse said.
Shanghai looked at his two companions and said, “Or something else.”
All three put their spectral hats back on. They mounted their phantom horses and rode east beside Interstate Ten, toward town.
Fort Stockton appeared as they crested a rise. They stopped. Took in the setting sun. Pete Cody, long time Pinkerton Agent, said, “I think we should become corporeal to handle this.”
“I hate that,” Jesse said. “I get all itchy, especially around sagebrush.”
A white Corvette dashed passed them. Of course, the driver couldn’t see them.
“Can we keep the horses?” Jesse asked.
“No, we should take the motorcycles,” Shanghai said.
Three Harley-Davidson Electra Glides appeared. One each in red, white, and blue. A strike of dry lightening seemed to hit each of the spirits in the head. The three ghosts turned into three men.
Jesse flexed his shoulders. “I could use a beer.”
“Houston, we got a problem.”
“What is it this time?”
Detective Sperling eased back in his chair, careful to stay in range of the laptop’s camera. “Let me guess. Another gator under someone’s car.”
Holding his smartphone at arm’s length to Skype himself, Officer Medved shook his head.
“What, then? Cats? Dogs?”
“It’s different,” Medved said.
“Where are you?”
Detective Sperling could see behind Medved. He was inside somewhere, and now the officer’s phone slowly panned the room. It had stainless steel tables and operating lights. Water gurgled somewhere. Officer Medved again filled the screen.
“You’re in the forensics lab.”
“Right.”
“OK, you got my attention. Animal Control doesn’t generally ‘do’ autopsies.”
Medved smiled and nodded. He was enjoying himself, had something too good to let go of all at once. Something that needed buildup.
“What else?” he said.
“Meaning?”
“What else can you think of, animal control-wise.”
“Jesus, not another panther. They get offed every time the developers open a new golf course.” But that didn’t fit with Medved’s being in the medical examiner’s lab.
“Time is money, Medved.”
“Come on.” The officer was still smiling. “What else?”
“Pretty soon, you’re going to piss me off. You’re there already.”
“Come on, detective. Just one more thing.”
Sperling inhaled and sighed. Spiders? Certain kinds zapped people. A couple weeks later, the place on the body where they got bit started dying. Necrotic flesh-something. Except bugs weren’t handled by Animal Control. That was Insect Control. There were coyotes now, wandering around on the golf courses. A few residents had lost lapdogs that way, little ones like Yorkshire terriers, Chihuahuas. Coyotes also roamed in the remaining undeveloped areas in Naples. That’s where the homeless camped, coming down like everyone else to hang out on the Gulf coast during the winter. Except in tents, in the woods.
Medved’s smile was still in place. It was annoying. Sperling wanted now to figure it out for himself. Eagles had made a big comeback in recent years, nesting in trees. But that was also a different department. Conservation.
“Give up?” Medved asked.
Sperling knew. He closed his eyes, annoyed with himself for taking so long. “Burmese python.”
WIP, working title: Crazy Dead
The old man had not acted at all surprised. Must have been a sixth sense or something. He had a .303 Enfield rifle with a cut-down stock leaned against a granite boulder, but the old man’s gnarled left hand held a knife by the time he got on his feet to see what was going on.
“Hey, Fuego! What are you doing here?” said the old man.
“Who you calling fay go, old man?” he said.
“You, with the red hair. Like you’re on fire – fuego! What do you want? You’re disturbing my sheep.”
The old man had let him get too close. His boot knife had been too quick. The old man had given up the Basque blade too easily. It was a nice blade. Razor sharp. Studded olive wood handle.
It was one of his favorite stories. He thought that several of his friends actually believed it. He dreaded the thought that one of them suspected that the old Basque sheepherder had bargained hard over the knife, that he had eventually paid a hundred dollars for the damned thing, that he had nearly hyper-ventilated because he was afraid the old man was going to kill him at any minute. But, man, what a knife!
After a few glasses of red wine, I began to feel as though a velvet veil, soft and crimson in color, had fallen over me as I sat in the chair near the hearth. The roaring fire had caught the newly placed logs and the warmth was comforting. The wind lashed at the shutters, throwing them open and then banging them closed. Droplets of rain appeared on the window, and in the distance, flashes of lighting. It was a good evening to be under a velvet veil, next to the warmth of the hearth.
It was also, I was to learn later, a good night for murder.
The inspector for the police was at the door, his hands pushed deep into his overcoat pockets, his head lowered to shield himself from the driven rain. I opened the Door, and as if blown by the wind, he rushed into the room, dripping wet, his hair, what there was of it, matted from the rain. He stomped his feet on the rug as I quickly closed the door.
“Well there,” he said. “What a fine mess it is out there.”
“Please inspector, let me take you coat. Go take the chair next to the hearth.”
When I had put his coat on the hanger next to the door, I went to pour him a drink. “Inspector, are you allowed?” I asked, raising the glass. “I mean, are you on duty?”
“I am on duty, but then I have had a very bad day, and the evening shows no promise.” He reached for the glass.
When the inspector had made himself comfortable next to the fire, having wiped and dabbed at his forehead with a large, blue handkerchief, I raised my glass in a toast. He did the same and we sipped our wine. For a moment we both seemed intent on watching the fire as red, yellow and blue flames licked at the logs.
“Well then,” I started, pulling my attention back to the inspector, “what on earth brings you to Willow Bridge on such a night?” I was ready for another sip of wine, but though better of it. I sat my glass on the small table next to my chair.
“Strange goings on near here, Mister Williamston, not more than a mile from your place, just over the hill to the north.” The inspector again pulled the large blue handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his nose. “On the land owned by old man Clarton.”
“Of course, I have spoken with Mr. Clarton, just in passing, at the market a few times,” I offered. “He seemed a decent fellow, as much as I could tell, seeing him only those few times…at the market”
The inspector sipped at his wine, and looked around the room, no doubt making mental notes to review later. His eyes came to rest on the table and my glass. “You are not enjoying your wine?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the table.
I shrugged. “It has been a nice evening by the fire and I fear I have overstepped my tolerance for this fine wine, but please don’t let me stop you from enjoying your glass.” I smiled, and leaned forward. “And please, what has happened at Mr. Clarton’s place?”
“Terrible murders, two to be exact, a man and women.” He took another sip of wine. “They had no heads.”
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Sierra braked the car with a jerk and stared in awe at the massive house that loomed ahead. Her inheritance.
She walked up the gravel walkway to the house. The crunch of the gravel seemed louder with each step.
“So this is it”, she said aloud as she reached for the doorknob with a trembling hand.
The first thing she noticed were the gloomy halls, cobwebs suspended from the doorways, and the musty smell of abandonment. These signs were indicative of the work she had ahead of her. She could almost hear the whispers of the previous inhabitants and the secrets contained within; forever captured in wisps of yesterday, longing to be brought forth into the light.
“Okay, Uncle Bob. I promise I will do as you ask. I hope the renovating service you want is still in business. But of course, it would be. The owner will know what you want. But to recreate it back to the way it looked in 1871, furniture and all–well, that won’t be easy.” A tears slid down one check, then the other. She would do it though, even if it killed her.
“Over there.” Bernie pointed. “They have visitors’ slots.” He turned in his seat and looked out the rear window. “And they’re close to the entrance.”
I backed up and headed toward the spaces he’d suggested. “Damn. They only allow parking for thirty minutes.”
He turned in his seat. “And the problem is?”
“We don’t know how long we’ll be there, but I’m sure it’ll be longer than that.” I turned left and went down another row looking for an available space. I got stuck behind someone waiting for another person to pull out of their space. “There’s an empty space two slots down. Lazy people piss me off!” I drove around the waiting vehicle and glared at the driver as I passed. In my mind, I also gave the driver the finger. Hey, cops are human too.
“Aw, c’mon Syd. Nobody cares how long somebody parks in the visitor spaces.”
“It’s not going to hurt us to walk a little further. And when I say us, I mean you. You’re getting a little pudgy around the middle, Porky.”
He sucked in his stomach. “Ever since Khrystal moved in I’ve been gaining weight.” He pulled his arms through his brown suede jacket, folded it and laid it on his lap. “She gave me this jacket last week. It’ll be ruined by the rain.”
“Far be it from me to ruin Khrystal’s gift to you the first week you’ve had it.” I turned the corner and went up another row.
“Porky or not, I’d still beat you in a 10K.”
“Doubtful.” I slid into a spot five spaces from the entrance, but not in a visitor’s slot. “How’s this? It’s not raining anymore anyway.”
“It’s too warm for the jacket. I think I’ll leave it in the car.”
“Oh, for the love of…” I pushed open my door and stepped out into a puddle. “Crap!” I hopped out of it and stomped my feet.
Bernie stood on the other side of the car, smiled and shook his head. “You’re so easy to mess with.”
I glared at him and narrowed my eyes. “Eat shit.” I strode toward the building entrance, leaving him standing there with that stupid grin on his smug face.
(Caveat – Lady is a male dog)
“What the hell you talking about?” His body, tense and tight, begged for a release and I feared I was it.
“Today in Beverly Hills. A yellow cab ran her over, a hit and run.”
His gaze continued to bore into me as his hands opened, his shoulders dropped. He spoke slowly, not dazed but carefully. “A fucking cab killed my wife?” He thought some more. “Why haven’t the police notified me?”
“I assume they couldn’t locate you. It took me all afternoon.”
“A fucking cab?” he asked again.
I nodded. Would he rather it had been a Rolls Royce? Lady looked at me with the same question in his eyes.
“What a minute,” he said. “You were there? Watching her? And you let this tail kill my wife?” His body tensed up again. I didn’t blame him. I felt like punching my own face.
“I’m telling you the guy tailing her didn’t do it. It was a cab.”
“You let your client get killed crossing the street?” He was shouting now. “I suppose nobody got a good look at the driver? Looked like an accident. Right?”
That struck me as odd; he seemed to be familiar with the whole scenario. “It was an accident, unless you know something the police should know?”
“Me? I know nothing. Where’s her body?”
“Ask the police.”
“Okay, now get out of here before I turn Lady loose on you. He’s a killer. Dines on raw meat, loves the taste of blood.” Right on cue, Lady growled.
Something still bothered me, so I asked, “Why are you so certain your wife wasn’t having an affair?”
“Because I said so.” Silence. He stared at me. I stared back. Lady stared at me. I was out-stared.
I opened my dry mouth. “That’s no answer. Your wife was beautiful. She could have any guy she wanted. Why she stayed with an old cretin like you, I don’t know. And what’s more, you don’t even seem upset when I tell you she’s dead. Your wife is dead. Are you listening to me? I’ve been to your store, told Berle, been to your house and told Angel and Kim. They wept. You don’t get it, do you? I’ve been trying to track you down all afternoon, dreading telling you. And all you do is cop a tough guy macho attitude.”
“You mean you dreaded telling me that you fucked up, don’t you?”
Silence again. He sensed his victory, so I wasn’t sure why he even answered my question.
“She wasn’t having no affair. I was. I’m surprised she wasn’t having me followed.” He almost chuckled, some inner joke. “Now get the hell out of here.”
“Where were you all afternoon?”
“Kid, stop playing detective, I’ve been here all day. Lady can vouch for me, can’t you?” he said grabbing the dog’s mouth. He looked back up at me. “Aren’t you gone yet? Lady,” he said raising his voice. Lady growled. I didn’t need any more urging even if he did call me kid, twice. I slowly backed up.
“Oh, Graff, if you’re gonna play cops and robbers, grow a mustache or something.” This time I was sure, Lady snickered.