B.R. Stateham's Blog, page 25
August 6, 2011
A 'Smitty' story for today
Thought I'd share a 'Smitty' story with you today. Smitty is my dark-eyed hit man. Cold. Efficient. Silent. The kind of guy that makes you nervous if you're walking down a dark street in a fog all alone with only the clicking of your heels on the wet pavement to keep you company.
There are a lot of cold heated bastards slinking around in the night in the genre of Noir/Hard Boiled. Some almost human. Some distinctly not human. But Smitty is something else. The guy can't quit be nailed with a solid definition. Yes. He's a killer. But he never kills for pleasure. He has . . . so far . . . never killed someone innocent.
Just the opposite. Smitty has an almost uncanny ability to find the monster, the creep, the shyster, the cruel and rub him--or her--out in quite innovative ways. He has a sense of Justice. A sense of Ethics. Is he nothing more than an efficient killer? Or is he, as some suggest, perhaps a grim Angel of Death assigned to this earth to help clean out the vermin that live here in apparent abundance.
You decide.
Hope you like the story.
Goodbye, David
Through the driving rain he saw the three of them standing at the corner. The mother, holding a baby heavily wrapped in blankets soaked, had a hand up in the air frantically signaling for a cab to stop. Clutching her right leg was another child about five or six years old. Holding onto his mom as if he knew the world was coming to an end.
Soaked through and through. Mother and children.
Desperate.
Terrified.
Setting on the edge of the curb were two large suitcases. As he approached in his CTS Cadillac his black eyes noticed the young mother constantly looking over her shoulder to glance frantically behind her. Looking quickly behind her as if she expected someone . . . some monster . . . to come out of the rain and snatch her and the children and carry them away.
Coming, maybe, to drag them down to Hell.
Traffic, heavy and in no mood to slow down, raced past mother and children and paid no attention to the cold, wet huddle of humanity standing underneath the bright street lamp.
But he stopped. Pulled up to the curb in front of the woman and her children, hit the button to open the truck of the Caddy, rolled out of the car and stepped onto the curb and opened the back door. Rain, falling in sheets, pounded the cement. Cold rain. The cold slicing like a knife straight to the bone. Children and mother were shivering violently.
"Get in," Smitty whispered in a voice barely loud enough to be understood as he grabbed the two bags and threw them into the trunk.
The young woman—not much more than twenty-two or twenty-three—hesitated for a moment or two, eyes filled with fear and questions as she watched the tall, thin man with the strange black eyes close the trunk lid of the car. But not for long. Cold, hungry . . . terrified . . . she knew she had no choice. None.
If he found her—if he found the children—there would be no mercy. No help from anyone.
Making a decision she reached down and grabbed the arm of her five year old and steered him to the open door. When he jumped in she and the baby followed. No sooner had they slid across the leather seats of the Caddy the tall man with the dark eyes threw the door closed and started to walk around the car toward the driver's side door.
But—oddly—she saw the man stop just in front of the car and turn. Turn back toward the curb and peer into the rain. Peer at something unseen. Through the rain she saw the man's face. Handsome, she thought, in a cold way. Sharp edges. A thin nose. Strong jaw. And those eyes. Those eyes . . . .
Whatever it was which attracted the man no longer interested him. Walking swiftly around the front of his car he opened the door and slid in. In one smooth motion he pulled the console gearshift into drive and the car began moving. And that's when it happened. That's when her nightmares became real.
From out of the rain a large black form lunged for the rear door of the Caddy. Anger—fury—murderous rage written clearly on the madman's face as fists pounded on the window of the moving car.
"Nancy! Nancy! Where are you going? Nancy! I'll find you! I'll find you and the kids! There's no place you can hide from me! None! I'll find you and then I'll . . ."
But into the heavy fog of the rain the car slipped. Leaving behind the dark wraith standing in the street like some horrible nightmare waving fists in the air over head and screaming rage out to the night gods.
Smitty drove. Speaking not a word. Yet watching. Watching everything. Watching with dark eyes as the oldest child pulled on her mother's arm and looked up into her face with eyes filled with tears.
"Mommy . . . mommy. Daddy is so mad. Is he going to hurt you again? Is he going to use his belt on us again?"
"No dear, no. We're going somewhere where he can't find us. Some place safe."
Words said in the darkness of the back seat to soothe the fears of a child. But words which carried little conviction. Little hope. But fear. Layers and layers of fear.
Smitty said nothing. Said nothing but kept on driving.
An hour later mother, children, and the tall form with the odd dark eyes sat in the booth of a small out of the way restaurant. The table was cluttered with dirty dishes. The youngest child in the arms of the mother with a fresh bottle of milk. The mother with that beatific look of a mother in silent communion with child.
As it should be.
"Who was he?" the soft whisper came to her ears from across the table.
She looked up and into the dark eyes and tried to smile. Weakly.
"My husband, David."
"You're leaving him?"
Tears filled her eyes. Tears filled the eyes of the small boy staring up from behind the table and at the tall man with the dark eyes. Tears filled with hopelessness. And fear. Genuine fear.
"We have to," she said quietly. "He promised the next time he found us he was going to kill us. I know David. He means it. Six years ago he said he murdered his last wife. Cut her throat while she slept in bed. He told me last night he was going to do that to us when he got off work. So we left. Ran from the apartment and tried to find a way to leave town. But he's . . . he's . . ."
"A cop," the dark eyed man said. "He knows how to track you down."
Amazement filled the woman's eyes. Surprise on her face.
"How did you know? How did you know David is a cop."
"I know," is all Smitty said. "Where were you going to go tonight?"
"My mother's. It's the only place I know to go to. Mom will help us. Help us leave him. If I can get to Mom's . . ."
"He'll be there waiting for you," Smitty said. "He'll be there waiting for all of you. You can't go to your mothers."
"But . . . but . . . if he goes there Mom will be there all alone. He'll hurt her! Maybe . . . maybe even . . ."
"She'll be all right," the whisper answered firmly. "Take this, and give me her address. I'll persuade him perhaps it will be better to let you and the kids go."
A hand slid across the table and then pulled back. On the table was a credit card. She blinked her eyes at it a couple of times and then looked up into the cold, sharply chiseled face and stared.
"The Sheraton over on Broadway and Clifton. Register as Mary Hayes. I'll bring your mother over in a couple of hours. Got that?"
She nodded.
Smitty slid out of the booth and walked away.
Two hours later a large, black form of a man slipped out of the shadows of a house, walked across a rain soaked lawn, and stepped up to the front door of a small cottage. The small house had no lights burning within. Like the night it too was cold and dark. But the black figure didn't notice. In one hand was knife. A large carving knife. White knuckles gripped it as his other hand came up and began pounding on the door.
"Nancy! Nancy! Open up, goddammit! I'm here to finish the job. Here to do what I said I was going to do! Open up this damn door and let's get it over with!"
From out of the corner of his eye—movement.
A shadow.
Moving with an odd, almost slow, deliberation.
Turning, the fury glared at the figure standing on the sidewalk behind him and blinked rage filled eyes a couple of times at the figure.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Someone unimportant, David. But someone that has a message for you," came back the barely audible whisper.
"Yeah? What's that?"
The figure in front of the fury extended his right arm slightly. The sound—Click!—came to his ears. And from a passing car's headlights the image of a hand holding the polished cold steel of an open switchblade became visible.
Goodbye, David.
August 4, 2011
Rewriting an old tradition
Treachery.Treachery of a trusted comrade handing over to his enemies the one person who might end an endless war. The treachery of a loving son who murders his father in an attempt to save his clan from certain destruction. When was the last time you read a fantasy series that was dark, brooding, and complex? A fantasy series that redefines Magic. Makes magic adhere to rules--forces the magician to refrain from using too much magic. Makes magic demand a return payment of some type when its powers are used.
When was the last time you read a series which defined in a totally unique way the place where magic resides. Where the dead go after they leave their bodies. Where Time runs like an endless river, deep and devious, from horizon to horizon.
Book two of the Roland series will be coming out in a few weeks. Called Roland of the High Crags: Treacherous Brethren. A human warrior-monk and accomplished wizard is asked by a dying dragon nobleman save, and then raise, his only surviving heir. A seven year old dragon princess. But she is no ordinary princess. She is a powerful weapon honed and shaped by the dragon gods. A weapon designed to unite all of dragon kind and send them on a holy war to exterminate humanity.
Treachery.
The human warrior-monk, known as Roland of the High Crags, agrees to the task. Agrees to raise the child as his own--agrees to teach this weapon and try to convince it to turn against its creators. To defend humanity--and dragon kind--from the many dark prophecies which predict either the dragon, or man, will ultimately be destroyed.
When have you read a fantasy series which tried to change the very definition of fantasy? That's what I'm trying to do with this series. Change fantasy. Make it more colorful. More adventurous. More . . . thoughtful. Of course I haven't a clue as to whether I'll be successful. It's a big task . . . some would say a grandiose task . . . even attempting to redefine a genre. Egotistical even.
But what the hell.
Why not try? I certainly don't want to write something that's nothing more than a rehash of something that's been rehashed over a thousand times before. There are elements of the typical fantasy story in this series. There is a quest story. There are heroes and villains. There are damsels in distress. Fire-breathing dragons. Impossible escapes. Magic. The works.
It's not that a new canvas and a new set of paints have been created to rewrite a genre. It's how the old themes, the old colors, the old images are rearranged which will define something new.
We'll see how book two goes when it finally comes out. Maybe it'll work. Maybe not. But at least I'm trying to do something different. Sometimes that's the best we can do. Just try.
August 3, 2011
Thinking about The Thin Man
Nostalgia time again, me hearties. Back to the classic days of Noir/Hard Boiled detecting and writing. Today we're gonna look at a real classic. Dashiell Hammett's The Thin Man.(Eunice! Dammit, quit throwing those over sized sauce pans at me! I'll mow the damn yard later--you daffy dandelion!)
Women . . . .jeeesh!
As I was saying, Hammett's The Thin Man. Written, if my mind serves me still, around 1934 and was Hammett's last book. To my way of thinking it was his best. Much better than his legendary The Maltese Falcon.
Better in a number of different ways. First, reading the book, you immediately get a real sense of the era it came out of. American in the middle of the 1930's was still a nation suffering through the Depression. And like many of the movies coming out of that time frame, the theme of the book didn't dwell on the down side of American society. It dwelt in a society of luxury and ease; of money and casual, pleasant, existence. Of course throwing in a couple of murders and a mystery in the process. Nick Charles, the main character in the book, an ex-private eye, has the great good fortune of marrying into money. Lots of money. On top of that his wife is much younger than he is (he's in his forties) and when it comes to wit and intelligence and basic toughness, she's his equal.
That's great good fortune, boyos.
Secondly, this book is Hammett's best because of the way the words flow across the page. Smooth and easy. It's like sitting down with an old friend and having a long, pleasant chat; a chat so pleasant time simply ceases to exist. Brother and sisters, that's the hallmark of good writing. Not just good writing. That's the stamp of a master story teller.
Thirdly, there is this unsaid sense of respected equality between Nick and Nora Charles. Man and wife. Partners. More than that actually. Just damn good friends. I think that aspect of the novel has been sadly overlooked by many critics. The idea--coming out of the middle 30's in American history--of absolute equality between a man and a woman. Still rare today, if you ask me.
Without question a lot of Nick Charles--the character--in the book reflects Dashiell Hammett--the man--in real life. Go up and clink the link I've provided about The Thin Man and read for yourself. Hammett's life wasn't easy. Hammett was both tough and fragile; both reclusive and famished for affection. He trusted no one--until he found the one person in life he truly could identify with. From that relationship came The Thin Man.
Read the book. Read it a couple of times. It is a very pleasant experience. The book is an American classic that is going to be remembered for a long, long, long time. It is a yard-stick on how to write a good yarn for wannabe Noir/Hard Boiled writer like myself.
(Eunice! You bounce another pan off my head one more time, and I'm gonna get up outta this chair and send you to the moon. Yes dear; I love you too.)
August 1, 2011
Read this! It'll scare the hell out of you!
Ya want to read a nail biting, sinister, 'Jesus! Don't turn off that damn light just yet!' kind of of book? One that grabs you by the gonads and squeezes until the terror is just too much to take?Okay, Pookie . . . try Richard Godwin's Apostle Rising.
The books is about cops who have nightmares. Bodies that are cut up in some kind of . . . possibly . . . religious cult killings. About a killer who is, maybe, just too fraking smart to get caught.
It's the kind of novel I'd cut my hair off to write. (And let's face it, bro . . . if you've seen a recent picture of me, I don't have a lot of hair left on the noggin'.)
Richard is a consummate professional. He's English. So by default this means the man is naturally polite and attentive. Ah, but don't let that fool you, boyo! Out of the minds of the pleasantly smiling gentlemen comes the most sinister, and creepiest, of stories!
The bloke writes stories, novels, and plays. He's also one hell of an interviewer. His questions are thought provoking and require some original thinking to answer. I like that. He's been in many of the more popular e-mags that caters to noir/hardoiled writing, and now he's branching off into the world of novels.
And I'm jealous.
The guy is just too good looking. Too nice. And too damn pleasant. Although we've never met personally, we do bash around occasionally in various chat rooms and web sites and/or send emails to each other. I have a feeling if we ever did connect personally, we'd have a lot to talk about. Hours worth of talking. Maybe days.
Pick up a copy of the man's book. Read it. And then let me know what you think. I gotta feeling you won't be going to bed very often without taking a weapon of some type with you and tucking it under your pillow. You know . . . just in case.
July 29, 2011
The Newest Turner Hahn/Frank Morales novel
The depiction of cops in the hardboiled/noir genre has been littered with both the good and the bad. For writers like Robert Parker, Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and many others, the cop has been less than honorable if not squarely placed in the enemy's camp.For writers like Dell Shannon, Ed McBain, and others, the depiction of the working cop has been viewed thru a more sympathetic set of eyes. The cops in police-procedural novels come across a potentially both. Both good and bad. Both three dimensional or nothing more than cardboard cut-outs. Both either over worked or amazingly singularly-minded on solving just ONE case at a time.A few years ago (I won't tell you how long . . . but when was Abraham Lincoln the President?) I thought up creating two working cops. . . homicide detectives . . . and make them unique. Make them three dimensional. Good points and bad points. Strength and weaknesses. On top of that I thought I would make them something else not really sketched out fully in this genre; actually give them two attributes rarely seen.
First I was going to make them true friends. Partners in a precinct's homicide section. Close friends who knew what the other was going to say before the other said it. Make them odd. Funny. Watch them play pranks on each other as they goof around. Make'em humane. And at the same time as tough as the armor plate found on an M-1 Abrams tank. Make them in such a way that the reader will recognize that each detective is absolutely great at his job. But combined, they make for an unbeatable team.
The second thing I want to do is design two characters who had their own particular demons to fight--but neither had given up and became the dry, sullen pessimist drowning in a sea of self-imposed alcoholism. The question was when I created these two was this; in a grim world filled with blood, lies, deceit, and greed--could cops actually exist who were basically honest. And basically optimistic?
And I wanted them to solve homicide cases that were complex, twisted, filled with lot's of classical red-herrings. Not just one case, mind you. But multiple cases. All to be solved in a short amount of time. This idea of multiple crimes has evolved somewhat. Now I'm down to just two homicide cases that are not related in each book. Two unrelated cases that are genuine head-scratchers is enough for a fan to read--and keep track of.
So with these thoughts in mind, this is how I came up with my characters, homicide detectives Turner Hahn and Frank Morales. Each unique. Each with their own personalities. Their own weaknesses. Each needing the other in order to become an unforgettable team.
I bring this all up because sometime in August of this year (2011) Untreed Reads is going to come out with, A Taste of Old Revenge. Two separate homicide cases. One case stretching back more 60 years into the past. A case that brings up old horrors from the past and a massive--yet brilliant--cover up. The other stretching back to the First Gulf War and billions of dollars suddenly disappearing . . vanishing . . . in plain sight.
I don't know how successful this book is going to be. But I'm convinced it paints Turner and Frank in a more complex and unique light. It makes them more human. More vulnerable. And more believable. In the end, I think that's what readers want the most. Characters who are believable in situations that might be fantastic to contemplate on first thought, but not cartoonish are so outrageous as not to be within the realm of possibility.
Cross your fingers, my friends. Let's ride this roller coaster for as far as it will take us.
July 27, 2011
Writing and The Art of War
Sun Tzu. An ancient Chinese general who lived somewhere around 515 BC and served as a general in one of the many ancient Chinese armies fighting for dominance in that time period. Wrote perhaps the most famous of all military treatise on waging war entitled,
The Art of War.
(What, Eunice? You bet we're going to war if I have eat another one of your meat loaf's for supper tonight. Twenty one days of meatloaf is making me gag! So put on your armor, wench! En garde!)
Oh. . . . sorry about that. Sometimes the missus and I have a difference of opinion. About her 'cooking' if you know what I mean . .
But as I was saying, The Art of War . . .
What does a classical work about how to wage war and win battles have anything to do with writing, you ask. Ah, dear pilgrim! Everything! For in truth The Art of War is not so much about actually fighting and marching and all that soldiery stuff (which, I admit, he does talk about that and which fascinates me). It actually is more of a psychological study of both yourself and of your opponent. And this is at the heart of the matter.
To be a GREAT writer you must know yourself--and that of the reader whom you are aiming your work toward. You must know your writing strengths and weaknesses. You must study the market and see what works and what doesn't. You must dig deep within yourself and see if your abilities equal your desires to write well enough to succeed.
One of Sun Tzu's tenants is perhaps the most oft-quoted of all;
All warfare is based on deception.
Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable;
when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we
are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away;
when far away, we must make him believe we are near.
How does this translate to writing the perfect Mystery? The perfect Fantasy? The perfect Romance? When we're writing we should lay traps and intrigues for the reader to stumble into. We should set up labyrinths where the readers is lulled into a false sense of security in thinking they can predict the outcome of the story. Or knows three chapters before the end of the novel who the killer is. Or who actually is in love with Hortense.
When we write we should present the obvious; yet fade away when it appears the denouement has arrived. We should insert seemingly innocuous little details that, at first, appear to be of little significance only to later on realize they play a vital role in solving the conundrum.
Deception. What makes for a great book is deception. What delights a reader the most is deception and surprise.
If you have not read The Art of War I strongly urge you to do so. Read it and convert its tenants into rules and guidelines you can use as writing techniques. Don't become so religious about it that you MUST use every one. The old general would chastise you for being so literal. Flexibility, speed, a clear vision--those attributes he would stress the most. Rigid adherence to rules he would not.
(Eunice! Not fair, dammit! I'm encased in a knight's armor--and you're in a fraking Army tank! One of us has a decidedly difference of opinion on what is the definition of a fair fight!)
July 25, 2011
Talking about Chandler again
Here we are talking about Raymond Chandler again. Yeah, yeah, I know; I said in my last blog that too many writers want to compare their literary genius with Chanedler's (No Shit! This is Good Stuff!!) literary genius. And doing so is a mistake. A big mistake.Still . . . .
Chandler wrote The Little Sister in about 1949. Some of our college educated, over-rated, often pompous, and many times complete idiot 'experts', rate this novel as not one of Chandler's best. Let's assume for arguement's sake that this time, and only this time, the college educated wig-wags are correct. Maybe The Little Sister doesn't stand up to his Fairwll, My Lovely. It doesn't matter--even when Chandler was struggling he wrote in a way that just floors you when you read it. Take a look this--here's the opening paragraph of the book. You'll see what I mean.
The pebbled glass door panel is lettered in baked black paint: PHILLIP MARLOWE--INVESTIGATIONS. Is is a reasonably shabby door at the end of a reasonably shabby corrider in the sort of building that was new about the year the all-tile bathroom became the basis of civilization. The door is locked, but next to it is another door with the same legend which is not locked. Come on it--there's nobody in here but me and big bluebottle fly. But not if your from Manhattan, Kansas.
Okay, I admit: the crack about Manhattan, Kansas makes me grin every time I read it. I call myself a Kansan and any time The Little Apple is mentioned in any publication it's okay by me, sister. But moving past that little point: look at the fraken words! The vivid mental pictures Chandler paints in your head! Good golly, Gandolf! The mental image of that all-tile bathroom brings back all kinds of memories to me!
And people. Chandler had a way about describing people. Listen to this:
She was wearing a brown tailor-made and from a strap over her shoulder hung one of those awkward looking shoulder bags that made you think of a Sister of Mercy taking first aid to the wounded. On the smooth brown hair was a hat that had been taken from its mother too young. She had no make up, no lipstick, and no jewelry. The rimless glasses gave her that libriarian's look.
Maybe, just maybe, The Little Sister isn't Chandler's best. But brother, on a bad day Chandler's words have a way of just making your head spin in admiration at a master spilling words all over a clean piece of paper. His mediocre rates as the absolute best for many of today's so-called A-list writers. The guy died in 1959. Gone for fifty-two years. Yet pick up one of his novels and you're wrapped up in faster than you can snap your fingers. That's brilliant writing. That's a master craftsman talking to you.
That's why a lot of 'great' writers are eventually going to be forgotten. Their 'great' is only marginally good. But Raymond Chandler and his novels are going to survive for a long, long, long time.
July 23, 2011
The Raymond Chandler Trap
The other day was Raymond Chandler's birthday. He would have been a very impressive 123 years old. More importantly, if the old man was still alive, he would have been one genuine pain in the ass.(No, Eunice! I didn't say you were an ass! But now that you mention it, dear, you're certainly a pain!)
Who is Raymond Chandler, you ask. Quasimodo!! You've never heard of Raymond Chandler!? And you call yourself a writer of noir and hardboiled detectives!
For the rest of us poor bastards Chandler is the GOD of the whodunits. His writing simply was/is a marvel to wade through. It's like a dying man in the Sahara suddenly finding himself sitting in a deep pool of cool water in the middle of a gorgeous oasis. The way he could use one-liners to describe a person just explodes off the page. Here's an example:
"On the dance floor half a dozen couples were throwing themselves around with the reckless abandon of a night watchman with arthritis "---Playback (Chapter 8)
And dialogue. The man was a genius with dialogue. Example:
"Eddie Mars wanted to see me."
"I didn't know you knew him. Why?"
"I don't mind telling you. He thought I was looking for somebody he thought had run away with his wife."
"Were you?"
"No."
"Then what did you come for?"
"To find out why he thought I was looking for somebody he thought had run away with his wife."
"Did you find out?"
"No."
---The Big Sleep (Chapter 23)
Lots of 'experts' will tell you Chandler elevated the hardboiled/noir genre into the dizzying heights of 'literature.' Literature with a capital L, sister. Novels so well written, so perfectly cast with characters, no one can write'em any better. CAN'T be written any better.
And that, brothers and sisters, is The Raymond Chandler Trap.
Many a writer has thrown away a damn good working novel and bent over his Acer computer and wept like a fourteen year old after she broke up with her first love of her life. Wept in a deep funk of sheer agony knowing that no matter how hard he tried (or she tried, Bubba. I guess women write novels to. Go figure.) There was no way he was ever going to write something better than Chandler. Never.
I'll admit, the opening passage of Chandler's Fairwell, My Lovely is as about as close to perfection as is humanly possible. I mean it's just a joy to experience. You you haven't tried it, you don't know what your missing.
But snap out of it! Throw some cold water on your face. Drop a ball peen hammer on your big toe and make the pain wring you out of your deep funk. Come on! I mean, really; Who Gives A Shit Today about Raymond Chandler's Writing??? I'll tell you who. Only writers who want to write better than the master. And THAT'S your first mistake!
Instead of writing a damn fine story for the reader--you're writing a damn fine story and comparing yourself to Chandler. There's always this constant measuring stick in your head measuring how one of your well-turned passages matches up with Chandler's best passages. It becomes a bragging contest of who's the best writer. And you're gonna lose, budda. You're always going to lose on that bet.
So forget Chandler. Forget all the great writers of the past. They're dead--you're not. Your readers are waiting for YOUR words--not Chandler's. More than half of'em don't know who the hell Raymond Chandler is. Nor care.
If you're a writer you have to write YOUR story. There's this built-in genetic hunger to tell stories. To write. Why clutter your limited thinking space with worries about how your writing is going to stack up to some dead guy's writing? WRITE YOUR FRAKEN STORY! Let some fat ass with a bunch of letters behind his last name sitting in a leather covered chair and drinking a glass of fizzy Alka Seltzers in his library worry about how your writing stacks up to a dead guy's writing. That's his job.
Your job is to write.
July 20, 2011
Midnight Rambler-experimental short story.
Here's another one of my short-story/musical experimentations. Another Turner Hahn/Frank Morales story. Called, 'Midnight Rambler'. Find the link and listen to the song.
Midnight Rambler
The night began with the Rolling Stones.
Midnight Rambler .
I'm talking about the midnight rambler/An everybody got to go. . .
The raucous, defiant anthem of my youth seemed to be just what was needed on this hot, raucous night. Fingers drumming on the steering to the beat of the song, driving the 440 Dodge RT Challenger convertible, it was a quarter past two in the morning and it was as hot as hell. The city's streets were empty in the part of town my partner, Frank Morales, and I were driving through.
Well I'm talkin' about the midnight gambler/The one you never seen before . . .
We were driving down a dark street on a dark night.
Hot pavement.
Blistering heat.
On simmering concrete lined by menacing monolithic warehouses.
And dead bodies waiting for us just up the way.
Two of'em, lying in the middle of the street, face down, with big holes in the back of their heads. Lights from six different patrol cars converged on the bloody mess, their red and blue idiot lights filling the night with a nightmarish surrealistic painting. As we rolled up to the crime scene I had a bad feeling about this. Like maybe the night's violence was just beginning and Frank and I were going to be in the middle of it.
Climbing out of the car Frank and I had enough time to walk to the front of the convertible when Patrol Sergeant Dennis O'Keefe met us with a scowl on his lined face like that of a Bull Terrier.
"What a fucking mess, Turner. Two dead. One of'em is Venny Drelling. The other is one of Drelling's goons. Shot in the back of the head execution style. Hands tied behind their backs. And get this—each of has their little pinkies on their right hands snipped off."
Oh brother . . . not him. Not tonight.
Venny Drelling was a street punk who was making a reputation as a small time gang leader dealing in prostitution and drugs. Occasionally he contracted the services of his gang out to some of the more established, more mainline gangs to do their dirty work—work they had removed form themselves years ago. Sliding hands into my slacks I growled something underneath my breath and lifted a quizzical eyebrow toward Frank.
"The sonofabitch is back."
"Who's back?" O'Keefe asked, a dumb look of frank curiosity filling face.
"A Russian hit man," I growled, looking back at the bodies and shaking my head in anger. "Been in town before. Left a few people dead before he went back to Sevastopol. Took three or four fingers—trophies—with him. Name's Pushkin. Yuri Pushkin."
"Mean sonofabitch. Ex-Spetznas—their version of an Army Special Forces. Served in their political assassination unit," Frank added.
I nodded and pulled a hand to rub the rubble of my chin. It was two in the morning and I was way past my morning shave. And hours away before climbing into bed. But the thought of climbing into fresh, clean sheets and going to sleep was the last thing I had on my mind.
"Pushkin doesn't blow into two to knock off a guy like Venny Drelling on a whim. Somebody's paying him big bucks to do their wet work. Something's going down. Something big."
O'Keefe, a nineteen year veteran on of the force, all of it working the streets in the patrol division, shrugged his shoulders.
"Haven't heard a word about anything big, Turn. Heard Denny and another low life street thug by the name of George Jones were fighting for turf over on Troost Avenue. "
"George Jones? Tall, thin black kid with a gold front tooth? Runs a couple of bookie joints up there?" Frank said, eyes lifting up and toward O'Keefe.
"That's the one," nodded the patrol sergeant as behind us we heard the howl of meat wagons coming to collect the dead. "Want us to go bring him for questioning?"
"Oh, absolutely," I nodded, turning back toward the 440 RT. "Give us a call when you got him?"
O'Keefe nodded as he watched us crawl back into the convertible. Starting the big monster of an engine up I wheeled it back in reverse and got away from the scene just as the two ambulances came rolling to a stop beside the dead.
I'm talkin' about the midnight rambler/Well honey it's no rock'n roll show . . .
"We need to get a handle on this, Turn. Get it quick before Pushkin goes on his killing spree. He never leaves just two behind."
"I know. That's where we're going now. To talk to someone who might give us a heads up."
The drive across time was fast and not without running a few red lights—and of course, not a cop around to give us a ticket. Sliding up to the curb in front of a run down Thai grocery store Frank and I got out of the car, looked over the silent darkness for a moment or two and then moved quietly down the side of the building and turned a corner. A three story wooden addition had been added onto the building in back. Apartments mostly for Thai and Vietnamese immigrants. Glancing at the rattletrap of a building, noting no lights were on and everything was quite, we turned to the back of the brick grocery store. Lifting a knuckle I knocked twice, waited five seconds, knocked two more times. And then I stepped back and allowed Frank do to his thing.
Did you see me jump the garden wall/I don't give a hoot of a warning . . .
There came the sound of the door being unlocked. Someone inside opened it as far as the chain would allow and one bright eyeball revealed itself. About the time we saw the eyeball Frank lifted an open palm up and slammed it hard into the door. My partner is about six foot three—roughly the same height as me. But about one eighty pounds heavier. And it's not fat, brother. It's natural muscle. When his hand smacked open the door it smashed back into the face of the guy standing behind it and knocked him cold. And then fell off its hinges and dropped onto the slumbering thug lying on the floor.
We stepped over him and moved through the dim light of the back of the grocery toward a door which had bright light seeping out of its edges. Almost to the door a baby gorilla opened it hurriedly with a gun in his hand, stepped out and quickly and closed the door behind him.
"Who the hell . . ."
I didn't let him finish. Slapping his gun away with one hand, brought the other around swiftly, slid my fist past his cheek and used the flat of my elbow to smash into his jaw. The guy's legs buckled and he staggered back a step. But all the fight went out of him when a right knee came up and planted itself in his nuts and lifted him halfway to heaven. Catching him by his belt and his shirt collar I turned him around and threw him at the door like a battering ram.
The door splintered open bashing against the wall and the baby gorilla went skidding unconscious across the floor. In the middle of the smoke filled room was a large round table with about eight men of sundry nationalities sitting around it smoking cigars and cigarettes. On the table, surrounded by an array of beer and whiskey bottles, lay maybe five or six thousand dollars in hard cash. They still sat around the table holding their cards, cigars and cigarettes threatening to drop from their lips, too stunned to even get up.
I grinned and nodded at two men. One was a city commissioner we knew quite well and the other was the second deputy assistant to the newly elected mayor. A couple of others were prominent businessmen and conspicuous church members of a mega church downtown while the rest of them were small time hoods and drug dealers.
"Gentlemen, game's over. Grab your shit and get the hell out," I said, reaching down and taking the cards out of the hands of the man we came to see. "And be happy we don't haul all of you downtown under arrest."
That's all it took to clear the joint. In about twenty seconds there wasn't a soul to be seen in the room other than the sleeping baby gorilla and Stue Taylor sitting at the table, arms folded across his chest, a thin smirk of amusement on his lips.
"I'll give you one thing, Hahn. You and Frank know how to make a dramatic entrance."
Behind me the sleeping gorilla began to stir and groan. But Frank used a foot up against his head to put him back to sleep. Not gently, I might add. I kept my eyes on Stue. It wasn't beyond him to accept the odds and do something foolish. But he sat there loose and relaxed dressed in his sharp rags and waited for me to say something.
"Got a crazy Russian hit man in town who's already knocked off Vince Drilling and one of his bodyguards. Left them lying in the middle of the street with their brains blown out and hands tied behind their back. Cut off their right pinkie fingers before he left. Sounds familiar to you?"
The smirk on his lips didn't change but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. Yeah, he was familiar with Yuri Pushkin. A few years back he almost became one of Pushkin's trophies.
"Tell me what's going down. Why kill Drelling?"
The man didn't like me. In fact, if he thought he'd get away with it, he'd just much shoot me as talk to me. Taylor was into gambling, prostitution, loan sharking, and money laundering. He had a talent for taking money and making it disappear for the mob. Because of his connections he was a fountain of information to tap into—if you used the right method to tap into it. Puskin was that kind of tap.
"Turn, if this gets out that I told you anything, I'm as good as dead. Maybe that's what you have in mind."
"Coming in here like this? I don't think so. If I wanted your bosses to know you've squealed on them a couple of times in the past you'd been dead along time ago. Now, about Pushkin."
The blond, balding man of about forty with piecing blue eyes and the body of an athlete looked away for a moment and twisted his face into a scowl. He didn't want to say a damn thing to me. That was plain enough. He knew something—something important—was going down and he wanted to keep quiet about it. But the mad Russian was a factor apparently he hadn't heard about. Hearing it changed the dynamics of his thinking considerably.
"There's word going around a very prominent politician is going to get hit sometime tomorrow. In front of hundreds of people. An outside specialist was said to have been hired to set up the event. The idea is to send a message to the rest of the city's politicos. Mess with this guy and this could happen to you."
"Who's going down?"
The guy shook his head and reached up with an ear and pulled on it, grinning suddenly. A grin I didn't like.
"Don't know, speculation is it's our newly elected mayor. That'd be just fine with me. The bastard's made enemies. Far more enemies than he needs in his newly elected digs."
Yeah, I agreed with that. The mayor came to office on the promise of cleaning up this city. Going after the hoods and the mob. Taking out corruption within the city's infrastructure. And the funny thing is he had a way of convincing everyone he could do it. Would do it.
"So why kill Drelling? Where does he fit into this grand scheme of things?" I asked, eyeing Taylor.
"Haven't got a fucking clue, Hahn. And couldn't care less. As long as I'm not involved, it's okay by me."
"Stue, I get this impression you're lying to me," I sighed, shaking my head and almost smiling. "Why do I have this impression? Why would you want to hide something from me?"
"You stupid shit head," Taylor growled, his grin widening in pleasure. "Part of this show is being done for your benefit as much as for the mayor's. Whoever brought the Russian in wants the job done just a certain way. He wants it done and done with you in the middle of the fracas. He wants you to know about it from the get-go. And he wants to watch you suffer. The word is he doesn't want you dead. Not yet, at least. But he does want you squirm. To understand there's not a damn thing you can do about it to stop him. Or the Russian. All of this—all of it—is being down for you, buddy."
Well I'm talkin' about the midnight gambler/An everybody got to go . . .
We left the gambler sitting at the drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. Climbing back into the R/T we sat in the early morning darkness for a few seconds, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts. Hell. It didn't take a freaken' genius to figure out who was behind this little trip into megalomania. Nathan Brinkley.
Nathan Brinkley.
Politician. Personality pure and refined. Charismatic. Killer. He owned the city. He owned about half of the city government. He owned a huge portion of the state government. He was close personal buddies with the governor. Contributed often, and in large amounts, to the governor's political coffers. Called the state's attorney general by his first name. Had a crime organization that infiltrated into every aspect of the city's underworld.
Everybody loved him. Handsome, photogenic, suave. It was hard not to like the guy when you were standing beside him. I found myself succumbing to his wiles every time I did. But for all his qualities it didn't change the coldness of his heart. He was, at the core of his being, a cold blooded killer. Frank and I have been trying to bring him down for years.
I'm called a hit-n-run raper, in anger/Or just a knife-sharpened tippie-toe . . .
"We have no idea what Pushkin looks like," Frank's voice rattled in the darkness. "Haven't a clue where to start looking for him."
"Let's call Yank and tell him what's going down," I said, reaching inside my sport jacket and grabbing the cell phone. "See if we can get the mayor to a safe place."
"Won't happen," Frank answered, shaking his head in the darkness. "The guy said often he wasn't going to be intimidated by the crime bosses. He purposely schedules his weekly news conferences in the main lobby of city hall for everyone to attend. Come hell or high water they guy's gonna keep his promise."
I nodded in agreement. Yeah, the mayor was that type of guy.
Yank was Lieutenant Demitri Yankovitch—our boss down at South Side Precinct. Good boss. Tough as nails. Looks like a thin Bela Lugosi –if you know who that was.
"O'Keefe found George Jones," the lieutenant said as I held the phone up to my ear. "Dead. Messy knife job. Whoever did it cut him up pretty badly before they killed him. Took his right pinkie finger. And get this, used Jones' phone and called the newspapers to tell them a gang war was brewing up on Troost and the latest victim was named George Jones."
"Advertising," I said. "Pushkin's boss wants the word out fast. Wants the city's fathers to wake up and look at the morning papers. Get a hint what's gonna come down if they start getting any ideas of their own."
"Agreed," Yank's dry whisper answered over the phone. "So how do we save the mayor and stop this? How do we find Puskin?"
"I have an idea. But you're not going to like it."
"Then don't tell me. Just do it and let me worry about what happens afterwards."
Refrain; oh don't do that, oh don't do that
oh don't do that, oh don't do that . . .
Frank and I are cops. We've sworn an oath to protect the city and its citizens from the troglodytes who inhabit the night. We go after the bad guys and bring them justice. We're supposed to follow the rules: obey the laws. Read Miranda rights. Gather forensic evidence and present it in a step-by-step procedural process. Play fair.
But sometimes the time comes when you have to severely bruise the law. Batter it around like a red-headed stepchild. Sometimes the only way to find justice is to it press close to the precipice of injustice.
Sometimes . . . sometimes . . . whether we like it or not, the ends do justify the means.
So. Right as dawn was beginning to turn the sky pinkish white with a new summer day—we sat across the kitchen table from Nathan Brinkley. A rudely awaken, irritable, disheveled Nathan Brinkley. It took some effort on our part to convince a household of goons we had to talk to their boss—and talk to him immediately before the mayor's scheduled nine a.m. news conference. Won't go into details as how we convinced our arch enemy to see us personally. Suffice to say he wasn't happy about it. Nor were several badly bruised goons of his.
"What the hell, Turner. Trying to break into my home? My home! Are you fucking crazy?"
"Yeah, crazy. I'm crazy," I said, grinning and looking at the city's de facto leader as he poured himself a large cup of coffee with a scowl on his face. "We're here to save your miserable life and you're accusing me of being crazy. That's just swell."
"What the hell are you talking about? And do it fast, I haven't time for chitchat. I've got to be with the mayor this morning at his news conference."
A smile almost played across the charismatic man's lips. His eyes were dark and penetrating as he lifted his cup and glared at me. A smug, satisfied look.
"Want cha' to take a look at these photos, Nathan. You might find them interesting."
From a file folder I withdrew three 6X9 photos and laid them out, side by side, and slid them across the table. The photo of Nathan's left was that of a lovely raven haired girl of about twenty wearing a bright white sky suit, skis leaning against her arm, as she waited for a ski lift chair somewhere up in the Swiss Alps. The middle photo was that of a ninety year old woman sitting in a wheelchair at a table and reading a magazine. The third was that of a little boy of seven or eight dressed in a soccer uniform and trying to kick a ball into a net. All three were obvious photos taken with a powerful zoom lens. From afar.
Daughter. Mother. Son.
The cup in Nathan Brinkley's hand dropped to the table, coffee splashing angrily. Brinkley stared at the now stained photos, color draining from his face, and then cold, hard eyes came up and locked in on mine.
"Thirty seconds, Turner. Thirty second to tell me what this is about. The clock is ticking."
I looked into his face and chuckled.
"You silly bastard. You think you're the only one who can play dirty? You think you call all the shots? Got those photos off one of George Jones's friends. You know George . . . one of the punks who used to work for you and who you had Yuri Pushkin butcher last night. Ah, shut up. Don't deny it. 'Course we can't prove it so you're fucking safe. For now. But you hired the Russian to come in here and do a job for you. Turns out the Russian has some plans of his own. Apparently he took those photos. I think the guy is thinking about expanding. Maybe about becoming a full partner. Maybe taking over."
For several burning seconds Brinkley stared at me in cold silence. His eyes were piercing. His complexion as pale as a corpse.
"What is it you want, Hahn."
"Puskin. We want Puskin before whatever is to happen this morning happens."
"And what if I don't believe you—assuming, of course—I know anything about this Yuri Puskin."
The dimples in my cheeks deepened as I smiled. I had him. Had him nibbling on my hook. As I hoped I might.
"You know who he is. You know what he is. You two are spiritual kin. You play with that kind of heat you should expect to be burned. And he's tough enough to get what he wants if something he wants comes to mind. Can you afford to take that chance with a guy like Yuri Puskin?"
Silence. Long—drawn out—incredible silence.
"You're thirty seconds are over. We have nothing more to discuss. Get out now. Leave my house and never come back."
Brinkley swept a hand across the table and scooped the three photos off as he turned and stalked out of the kitchen. A dozen goons appeared and we were rudely escorted out of the house. Pushed out of the compound wall surrounding Brinkley's home we took our time straightening ourselves up and wiping the blood off our lips—just friendly gestures—and Frank eyed me quizzically.
"Think he bought it?"
"We'll find out in about a half hour. If we get phone call and an address."
"When he finds out we've pulled a fast one on him he's going to go ape-shit. He could get mean."
I nodded in agreement. And then shook my head no.
"Maybe. Maybe not. He's got to figure out how we knew about his daughter living in the Alps. About a son he's never mentioned to anyone. About his mother. And then he's got to wonder just how far someone might go if they were truly wanting to hurt him. Everyone one's got a weakness, Frank. Everyone. Even megalomaniacs like Nathan Brinkley."
Well you heard about the Boston/Honey, its not one of those . . .
Driving in traffic toward city hall my cell phone rang. Sliding it open I lifted it to my ear.
"Bennet Building. Seventeenth floor. Office 1701."
Click.
The bait had been taken.
We whipped around a corner and through a red light, horn blaring to scattered pedestrians, and hit the gas. It took about ten minutes to get there. Sliding to the curb in front of the building we got out and started walking toward the rotating glass doors.
"Back up?"
"He'll see'em coming. Disappear long before they get up there."
Frank glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past seven.
"An hour and forty-five minutes before the conference. Call Yank and tell'em to delay?"
I shook my head no as we hurried through the crowded lobby toward the bank of elevators. The ride up to the seventeenth floor was long and slow. No one else was in the elevator but us two.
Stepping out onto the floor we paused and gazed down the long hall. Black tile, freshly polished, glistened soft white light. Shafts of sunlight cut like hot torches through several officer doors. The floor was deathly quiet. The usual flora and fauna that made up this world had not arrived yet.
We walked down the hall and came up to 1701. Neither Frank nor I made any attempt to open it. Our previous encounter with Yuri was a learning experience. The pro would have the place wired. Anyone entering the empty office—it had to be an empty office with a direct line of sight through a City Hall window and straight to the small podium where the mayor and other dignitaries would be using—and he would know.
So we jimmied open an office door down at the end of the hall and stepped in. We had a good view, the door partially open, to see anyone coming down the hall. Not to our surprise we found the office we were standing in need of an occupant.
Forty-five minutes later we heard a door softly shut and then heard the odd squeaking sound of a wheel in need of some 4-in-1 oil. A figure dressed in a set of gray coveralls with big words splashed across his back advertising a janitorial firm came into view. The guy was pushing a large cart that held a very large trash can along with several brooms and mops on it. He was a tall man, thin, with sandy blond, curly hair. He had the wiry body of a long distance runner. He moved past the door and slowly made his way down to 1701. Stopping in front of door the guy looked down each length of the hall and then quickly opened the office door. Glancing up and down the hall again he pushed the cart into the empty office and closed the door behind him.
Frank and I came out of the office, guns in hand, and moved down the hall. We didn't hesitate. Frank used a foot to kick the door open and we went in low and fast. We were expected.
I heard Frank grunt in pain, turned, and saw Yuri Puskin standing behind Frank with an arm wrapped around Frank's neck and a 9 mm Heckler&Kock pressed against Frank's temple. A thin smile of amusement was on Puskin's handsome boyish face as watery blue eyes stared at me.
"Frank, Turner—good morning. I thought you might be calling."
Surprise. Pushkin spoke excellent English with only a slight hint of his origins. My second surprise came from Frank. It was the first time I had ever . . . ever . . . heard him grunt in pain from being hit by someone.
"It is a pleasure to meet you two at last. Of course, it would have been better under different circumstances. Drop your gun, Turner. Or you're friend dies."
"Drop my gun and we're dead anyway, Yuri. If I'm checking out, I might as well go down blazing."
I brought the gun up and leapt to my left at the same time. The moment I moved, Frank moved. Say what you think about my hulking friend. But the guy is deceptively fast. Faster than Yuri anticipated. Pushkin's 9mm spit twice, the shots bruising our eardrums. I felt a bullet tug at my sport coat as I hit the floor and rolled on a shoulder before coming up with the .45 cal. Kimber in hand and firing.
Frank was fast. A brute with strength and quick reflexes. But Puskin was faster. Frank had dislodged himself and was turning to take on the Russian with his bare hands. But Puskin's training kicked in. A foot to Frank's knee, a karate chop toward the man's neck and Frank should have gone down in a ball of squirming pain. The blow to the knee hit solid. The karate chop to the neck was partially blocked. At the same time Puskin kept shooting toward my direction. Twice his nine spit out flame and hot lead. Twice the bullets missed me by just millimeters. But his shooting kept me moving and I couldn't get another shot off at him in the process.
It ended in a draw. One of Frank's big hams for a fist plowed into Puskin's ribs and I heard the man grunt in pain and his nine clatter to the floor. At about the same time I heard Frank grunt again in pain and stagger two steps back. That was enough. Pushkin, weaponless, was out the office door and gone before either of us could come to our feet.
Blood running down the side of his head, Frank took a step back to stabilize himself and then brought a hand up and covered his ribs with it.
"That sonofabitch knows how to throw a punch. You all right?"
I was. But my sport coat had two bullet holes in it. One on either side of the jacket just an inch or two away for the coat's second button. Apparently hit while open and while rolling around on the floor.
"Christ, you're lucky. I don't remembering reading about Pushkin ever missing."
"Yeah, lucky," I nodded, holstering the Kimber and turning to look at the long barreled .50 caliber sniper's rifle Pushkin had brought with him. "So's the mayor. If Pushkin used that on him they'd been nothing left to bury."
But we weren't finished with the Russian just yet. Hours later, sitting with Frank at a diner eating lunch—and happy that mayor and dignitaries . . . including Nathan Brinkley . . .had survived the day, my cell phone rings.
"Well played, my friends. Well played. Until next time. Dasvedanya. "
And if you ever catch the midnight rambler
Steal your mistress from under your nose
Go easy with your cold-finger anger
Or I'll stick my knife right down your throat, baby. And it hurts . . .
Midnight Rambler
The night began with the Rolling Stones.
Midnight Rambler .
I'm talking about the midnight rambler/An everybody got to go. . .
The raucous, defiant anthem of my youth seemed to be just what was needed on this hot, raucous night. Fingers drumming on the steering to the beat of the song, driving the 440 Dodge RT Challenger convertible, it was a quarter past two in the morning and it was as hot as hell. The city's streets were empty in the part of town my partner, Frank Morales, and I were driving through.
Well I'm talkin' about the midnight gambler/The one you never seen before . . .
We were driving down a dark street on a dark night.
Hot pavement.
Blistering heat.
On simmering concrete lined by menacing monolithic warehouses.
And dead bodies waiting for us just up the way.
Two of'em, lying in the middle of the street, face down, with big holes in the back of their heads. Lights from six different patrol cars converged on the bloody mess, their red and blue idiot lights filling the night with a nightmarish surrealistic painting. As we rolled up to the crime scene I had a bad feeling about this. Like maybe the night's violence was just beginning and Frank and I were going to be in the middle of it.
Climbing out of the car Frank and I had enough time to walk to the front of the convertible when Patrol Sergeant Dennis O'Keefe met us with a scowl on his lined face like that of a Bull Terrier.
"What a fucking mess, Turner. Two dead. One of'em is Venny Drelling. The other is one of Drelling's goons. Shot in the back of the head execution style. Hands tied behind their backs. And get this—each of has their little pinkies on their right hands snipped off."
Oh brother . . . not him. Not tonight.
Venny Drelling was a street punk who was making a reputation as a small time gang leader dealing in prostitution and drugs. Occasionally he contracted the services of his gang out to some of the more established, more mainline gangs to do their dirty work—work they had removed form themselves years ago. Sliding hands into my slacks I growled something underneath my breath and lifted a quizzical eyebrow toward Frank.
"The sonofabitch is back."
"Who's back?" O'Keefe asked, a dumb look of frank curiosity filling face.
"A Russian hit man," I growled, looking back at the bodies and shaking my head in anger. "Been in town before. Left a few people dead before he went back to Sevastopol. Took three or four fingers—trophies—with him. Name's Pushkin. Yuri Pushkin."
"Mean sonofabitch. Ex-Spetznas—their version of an Army Special Forces. Served in their political assassination unit," Frank added.
I nodded and pulled a hand to rub the rubble of my chin. It was two in the morning and I was way past my morning shave. And hours away before climbing into bed. But the thought of climbing into fresh, clean sheets and going to sleep was the last thing I had on my mind.
"Pushkin doesn't blow into two to knock off a guy like Venny Drelling on a whim. Somebody's paying him big bucks to do their wet work. Something's going down. Something big."
O'Keefe, a nineteen year veteran on of the force, all of it working the streets in the patrol division, shrugged his shoulders.
"Haven't heard a word about anything big, Turn. Heard Denny and another low life street thug by the name of George Jones were fighting for turf over on Troost Avenue. "
"George Jones? Tall, thin black kid with a gold front tooth? Runs a couple of bookie joints up there?" Frank said, eyes lifting up and toward O'Keefe.
"That's the one," nodded the patrol sergeant as behind us we heard the howl of meat wagons coming to collect the dead. "Want us to go bring him for questioning?"
"Oh, absolutely," I nodded, turning back toward the 440 RT. "Give us a call when you got him?"
O'Keefe nodded as he watched us crawl back into the convertible. Starting the big monster of an engine up I wheeled it back in reverse and got away from the scene just as the two ambulances came rolling to a stop beside the dead.
I'm talkin' about the midnight rambler/Well honey it's no rock'n roll show . . .
"We need to get a handle on this, Turn. Get it quick before Pushkin goes on his killing spree. He never leaves just two behind."
"I know. That's where we're going now. To talk to someone who might give us a heads up."
The drive across time was fast and not without running a few red lights—and of course, not a cop around to give us a ticket. Sliding up to the curb in front of a run down Thai grocery store Frank and I got out of the car, looked over the silent darkness for a moment or two and then moved quietly down the side of the building and turned a corner. A three story wooden addition had been added onto the building in back. Apartments mostly for Thai and Vietnamese immigrants. Glancing at the rattletrap of a building, noting no lights were on and everything was quite, we turned to the back of the brick grocery store. Lifting a knuckle I knocked twice, waited five seconds, knocked two more times. And then I stepped back and allowed Frank do to his thing.
Did you see me jump the garden wall/I don't give a hoot of a warning . . .
There came the sound of the door being unlocked. Someone inside opened it as far as the chain would allow and one bright eyeball revealed itself. About the time we saw the eyeball Frank lifted an open palm up and slammed it hard into the door. My partner is about six foot three—roughly the same height as me. But about one eighty pounds heavier. And it's not fat, brother. It's natural muscle. When his hand smacked open the door it smashed back into the face of the guy standing behind it and knocked him cold. And then fell off its hinges and dropped onto the slumbering thug lying on the floor.
We stepped over him and moved through the dim light of the back of the grocery toward a door which had bright light seeping out of its edges. Almost to the door a baby gorilla opened it hurriedly with a gun in his hand, stepped out and quickly and closed the door behind him.
"Who the hell . . ."
I didn't let him finish. Slapping his gun away with one hand, brought the other around swiftly, slid my fist past his cheek and used the flat of my elbow to smash into his jaw. The guy's legs buckled and he staggered back a step. But all the fight went out of him when a right knee came up and planted itself in his nuts and lifted him halfway to heaven. Catching him by his belt and his shirt collar I turned him around and threw him at the door like a battering ram.
The door splintered open bashing against the wall and the baby gorilla went skidding unconscious across the floor. In the middle of the smoke filled room was a large round table with about eight men of sundry nationalities sitting around it smoking cigars and cigarettes. On the table, surrounded by an array of beer and whiskey bottles, lay maybe five or six thousand dollars in hard cash. They still sat around the table holding their cards, cigars and cigarettes threatening to drop from their lips, too stunned to even get up.
I grinned and nodded at two men. One was a city commissioner we knew quite well and the other was the second deputy assistant to the newly elected mayor. A couple of others were prominent businessmen and conspicuous church members of a mega church downtown while the rest of them were small time hoods and drug dealers.
"Gentlemen, game's over. Grab your shit and get the hell out," I said, reaching down and taking the cards out of the hands of the man we came to see. "And be happy we don't haul all of you downtown under arrest."
That's all it took to clear the joint. In about twenty seconds there wasn't a soul to be seen in the room other than the sleeping baby gorilla and Stue Taylor sitting at the table, arms folded across his chest, a thin smirk of amusement on his lips.
"I'll give you one thing, Hahn. You and Frank know how to make a dramatic entrance."
Behind me the sleeping gorilla began to stir and groan. But Frank used a foot up against his head to put him back to sleep. Not gently, I might add. I kept my eyes on Stue. It wasn't beyond him to accept the odds and do something foolish. But he sat there loose and relaxed dressed in his sharp rags and waited for me to say something.
"Got a crazy Russian hit man in town who's already knocked off Vince Drilling and one of his bodyguards. Left them lying in the middle of the street with their brains blown out and hands tied behind their back. Cut off their right pinkie fingers before he left. Sounds familiar to you?"
The smirk on his lips didn't change but there was a flicker of concern in his eyes. Yeah, he was familiar with Yuri Pushkin. A few years back he almost became one of Pushkin's trophies.
"Tell me what's going down. Why kill Drelling?"
The man didn't like me. In fact, if he thought he'd get away with it, he'd just much shoot me as talk to me. Taylor was into gambling, prostitution, loan sharking, and money laundering. He had a talent for taking money and making it disappear for the mob. Because of his connections he was a fountain of information to tap into—if you used the right method to tap into it. Puskin was that kind of tap.
"Turn, if this gets out that I told you anything, I'm as good as dead. Maybe that's what you have in mind."
"Coming in here like this? I don't think so. If I wanted your bosses to know you've squealed on them a couple of times in the past you'd been dead along time ago. Now, about Pushkin."
The blond, balding man of about forty with piecing blue eyes and the body of an athlete looked away for a moment and twisted his face into a scowl. He didn't want to say a damn thing to me. That was plain enough. He knew something—something important—was going down and he wanted to keep quiet about it. But the mad Russian was a factor apparently he hadn't heard about. Hearing it changed the dynamics of his thinking considerably.
"There's word going around a very prominent politician is going to get hit sometime tomorrow. In front of hundreds of people. An outside specialist was said to have been hired to set up the event. The idea is to send a message to the rest of the city's politicos. Mess with this guy and this could happen to you."
"Who's going down?"
The guy shook his head and reached up with an ear and pulled on it, grinning suddenly. A grin I didn't like.
"Don't know, speculation is it's our newly elected mayor. That'd be just fine with me. The bastard's made enemies. Far more enemies than he needs in his newly elected digs."
Yeah, I agreed with that. The mayor came to office on the promise of cleaning up this city. Going after the hoods and the mob. Taking out corruption within the city's infrastructure. And the funny thing is he had a way of convincing everyone he could do it. Would do it.
"So why kill Drelling? Where does he fit into this grand scheme of things?" I asked, eyeing Taylor.
"Haven't got a fucking clue, Hahn. And couldn't care less. As long as I'm not involved, it's okay by me."
"Stue, I get this impression you're lying to me," I sighed, shaking my head and almost smiling. "Why do I have this impression? Why would you want to hide something from me?"
"You stupid shit head," Taylor growled, his grin widening in pleasure. "Part of this show is being done for your benefit as much as for the mayor's. Whoever brought the Russian in wants the job done just a certain way. He wants it done and done with you in the middle of the fracas. He wants you to know about it from the get-go. And he wants to watch you suffer. The word is he doesn't want you dead. Not yet, at least. But he does want you squirm. To understand there's not a damn thing you can do about it to stop him. Or the Russian. All of this—all of it—is being down for you, buddy."
Well I'm talkin' about the midnight gambler/An everybody got to go . . .
We left the gambler sitting at the drinking whiskey straight from the bottle. Climbing back into the R/T we sat in the early morning darkness for a few seconds, each of us wrapped in our own thoughts. Hell. It didn't take a freaken' genius to figure out who was behind this little trip into megalomania. Nathan Brinkley.
Nathan Brinkley.
Politician. Personality pure and refined. Charismatic. Killer. He owned the city. He owned about half of the city government. He owned a huge portion of the state government. He was close personal buddies with the governor. Contributed often, and in large amounts, to the governor's political coffers. Called the state's attorney general by his first name. Had a crime organization that infiltrated into every aspect of the city's underworld.
Everybody loved him. Handsome, photogenic, suave. It was hard not to like the guy when you were standing beside him. I found myself succumbing to his wiles every time I did. But for all his qualities it didn't change the coldness of his heart. He was, at the core of his being, a cold blooded killer. Frank and I have been trying to bring him down for years.
I'm called a hit-n-run raper, in anger/Or just a knife-sharpened tippie-toe . . .
"We have no idea what Pushkin looks like," Frank's voice rattled in the darkness. "Haven't a clue where to start looking for him."
"Let's call Yank and tell him what's going down," I said, reaching inside my sport jacket and grabbing the cell phone. "See if we can get the mayor to a safe place."
"Won't happen," Frank answered, shaking his head in the darkness. "The guy said often he wasn't going to be intimidated by the crime bosses. He purposely schedules his weekly news conferences in the main lobby of city hall for everyone to attend. Come hell or high water they guy's gonna keep his promise."
I nodded in agreement. Yeah, the mayor was that type of guy.
Yank was Lieutenant Demitri Yankovitch—our boss down at South Side Precinct. Good boss. Tough as nails. Looks like a thin Bela Lugosi –if you know who that was.
"O'Keefe found George Jones," the lieutenant said as I held the phone up to my ear. "Dead. Messy knife job. Whoever did it cut him up pretty badly before they killed him. Took his right pinkie finger. And get this, used Jones' phone and called the newspapers to tell them a gang war was brewing up on Troost and the latest victim was named George Jones."
"Advertising," I said. "Pushkin's boss wants the word out fast. Wants the city's fathers to wake up and look at the morning papers. Get a hint what's gonna come down if they start getting any ideas of their own."
"Agreed," Yank's dry whisper answered over the phone. "So how do we save the mayor and stop this? How do we find Puskin?"
"I have an idea. But you're not going to like it."
"Then don't tell me. Just do it and let me worry about what happens afterwards."
Refrain; oh don't do that, oh don't do that
oh don't do that, oh don't do that . . .
Frank and I are cops. We've sworn an oath to protect the city and its citizens from the troglodytes who inhabit the night. We go after the bad guys and bring them justice. We're supposed to follow the rules: obey the laws. Read Miranda rights. Gather forensic evidence and present it in a step-by-step procedural process. Play fair.
But sometimes the time comes when you have to severely bruise the law. Batter it around like a red-headed stepchild. Sometimes the only way to find justice is to it press close to the precipice of injustice.
Sometimes . . . sometimes . . . whether we like it or not, the ends do justify the means.
So. Right as dawn was beginning to turn the sky pinkish white with a new summer day—we sat across the kitchen table from Nathan Brinkley. A rudely awaken, irritable, disheveled Nathan Brinkley. It took some effort on our part to convince a household of goons we had to talk to their boss—and talk to him immediately before the mayor's scheduled nine a.m. news conference. Won't go into details as how we convinced our arch enemy to see us personally. Suffice to say he wasn't happy about it. Nor were several badly bruised goons of his.
"What the hell, Turner. Trying to break into my home? My home! Are you fucking crazy?"
"Yeah, crazy. I'm crazy," I said, grinning and looking at the city's de facto leader as he poured himself a large cup of coffee with a scowl on his face. "We're here to save your miserable life and you're accusing me of being crazy. That's just swell."
"What the hell are you talking about? And do it fast, I haven't time for chitchat. I've got to be with the mayor this morning at his news conference."
A smile almost played across the charismatic man's lips. His eyes were dark and penetrating as he lifted his cup and glared at me. A smug, satisfied look.
"Want cha' to take a look at these photos, Nathan. You might find them interesting."
From a file folder I withdrew three 6X9 photos and laid them out, side by side, and slid them across the table. The photo of Nathan's left was that of a lovely raven haired girl of about twenty wearing a bright white sky suit, skis leaning against her arm, as she waited for a ski lift chair somewhere up in the Swiss Alps. The middle photo was that of a ninety year old woman sitting in a wheelchair at a table and reading a magazine. The third was that of a little boy of seven or eight dressed in a soccer uniform and trying to kick a ball into a net. All three were obvious photos taken with a powerful zoom lens. From afar.
Daughter. Mother. Son.
The cup in Nathan Brinkley's hand dropped to the table, coffee splashing angrily. Brinkley stared at the now stained photos, color draining from his face, and then cold, hard eyes came up and locked in on mine.
"Thirty seconds, Turner. Thirty second to tell me what this is about. The clock is ticking."
I looked into his face and chuckled.
"You silly bastard. You think you're the only one who can play dirty? You think you call all the shots? Got those photos off one of George Jones's friends. You know George . . . one of the punks who used to work for you and who you had Yuri Pushkin butcher last night. Ah, shut up. Don't deny it. 'Course we can't prove it so you're fucking safe. For now. But you hired the Russian to come in here and do a job for you. Turns out the Russian has some plans of his own. Apparently he took those photos. I think the guy is thinking about expanding. Maybe about becoming a full partner. Maybe taking over."
For several burning seconds Brinkley stared at me in cold silence. His eyes were piercing. His complexion as pale as a corpse.
"What is it you want, Hahn."
"Puskin. We want Puskin before whatever is to happen this morning happens."
"And what if I don't believe you—assuming, of course—I know anything about this Yuri Puskin."
The dimples in my cheeks deepened as I smiled. I had him. Had him nibbling on my hook. As I hoped I might.
"You know who he is. You know what he is. You two are spiritual kin. You play with that kind of heat you should expect to be burned. And he's tough enough to get what he wants if something he wants comes to mind. Can you afford to take that chance with a guy like Yuri Puskin?"
Silence. Long—drawn out—incredible silence.
"You're thirty seconds are over. We have nothing more to discuss. Get out now. Leave my house and never come back."
Brinkley swept a hand across the table and scooped the three photos off as he turned and stalked out of the kitchen. A dozen goons appeared and we were rudely escorted out of the house. Pushed out of the compound wall surrounding Brinkley's home we took our time straightening ourselves up and wiping the blood off our lips—just friendly gestures—and Frank eyed me quizzically.
"Think he bought it?"
"We'll find out in about a half hour. If we get phone call and an address."
"When he finds out we've pulled a fast one on him he's going to go ape-shit. He could get mean."
I nodded in agreement. And then shook my head no.
"Maybe. Maybe not. He's got to figure out how we knew about his daughter living in the Alps. About a son he's never mentioned to anyone. About his mother. And then he's got to wonder just how far someone might go if they were truly wanting to hurt him. Everyone one's got a weakness, Frank. Everyone. Even megalomaniacs like Nathan Brinkley."
Well you heard about the Boston/Honey, its not one of those . . .
Driving in traffic toward city hall my cell phone rang. Sliding it open I lifted it to my ear.
"Bennet Building. Seventeenth floor. Office 1701."
Click.
The bait had been taken.
We whipped around a corner and through a red light, horn blaring to scattered pedestrians, and hit the gas. It took about ten minutes to get there. Sliding to the curb in front of the building we got out and started walking toward the rotating glass doors.
"Back up?"
"He'll see'em coming. Disappear long before they get up there."
Frank glanced at his watch. It was a quarter past seven.
"An hour and forty-five minutes before the conference. Call Yank and tell'em to delay?"
I shook my head no as we hurried through the crowded lobby toward the bank of elevators. The ride up to the seventeenth floor was long and slow. No one else was in the elevator but us two.
Stepping out onto the floor we paused and gazed down the long hall. Black tile, freshly polished, glistened soft white light. Shafts of sunlight cut like hot torches through several officer doors. The floor was deathly quiet. The usual flora and fauna that made up this world had not arrived yet.
We walked down the hall and came up to 1701. Neither Frank nor I made any attempt to open it. Our previous encounter with Yuri was a learning experience. The pro would have the place wired. Anyone entering the empty office—it had to be an empty office with a direct line of sight through a City Hall window and straight to the small podium where the mayor and other dignitaries would be using—and he would know.
So we jimmied open an office door down at the end of the hall and stepped in. We had a good view, the door partially open, to see anyone coming down the hall. Not to our surprise we found the office we were standing in need of an occupant.
Forty-five minutes later we heard a door softly shut and then heard the odd squeaking sound of a wheel in need of some 4-in-1 oil. A figure dressed in a set of gray coveralls with big words splashed across his back advertising a janitorial firm came into view. The guy was pushing a large cart that held a very large trash can along with several brooms and mops on it. He was a tall man, thin, with sandy blond, curly hair. He had the wiry body of a long distance runner. He moved past the door and slowly made his way down to 1701. Stopping in front of door the guy looked down each length of the hall and then quickly opened the office door. Glancing up and down the hall again he pushed the cart into the empty office and closed the door behind him.
Frank and I came out of the office, guns in hand, and moved down the hall. We didn't hesitate. Frank used a foot to kick the door open and we went in low and fast. We were expected.
I heard Frank grunt in pain, turned, and saw Yuri Puskin standing behind Frank with an arm wrapped around Frank's neck and a 9 mm Heckler&Kock pressed against Frank's temple. A thin smile of amusement was on Puskin's handsome boyish face as watery blue eyes stared at me.
"Frank, Turner—good morning. I thought you might be calling."
Surprise. Pushkin spoke excellent English with only a slight hint of his origins. My second surprise came from Frank. It was the first time I had ever . . . ever . . . heard him grunt in pain from being hit by someone.
"It is a pleasure to meet you two at last. Of course, it would have been better under different circumstances. Drop your gun, Turner. Or you're friend dies."
"Drop my gun and we're dead anyway, Yuri. If I'm checking out, I might as well go down blazing."
I brought the gun up and leapt to my left at the same time. The moment I moved, Frank moved. Say what you think about my hulking friend. But the guy is deceptively fast. Faster than Yuri anticipated. Pushkin's 9mm spit twice, the shots bruising our eardrums. I felt a bullet tug at my sport coat as I hit the floor and rolled on a shoulder before coming up with the .45 cal. Kimber in hand and firing.
Frank was fast. A brute with strength and quick reflexes. But Puskin was faster. Frank had dislodged himself and was turning to take on the Russian with his bare hands. But Puskin's training kicked in. A foot to Frank's knee, a karate chop toward the man's neck and Frank should have gone down in a ball of squirming pain. The blow to the knee hit solid. The karate chop to the neck was partially blocked. At the same time Puskin kept shooting toward my direction. Twice his nine spit out flame and hot lead. Twice the bullets missed me by just millimeters. But his shooting kept me moving and I couldn't get another shot off at him in the process.
It ended in a draw. One of Frank's big hams for a fist plowed into Puskin's ribs and I heard the man grunt in pain and his nine clatter to the floor. At about the same time I heard Frank grunt again in pain and stagger two steps back. That was enough. Pushkin, weaponless, was out the office door and gone before either of us could come to our feet.
Blood running down the side of his head, Frank took a step back to stabilize himself and then brought a hand up and covered his ribs with it.
"That sonofabitch knows how to throw a punch. You all right?"
I was. But my sport coat had two bullet holes in it. One on either side of the jacket just an inch or two away for the coat's second button. Apparently hit while open and while rolling around on the floor.
"Christ, you're lucky. I don't remembering reading about Pushkin ever missing."
"Yeah, lucky," I nodded, holstering the Kimber and turning to look at the long barreled .50 caliber sniper's rifle Pushkin had brought with him. "So's the mayor. If Pushkin used that on him they'd been nothing left to bury."
But we weren't finished with the Russian just yet. Hours later, sitting with Frank at a diner eating lunch—and happy that mayor and dignitaries . . . including Nathan Brinkley . . .had survived the day, my cell phone rings.
"Well played, my friends. Well played. Until next time. Dasvedanya. "
And if you ever catch the midnight rambler
Steal your mistress from under your nose
Go easy with your cold-finger anger
Or I'll stick my knife right down your throat, baby. And it hurts . . .
July 19, 2011
What if Magic was Science?
Okay, kiddies. One more time into the depths of Fantasy. After this post I promise to write about something else. But something struck me as important last night while I was thinking about what makes for good, or bad, writing in this genre. Something I need to get off my chest.In a previous post I mentioned how imagination and immersion are needed to capture the reader and make them a fan. Imagination to see the plot, the characters, the settings with a clear eye; the immersion of that imagination so tightly woven the reader is cacooned into a world so vast and so complex they don't want to leave.
I also mentioned in a separate post talking about writing fantasy a writer should read. Read everything they can grab hold of. From a laundry ticket to Nineteenth Century Russian novelists (although on the last one, take a bottle of aspirins with you. Russians describe and describe and describe and . . . well, you get the picture). You never know what you will read which will suddenly 'flip the switch' and make your mind go off the deep end in pure speculation. Here is an example:
In my Roland series, those who 'have the touch of magic in their blood' have the capacity to enter the Netherworld. And the Netherworld is . . . well, hard to explain. It's the supernatural. But more than that. It is Hell. But more than that. It is an unending River of Time, with no beginning and no ending; but in truth, it is far more than that. It is a place where a magician or wizard can talk to himself. Talk to himself from out of the Past, the Present, and the Future. It is the residence of Hope. And of Evil.
The idea of this concept came to me one day while reading an article about Brane Theory. A physicist, name forgotten, came up with the idea that there or, at least, 15 dimensions. He postulates each of these dimensions are like a sheet of stretched rubber membranes hanging vertically in space/time side-by-side. They rarely touch. But when the do . . . .
Heavy stuff there, Eunice. Makes your head hurt, old girl. But it got me day-dreaming.
What if you could had the power to step into a place and see 15 copies of You? You from the Past (in fifteen different variations). You from the Present (again, in fifteen different variations). You from the Future (you see where I am going with this.) If this was possible--what ramifications did these multiple variations have on such concepts like Fate and Destiny? Was there actually such things as Fate and Destiny in a multi-dimensional universe?
Ah! What if . . . what if . . . Magic was actually Science carried into this dimension from a different dimension? What if . . . . !
See what I mean? A casual reading of something completely unrelated to writing fiction suddenly unfolds in your mind a realm of possibilities. And THAT, kiddies, is what makes for good fantasy writing.
