Does anyone know the significance of the six words I've used for a title here?
Friends of Ernest Hemingway bet him (after a night of drinking) he couldn't tell a story using only six words. The title of this entry is what he came up with. "For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn" is considered the Father of Flash Fiction (though that would be taking the term to an extreme). It is also considered by some to be Hemingway's best work. It is certainly his shrewdest work. Wonder how much he won in that bet.
Here's a link to a like-minded blog entry (I stole his idea for a slightly different purpose) by a colleague of mine...
http://absventures.wordpress.com/2009/07/22/six-words-to-venture-funding-well-almost/
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
From "A Hunger"
CHAPTER 17
I told Carrie Nelson I needed some time to think and begged her to meet me after the coming night of fortune telling. She reluctantly agreed.
I wasn’t done with her. I hadn’t even had a chance to get started with her and now I’d been ambushed by another, more sinister shockwave. I needed to calm down and get a plan together. There were now two distinct moving pieces to deal with – Ms. Twilight Nelson and a Philippino drug dealer.
I had very little information and that could wind up being both good and bad. I didn’t know anything about what the police found, what direction the investigation had gone. Was there anything that could implicate me if I was on hand to offer something to compare to? Were my fingerprints in a database somewhere? I also had no idea what Franco Espinoza knew. Beyond being a professional thug, he could have had his own intelligence service up here in southern Maine; I simply didn’t know what I was truly up against.
And it hardly mattered. Should I squat here, where at least one person – Ms. Carrie Nelson – knows my crime? Should I risk that she would turn me over to either the police or worse, Espinoza? Logic said, Get the fuck out of Dodge.
My odds weren’t good and had little chance to improve, but I’m not a betting man and I never have been. I made this drive for a reason. I wanted my answers and I wanted to be alive to see Avery again. So, I thought, I’ll be careful. I’ll speak with Carrie later. I was still confident she could answer my questions. Right then, though, I thought I’d take a calculated risk.
* * *
Saco Public Library is a stone structure just north of Downtown at the junction of Routes 1 and 9. Its sheer red tile roof made me think there ought to be a fiddler up there, playing to lead the rats from Hamlin and the snakes from the Emerald Isle, etc. My metaphors, if I learn them as a child, tend to mix.
I pulled into its small parking lot and shut off my lights. Following my quick shower, it was quarter to seven and I thought a miracle would be in order for this small quiet library to still be open. One car, an old burgundy Grand Marquis with a crack across its windshield, sat in the far corner. With nothing to lose, I sauntered up and pulled on the heavy wooden door.
From her name tag, I found out that Claire was the Senior Librarian and with a smile I assumed that didn’t refer to her age. Claire’s silver hair was cropped short and thick glasses magnified gray eyes.
“Fifteen minutes, young man.” Her voice was soft and disarming, even if there was a bit of a scold in the message.
I flashed my best smile – one that Avery would have read right through. “Do you have the Press-Herald out on the floor?”
“Only the last two weeks. What’re you looking for?” This last she said glancing up at the clock on the high wall behind her vast Senior Librarian desk.
“August last,” I said, flashing some culture.
“She a friend of yours?”
I should have expected this and should have tailored my facial expression accordingly. Damn. I’m no spy.
“I’m sorry?” A story popped into my head.
“You want to read about the Espinoza girl, right?” Her face didn’t match the question in her voice. Her face told me what I was here for.
“I’m looking for historical stock quotes, actually, for a report I have to write. I don’t know anyone named Espinoza.”
Claire nodded, but didn’t say anything further. She turned away from me and circled her desk to my left. As she tugged at a wooden drawer file, I scanned the main room of the library. The two microfiche viewers were against the far wall, overlooking the parking lot and my car.
She handed me a card on which she’d scribbled a series of letters and numbers and I thought I may need a code-breaker. Claire pointed to the fiche machines and said, “Just to the right is another set of drawers like this.” She waved a hand at the digging she’d just done. “It’s labeled Portland Press-Herald.”
I snatched the card and once again flashed her my thirty-two. “I appreciate it.”
She returned the smile. “You’ve got thirty minutes for your research.” My face prompted her to add, “I shouldn’t have assumed.”
It took me seven minutes to pull three weeks of August 1993 and nearly ten minutes to load the damn machine. I printed as many pages as I could as fast as I could and Claire never made a complaining peep. By 7:25pm I’d paid Saco Public Library $11.70 for the printouts and was headed back to the Hampton.
* * *
I grabbed another drive-thru coffee, grabbed a legal pad at a drug store, and set all my materials about me on the queen bed in my room. I arranged the newspapers chronologically in one-week piles, left to right and opened the notebook. I wanted to have a clearer picture before Carrie came knocking. I started on August 11th and tried to stick to any mention of evidence, and whether the piece of evidence was confirmed by the police or only reported by the paper. I skimmed until August 18th before I slammed the pen down and closed the notebook.
Don’t get frustrated, I told myself. I glanced at the alarm clock on the night stand to my left. 9:03pm. There was plenty of time to stay calm.
I almost skipped a few days, but the urge subsided. It was a good thing. On August 19th, a source within the South Portland PD expressed frustration at the pace of the investigation and told a reporter what little they’d uncovered. The officer confirmed that Bianca Espinoza had been strangled. The only other thing they could substantiate, the officer went on to state, was that she’d been murdered elsewhere and dumped at the scene, just off the highway by the Maine Mall Road.
Holy shit.
The fact almost knocked me down. It was a powerful fact, but I almost fell over more because it was a fact I already knew – I’d read it in the paper Carrie had in her purse. My initial shock hadn’t allowed me to concentrate on it, or its impact.
I’d left Bianca at Ms. Twilight’s and bolted. Hadn’t I? Someone, and flashing neon arrows in my head pointed at the visitor I expected later that night, cleaned up after me.
I got up from my research with a renewed smile on my face and went to the bathroom. I would have whistled on the way, if I’d been able. I blew my nose and looked at my complexion. Pale. My lower back and upper legs ached and I thought influenza was wrapping its hands around my throat, if you’ll pardon the chosen personification.
It’d been a long day – packing Avery at home, the drive up to UNH, unpacking, the emotions of good-bye, the emotions of events in Maine. Television was to be avoided. If I turned on the tube, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be awake to answer Ms. Twilight’s light knocking. A walk would have been a good idea, if not for my choice of hotel. Industrial Park Road wasn’t well lit and lacked for sights.
That was when, not Ms. Twilight, but an adrenaline rush came knocking on my door.
Through the peep hole, all I could see was the convex image of a hat. It was royal blue with two red squares and white writing – Domino’s Pizza. I exhaled, annoyed, and tugged the door open.
The guy had a wild, unkempt beard, flaming red. He was a full head shorter than me, explaining why I could only see the logo on his hat through the door. He looked as annoyed as I was.
“Two pepperoni, both extra cheese,” he deadpanned. “That’ll be twenty-five even, dude.”
“Sorry, chief.” Did I mention I hate the term ‘dude’? “I didn’t order any pizzas.”
Now it was Redbeard’s turn to exhale. “I don’t have time for this.”
Man, that’s the kind of response I would have gotten from Avery. Except that I would have been bullshitting her.
I thought direct may be the best approach here. Redbeard seemed pretty no-nonsense. “I didn’t order any pizzas, dude.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but I could tell he was getting increasingly agitated with me; which was fine. “Caller said Hampton Inn. Gave this room number.” The clipped sentences were a nice touch.
I raised three fingers in front of my face. “I didn’t order any fucking pizzas.” My voice and tone were completely neutral and all but the curse word was non-threatening. Granted, it wasn’t a clipped sentence, but…
I noticed his shoulders tense and thought he might take a swing. I was sweating and had a headache. I think I was also smiling – a sick, provoking smile. Go on, go on.
Redbeard turned and walked away, down the hall and toward the elevator.
* * *
I sat at the desk in the corner of my room, feeling small in the face of what could have been. I thought about the feeling I’d had when I thought Redbeard may give me an opening; when I thought he may make the first move. The anticipation was powerful and the tension that took hold of my muscles at that moment I could only relate to one other thing I’d ever felt before. Just before I’d stabbed Avery in that fateful dream, I’d been filled with a desire for violence – a hunger of sorts. I really wanted Redbeard, in that moment, to give me an excuse to lash out at him in blind rage. I really wanted an excuse to try and kill him.
I told Carrie Nelson I needed some time to think and begged her to meet me after the coming night of fortune telling. She reluctantly agreed.
I wasn’t done with her. I hadn’t even had a chance to get started with her and now I’d been ambushed by another, more sinister shockwave. I needed to calm down and get a plan together. There were now two distinct moving pieces to deal with – Ms. Twilight Nelson and a Philippino drug dealer.
I had very little information and that could wind up being both good and bad. I didn’t know anything about what the police found, what direction the investigation had gone. Was there anything that could implicate me if I was on hand to offer something to compare to? Were my fingerprints in a database somewhere? I also had no idea what Franco Espinoza knew. Beyond being a professional thug, he could have had his own intelligence service up here in southern Maine; I simply didn’t know what I was truly up against.
And it hardly mattered. Should I squat here, where at least one person – Ms. Carrie Nelson – knows my crime? Should I risk that she would turn me over to either the police or worse, Espinoza? Logic said, Get the fuck out of Dodge.
My odds weren’t good and had little chance to improve, but I’m not a betting man and I never have been. I made this drive for a reason. I wanted my answers and I wanted to be alive to see Avery again. So, I thought, I’ll be careful. I’ll speak with Carrie later. I was still confident she could answer my questions. Right then, though, I thought I’d take a calculated risk.
* * *
Saco Public Library is a stone structure just north of Downtown at the junction of Routes 1 and 9. Its sheer red tile roof made me think there ought to be a fiddler up there, playing to lead the rats from Hamlin and the snakes from the Emerald Isle, etc. My metaphors, if I learn them as a child, tend to mix.
I pulled into its small parking lot and shut off my lights. Following my quick shower, it was quarter to seven and I thought a miracle would be in order for this small quiet library to still be open. One car, an old burgundy Grand Marquis with a crack across its windshield, sat in the far corner. With nothing to lose, I sauntered up and pulled on the heavy wooden door.
From her name tag, I found out that Claire was the Senior Librarian and with a smile I assumed that didn’t refer to her age. Claire’s silver hair was cropped short and thick glasses magnified gray eyes.
“Fifteen minutes, young man.” Her voice was soft and disarming, even if there was a bit of a scold in the message.
I flashed my best smile – one that Avery would have read right through. “Do you have the Press-Herald out on the floor?”
“Only the last two weeks. What’re you looking for?” This last she said glancing up at the clock on the high wall behind her vast Senior Librarian desk.
“August last,” I said, flashing some culture.
“She a friend of yours?”
I should have expected this and should have tailored my facial expression accordingly. Damn. I’m no spy.
“I’m sorry?” A story popped into my head.
“You want to read about the Espinoza girl, right?” Her face didn’t match the question in her voice. Her face told me what I was here for.
“I’m looking for historical stock quotes, actually, for a report I have to write. I don’t know anyone named Espinoza.”
Claire nodded, but didn’t say anything further. She turned away from me and circled her desk to my left. As she tugged at a wooden drawer file, I scanned the main room of the library. The two microfiche viewers were against the far wall, overlooking the parking lot and my car.
She handed me a card on which she’d scribbled a series of letters and numbers and I thought I may need a code-breaker. Claire pointed to the fiche machines and said, “Just to the right is another set of drawers like this.” She waved a hand at the digging she’d just done. “It’s labeled Portland Press-Herald.”
I snatched the card and once again flashed her my thirty-two. “I appreciate it.”
She returned the smile. “You’ve got thirty minutes for your research.” My face prompted her to add, “I shouldn’t have assumed.”
It took me seven minutes to pull three weeks of August 1993 and nearly ten minutes to load the damn machine. I printed as many pages as I could as fast as I could and Claire never made a complaining peep. By 7:25pm I’d paid Saco Public Library $11.70 for the printouts and was headed back to the Hampton.
* * *
I grabbed another drive-thru coffee, grabbed a legal pad at a drug store, and set all my materials about me on the queen bed in my room. I arranged the newspapers chronologically in one-week piles, left to right and opened the notebook. I wanted to have a clearer picture before Carrie came knocking. I started on August 11th and tried to stick to any mention of evidence, and whether the piece of evidence was confirmed by the police or only reported by the paper. I skimmed until August 18th before I slammed the pen down and closed the notebook.
Don’t get frustrated, I told myself. I glanced at the alarm clock on the night stand to my left. 9:03pm. There was plenty of time to stay calm.
I almost skipped a few days, but the urge subsided. It was a good thing. On August 19th, a source within the South Portland PD expressed frustration at the pace of the investigation and told a reporter what little they’d uncovered. The officer confirmed that Bianca Espinoza had been strangled. The only other thing they could substantiate, the officer went on to state, was that she’d been murdered elsewhere and dumped at the scene, just off the highway by the Maine Mall Road.
Holy shit.
The fact almost knocked me down. It was a powerful fact, but I almost fell over more because it was a fact I already knew – I’d read it in the paper Carrie had in her purse. My initial shock hadn’t allowed me to concentrate on it, or its impact.
I’d left Bianca at Ms. Twilight’s and bolted. Hadn’t I? Someone, and flashing neon arrows in my head pointed at the visitor I expected later that night, cleaned up after me.
I got up from my research with a renewed smile on my face and went to the bathroom. I would have whistled on the way, if I’d been able. I blew my nose and looked at my complexion. Pale. My lower back and upper legs ached and I thought influenza was wrapping its hands around my throat, if you’ll pardon the chosen personification.
It’d been a long day – packing Avery at home, the drive up to UNH, unpacking, the emotions of good-bye, the emotions of events in Maine. Television was to be avoided. If I turned on the tube, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be awake to answer Ms. Twilight’s light knocking. A walk would have been a good idea, if not for my choice of hotel. Industrial Park Road wasn’t well lit and lacked for sights.
That was when, not Ms. Twilight, but an adrenaline rush came knocking on my door.
Through the peep hole, all I could see was the convex image of a hat. It was royal blue with two red squares and white writing – Domino’s Pizza. I exhaled, annoyed, and tugged the door open.
The guy had a wild, unkempt beard, flaming red. He was a full head shorter than me, explaining why I could only see the logo on his hat through the door. He looked as annoyed as I was.
“Two pepperoni, both extra cheese,” he deadpanned. “That’ll be twenty-five even, dude.”
“Sorry, chief.” Did I mention I hate the term ‘dude’? “I didn’t order any pizzas.”
Now it was Redbeard’s turn to exhale. “I don’t have time for this.”
Man, that’s the kind of response I would have gotten from Avery. Except that I would have been bullshitting her.
I thought direct may be the best approach here. Redbeard seemed pretty no-nonsense. “I didn’t order any pizzas, dude.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but I could tell he was getting increasingly agitated with me; which was fine. “Caller said Hampton Inn. Gave this room number.” The clipped sentences were a nice touch.
I raised three fingers in front of my face. “I didn’t order any fucking pizzas.” My voice and tone were completely neutral and all but the curse word was non-threatening. Granted, it wasn’t a clipped sentence, but…
I noticed his shoulders tense and thought he might take a swing. I was sweating and had a headache. I think I was also smiling – a sick, provoking smile. Go on, go on.
Redbeard turned and walked away, down the hall and toward the elevator.
* * *
I sat at the desk in the corner of my room, feeling small in the face of what could have been. I thought about the feeling I’d had when I thought Redbeard may give me an opening; when I thought he may make the first move. The anticipation was powerful and the tension that took hold of my muscles at that moment I could only relate to one other thing I’d ever felt before. Just before I’d stabbed Avery in that fateful dream, I’d been filled with a desire for violence – a hunger of sorts. I really wanted Redbeard, in that moment, to give me an excuse to lash out at him in blind rage. I really wanted an excuse to try and kill him.
Monday, July 6, 2009
New excerpts! This one from BENEFICIARY...
Taylor made up his mind on the ride to Newport that FBI Agent Ronald Mackey was in no way to blame for his grandfather’s death. A flame of guilt burnt inside him, and Taylor sought to pin the full burden of blame on himself. If he’d only stuck around; he just couldn’t push the thought away.
“The ER desk said I’d find you up here,” Taylor said. “I always assumed the morgue was in the basement. Too many movies for me, I guess.” He forced a smile.
Mackey looked confused, then his face cleared with understanding. “Your grandfather isn’t here. His body was released to Mr. Callaghan at the scene. My deepest condolences, by the way.” Taylor nodded acceptance to the sentiment. Mackey offered his own nervous smile and gestured toward two armchairs at the end of the hall.
“In a case like this, with a conclusive cause of death, it isn’t customary to have an autopsy performed. If you feel differently, however, I think I could pull a string or two.” Mackey lowered himself smoothly into one of the chairs. Taylor remained standing, any excuse to punish himself.
“No. That’s not necessary.” Taylor turned around, looking down the hall back toward the elevator. He surveyed the ward, his mind working.
“Why are you up on eight, then? I’ve always heard this was the mental health floor.” Another half smile.
Mackey bowed his head. “You’re right. That’s exactly what it is.”
Taylor sensed something was about to hit him in the face. His short fuse burned ever so slightly, and he felt his grief simmering and changing. Anger stirred somewhere deep. It longed to make an appearance. Some form of outburst, some way of expressing all the pent up emotion – it’d be therapeutic to some degree, no?
“And you are clearly not telling me something, Mackey.”
“Again, you’re right.” Mackey stood. “Why don’t you sit down?”
Taylor took a quick first step toward Mackey and had the FBI man pinned against the wall before a defense could be mounted. Both men were surprised by the assault. “What is it?” Taylor seethed.
Mackey had no choice. He relayed the night’s events, including everything Taylor’s grandfather had said as he lay dying. Mackey concluded the report and as the color left his face, Taylor released his shirt front. He felt Mackey’s shoes make contact with the tile floor and only then realized that he’d had him off the ground an inch.
Taylor felt dizzy, shaken to the core. His father had shot and killed his grandfather.
His vision danced, shivered. Taylor saw his grandfather’s smile. He pictured the porch, the walkway, the front lawn. He shook his head and the image shifted. A chalk outline, partly on the stone walkway, partly in the lawn. The spot was soaked and pooled with blood.
Taylor inched away from Mackey and bumped into the other armchair, his momentum sitting him down. His head found his hands on its way to in between his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut.
He considered his father for just a moment. He thought of how his grandfather - his late grandfather – had described a younger version of Thomas Andrews that day at lunch.
Something snapped. Taylor stood slowly. His eyes were blurred, but this time tears were to blame.
“I want to see him.” The tone was dead, flat. His head felt clear now.
“Is that a good idea, under the…”
Taylor was already on the move.
* * *
Taylor hesitated at the doorway. Apprehension within fought anger, he was ashamed to admit. His face burned and Taylor realized he was clenching both his teeth and the muscles in his face, as if his frown was coupling with his rage and both planned on overtaking his will.
Taylor balled his fists as he crossed the threshold. He thought of how often his fists had balled themselves in the last thirty-six hours. His hands were no doubt unsure of themselves.
He sensed Mackey standing behind him, just outside the room.
And then he saw his father. Thomas Andrews lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Taylor focused on the resemblance. His lips quaked and at that instant his mind was made up.
Taylor sprang forth, as he’d done to Mackey moments before. After a step-and-a-half and a blink of his eyes, Taylor let fly. His right hand reared back and delivered a vicious uppercut. At the same time his father lifted his head slightly and turned toward Taylor. The turn of the head played perfectly. It may have been a glancing blow otherwise.
Taylor’s fist made contact just below the left eye. Thomas Andrews head rocked back, his eyes rolled in his head and momentum carried him out of the bed on the far side.
Electronics sprang to life, their tinny alarms issuing warnings that monitors had dislodged, IV lines were compromised, and Taylor Andrews had just scored a first round knockout.
Mackey hadn’t expected Taylor’s reaction, though he should have. He dove forward, burying his right shoulder into the small of Taylor’s back and wrapped his arms like a middle linebacker. He let his legs go from under him, rolling to his left, and pulled Taylor hard to the white tile floor.
“What are you thinking?!” Mackey shouted. Given the father though, he could hardly fault the son. For all their similar physical features, it seemed that only Taylor had been blessed with backbone.
“Get the fuck off me!” Taylor was strong, and pissed, and he managed to get his feet under him. He wasn’t trained by the FBI, however, and Mackey regained control, using Taylor’s upward momentum and weight to spin him and toss him back into the room’s lone chair.
They were both breathing hard and Mackey said, “Get out of here.” He pointed to the doorway. “Get something to drink and try to calm down. Meet me in the main lobby in twenty minutes.” He spoke quietly, the calm in his voice was meant to bring Taylor back down as well.
Taylor glared at Mackey and wiped a bloodied lip on his sleeve. Momentarily and silently he obeyed. Taylor had been in the room for less than sixty seconds, but his point was made and now he was gone.
* * *
Was it the morphine playing tricks? Beyond the bullet wounds, Thomas Andrews had a sore back and a splitting headache. And this bed, Christ. Was it made of cement?
The haze of the drugs lifted and Thomas recalled the dream he’d been having. Five year old Taylor had towered over him, asked why Thomas had left his mother, and landed a jarring uppercut to Thomas’ cheek. You know, as he considered the dream, it wasn’t so much a headache he had. His cheek was throbbing.
“This fucking bed,” he cursed, trying to adjust his position. He came to and, rubbing his cheek with a hand, glanced up at the bottom of his hospital bed. “What the hell?” Had he actually said those two lines? Was his voice audible or part of his internal monologue? No idea.
From a distance, Thomas heard the grunts and scuffling of physical exertion, then electronic beeping, then footsteps. He shook his head and fought his muscles to obey the synapses of his brain and their electric orders. He managed to get to his knees and felt like he’d been hit by a truck.
Two men were leaving the room, just as two nurses rushed in. They were speaking to him, Thomas knew, but the words were as jumbled as the other noises had been. It was as if the nurses had their mouths submerged in water. The mer-nurses circled the bed and seized him by each elbow.
“Could I possibly get some Tylenol and a glass of water?”
The nurses paused. They stared at him a moment before resuming their hasty push toward the bed.
Thomas made out a word. One of the nurses had just said ‘son’, and she’d been asking a question.“My son, yes.” Thomas nodded vigorously. “He’s just a little boy.” The nurses eased him back onto the bed and hoisted the starched blanket up to Thomas’ midriff. He smiled and hoped the two nurses could understand him. He slowed his speech, trying not to sound condescending. “But even at this age, he has his mother’s temper.”
“The ER desk said I’d find you up here,” Taylor said. “I always assumed the morgue was in the basement. Too many movies for me, I guess.” He forced a smile.
Mackey looked confused, then his face cleared with understanding. “Your grandfather isn’t here. His body was released to Mr. Callaghan at the scene. My deepest condolences, by the way.” Taylor nodded acceptance to the sentiment. Mackey offered his own nervous smile and gestured toward two armchairs at the end of the hall.
“In a case like this, with a conclusive cause of death, it isn’t customary to have an autopsy performed. If you feel differently, however, I think I could pull a string or two.” Mackey lowered himself smoothly into one of the chairs. Taylor remained standing, any excuse to punish himself.
“No. That’s not necessary.” Taylor turned around, looking down the hall back toward the elevator. He surveyed the ward, his mind working.
“Why are you up on eight, then? I’ve always heard this was the mental health floor.” Another half smile.
Mackey bowed his head. “You’re right. That’s exactly what it is.”
Taylor sensed something was about to hit him in the face. His short fuse burned ever so slightly, and he felt his grief simmering and changing. Anger stirred somewhere deep. It longed to make an appearance. Some form of outburst, some way of expressing all the pent up emotion – it’d be therapeutic to some degree, no?
“And you are clearly not telling me something, Mackey.”
“Again, you’re right.” Mackey stood. “Why don’t you sit down?”
Taylor took a quick first step toward Mackey and had the FBI man pinned against the wall before a defense could be mounted. Both men were surprised by the assault. “What is it?” Taylor seethed.
Mackey had no choice. He relayed the night’s events, including everything Taylor’s grandfather had said as he lay dying. Mackey concluded the report and as the color left his face, Taylor released his shirt front. He felt Mackey’s shoes make contact with the tile floor and only then realized that he’d had him off the ground an inch.
Taylor felt dizzy, shaken to the core. His father had shot and killed his grandfather.
His vision danced, shivered. Taylor saw his grandfather’s smile. He pictured the porch, the walkway, the front lawn. He shook his head and the image shifted. A chalk outline, partly on the stone walkway, partly in the lawn. The spot was soaked and pooled with blood.
Taylor inched away from Mackey and bumped into the other armchair, his momentum sitting him down. His head found his hands on its way to in between his knees. He squeezed his eyes shut.
He considered his father for just a moment. He thought of how his grandfather - his late grandfather – had described a younger version of Thomas Andrews that day at lunch.
Something snapped. Taylor stood slowly. His eyes were blurred, but this time tears were to blame.
“I want to see him.” The tone was dead, flat. His head felt clear now.
“Is that a good idea, under the…”
Taylor was already on the move.
* * *
Taylor hesitated at the doorway. Apprehension within fought anger, he was ashamed to admit. His face burned and Taylor realized he was clenching both his teeth and the muscles in his face, as if his frown was coupling with his rage and both planned on overtaking his will.
Taylor balled his fists as he crossed the threshold. He thought of how often his fists had balled themselves in the last thirty-six hours. His hands were no doubt unsure of themselves.
He sensed Mackey standing behind him, just outside the room.
And then he saw his father. Thomas Andrews lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. Taylor focused on the resemblance. His lips quaked and at that instant his mind was made up.
Taylor sprang forth, as he’d done to Mackey moments before. After a step-and-a-half and a blink of his eyes, Taylor let fly. His right hand reared back and delivered a vicious uppercut. At the same time his father lifted his head slightly and turned toward Taylor. The turn of the head played perfectly. It may have been a glancing blow otherwise.
Taylor’s fist made contact just below the left eye. Thomas Andrews head rocked back, his eyes rolled in his head and momentum carried him out of the bed on the far side.
Electronics sprang to life, their tinny alarms issuing warnings that monitors had dislodged, IV lines were compromised, and Taylor Andrews had just scored a first round knockout.
Mackey hadn’t expected Taylor’s reaction, though he should have. He dove forward, burying his right shoulder into the small of Taylor’s back and wrapped his arms like a middle linebacker. He let his legs go from under him, rolling to his left, and pulled Taylor hard to the white tile floor.
“What are you thinking?!” Mackey shouted. Given the father though, he could hardly fault the son. For all their similar physical features, it seemed that only Taylor had been blessed with backbone.
“Get the fuck off me!” Taylor was strong, and pissed, and he managed to get his feet under him. He wasn’t trained by the FBI, however, and Mackey regained control, using Taylor’s upward momentum and weight to spin him and toss him back into the room’s lone chair.
They were both breathing hard and Mackey said, “Get out of here.” He pointed to the doorway. “Get something to drink and try to calm down. Meet me in the main lobby in twenty minutes.” He spoke quietly, the calm in his voice was meant to bring Taylor back down as well.
Taylor glared at Mackey and wiped a bloodied lip on his sleeve. Momentarily and silently he obeyed. Taylor had been in the room for less than sixty seconds, but his point was made and now he was gone.
* * *
Was it the morphine playing tricks? Beyond the bullet wounds, Thomas Andrews had a sore back and a splitting headache. And this bed, Christ. Was it made of cement?
The haze of the drugs lifted and Thomas recalled the dream he’d been having. Five year old Taylor had towered over him, asked why Thomas had left his mother, and landed a jarring uppercut to Thomas’ cheek. You know, as he considered the dream, it wasn’t so much a headache he had. His cheek was throbbing.
“This fucking bed,” he cursed, trying to adjust his position. He came to and, rubbing his cheek with a hand, glanced up at the bottom of his hospital bed. “What the hell?” Had he actually said those two lines? Was his voice audible or part of his internal monologue? No idea.
From a distance, Thomas heard the grunts and scuffling of physical exertion, then electronic beeping, then footsteps. He shook his head and fought his muscles to obey the synapses of his brain and their electric orders. He managed to get to his knees and felt like he’d been hit by a truck.
Two men were leaving the room, just as two nurses rushed in. They were speaking to him, Thomas knew, but the words were as jumbled as the other noises had been. It was as if the nurses had their mouths submerged in water. The mer-nurses circled the bed and seized him by each elbow.
“Could I possibly get some Tylenol and a glass of water?”
The nurses paused. They stared at him a moment before resuming their hasty push toward the bed.
Thomas made out a word. One of the nurses had just said ‘son’, and she’d been asking a question.“My son, yes.” Thomas nodded vigorously. “He’s just a little boy.” The nurses eased him back onto the bed and hoisted the starched blanket up to Thomas’ midriff. He smiled and hoped the two nurses could understand him. He slowed his speech, trying not to sound condescending. “But even at this age, he has his mother’s temper.”
What are we reading?
Let me know what you're reading right now...
I just finished The Tin Collectors, Stephen Cannell's first book in the Shane Scully series from 2000. Tonight, I'm starting Every Dead Thing by Dublin's John Connolly. Every Dead Thing starts the Charlie Parker series in 1999. After that, I'll be on to Gerald's Game by Stephen King. I'm told its actually scary.
I just finished The Tin Collectors, Stephen Cannell's first book in the Shane Scully series from 2000. Tonight, I'm starting Every Dead Thing by Dublin's John Connolly. Every Dead Thing starts the Charlie Parker series in 1999. After that, I'll be on to Gerald's Game by Stephen King. I'm told its actually scary.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Myron Bolitar
Any of you know this name? Should you?
He grew up the older of two brothers in Livingston, NJ, starring for the high school hoops team and was heavily recruited by major programs. He chose Duke and carried the team to two national championships in the early 1980s. He was a top 10 overall choice of the Boston Celtics in the mid-1980s. He blew out his knee in the pre-season and never played an NBA game. He did a little investigative work for the Feds, got a law degree from Harvard and started representing athletes.
Well, he sort of did these things...
Myron Bolitar is the protagonist in nine novels by Harlan Coben. The novels are fast-paced mysteries characterized by twists and turns and, for the most part, you won't see the end coming.
Coben is in my top five for two reasons. First off, I'm a fan of the twist. I don't want a mystery to be too easy for the reader to figure out and I, as an author, really appreciate Coben's ability to bend and twist and throw the 12-6 curve ball.
Secondly, the characters are compelling. OK, I'll admit it. Myron and his cast of cohorts are a little satirical. Myron, the lead, is a consummate gentleman from a loving family. He's a former star athlete who made good after sports. He also is a trained pugilist with a knack for finding missing people. His best friend, Windsor Horne Lockwood, III (or simply Win), has sculptured good looks, says "Articulate" when he answers the phone, lives in expensive apartments, runs a family investment firm...oh, and he's deadly. Etc.
The thing about these characters - when you've been away from Myron Bolitar for three years and Long Lost comes out in April 2009, it's like putting on a really comfortable t-shirt. You laugh at the witty exchanges between Myron and Win and think, as an author, Do these conversations come naturally to Coben, or does he sit for hours, finding the perfect snappy comeback?
They fit together and, as a reader, you fit as well.
If you don't know Myron Bolitar - and like a mystery you won't see coming - pick up 1995's Deal Breaker. And let me know what you thought...
He grew up the older of two brothers in Livingston, NJ, starring for the high school hoops team and was heavily recruited by major programs. He chose Duke and carried the team to two national championships in the early 1980s. He was a top 10 overall choice of the Boston Celtics in the mid-1980s. He blew out his knee in the pre-season and never played an NBA game. He did a little investigative work for the Feds, got a law degree from Harvard and started representing athletes.
Well, he sort of did these things...
Myron Bolitar is the protagonist in nine novels by Harlan Coben. The novels are fast-paced mysteries characterized by twists and turns and, for the most part, you won't see the end coming.
Coben is in my top five for two reasons. First off, I'm a fan of the twist. I don't want a mystery to be too easy for the reader to figure out and I, as an author, really appreciate Coben's ability to bend and twist and throw the 12-6 curve ball.
Secondly, the characters are compelling. OK, I'll admit it. Myron and his cast of cohorts are a little satirical. Myron, the lead, is a consummate gentleman from a loving family. He's a former star athlete who made good after sports. He also is a trained pugilist with a knack for finding missing people. His best friend, Windsor Horne Lockwood, III (or simply Win), has sculptured good looks, says "Articulate" when he answers the phone, lives in expensive apartments, runs a family investment firm...oh, and he's deadly. Etc.
The thing about these characters - when you've been away from Myron Bolitar for three years and Long Lost comes out in April 2009, it's like putting on a really comfortable t-shirt. You laugh at the witty exchanges between Myron and Win and think, as an author, Do these conversations come naturally to Coben, or does he sit for hours, finding the perfect snappy comeback?
They fit together and, as a reader, you fit as well.
If you don't know Myron Bolitar - and like a mystery you won't see coming - pick up 1995's Deal Breaker. And let me know what you thought...
Writer's Digest Pop Fiction Contest
Click through for details. Cash prizes, etc.
http://michellereynoso.blogspot.com/2009/07/contest-alert-writers-digest-pop.html
http://michellereynoso.blogspot.com/2009/07/contest-alert-writers-digest-pop.html
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