Taylor’s emotions ran the gauntlet in the two hours he killed before the 3pm rendezvous. He tried to eat a drive-thru lunch but the thought of Biagiotti putting his hands on Grace and forcing her into the car made Taylor want to vomit. He forced down the fries and half of a large Coke.
He gassed up the rented Taurus and decided another coffee was in order. Far from calming him, the second coffee of the day made his hands quake.
He thought of the gun. Parked in a Dunkin parking lot in Swansea, Massachusetts, Taylor ripped open the glove compartment, pulled out the gun and placed it in his lap. He’d never fired a gun before. He’d never laid a hand on a gun before. The thing looked sturdy enough. He probably wouldn’t accidentally shoot himself. Hopefully.
Mackey had lent him what he’d called an “old 9mm”, like it was a throw away weapon; one Mackey didn’t like and didn’t often break out at a cocktail party. Taylor flipped it over in his lap a few times. It was solid black metal, maybe steel or aluminum, a SIG Sauer P229. Christ, the thought of shooting another person scared the shit out of him and his stomach lurched again. He felt ill.
No, Taylor thought. He inhaled deep, blew the breath out. He’d just been party to a firefight. And for Grace’s safety, he’d lay down his life, he was sure of it. Yes, he reiterated to himself, he’d act with deadly force if it came to that. He shoved the gun inside the McDonalds bag and crumpled the top of the bag down, just some refuse left over from a quick lunch, if anyone were to wander by.
He reclined the driver’s seat and closed his eyes. Involuntarily, Taylor replayed the day’s events in his head again, then moved backward to the weekend.
“Fuck the gun”, he said aloud after a few minutes. “I’m going to get my bare hands on that little turd.” Taylor’s arms tensed. He saw red through his eyelids as he spoke his anger, but the audacity of the words made him smile, if only momentarily.
After another twenty minutes of collecting and organizing thoughts, past and future, Taylor jumped back on 195 West and proceeded to Providence.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Methods
I used to write every night, starting somewhere after 10pm and going until my eyes blurred at midnight, maybe 1am. OK, not every night was wildly productive. At home, sitting on the couch or the floor, my laptop and book and maybe some research materials spread out around me. I'd immerse myself in the world of BENEFICIARY: A Novel.
When I stopped writing altogether from August to end of December 2008, something changed drastically as I tried to settle back into routine. For some reason I cannot write at home now. It drives me crazy. My work on A Hunger has been exclusively at Starbucks in Auburn, MA. Once a week - Thursday or Friday night, and easier since I was out of work - I'd put in three solid hours and they were always three very productive hours. I also continue to do an overnight in Maine alone once per quarter, with 20 pages per night the goal.
Now, at home, I'm victim to distraction and I let them overrun me. At Starbucks I don't have internet access (can't blog or go on Facebook or check box scores on ESPN) or television, no excuses. For whatever reason I am at the mercy of all that other nonsense at home, even though they never bothered me before. It's some type of writer's block and I allow it to best me night after night.
When I stopped writing altogether from August to end of December 2008, something changed drastically as I tried to settle back into routine. For some reason I cannot write at home now. It drives me crazy. My work on A Hunger has been exclusively at Starbucks in Auburn, MA. Once a week - Thursday or Friday night, and easier since I was out of work - I'd put in three solid hours and they were always three very productive hours. I also continue to do an overnight in Maine alone once per quarter, with 20 pages per night the goal.
Now, at home, I'm victim to distraction and I let them overrun me. At Starbucks I don't have internet access (can't blog or go on Facebook or check box scores on ESPN) or television, no excuses. For whatever reason I am at the mercy of all that other nonsense at home, even though they never bothered me before. It's some type of writer's block and I allow it to best me night after night.
Friday, March 13, 2009
First Excerpt
Chapter 1 of Beneficiary (re-written in 2008):
CHAPTER 1 (1,455 words) Port of Providence, June 16, 2006
The florescent street light lit up the tiny parking lot – more of a strip, really – in a wide yellow oval. Shadows danced along the ground as moths, beetles, flies and several other species of flying insect battled for the lamp’s surface. The aging bulb pulsed and hummed louder than all the bugs swarming its output together.
Hungry for the glow of the lamp, none of the insects took notice when a puttering yellow cab pulled up and a tall, thin man emerged with hesitation.
“You sure this is it?”
“Pretty sure, holmes,” the cab driver said, anxious to switch off his ON DUTY light and smoke a joint.
The thin man paid his fare in silence and watched as the cab managed a clumsy three-point turn and headed back for the security entrance. He could smell salt in the air and teeming life in the sea, only a few yards to his left.
Better than the stale cigarette smoke he’d endured in the cab, he thought.
A chill wind blew off the water. The man glanced up at the bugs and the lone light for a moment, watching the random flight patterns which all led back to the lamp’s warmth.
When the cab’s brake lights faded and the sound of its ancient engine did the same, another set of headlights flashed once at the man and stayed off.
“Great.” The man put a hand to his forehead and wiped at a light coating of sweat. He squinted, leaning slightly forward, and could just discern the outline of a dark colored sedan; big, like a livery vehicle.
His instructions had been to approach the vehicle at this point, but nerves held his feet in place. Instead, he short-armed a wave in the car’s direction.
The man, the car and its occupants remained completely still for a full five minutes. Finally, he heard the clunk of a car-door handle. In the dark, it seemed a car door swung open. Odd though, that interior light didn’t pour forth when the door opened if, in fact, it had.
It had. Three men stepped into the periphery of the lighted oval. Two were white, of average size and hid their faces beneath baseball caps. The middle man, though, was distinct. Pushing six-and-a-half feet tall, the biggest of the three was African-American and shiny bald in the yellowing light. He wore a black t-shirt with the sleeves torn off, the seams stringy and uneven, and his arms were huge. There was no doubt with his body-builder definition, where bicep ended and triceps began.
The big man was smiling.
The thin man took a step backward and realized it’d been a mistake. The two sidekicks sprung at him and a flurry of blows caught his jaw, cheeks, brow. He swayed, but kept his feet, raising his arms for balance. But he knew he couldn’t fend them off, let alone best them. These two were each likely half his 50 years and the big one only slightly older than the others.
A body blow doubled the thin man over and the sidekicks, the opening act, seized a shoulder and arm each and held fast. A hand grabbed his hair in the back of his head and wrenched his neck up. Now, the man had no choice but to look at the big man’s smile. One of his top front teeth was gold. The other was missing.
The big man held out his left forearm and pointed to it with his other hand. A tattoo ran from wrist to elbow and the thin man was sure he was being made a promise, rather than shown a work of ink art. The tattoo was an elongated switchblade – stained with blood.
“Wait,” the thin man managed.
The big man reared back and landed a powerful roundhouse right hand, then a left jab to the nose. Blood poured, as if from a faucet. The man’s vision blurred with the impacts in such quick succession. It was for this reason that he didn’t see the knife come out.
The pain streaked like white heat across thin-man’s left cheek, catching the bridge of his nose. He let out a yelp and collapsed onto his back, the restraining thugs to either side letting him fall. Instinctively and trying to breathe, he rolled to his side as the wind left his lungs with the impact of the cement. He cursed, but the sound was muffled and took too much effort to escape his mouth.
Blood drooled down his nose and into the man’s mouth, picking up sweat on its path, like a running river gathering silt from its banks. He managed to fill his lungs again, the air cool as a drink of water, but the relief was short-lived. The thug to his left dragged him to a kneeling position by the hair.
His tormentor stood over him now, holding a six-inch stiletto. Black eyes blazed, then he smiled again.
“Debt,” the monster said.
“Wh-what?”
“Debt,” he repeated. “I don’t recommend getting into it.”
“Are you some kind of f-fucking collections agent?”
The knife-blade shook slightly as the wielder laughed. The yellow light from above shone off the metal and danced across the thin man’s face.
“That’s one way to put it. Yes.”
“Where’d you get that tattoo?”
With no indicator it was coming, the monster jabbed the butt of the knife handle into the slash wound on the thin man’s nose. Blood spurted this time, the small gash opened wide by the blunt force trauma. He fell hard onto his back again and thought, if he could prevent it, he should never get up again.
“You’ve been missing a long time now.” The bigger man gestured with his head back toward the car. “He told me you owe him $30 thousand.”
“Giuseppe,” the thin man said with a little excitement. “Is your boss Giuseppe Biagiotti? He knows me. We can work something out.”
“No. Not Giuseppe. Giuseppe’s been in prison for seven years now.” He issued a wave in the car’s direction. Again, the thin man perceived the door open, heard it close, but saw little more than shadows, as when the first three emerged.
A fourth man sauntered over to the lighted oval. Short, he was dressed in a navy suit and a red, checked tie. On the left lapel was a tiny Italian flag. His face was neutral. The black hair was wet and slicked back flat on his smallish head. The thin man thought the newcomer was somehow familiar.
In a calm, deep voice, the new suit man said, “Help our friend to his feet, Roscoe.” The knife-monster obliged, dragging the thin man up by his coat.
That voice! It’d been twenty years and the suit guy had grown up and filled out, but there was no mistaking the voice. The thin man’s mouth dropped open and he stammered, “Andreo? Andreo Biagiotti?”
“Yes, hello cousin. It’s been, what, twenty years, Tommy?”
“Twenty-one, I think.”
Biagiotti nodded. “Unfortunately for you, the fact that you are family does not alleviate your debt.” His eyes narrowed and his tone changed, like he’d flipped a switch on his emotion chip. Andreo pointed at his cousin, putting an exclamation on his anger. “You fucking owe me! And you may have forgotten what was done for you, but I haven’t.”
“Your father helped me out of a tough spot…”
“And what did he get for his troubles? A fucking federal conviction. So, with my old man in prison, your fate lies with me.” He glanced down at his watch. “Your account is long overdue.”
Biagiotti smoothed his hair back with both hands and the gesture seemed to calm him. “Roscoe would prefer to settle the debt in one fashion,” he said with resumed composure. Roscoe the Knife-Monster smiled, shaking the blade between thumb and forefinger. “But I,” Andreo started again, “being a business man, would simply prefer to get paid.”
“I don’t have any money, Andreo.”
Biagiotti grinned. “Both of your sons are of age, aren’t they?” He paused. “I believe the younger, Jason, recently celebrated his twenty-third birthday. Both boys are now eligible to get their greasy mitts directly on the cash in their trust accounts. I should know. After all, I drafted the trust documents myself.”
Trusts? Tommy’s sons didn’t have trust accounts – not that he knew of, anyway.
“I want what’s mine,” Biagiotti said. “You get my money, or Roscoe introduces himself to the boys.”
The thin man nodded.
“Say the fucking words. Tell me you get it.”
“I understand.”
The four thugs – two sidekicks, Roscoe the Knife-Monster and his cousin Andreo – turned on heels and returned to the car. It started with a purr and, moments later, was gone.
CHAPTER 1 (1,455 words) Port of Providence, June 16, 2006
The florescent street light lit up the tiny parking lot – more of a strip, really – in a wide yellow oval. Shadows danced along the ground as moths, beetles, flies and several other species of flying insect battled for the lamp’s surface. The aging bulb pulsed and hummed louder than all the bugs swarming its output together.
Hungry for the glow of the lamp, none of the insects took notice when a puttering yellow cab pulled up and a tall, thin man emerged with hesitation.
“You sure this is it?”
“Pretty sure, holmes,” the cab driver said, anxious to switch off his ON DUTY light and smoke a joint.
The thin man paid his fare in silence and watched as the cab managed a clumsy three-point turn and headed back for the security entrance. He could smell salt in the air and teeming life in the sea, only a few yards to his left.
Better than the stale cigarette smoke he’d endured in the cab, he thought.
A chill wind blew off the water. The man glanced up at the bugs and the lone light for a moment, watching the random flight patterns which all led back to the lamp’s warmth.
When the cab’s brake lights faded and the sound of its ancient engine did the same, another set of headlights flashed once at the man and stayed off.
“Great.” The man put a hand to his forehead and wiped at a light coating of sweat. He squinted, leaning slightly forward, and could just discern the outline of a dark colored sedan; big, like a livery vehicle.
His instructions had been to approach the vehicle at this point, but nerves held his feet in place. Instead, he short-armed a wave in the car’s direction.
The man, the car and its occupants remained completely still for a full five minutes. Finally, he heard the clunk of a car-door handle. In the dark, it seemed a car door swung open. Odd though, that interior light didn’t pour forth when the door opened if, in fact, it had.
It had. Three men stepped into the periphery of the lighted oval. Two were white, of average size and hid their faces beneath baseball caps. The middle man, though, was distinct. Pushing six-and-a-half feet tall, the biggest of the three was African-American and shiny bald in the yellowing light. He wore a black t-shirt with the sleeves torn off, the seams stringy and uneven, and his arms were huge. There was no doubt with his body-builder definition, where bicep ended and triceps began.
The big man was smiling.
The thin man took a step backward and realized it’d been a mistake. The two sidekicks sprung at him and a flurry of blows caught his jaw, cheeks, brow. He swayed, but kept his feet, raising his arms for balance. But he knew he couldn’t fend them off, let alone best them. These two were each likely half his 50 years and the big one only slightly older than the others.
A body blow doubled the thin man over and the sidekicks, the opening act, seized a shoulder and arm each and held fast. A hand grabbed his hair in the back of his head and wrenched his neck up. Now, the man had no choice but to look at the big man’s smile. One of his top front teeth was gold. The other was missing.
The big man held out his left forearm and pointed to it with his other hand. A tattoo ran from wrist to elbow and the thin man was sure he was being made a promise, rather than shown a work of ink art. The tattoo was an elongated switchblade – stained with blood.
“Wait,” the thin man managed.
The big man reared back and landed a powerful roundhouse right hand, then a left jab to the nose. Blood poured, as if from a faucet. The man’s vision blurred with the impacts in such quick succession. It was for this reason that he didn’t see the knife come out.
The pain streaked like white heat across thin-man’s left cheek, catching the bridge of his nose. He let out a yelp and collapsed onto his back, the restraining thugs to either side letting him fall. Instinctively and trying to breathe, he rolled to his side as the wind left his lungs with the impact of the cement. He cursed, but the sound was muffled and took too much effort to escape his mouth.
Blood drooled down his nose and into the man’s mouth, picking up sweat on its path, like a running river gathering silt from its banks. He managed to fill his lungs again, the air cool as a drink of water, but the relief was short-lived. The thug to his left dragged him to a kneeling position by the hair.
His tormentor stood over him now, holding a six-inch stiletto. Black eyes blazed, then he smiled again.
“Debt,” the monster said.
“Wh-what?”
“Debt,” he repeated. “I don’t recommend getting into it.”
“Are you some kind of f-fucking collections agent?”
The knife-blade shook slightly as the wielder laughed. The yellow light from above shone off the metal and danced across the thin man’s face.
“That’s one way to put it. Yes.”
“Where’d you get that tattoo?”
With no indicator it was coming, the monster jabbed the butt of the knife handle into the slash wound on the thin man’s nose. Blood spurted this time, the small gash opened wide by the blunt force trauma. He fell hard onto his back again and thought, if he could prevent it, he should never get up again.
“You’ve been missing a long time now.” The bigger man gestured with his head back toward the car. “He told me you owe him $30 thousand.”
“Giuseppe,” the thin man said with a little excitement. “Is your boss Giuseppe Biagiotti? He knows me. We can work something out.”
“No. Not Giuseppe. Giuseppe’s been in prison for seven years now.” He issued a wave in the car’s direction. Again, the thin man perceived the door open, heard it close, but saw little more than shadows, as when the first three emerged.
A fourth man sauntered over to the lighted oval. Short, he was dressed in a navy suit and a red, checked tie. On the left lapel was a tiny Italian flag. His face was neutral. The black hair was wet and slicked back flat on his smallish head. The thin man thought the newcomer was somehow familiar.
In a calm, deep voice, the new suit man said, “Help our friend to his feet, Roscoe.” The knife-monster obliged, dragging the thin man up by his coat.
That voice! It’d been twenty years and the suit guy had grown up and filled out, but there was no mistaking the voice. The thin man’s mouth dropped open and he stammered, “Andreo? Andreo Biagiotti?”
“Yes, hello cousin. It’s been, what, twenty years, Tommy?”
“Twenty-one, I think.”
Biagiotti nodded. “Unfortunately for you, the fact that you are family does not alleviate your debt.” His eyes narrowed and his tone changed, like he’d flipped a switch on his emotion chip. Andreo pointed at his cousin, putting an exclamation on his anger. “You fucking owe me! And you may have forgotten what was done for you, but I haven’t.”
“Your father helped me out of a tough spot…”
“And what did he get for his troubles? A fucking federal conviction. So, with my old man in prison, your fate lies with me.” He glanced down at his watch. “Your account is long overdue.”
Biagiotti smoothed his hair back with both hands and the gesture seemed to calm him. “Roscoe would prefer to settle the debt in one fashion,” he said with resumed composure. Roscoe the Knife-Monster smiled, shaking the blade between thumb and forefinger. “But I,” Andreo started again, “being a business man, would simply prefer to get paid.”
“I don’t have any money, Andreo.”
Biagiotti grinned. “Both of your sons are of age, aren’t they?” He paused. “I believe the younger, Jason, recently celebrated his twenty-third birthday. Both boys are now eligible to get their greasy mitts directly on the cash in their trust accounts. I should know. After all, I drafted the trust documents myself.”
Trusts? Tommy’s sons didn’t have trust accounts – not that he knew of, anyway.
“I want what’s mine,” Biagiotti said. “You get my money, or Roscoe introduces himself to the boys.”
The thin man nodded.
“Say the fucking words. Tell me you get it.”
“I understand.”
The four thugs – two sidekicks, Roscoe the Knife-Monster and his cousin Andreo – turned on heels and returned to the car. It started with a purr and, moments later, was gone.
What are you reading?
Brief time out from writing -
I'm reading Barry Eisler's newest novel, Fault Line. I hope it picks up because I am a huge John Rain fan.
Also, because Fault Line is a library book and came at an inopportune time, I'm smack dab in the middle of The Talisman, by Stephen King and Peter Straub. An epic journey told all in one volume - Imagine!
Finally, Ludlum's Sigma Protocol is on my iPod right now as well. I have to say that Robert Ludlum is very hit or miss for me. I think Sigma is missing.
A few upcoming books in my queue - Lehane's Shutter Island, Ludlum's Bourne Ultimatum, Daniel Silva's The Marching Season
I'm reading Barry Eisler's newest novel, Fault Line. I hope it picks up because I am a huge John Rain fan.
Also, because Fault Line is a library book and came at an inopportune time, I'm smack dab in the middle of The Talisman, by Stephen King and Peter Straub. An epic journey told all in one volume - Imagine!
Finally, Ludlum's Sigma Protocol is on my iPod right now as well. I have to say that Robert Ludlum is very hit or miss for me. I think Sigma is missing.
A few upcoming books in my queue - Lehane's Shutter Island, Ludlum's Bourne Ultimatum, Daniel Silva's The Marching Season
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Hello again...
First, I have to point out that co-worker and published tech author Jim ripped me today for having only three posts before giving up. And so I return for this game, at least for three more posts.
Between July 2, 2008 and September 24, 2008 I contacted 30 or so agents. A handful asked to see the first 50 pages. One even offered several constructive comments. None, however, thought it was the type of project that fit "their list". And that's fine with me, for now.
My first novel, titled BENEFICIARY, was written over two years - 6/8/06 to 6/7/08. The reason I say above that it's fine with me is that only now can I really, honestly see the glaring flaws in my style and structure. The first third of the book, from 2006, might as well have been written by a different author than the final third.
I'd prefer to rewrite most chapters to make it consistent with how I write NOW, very different than how I wrote 2+ years ago. That's a bear of a project though, and quite frankly, feels like jogging in place rather than moving forward.
My second book - for now titled A Hunger - is coming along great. I'd say I'm ~40% done and the goal is to shorten the total time to 12 months. July 2, 2009. Can it be done?
Coming soon: excerpts from both books
Between July 2, 2008 and September 24, 2008 I contacted 30 or so agents. A handful asked to see the first 50 pages. One even offered several constructive comments. None, however, thought it was the type of project that fit "their list". And that's fine with me, for now.
My first novel, titled BENEFICIARY, was written over two years - 6/8/06 to 6/7/08. The reason I say above that it's fine with me is that only now can I really, honestly see the glaring flaws in my style and structure. The first third of the book, from 2006, might as well have been written by a different author than the final third.
I'd prefer to rewrite most chapters to make it consistent with how I write NOW, very different than how I wrote 2+ years ago. That's a bear of a project though, and quite frankly, feels like jogging in place rather than moving forward.
My second book - for now titled A Hunger - is coming along great. I'd say I'm ~40% done and the goal is to shorten the total time to 12 months. July 2, 2009. Can it be done?
Coming soon: excerpts from both books
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