Kyle Michel Sullivan's Blog: https://www.myirishnovel.com/, page 146

Mystery writers...

I've been rereading Agatha Christie before going to sleep, each night. Helps settle my brain a bit. I've finished 13 at Dinner and The Murder on the Orient Express, and something I have to say is, she sucks as a writer. She's brilliant at plotting and fantastic at setting up the mystery, but her writing is so mechanical and basic (and her grammar somewhat questionable) that the books are nearly boring...which may be why they help me go to sleep...

Of course, part of that might also be I already knew who the killers were in these two. I read them while I was still in high school and have seen movie adaptations of both. But I don't think that would make a real difference. I'll test it out with The ABC Murders; I doubt I've read that one...at least, I don't recall reading any of hers that involved serial killers playing with Poirot. A modern idea written in 1936...can't say she wasn't forward-thinking.

But an example of the sort of thing that bugged me throughout both books was this sort of exchange, from Murder... --

He paused, then said:

"Did you know that M. Ratchett had applied for help to me?" (it's Poirot speaking.)

"To you?" (it's Hector MacQueen speaking.)

MacQueen's astonished tone told Poirot quite certainly that the young man had known nothing of it. He nodded.

"Yes. He was alarmed. Tell me, how did he act when he received the first letter?"

MacQueen hesitated.

To me, it's not instantly clear Poirot is the one speaking after the narrative bit about MacQueen. It's not an easy transition and interrupts the flow of the story. It's not a killer, but it does irritate and is something I work hard to avoid, in my own writing.

I already have read And Then There Were None more than once; it was my favorite Christie book because it didn't involve brilliant detectives doing their supercool thing; it was ten people being killed off, one by one, while trapped on an island off the English coast. Despite Christie's drab style and emotional reticence, it still built up a nice bit of hysteria, thanks to the situation. I didn't like any of the film adaptations (including a ludicrous one set in the Persian desert, in 1974) until the Acorn version from 2 years back. I may need to reread it and see if I still feel her prose is problematic.

What made me surprisingly happy was...the typos I'm finding in this collection. Quotation marks where they shouldn't be. A couple of words misspelled. Seems you can't get away from the pesky little things, no matter how hard you try.

Nice to know a fairly major publisher has that problem, too.

I think I need new glasses...

I'm getting nasty headaches from being at this laptop for long periods...and have one now. Makes it hard to focus and get any writing done. I think I'll change things up, tomorrow and use my art table, which is a bit higher; see if that helps any. If not, it's to the ophthalmologist.

Good thing is, my knee is not damage or worn out; I'm just getting arthritis. Great.

I am not going to whine any more about my aches and pains, like some old fart. Here's some of what I've been working on, today, in UG. Dev thinks he's going to jail for assaulting Reg but instead...

----------------

I was released on bail, meaning they kept my passport so I couldn’t leave the country, and I had to check in with Sir Monte’s shadow once a day, or else. But with as much efficiency as when I’d been brought in everything else was returned to me. In a complete mess but there. Except for my phone. When I asked that and about my passport, a clerk said, “The Boss has them.” Then he handed me a receipt, adding, "If anyone asks to see your documents, give 'em this." Then the great Boss, Sir Monte, himself, drove me away, with Four-buttons beside me in the back seat.

My plan was to ride in silence and let my brain settle down, but my seat-mate opened a folder and a surveillance photo was shoved in front of me; it was of Savile Row in another snazzy suit, goatee, hair wind-blown as he got into the back of a car. Even from a distance he radiated wealth and calm. A man the size of a tank and built just as strong was holding the door open for him.

“He is what you normally talk into your bed, correct?” Four-buttons asked in a way that needed no answer.

I sighed and nodded. “That’s the guy I saw on the train. Almost went for him instead of Reg.”

“How unfortunate you didn’t. His name is Tafiq al Qasimi. He’s an Arab Muslim, and has a connection to all four dead men.”

I shrugged. “Then bring him in.”

“We can’t. The evidence is, at best, circumstantial and he has...diplomatic protection.”

“He’s young to be an ambassador.”

“That’s not what he is.”

“Okay...so why’re you tellin’ me this?”

“Pope,” Sir Monte snarled, “stop being so damn thick.”

Four-buttons took the photo back. “We have discussed some rather...incredible claims you made, whilst being interrogated. Claims which, if we read the prior accusations against you, carefully, do not...actually...sound improbable.”

I nearly laughed. “So what -- you want me to be Mata Hari? Take him to bed, whether he wants it or not? See if he has a diary on his nightstand that details his fun time? Sneak it off in the dead of night?”

Sir Monte took in a deep breath and muttered, “We want you to do whatever you can to get information we cannot.”

“C’mon, don’t you have a gay cop who can do that?”

“We tried.”

“He was the same physical type as the victims,” said Four-buttons, “but al Qasimi proved...uninterested.”

“Like he did with Reg.” I took the photo back and looked at it. “Do you have other pictures?”

He showed me a couple dozen more. All surveillance. They’d been shadowing him for a while.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “If you were watchin’ this guy so close, how was able to kill anybody?”

“We began our surveillance after the third victim,” said Sir Monte, “and realized the one other consistency between them. He‘s the only male in the embassy whose whereabouts cannot be accounted for on the nights of the murders.”

“Oh, come on, you guys watch this country so tight, you even know when somebody doesn’t wipe his ass. So how could he get to Perriman and you not stop it?”

“When Thornton vanished, that put the entire Met on alert. The two additional men we had on your train were met at Hatton Cross and brought straight back as al Qasimi transversed the A30 and continued on towards Perriman's office. They wanted to follow him, still, but they had seen you so could help search for you while we scoured CCTV. We thought we were mistaken about whom to suspect. Obviously, we were wrong.”

I let a breath escape me. â€œI dunno about that. This guy’s awful damn neat to be plannin’ to kill anybody. Tell me -- your gay cop, is he out and proud?”

“...Yes,” said Four-buttons.

“Then this guy wouldn’t want him. He’s deep in the closet. He wouldn’t want anybody who might talk about him.” Four-buttons was nodding, his eyes locked on me. “You already know that.” I got a half-smile, in answer. “You sure the victims weren’t hidin’ their interest, too?”

“We have found nothing in their backgrounds to indicate they enjoyed homosexual encounters.”

“But hasn’t this guy been with other guys -- ?”

“There is only such much investigation we can do,” said Sir Monte, “without arousing problems with the Home Office. And MI5. They’ve already raised questions regarding the surveillance focused on this embassy. They don’t know who we’re keeping an eye on, yet, but they will find out. Sooner than later. Once that happens, who knows what obstructions will arise?”

“But if he has a connection to four murdered men...”

“A tenuous one...”

“How tenuous?”

Sir Monte and Four-buttons exchanged a glance in the rearview mirror, then Sir Monte nodded and my seat-mate pulled more sheets from the folder, including good photos of the victims.

“The restaurant Etan Conescieu worked for catered an affair at the Embassy,” he said. “He helped move everything in, but he was not one of the servers. Liam Hanlon worked for a broker who was handling a business matter for a corporation al Qasimi’s connected with, however he was not part of the team controlling it. The livery company Stuart Goughan drove for often collects visitors and diplomats, for the embassy, from the airport or wherever, but al Qasimi, himself, does not use them; he has his own car and a bodyguard who drives him.” I pointed to the guy holding the car door in the photo and Four-buttons nodded. “Abdel Naifeh. He’s a third generation bodyguard to the family.”

“Nonstop money,” I snarled. “That’s the world, for some. But if Tafiq’s got his own car, why take the train? Especially at rush hour?”

“It is faster, though not as convenient.”

“But it’s not like he’s drivin’. Sit in the back. Have some Dom Perignon. Contemplate ways of screwing more people out of more money. Think about how good life is.” Then I kicked myself. “Except he doesn’t want even his bodyguard to know what he’s up to, with guys. Get a grip, Dev.”

“Yes, that would make for a potential witness,” Sir Monte snapped. “One who might not agree with his...peculiarities...”

Four-buttons continued with, “Last night’s victim, Martin Perriman, owned a courier service used by the embassy. Normally it was one of his drivers who transported the diplomatic pouch, but on two occasions he brought the pouch, personally, when a driver was unavailable. There may have been other deliveries he made; we are still researching his records.”

“Yet none of them had direct contact with this guy.”

Four-buttons nodded. “Which makes it damn near impossible to anticipate his actions...without him telling us.”

I hesitated. Four-buttons was watching me like I was something under a microscope, while Sir Monte kept his eyes on the road. It had started to rain, not hard but steady, and the windshield wipers ticked to the same rhythm as my heart. I looked out the window, barely able to breathe. I could now picture their whole sordid operation.

They’d followed al Qasimi till it looked like he was sneaking away from his bodyguard, then had offered Reg up, to see if he’d jump. But he was focused on someone else. That was obvious, now. Martin Perriman. Didn’t matter how lovely Reg was, this guy was locked and loaded and not willing to deviate. They wanted me to find out if he was focused on anyone else he had a tenuous connection to. Maybe prevent another death.

The hell with Mata Hari; they wanted me to be fucking James Bond, pun not intended.

I noticed we were stopping in front of the same hotel I’d checked out of, just hours before, the rain still pouring. Sir Monte had me check back in and then he made sure he knew what room I was in by escorting me up to it. I had nothing to say because my mind was still bouncing against every corner of my head at how fucking crazy the whole idea was. Then Sir Monte made it worse.

“I dislike asking this of you, Pope,” he said as I opened my door, “but Herries-White thinks it’s our best chance to -- “

“Herries-White?”

“The gentleman in the rear seat with you,” he snapped. “He pointed out that when dealing with evil, you cannot always play by the rules of the good. Sometimes evil must be used to defeat evil.”

I smirked. “And you think I’ll be your evil slut.”

Sir Monte’s glare would have sliced through steel. “You’re a gamble I’m willing to take, within limits, in order to try and save another man’s life. I’m realistic, Pope. Serial killers tend to get away with their crimes for years, even decades, before they make enough of a mistake to end their slaughter. I don’t want to wait for luck to play a hand, and have to face God knows how many more dead men’s families, in the meantime.”

“But...can’t you just keep him under surveillance?”

“That will not be possible for much longer, not without tipping our hand. Were he anyone else, he’d have been in that room, instead of you, long ago. Now? I would like to have something more than mere supposition to counter any objections raised by the Home Office.”

“Who else knows about you pimping me out?”

“You, me, and Herries-White. And that is how it remains.”

“And if I get killed?”

He almost smiled. “If your death helps us stop a killer, you will be given a hero’s burial.”

“What if I tell you to fuck off?”

“I suggest you find a solicitor and barrister, and Crown’s Counsel will be in contact with them.” Then a cold, cruel gleam entered his eyes. “And...we will send Thornton back out to try and decoy him, again. Find some excuse for him to have business at the embassy. He is what this killer likes -- straight, good-looking, fair-haired. It wouldn’t be much trouble to provide al Qasimi with a tenuous connection to him. This time, since you won’t be around to interrupt, we might be successful.”

Ice shot through my veins and I clenched my jaw to keep from shivering, but the bastard still noticed.

I let out a long, deep breath and murmured, “You’re right; I should never have fucked with you...because you really are one mean-assed, cold-blooded, motherfucking son-of-a-bitch.”

This time, the smile filled his face. “Nice to have that understood. We’ll be in touch.” He handed me my phone. “We have your number.”

Then he left...and I was stuck trying to figure out what the hell kind of shit I’d just got myself into.

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Ah, the joys of libraries...

I just saved myself $15 and having to deal with waiting for a DVD to come in because I checked the branch of the library that's behind my apartment building, and they have a copy of the show I wanted to see. God knows what condition it's in, but if it's free to watch, why not check it out? So I am, tomorrow. I put it on hold and will pick it up after I finish with the doctor.

I'm at that age where my warrantee has expired, so I'm getting my knee checked by an orthopedic surgeon in hopes it's nothing serious...just water on the knee. Which is handled by sticking a needle into me and siphoning it out. Not what I'm looking forward to. But it needs doing. My right knee just feels all wrong, at the moment.

Anyway, I just cut 50 pages out of what I'd written for Underground Guy, and I made the veiled threat against Devlin more blunt -- help us get to this man or we put you in jail forever. Which will make things more complex between Devlin and Tawfi, when they do connect.

What's nice about this is, by pushing to be harsher and speak the truth of things more deliberately, without softening the words, I'm seeing how to make APoS a more honest book, as well. Brendan is surrounded by people who lie to themselves and others, albeit not deliberately. And he is damaged by it in many ways, because he only wants to be left alone to live his life.

I'm pushing a simpler, more direct style in UG as practice for Brendan's...not so much for his own manner of speaking but that of Colm and Eamonn and Father Jack and even his Uncle Sean and cousin, Scott. I'm trying to find all the spots where I use artifice instead of honesty to tell my stories, and it's hard because I'm prone to using what I call qualifiers in my sentences...plus I like to use easy words to enter into sentences, when being told in first person. That has to stop, as well.

Maybe I should reread For Whom the Bell Tolls, by Hemingway; he used an artificial style to speak truth...

New direction for UG...

Instead of Devlin slowly coming to figure out what's going on with the serial killings he's accused of, he offered up the idea that his interrogation after assaulting Reg is used to soften him up to see if he will help the police get close to man they have under surveillance for the crimes. They can't touch him due to diplomatic immunity...but that don't mean they can't play dirty...

I'd say this is about 1/3 of the way into the story, now. Sir Monte is the Chief of the investigation and Four-buttons is probably a psychiatrist, but he never admits it. Savile Row is the man Dev saw on the Piccadilly Line, before he focused on Reg.
----------

First, I was set free...well, not completely free. They kept my passport so I couldn’t leave the country, and I had to check in with Sir Monte’s shadow once a day, or else. But with as much efficiency as when I’d been brought in everything was returned to me. In a complete mess but all there. When I asked about my passport, a clerk handed me a receipt and said, "If anyone asks to see it, give 'em this." Then Sir Monte put me in a car and we drove away, with Four-buttons beside me in the back seat.

He opened a folder and showed me a surveillance photo; it was of Savile Row.

“This is what you normally talk into your bed, isn’t it?” he asked in a way that needed no answer.

I nodded. “I saw him on the train. Almost went for him instead of Reg.”

“His name is Tafiq al Qasimi. He’s an Arab Muslim and has more than a slight connection to all four dead men.”

“Then bring him in.”

“We can’t. The evidence is, at best, circumstantial and he has diplomatic protection.”

“So why’re you tellin’ me this?”

“Pope,” Sir Monte snarled, “stop being so damn thick.”

Four-buttons took the photo back. “You made some rather incredible claims, during our interrogation. Claims which, if we read prior accusations against you, carefully, do not sound improbable.”

“You want me to seduce him? Fuck him? See if he keeps a diary to steal?”

Sir Monte took in a deep breath and muttered, “We want you to do whatever it takes to get to him and see if you can gather some evidence we can’t get.”

“Haven’t you got a gay cop who can do that?”

“We tried. He was unsuccessful.”

“He was the same physical type as the others,” said Four-button, “but al Qasimi proved uninterested.”

I took the photo back and looked at it. “Do you have other pictures?”

He showed me a couple dozen more. All surveillance. They’d been shadowing this guy for a while.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “If you were watchin’ this guy so close, how was able to kill Perriman?”

“We had two other officers on that train. When Thornton vanished an alert went out. They followed al Qasimi off at Hatton Cross but were met by a car and were brought straight back. They’d seen you and could help find you while we scoured the CCTV. We thought, for a moment, we had the wrong man under surveillance. We were proven wrong.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “This guy’s too damn neat to be out to kill anyone. And I think he made your cop out to be gay, and he’s not into gay men. At least...not if they’re out and proud. Was he? Your cop?”

“...Yes,” said Four-buttons.

“He’s deep in the closet.” Four-buttons was nodding, his eyes locked on me. “But you already know that.” I got a half-smile, in answer. “You sure the victims weren’t hidin' their interest, too?”

“We have found nothing in their backgrounds to indicate they enjoyed homosexual encounters.”

“But hasn’t he been with other guys -- ?”

“There is only such much investigation we can do,” said Sir Monte, “without arousing problems with the Foreign Office. Once that happens...who knows what obstructions will arise?”

“But he had a connection to these four guys.”

“Only a tenuous one, but...”

I finally got it. They wanted me to find out if he was focused on anyone else he had a tenuous connection to. Maybe prevent another death.

We stopped in front of the same hotel I’d checked out of, just hours before; Sir Monte insisted, and he made sure he knew what room I was in by escorting me up to it.

“I don’t like this idea, Pope,” he said as I unlocked my door, “but when dealing with evil, you cannot always play by the rules of the good. Sometimes evil must be used to defeat evil.”

“And I’m your kind of evil.”

“You’re a gamble we’re taking. What few people seem to understand about serial killers is, they appear to be good, normal people so get away with their crimes for years before making a mistake bad enough to bring them down. I don’t want to wait and have any more dead men’s families to face.”

“What if I get killed?”

“You will be given a hero’s burial.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I suggest you find a solicitor and barrister, and Queen’s Counsel will be in contact with them.” Then a cold, cruel gleam entered his eyes. “And we will send Thornton back out to try and decoy him, again. He wants to go. Who knows? This time, we might be successful.”

Ice shot through my veins and I clenched my jaw to keep from shivering, but the bastard still noticed. He had me and he damn well knew it.

I let out a long, deep breath and murmured, “You’re right; I should never have fucked with you.”

“Nice to have that understood.” Then he left, and I was stuck with paying the equivalent of nearly $150 a night till this was settled. Shit.

SHIT!

Banging head on wall can sometimes work...

I just found a way to make everything work better in Underground Guy. The police, now that they know what Devlin is all about, ask him to help them get the man they think is connected to the killing -- Tawfi. That's why they release him. They know Dev usually goes for men who are dark-haired and good-looking, that him attacking Reg was an anomaly, and he's all but bragged on how he can get any man he wants...so they say, Help us stop this, and we will ignore your past transgressions.

Quid pro quo, to misuse a saying made famous by Silence of the Lambs.

So now I have a lot of reworking to do in my outline, but it makes for a better, tighter story. What's even more fun is, Dev now thinks that by attacking Reg he may have saved his life. He now claims ownership of the guy and that will make for some bizarre situations, since Reg is married and has 4 kids.

Of course, that doesn't mean anything, really. I've been with married men. One of my first was a Marine with 5 daughters. It's amazing the depths people will go to in hopes of hiding who they are. Especially in the Republican Party. There are men and women who will support destroying the rights of the GBLT community because they think that will keep anyone from knowing who and what they are. And they keep getting found out...and yet, they keep lying about it.

And then there's the Log Cabin Republicans, who are open about themselves but are so self-loathing, they accept the abuse heaped on them by the GOP because they support part of the party's platform...usually on taxes...but lately I think their latent racism is coming into play, too.

But none of that with Dev; he's open and honest with himself about what he does and how he uses his anger to get revenge against those who've wronged him or his family. He's an animal, at times, and cruel...but he knows it and accepts it...

Until he connects with Reg and realizes how destructive it really is.

Slug-head still so some of UG

This is what I've been working on, this weekend: Chapter 3 of Underground Guy. More than 40 pages about this, but important to understanding Devlin.
He's the one telling the story and has been arrested by the Metropolitan Police. He's stuck in an interrogation room, and has just had his first back-and-forth with the head of the Met, who've already been in contact with the US Department of Justice to look into his background...and learned things about him that will be very problematic. His interrogators have just left.
-----
I peed, drank the whole bottle of water, and forced myself to sit back at the table. Finally, I had something to focus on besides my situation.

Griffin Faure.

Griffin fucking Faure. An Upper East Side, self-indulgent asshole who figured, Hey, life’s easy for me, so it must be for everybody. And daddy being worth billions, thanks to his sleazy real estate work, and having installed Griffin, his brother and his sister behind fine desks in a private office in his eighty-story headquarters in uptown Manhattan was beside the point. He honestly thought that was normal. Same for wearing ten-thousand dollar suits, working out with a personal trainer before he hit the office, going to all the right clubs and restaurants, and being lusted after by every avaricious bimbo there was -- half because he was divorced and they thought he was richer than Solomon, and...well, half because he wasn't really bad-looking. Dark hair, sharp eyes and kissable lips, but atop a weak chin. Still, if I'd run into him at some super-chic club, I might have tried my song-and-dance, maybe even done a roofie on him, just to get his ass.

Except I hated that fucking ass. Despised it. Loathed it. You name it.

He’d set up a huge conference in Dubai to trumpet daddy's move into oil; one of those Spare No Expense things meant to impress rich idiots into investing. Part of the package was a lapel pin of the company logo, two-hundred-and fifty of them, 18 karat gold (not plated) with a sapphire stone in a curling part of the F and each with its own silk-lined jewel box. Meaning, NOT cheap to make.

Dad had checked with Mr. Mihn to see if it was feasible -- he owns the factory in Thailand that we use to make the pins -- and he'd said, Yes. Dad also discussed it with Ghadir, who'd filled him in on the kind of jewelry people in the Middle East would go for, hence the sapphire stone. Our cost would be just over three-hundred thousand bucks, so our bid was five-hundred-thousand, with Dad making it clear we'd require fifty percent of the estimate up front. We got the order.

But Dad died before the deposit was arranged.

A couple of big dealers who were his buddies stopped using us, when that happened, so this job became make it or break it for the company. Then ten days after Dad was in the ground and a week after his Will had entered into probate, Griffin Faure met with Colin and said he'd pull the order if we insisted on the full deposit. The pins were already in the process of being made, in order to meet the deadline, so Colin caved and let him put up ten percent.

He didn't tell anyone, not even his wife, Diana; he figured once the pins came in, we'd hold onto them until the invoice was paid. He didn’t expect Faure to bribe our shipping manager to ship them soon as they arrived, before we'd even been able to do a quality check. By the time we realized what happened, Faure was saying they were bad quality but offered no proof of defect and ignored the contract he'd signed.

We sic’d Hamilton on him, and learned this was part of Faure's negotiation process -- Don't pay till they sue you, then make a settlement offer in exchange for not letting this drag on through the court system. The implication being, it would take years. Faure's offer? An additional fifty-thousand.

Mr. Mihn was holding back on our other orders because he needed to be paid, and US Customs wanted the duty due on the shipment or they were going to kill our bond, so Colin suggested we agree to the settlement, thinking it would tide us over till dad’s insurance paid up. But I was pissed as hell at what Faure had pulled, so even though I was still in college, I was also now half-owner of the business and I flat out refused.

Hamilton arranged for a meeting between him, me, Faure, and the little prick's five attorneys -- four male, one female. We met in their cheesy gold-plated conference room, and the second introductions were done -- and they’d stopped snickering at how some kid was there to negotiate with them -- I looked Faure straight in his black, condescending eyes, dove into my harshest Brooklyn and said, "Pay the contract in full, right now, or we go after you in court, plus damages."

The little bitch didn't even have the balls to respond to me. The attack dog to his left did, saying, "That could take years to settle and -- "

"Fine," I shot back. "Choice is yours."

"Hamilton," said the smirky attack dog on Faure's right, "shouldn't you be handling these negotiations? Young Mr. Pope doesn't seem to understand the delicacy involved in this."

"Fuck you, bitch," shot out of me before Hamilton could even let a smile cross his face...and did that send a ripple around the room. Even the female attack dog got her back up. "I told you what your choices were -- you pay what you agreed to, or we go to court, and once that happens, no more negotiation. It'll be all or nothin’ at all, plus damages."

The female popped in with, "For substandard quality?"

"Fine, send 'em back. I can melt 'em down, sell the sapphire stones, and recoup some of our costs."

"But your company is not in a position to make a demand of that nature, Mr. -- "

I turned to Hamilton and asked, "When does that conference start?"

He smiled as he said, "Two weeks."

"Is it true the pins’re already couriered to all the participants?"

"That's my understanding."

I shifted my eyes straight to Faure's. "Then you really wanna use that tactic? We provided you with substandard items, but you sent them to potential partners, anyway? Really?"

I finally saw some human emotion in those soulless black pupils, and it wasn't love. "We had a real jeweler correct the issues."

I shook my head. "Those pins have our seven-fifty stamp on 'em, so no matter what, they're ours. You tell people we crapped it up, we go after you for libel."

"I think I may let your company shut down."

I shrugged in answer. "That'll help us, in court."

The dog to his left leaned in to whisper something. Faure nodded, in response. Then the mongrel straightened up and said, "Seventy-five thousand -- in your bank by tomorrow morning."

I shook my head. "You owe us four-hundred-and-fifty-thousand."

"Which we will not pay." And I could tell he meant it. They all did.

Hamilton leaned in at that point and said, "Make it two-fifty, so my client can at least recoup their costs."

The woman piped in with, "It's not our fault you spent too much to make the pins."

“Specs agreed to, lady,” I snapped back at her.

And the mongrel growled, "One-twenty-five."

"One-seventy-five," Hamilton shot back, and the look on his face screamed, Don’t push it.

Faure gave the slightest of nods and the mongrel said, "Deal."

That's when I jumped in with, "But if it's not in our bank account by 4:55 today, deal's off. Okay for that, Hamilton?"

He nodded. "Someone will be at the courthouse ready to file the papers."

They paid at 4:56, just as Hamilton was calling his clerk to tell him to go ahead.
But the bank wouldn't extend us credit for the remaining seventy-five thousand we needed, so we still would have done a crash and burn if I hadn't postponed grad school for a couple years and let the company use my half of dad's insurance to keep the cash-flowing. Money that was would’ve paid for grad school. It gave us space to work our way back up to solvency, and I made damn sure not only did some of our extra cash from then on go into Treasuries -- no return but good collateral on a loan -- we never took another job without enough of a deposit to cover our costs. I also shifted us out of that fucking bank and into a credit union.

Of course, Colin felt responsible, but I did not blame him for this. He'd enjoyed dad's slaps and fists two years longer than me, and they'd left their mark. Not just in emotional scars but physiological ones. He would get blinding headaches that put him on the floor and had trouble remembering things clients told him or appointments that had to be kept. On top of that his mood could do a one-eighty like you would not believe, sometimes even in mid-sentence. After a dozen doctors told him he was just overworked or too stressed out or eating the wrong food or just imagining it, Diana forced through an MRI. That showed lesions on part of his brain. Which gave them a clue as to how to treat it -- which was basically to leave it alone and suggest he see a therapist on how to control the symptoms better. Diana hooked him up with a guy who worked with people suffering from PTSD, and he was on the road to actually seeming recovered.

No, it was Griffin Faure I held responsible, because he either knew about Colin's issues or sensed it and used it to his advantage. Apparently, destroying my brother meant nothing to him. For years after the debacle, it took a lot of work by Diana and me to keep Colin from doing a dive off the GW Bridge, and I loathed every ounce of Faure's being for it.

But it didn't come to a head till about two years after. I'd just reworked one of Colin's pin orders for the factory when he came in and sat on the floor behind my desk, his back against the wall. He was weaving and breathing hard and his hands were clenching each other. I stopped work and let him take his time to speak.

"You'll need to call Ghadir," he said, his voice thin as tissue paper.

I nodded. "Okay."

"I -- I called him a fuckin' raghead. I can't believe I did that."

"Considering he's a Persian Jew..."

"Yeah. Yeah." He finally sighed and said, "I'm never gonna be whole, am I? I'll never be complete. I keep screwing things up. Like that thing with Faure -- I nearly killed us."

I took in a deep breath and said, "Colin, considering what you've been through, you're doing great," as I hit a button on the intercom -- my warning signal to Marci, our receptionist, to get hold of Diana. Then I sat on the floor with him. "We got robbed by a thief. Not your fault. Dad's the one who set us up with that prick, not you. Faure would've pulled the same shit with him."

"Don't bet on it. Remember what dad always said?"

"I try not to."

He almost smiled. "He said not to put your eggs into one basket, all your eggs in one basket, but that's what I did -- "

"Um, I don't think that's the right saying for this."

"Doesn't matter. I killed your school fund -- "

"Colin, I got four more years to finish my masters and no idea what I'm gonna do my thesis on, yet. Working here gives me real-world experience and a chance to think about it and -- "

"You sound like a fuckin' college brochure!" he snapped.

I put an arm across his shoulders. "Y'know, I wouldn't sound like anything if it wasn't for you."

"...You...you were always gonna do fine..."

"No, I'd probably be dead or in jail or a junkie. You got between me and Dad a few too many times for your own good, but it protected me, and I love you for it, bro’. Now look at what we know. Dad...he damaged you like...like a car's damaged when it's broadsided or a boat'll sink if it's got a hole that isn't fixed. Griffin fucking Faure used that against us. He belongs in jail, like any thief. Once you’re fixed up, you'll see that."

He didn't move for a few moments then he whispered, "What if we can't fix me? What if I'm always a drain on you?"

"You think Diana’ll let that happen?"

He looked at me, almost smiling, again. "I got lucky with her, didn't I?"

"No shit. If I wasn't all about dicks, I'd take her away from you."

"Shit, you gotta talk about that?!"

"I am what I am."

He nodded, fighting himself. "More'n I ever will be."

"Diana won't let that happen."

He looked at me, near tears. "Why does she put up with me?"

"I hear she loves you."

He rested his head against his knees and choked out, "God, I want be right for her. I want to be a man for her -- "

I pulled him tight to me and said, "Colin, you got another kid on the way. I think you've been a man with her."

He just started to sob. We sat like that till Diana arrived and guided him back to his feet and into his office.
I didn't get up. If I had, I'd have stormed out, tracked that motherfucker down and broken his fucking neck.

Worked on UG, today

Got a rough section of the story worked out and written and fitted into the rest of things. Devlin's turning into a real devil, not that I mind. This part dealt with a rich asshole who defrauded his company and nearly drove his brother to suicide, so while what he does is hateful...it's justified. Somewhat.

So I'm really not up for writing on my blog. My brain is spinning in the story, still. Here's something to make it simmer down, a bit...a lovely reimagining of Despacito --

These two light up the stage when they perform, Luka Å ulić and Stjepan Hauser, with their drummer...whose name I don't know.
2Cellos
2Cellos in 2017.Background informationOriginZagreb, CroatiaGenresCello rock, classical, chamber music, instrumental rockYears active2011–presentLabelsSony MasterworksWebsite2cellos.comMembersLuka Å ulić
Stjepan HauserYouTube informationChannel2CELLOSliveYears active2011–presentGenreMusicSubscribers3.07 millionTotal views644.7 millionshow
Play buttonsSubscriber and view counts updated as of November 20, 2017.

Okay...I give...

Trying to jump back and forth between UG and APoS, to give me space and critical distance for each, is just spacing me out...and confusing me as to which story I'm working on, at the moment. I started adding notes into APoS that I meant for UG, and just had a hissy fit with myself. I guess I'm crap at multi-tasking.
Truth is, I never really have been able to do more than one thing at a time...and occasionally even have trouble with that. So...I'm going back to the focus on the one story at a time way of writing and just get it done. And I am going to have a first draft of UG written by the end of the month. Then I'll set it aside till I'm done with APoS in first draft. I can make notes for the rest of my life, if I let myself, and get neither of them completed.
It is easier to rewrite than to write, initially. Facing a blank computer screen is terrifying...perhaps even more terrifying than when you only had to face a blank page in a typewriter. Because with that untouched sheet of paper staring back at you, you know how hard it is to rework so fight to make sure, in your head, you've got it as close as possible to final.
While you also have the same basic premise with a monitor, it's easy to change things on a computer, so you have less reason not to just write...which feeds into a loop of, Why ain't I just writing something so I can edit it and rewrite it later? Which feeds into even greater feelings of laziness and self-flagellation...and on and on.
There's an infamous story about a writer hired to work on a script for a famous director (I think it was Raymond Chandler and Alfred Hitchcock, but don't know this for a fact). The writer would submit pages to the director and have them rejected with the comment, "They're all right, but they just don't contain my famous touch." Finally, the writer ripped a blank sheet out of his typewriter and flung it at the director, saying "Here, put your famous touch on that!"
I feel like both of them right now.

Curious dreams...

I've been having some weird ones, lately. Last night I dreamed I was in another country packing a minivan with boxes of what I think were books and it got towed because it wasn't parked in the right spot and I didn't notice until it was gone, then a lady offered me an Etch-a-sketch to help me find it and get it back without any cost, even though she spoke no English, but she seemed official enough to do it so I went along with her, wondering if I was setting myself up for something...and that's when I woke up.

I have no idea what dreams mean...or if they even rally mean anything. They might well be momentary mental breakdowns used by your unconscious mind to keep your conscious mind in good working order. Sort of like, "Okay, you go ahead and freak all over the place while I do some maintenance on this section of synapses that have been under a strain, lately. When we're done, you'll know."

Of course, I wouldn't know what sanity is. I don't think I've ever been what one could even begin to call truly sane; just a well-controlled schizophrenic. Which serves me well as a writer but can be hell on me as a person...and on friends and family, sometimes...

I'm getting closer and closer to the edge of cognitive capacities and making myself do things I want to do. Like watch a movie or sketch or work on a book. It's more than avoidance; I think a closer description would be laziness mixed with a cavalier attitude that it can be done tomorrow. Which is silly. I know it is...but it still takes me time to talk myself into doing what needs to be done.

It's not so bad for my day job. The nice thing about packing books is, it's simple...so getting that done is easy and straightforward. It can be physically demanding and exhausting, but once I see what and where I'm working, I can focus and get done.

It's focusing on the creative parts of my life that keeps trying to be impossible. I think it's more than procrastination, but I could be wrong. There is some avoidance mixed in for reasons already discussed. And maybe some weariness that I've gotten nowhere with my work, even though that's not all that important to me.

Or maybe I'm just kidding myself and really am a nut-job...

Today was an Underground Guy day...

I changed a character in UG from being a trader in Chicago's Merchandise Mart to a Chicago cop...and it actually helped add to Devlin's inner growl of anger. He hates the police and Catholic Church for not protecting his mother from his abusive father. It's a bit of a parallel to Brendan, in APoS, but Devlin's reaction is animalistic instead of human.

Also, there's a strong suggestion Devlin killed his father when the man came at him in a drunken rage...maybe deliberately, maybe not, I think I'm leaving that up to the reader to decide. The fact is, he doesn't even know the man's dying when he leaves; he just storms off and is told later they think the man had a stroke...and he dies.

I'm having fun with a lot of ambiguity in UG, and also self-justification on Devlin's part...which finally blows up in his face. Rather like Curt in HTRASG. Devlin is proving to be a wild creature, not a civilized one...like a tiger on a rock star's leash that reverts to the jungle, now and then, and becomes dangerous...but only at times. Curt never was really in control of himself or his situation, which is why he winds up a double-murderer.

I don't want Devlin to slip into deadly...but I'm not refusing anything that comes along if it works. The truth is, if his screw up with Reg hadn't happened, he might have become another John Wayne Gacy or William Bonin. Something else I might hint at. But no question in my mind the story will work out to where he helps stop the beast killing men around London. A sort of redemption...and maybe even an HEA. You never know till it's done.

With Brendan, he's fighting so hard to remain apart from the animalistic part of what's happening around him, I'm not sure he'll be able to keep from sliding into it. He's already showing he's got quick wits when things are tight, like his explanation to British soldiers about Colm's arm being hurt, deflecting them from thinking they were involved in a riot. He also acts responsibly in many ways, like when he's being arrested by the British in book 3 and calms down a situation that could easily escalate into a deadly fight. But he's also pragmatic and sees things for what they are, not what he wants them to be...until the end...

My boys keep keeping on my toes...