26th 02 - 2011 | 2 comments »

The Process of Progress

(Or RoW80 Check In for February 27th)

Between July and November of 2010 I wrote 11K words on Luck for Hire. I worked on Model Species in November and took December off. In January, I joined A Round of Words in 80 Days and made a goal to add 50K to Luck in 80 days. 10K every two weeks. The best laid schemes of mice and men…

Every book has a slightly different process. Generally, Eric knows the nature of the end of the book when we start. With Pas de Chat, he knew the steps to get there with little diversion. With Divine Fire, the exact ending was fairly elusive and only fell into place after Eric mulled it over for years. The nature of Luck for Hire is such that we left a lot of plot avenues open. Who are the good guys? Who are the bad guys? Who are the ambiguously gray guys? Eric knew the ending, more or less, but the journey was full of paths to take.

Of course, the more I wrote, the fewer paths could be left open. Halfway through RoW80, we had hit the major plot points of Luck for Hire. I had added about 27K words (33K minus rewritten materials). Decent progress for a month and a half. The last two weeks have been spent in inspection and rewriting. This is the hard part. The fatiguing part. What layers need to be added? Where are the weaknesses?

We decided to link up a few of the characters, giving Aleister and Dana a past relationship and Aleister and the LVPD a present one. We’re going to add to the Las Vegas section of the book and hopefully do more to pit Aleister against Howell. Eric’s rewriting a few scenes in a more direct way than he’s done in the past, which is exciting. And I have epigraphs to write. The thought is to augment some chapters with news stories about the events. Having not one journalistic bone in my body, I’m not raring to write these, but it’s work that needs to be done. On Monday, I’ll start on my next 10K goal.

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7th 01 - 2011 | 4 comments »

Fiction: Business as Usual

“Aleister, I’m being watched. I’m sure of it.”

“Have dinner in a crowded restaurant, Dana. Then check yourself into a nice hotel room. You’ll be fine.” Impatiently, he ended the call and switched over to music. Queen tonight. Freddy Mercury’s grandiosity suited New York.

Bardem’s Market was the sort of place Aleister could appreciate. In addition to the usual selection of beverages and convenience foods, it stocked a seemingly random array of household items. Duct tape. Putty knives and spackle. Barbecue tongs.  Tiny screws for eyeglasses and hearing aid batteries. They also had a wide selection of candy.

Alcander collected a putty knife, a Rocky Road candy bar and a carton of some off-brand of fortified chocolate milk. The advertising on the carton made a big deal of being higher in protein than regular chocolate milk and the “traditional” carton was eco-friendly. Aleister didn’t care. He wanted chocolate milk and it was the only brand that Bardem’s carried.

That wasn’t all he wanted, but he couldn’t quite decide what else he needed. He would buy scratch cards since he was in a state that had a lottery. He could use the extra cash. But what else? He lingered, as he always did.

The cashier, a balding man, sat behind the counter reading a car magazine. Aleister Luck wasn’t sure if the man had noticed him when he came in and didn’t seem to care if Aleister loitered. There were cameras, but Aleister didn’t look up to see them.

Aleister crouched down to finger a roll of waxed twine when the man walked in and started shouting loud enough that Aleister could hear it over Princes of the Universe.

“Open the register! Open the register!”

Aleister cursed under his breath, a sound that not even he heard over his music. In his lifetime, he had been involved in more robberies than he cared to count. Partly, it was because he liked convenience stores and gas stations. But mostly, this was simply how his life was.

He inferred several things about the situation without moving from his concealed spot. The robber was standing near the counter. He was probably waving a gun at the cashier.

Aleister didn’t fear the robber and his gun, but was dismayed at what this incident indicated about Aleister’s plan for the evening.

Regardless, action had to be taken.

Luck opened the carton of chocolate milk. In one movement, Aleister rose and threw it in the general direction of the counter and the thief’s ski-mask-covered head.

The milk missed the robber. Instead, it hit a magazine rack that sat on the counter. It ricocheted and splattered and fell on the floor.

Yes, the robber definitely had a gun. He pointed it in Aleister’s direction and the cold case behind Aleister exploded. Aleister threw himself to the side. The thief followed. Or rather he tried. The protein-fortified milk was viscous and covered a patch of floor at the thief’s feet. His right foot lost purchase and he fell. His head caught on the edge of counter on the way down and thudded heavily on the floor as he landed. He was out cold.

Aleister collected a second carton of milk from the refrigerated case. He fished a twenty dollar bill from his wallet and put it on the counter. The cashier hadn’t quite recovered. He had popped the register and collected the money. And had most likely triggered a silent alarm.

Aleister deftly avoided the spilt milk and plucked the gun from the man’s hand. He considered for a moment and took the ski mask as well. These were the other things he needed tonight.

The robber wasn’t bleeding; Aleister suspected that he was only suffering from a concussion. While robbery didn’t mark this man as the smartest of the population, Aleister was pleased that the thief had invested in a no-slip grip on his gun. Less finger prints on the handle.

Aleister heaved a sigh.

“It’s going to be a very long night,” he told the cashier as he left Bardem’s.


8th 10 - 2010 | 2 comments »

Fiction: Mr. Borhan and Ms. Kendricks Travel

Process: This isn’t a scene that we’re particularly happy with. It lacks punch, especially on the heals of Preparations. The Preparations chapter is currently getting a rewrite and some of the content from it will moved into this scene. In the end, this lull might work better when all is said and done.

A few weeks back I wrote a short short for 52|250 featuring Mr. Luck. While whimsical, it isn’t cannon. “Magic, Inconspicuous” gives Aleister abilities that are beyond his capacities.

—###—

Mr. Borhan and Ms. Kendricks Travel

When travelling alone, airports were tiring places for Aleister Luck.

On one hand, every traveler was the object of vigilance. Cameras, security personnel, bored people-watchers in airport bars all observed with varying levels of interest. Under those circumstances, it was difficult for Aleister to do anything.

On the other hand, an airport offered many options. Aleister knew that fellow passengers are truly interested in one thing: what they themselves are doing. Travel veterans who were used to the routines of kiosks, metal detectors, and transferred flights showed purposeful disinterest in what happened to others. It was within those gaps that Aleister could work.

But with Dana Spelman at his side? Aleister steeled himself for a series of very long trips.

“Did you print out our confirmation numbers?” she asked as she headed toward the check-in kiosks. Aleister stopped her with a hand on her elbow and steered her to a counter.

“Follow my lead,” he reminded her.

The young man at the check in counter gave Aleister a strained smile. “Where will you be flying to today?”

Most of his job involved verifying boarding passes and checking bags. These days, it was rare that someone approached his counter needing to book a flight.

“New York. La Guardia.” Aleister hadn’t glanced at the departure board.

With a look at the impatient queue of passengers, he tapped his touch screen. “There are three seats left on the 9:55 flight.”

“When is the next flight after that?”

The clerk’s eyebrows lifted. “2:35 in the afternoon. Five seats available.”

“We’ll take the 9:55.” Aleister drew a credit card and his driver’s license from his wallet. Without looking at them, he knew the names on them all would match.

“Would you like to book a return trip as well?”

“Not at this time.”

The clerk saw that Aleister was only carrying a backpack, but still asked, “Checking any baggage this morning, Mr. Borhan?”

“No.”

The clerk drummed his fingers in the top of his console while the boarding pass printed. He tucked it and Aleister’s card into an envelope and wrote the departure gate number on the outside in green marker. “And you as well, ma’am?”

“Yes, we’re…” To Aleister’s relief, she didn’t try to justify their pairing with any particular story. “Yes, La Guardia. Same flight.”

She also remembered to use her Kendrick ID and didn’t bat an eyelash when called by that name.

“Have a good trip. Thank you for flying Southwest.”

*****

They rented a car and Aleister drove out of the city.

“Wasn’t one of the researchers at Columbia? I assumed that we’d be visiting him first.” She dug her notebook computer from her backpack and balanced it on her lap.

“We’re going to New Jersey,” said Aleister. At least, that was where he was headed at the moment.

“Okay.”

As Aleister drove along the I-278, Dana checked through her files and list.

“Princeton?” she asked.

Aleister knew that if he ignored her, Dana would repeat her question and ask more.

“Listen, Dana. You’re here because it was dangerous to leave you in Las Vegas. I have a very specific way of working and I’d rather you didn’t impinge on it.”

“If you let me know what you intend, I can…”

“No. It doesn’t work like that. I go where I need to be.”

“And we need to take a drive to Princeton instead of meeting the researcher at Columbia?”

“It would seem so.”

“And, this information that you stole, does it have any purpose? Because I’ve turned it every which way and it doesn’t tell me any more about Benes’ research than I already knew.”

“It has a purpose.” He had transferred the files to Dana’s computer, but Aleister kept the flash drive and Dana’s old SIM card in a secure travel wallet.

“You know what it is yet?”

Aleister shrugged. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“Fine.” With a sideways glance, Dana closed the laptop.

To further discourage conversation, Aleister turned on the radio and switched stations until he found something loud. Stone Temple Pilots from their first album. Dana winced and made a face but was quiet until the song was over.

“Would you mind if I put something on?” she asked.

“Knock yourself out.”

Dana hooked her MP3 up to the car’s stereo and fiddled with its dial. Eventually a woman’s voice filled the cab of the car, soaring over a hybrid of electronic and symphonic melodies. It was unfamiliar to Aleister and pleasant enough, but he didn’t ask Dana any questions about the artist. Aleister wasn’t in the mood to converse.

George Pitzner lived in the middle of a tree-lined street of row houses. Each townhouse was painted a slightly different shade of blue-gray and had their own stoop. Aleister parked across the street and did not hesitate to approach Pitzner’s door.

“Shouldn’t we wait?” While Aleister had crossed the street without concern for traffic–there was none–Dana glanced back and forth with a paranoid air.

“Wait for what?” Aleister asked.

“I don’t know. To make sure it’s safe?”

“We’re safe.”

Aleister rang the bell twice. When his patience wore thin, he pounded with the side of his fist.

“Doesn’t seem to be anyone at home.” Dana peeked through one of the windows that flanked the door. “I think I have a work address. And a phone number or two.”

Aleister shook his head. None of those things would do any good. He beat on the door again, harder.

George Pitzner’s door didn’t open, but a window in the next townhouse did. A woman with cottony white hair poked her head out.

“He’s not home,” she said.

“Can you tell us when he’s coming back?” Dana asked.

“He’s not. He’s dead. I take it you didn’t know that.”

Aleister wasn’t surprised. “How long ago?”

One of the woman’s bony shoulders raised in a disinterested shrug. “Few days. Luckily, he carpooled and one of his coworkers had a key. Well, I think she was more than a coworker. Anyway, she found the body.”

“That’s terrible,” said Dana.

“How?” Aleister asked.

“Heart attack, they say.”

“Do you think it was something other than that?” Aleister skipped down the steps of Pitzner’s stoop and leaned toward his neighbor’s window.

“He was a quiet guy. Kept to himself. Acted kind of strange sometimes.” The woman settled in on the window ledge. Her fingers tapped on the casing and Aleister wondered how long she had smoked before she gave it up. “I think he was on some medications. You know that type. Maybe he’s on some meds, maybe he drinks a little, maybe he forgets and takes an extra dose of whatever.” She waved her invisible cigarette toward the sky. “You know like that actor. That good-looking kid that they said was suicide, but was really an accidental OD.”

Aleister nodded. He didn’t remember the details. “Did he have many visitors? Other than the coworker that may have been more than a carpool buddy?”

“No. He was real quiet,” she repeated.

“Nothing a few days back, maybe at night?”

“Truthfully? I don’t hear so good anymore.”

“Well, thank you for your help,” said Aleister.

The woman’s bony shoulder rose and fell. “Are you two police or something? ”

“Or something,” Aleister agreed.

“Nothing to me.” She pulled her woolen head back through the window and shut it.

Dana was still standing on George Pitzner’s stoop. She had worn the gold earring, a cascade of gold substantial enough to set off the metal detector at the airport. They glittered against the paleness of her face. “So, he’s dead.”

“Seems so.” Aleister headed to the car and Dana followed after a moment.

“We’re too late then,” she said once they were in the car. “I thought you said this is where we needed to be.”

She turned away from Aleister and stared out the passenger side window.

Aleister started driving, heading in the vague direction of New York.

This situation was trying. Aleister had always worked alone, though he had done so mostly through lack of opportunity. While he had confederates like Smith and Mr. Schlotz, a partner had never sought him out. His magic had failed at the casino when she watched him, and it was quite possible that her very presence was confounding. Still, Aleister couldn’t accept that Princeton was a mistake.

“Will we be going into his apartment tonight?” Dana asked.

“I’m not sure there’s any reason to,” said Aleister.

“Do you think he only had a heart attack?”

“I think that’s fairly unlikely.”

“So, he was murdered too?”

Aleister didn’t answer.

“Then all these men are in danger? All the ones on this list?”

“There are several women too.”

“Yes, that makes me feel so much better. What a waste of time.” Dana thumped the car door with the side of her fist. “Now we’re behind. Whoever DCM sent, they’ve probably been to Columbia as well. We might as well go back to Las Vegas and wait for them to hunt us down.”

“Whoever DCM sent is patient. He’s good at what he does, and he’s not going to rush what needs to be done. He needs time to survey his mark. The few hours we spent in Jersey aren’t going to affect that.”

Dana still watched the traffic through the passenger window. “I hope you’re right. Time is but stream we go a-fishing in.”


20th 08 - 2010 | 4 comments »

Fiction: Other Interested Parties

“The customer you are trying to contact is currently unavailable.”

Detective David Moore frowned at the pleasant female voice on the other end of the phone.

“Is your girlfriend still not answering the phone?” David’s partner, Ray Sanyo squinted at the report he was typing. He’d never get used to the electronic forms. As usual, he had entered the wrong information into the wrong field. He cursed and jabbed the backspace a dozen times.

“She’s not available.”

“You mean she’s still avoiding your constant inquiries and you got her voice mail again?”

“No, I mean she’s not available.”

Ray glanced away from his monitor and across the desk. He sighed and saved the file. “Fine. Let’s go.”

They didn’t find Dana Spelman at her condo. The domicile was locked and Ray saw no indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened there.
That didn’t deter David. “I’m just saying, the grounds crew had been by. You saw them up the street. They could have cleaned up.”

“Cleaned up,” Ray repeated.

“They wouldn’t have known better. Crushed plants, mud on the steps.” David twisted the cruiser’s mounted computer toward him to peruse the morning’s calls. He shook his head. “I’m telling you, something’s up.”

“Or she dropped her phone in the toilet and isn’t available until she gets a new one.”

“I think it’s Benes. Benes is a loose cannon. You heard her say the same things I did.”

Ray shook his head. He had indeed heard the same answers from Dana Spelman.

Felix Benes had gone missing five days ago. Without explanation, he hadn’t shown up for his usual Thursday night dinner with his cousin Milos. Milos had a key to Felix’s apartment and was distressed by what he found.

To Ray and David, the apartment didn’t look like anything was out of place. According to Milos, the place was a mess. Felix’s laptop sat open and unplugged and had virtually nothing on it. That, according to cousin Milos, cinched it. Felix never left without his laptop.

The follow-up had led Dets. Moore and Sanyo to Dana Sullivan, a lawyer representing Felix in a case against Felix’s former employers. According to Spelman, the man had become increasingly unstable. His original claims of stifled research had become paranoid delusions. The last two meetings she’d had with him had concerned her. Well, David took her reaction as concern. To Ray, she had seemed perhaps too emphatic. She didn’t play it hysterical, but her fear for her personal safety didn’t quite ring true.

“I know what it is that bothered me,” said Ray as he eased their unmarked cruiser on to the I-15. “She sounded just like my ex-wife when she’d guilt me about the job being dangerous.”

“The job is dangerous,” said David.

“Yeah, but Marla would get this tone.” Ray shrugged. “I don’t know. Spelman had that tone. Anyway, I bet you lunch that she’s safe and sound in her plush, air-conditioned office.”

The receptionist at the front desk smiled with false cheer as she informed Ray and David that Dana Spelman was no longer employed at Devine, Chance and Merit.

David put his elbows on the counter and leaned forward. “Is there any other information you can give us? Like date of termination? Reason for termination? Forwarding information?”

Her glossy lips curved again. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have the authority to convey those facts. If I knew them.”

“Logically then, since we are the LVPD, you should point us to someone who can answer those questions.” He showed his badge. She was unimpressed.

“Just one moment.” She worked the phone and quietly explained her predicament to whomever she’d decided had authority. “Mr. Felts will see you. 5th floor,” she said finally.

“Thank you.” David’s smile didn’t meet his eyes either.

Mr. Felts let them wait ten minutes in his pseudo-lobby: three fairly comfortable chairs next to the desk of an older, steely-gazed, receptionist. While waiting, Ray perused the office bulletin board. An orange flier caught his attention. He read it twice before Mr. Felts showed them into his office.

“Detective Moore and Detective Sanyo, yes? I’m Richard Felts, a partner here at Devine, Chance and Merit. How can I help you? You are with the LVPD, yes?”

“That’s right,” said Ray.

Felts wasn’t more than five-ten. The color of his finely tailored suit matched his mouse gray hair. He was slim and fit for a man old enough to have hound-dog wrinkles.

“What can I do for you?” He congenially sat on the edge of his polished redwood desk. David and Ray took seats in gleaming leather chairs.

“We’ve been investigating the disappearance of Felix Benes,” David began.

“Dr. Benes, the cancer researcher.”

Both Ray and David nodded.

Mr. Felts went around his desk and shuffled several files. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he checked files that lined a desk drawer. “I believe that we’re no longer handling that case, and that we’ve already been cooperative with the LVPD on the matter of Felix Benes.”

“Yes,” said David. “We spoke to Dana Spelman previously. Unfortunately, we need to do a follow up with her and we haven’t been able to contact her.”

“Oh?”

“We were informed by the young lady downstairs that Dana Spelman is no longer employed here,” said Ray.

“That’s correct. Ms. Spelman left our employment two days ago.”

“Was the Benes case reassigned before it was closed?”

“We closed it before Spelman left.”

“Was Ms. Spelman let go from the firm because of her performance on this case?”

“No, and she didn’t mention the case in her exit interview.”

“She left?” David asked. “I guess I was under the impression that Devine, Chance and Merit were the ones that terminated her employment.”

“No. Ms. Spelman received a better offer elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“I would tell you if I knew, but she was not under any obligation to share that information.”

Ray rose and dug a card from his wallet. “Well, my partner and I would like to talk to Ms. Spelman. If your HR department can help us out any further, we’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.” Felts pocketed the card without looking at it.

“I noticed,” said Ray, “a post on one of the bulletin boards. About a guy that’s been causing some problems for your security staff?”

Felts grimaced, for effect. “That.”

“Is there a reason you haven’t called us in to help out on this?”

“I think that the pride of our security chief is mostly the reason we haven’t turned to outside help. Rest assured, that man is fairly harmless. There’s been a mild case of trespassing. Nothing more.”

“Well, you have our card if you need us on that count too.”

In the elevator, Det. Moore shook his head. “It’s Benes. He’s schizo and he decided to kidnap Dana because she wouldn’t help him.”

“That’s your theory?”

“Yeah, so what’s yours?”

Ray waited until a young woman in a business suit left at the third floor.

“Everything Spelman said sounded like a lie.”

“Yeah, yeah. Like your ex. She’s a lawyer, maybe she just sounds that way.”

“No,” said Ray. “Spelman had something to do with Benes disappearance and now it’s getting a little too warm in Vegas and she’s skipped town.”

“And that’s your theory.”

“Yes.”

“You still owe me lunch.”

—###—

Yesterday, I posted my first version of this scene. Does this one work better? In any case, thank you all for reading!


19th 08 - 2010 | 1 comment »

Extra Luck: Sanyo & Leveen

Process note: Mr. Luck isn’t the only one investigating what’s going on with Felix Benes. This is my first go at introducing the LVPD into the mix. But it doesn’t work. To quote Lenny Nero: “It’s a test pattern. Nothing happens. I’m snoring.” I knew it was not great before Eric pointed it out to me. We considered letting it sit a while as a place holder, but Eric came up with better characters. I plan on writing the replacement scene today and posting it tomorrow (08/20/10) for #FridayFlash.

In the meantime, what do you think? Does this work as a scene?

—###—

Detectives Raymond Sanyo and Beth Leveen arrived at Dana Spelman’s condo shortly after 1pm.

Det. Sanyo could still taste the garlic on his breath. “I can’t wait until lunch tomorrow. Pizza buffet. You asked for it.”

Beth rolled her eyes. “I’m sure your arteries are in shock after eating healthy.”

“How was that stuff healthy? Olives and greasy meat?”

“Olive oil is good for you.”

“And my breath smells like ass.”

Det. Leveen rang the bell and waited. Sanyo checked the address before Beth rang again.

“We have tried to contact her by phone, right?” Ray asked.

“Yes. No answer at any of her contact numbers. Left a message yesterday on her personal and work voice mails.”

Ray snorted, a noise the emanated from deep within the big man.

Det. Leveen leaned on the doorbell. “You think something is up?”

Ray shrugged. “Odd that she hasn’t called us back about an investigation involving one of her clients. Maybe she’s avoiding us.”

He turned his back to the door and surveyed the neighborhood. “Crap.”

“What?” Beth peered through the front window.

“This neighborhood is too damn new. No nosey little old ladies to question.”

“Little old ladies?” The entrance room was neat and tidy.

“Well, little old men too. They’re just as likely to peek from behind the blinds or water their lawn too long when something is going on. Never underestimate the hobbies of the elderly, Leveen. Young people, they keep too much to themselves.”

“I’ll remember that the next time we get a call and one of your old ladies has mistaken the sound of a video game for an actual crime being committed.”

“Hey, those teenagers had the volume way too high. That was disturbing the peace.”

Beth frowned at Spelman’s door and her verbose partner. The place was quiet. “No one’s here. Let’s go.”

“Just a sec.” He pointed at a landscaping truck parked in front of a section of condos up the street. Pointed the other way, the crew of workers had already taken care of Spelman and her neighbors.

Ray approached and greeted a Hispanic man gathering a blower from the truck’s trailer. He waited until Beth had caught before flashing his badge.

“Have you guys done any work on unit 26?” He pointed a thumb toward Dana Spelman’s condo.

“Uh… No, sir. We skipped it.”

“Any reason why?”

“Uh… I don’t know. Was told to skip it. Talk to Julio, he’ll know more.”

A bigger man in a work shirt and straw hat was already approaching. “Julio?” Ray asked.

“Si. Is there any problem?”

Ray flashed his badge again. “None at all. You guys skipped unit 26?”

“Yes, sir. The back gate was supposed to be unlatched for us. It wasn’t so we skipped it.”

“The woman that lives there forgot to leave it open?” Beth asked.

“Si.”

“Is she’s the forgetful type?”

Julio gave her a noncommittal shrug. “The HOA in this neighborhood… They’re pretty strict. No one is very forgetful.”

“Place looks great,” said Ray. “You do good work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Have a good one.” Ray waved as they walked away and Beth nodded.

“Place of employment next?” she asked when they got back to the car.

“Yep. We can let her know that she’s going to get an HOA citation.”

The secretary at the reception desk wore the same suit as Beth, but at two sizes smaller and three inches taller, no one could really tell.

“I’m sorry. Ms. Spelman no longer works for Devine, Chance and Merit.” Her smile suggested that Dets. Sanyo and Leveen be satisfied with that and continue on with their day.

Ray leaned forward. “Is there any other information you can give us? Like date of termination? Reason for termination? Forward information?”

Her glossed lips curved, but the smile did not reach the receptionists eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t have the authority to convey those facts. If I knew them.”

“Logically, you should point us to someone who can answer those questions.”

“I suppose so. Just one moment.” She worked the phone and quietly explained her predicament to whomever she had decided had authority. “Mr. Felts will see you. 5th floor.”

“Thank you.” Ray’s smile didn’t meet his eyes either.

Five paces from the desk, he asked: “Isn’t she wearing the same suit as you?”

“Yes,” said Beth, “but I have better shoes.”

Mr. Felts let them wait ten minutes in his pseudo-lobby: three fairly comfortable chairs next to the desk of an older, though no less steely gazed, receptionist. Beth sat while Ray stood cross-armed and nodded to the aids and assistants that scurried by. Something caught his eye on a bulletin board. He investigated and was back before Mr. Felts showed them into his office.

“Det. Leveen and Det. Sanyo, yes? I’m Richard Felts, a partner here at Devine, Chance and Merit. How can I help you? You are with the LVPD, yes?”

Felts might have had an inch of height on Dana. His finely tailored suit matched his steel gray hair. He was slim and fit for a man with hound-dog wrinkles.

“That’s right,” said Ray.

“You both look like you’ve been out in the heat today. Can I get you anything?” He motioned to the bar and minifridge behind his desk. The windows of his office were comfortably tinted.

“Nothing for me,” said Ray.

“Water would be good,” said Beth.

Mr. Felt passed her a plastic bottle. He sat on the edge of his polished redwood desk. Ray and Beth took seats in the office’s gleaming leather chairs.

“We’ve been investigating the disappearance of Felix Benes,” Beth explained as she twisted open the bottle.

“Dr. Benes, the cancer researcher.”

Both Ray and Beth nodded.

Mr. Felts went around his desk and shuffled several files. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he checked files that lined a desk drawer. “I believe that we’re no longer handling that case, and that we’ve already been cooperative with the LVPD on the matter of Felix Benes.”

“We had the name of the associate in charge of Mr. Benes’s case, but we haven’t been able to contact her yet,” Beth explained.

“Oh?”

“We were informed by the well-dressed young lady downstairs that Dana Spelman is no longer employed here,” said Ray.

“That’s correct. Ms. Spelman left our employment two days ago.”

“Was the Benes case reassigned before it was closed?”

“No. It was simply decided that our agency wasn’t the right one to be handling the case. Especially considering the circumstances.”

“Those circumstances being Mr. Benes’s disappearance?”

“In part.” Mr. Felts referred to the file. “There were many incompatibilities. Mr. Benes is an unstable man. His testimony in any suit would have been highly suspect.”

“Was Ms. Spelman let go from the firm because she didn’t share those opinions?”

“They weren’t among the reasons she gave for leaving.”

“She left?” Beth asked. “I guess I was under the impression that Devine, Chance and Merit were the ones that terminated her employment.”

“No. Ms. Spelman received a better offer elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“I would tell you if I knew, but she was not under any obligation to share that information.”

Ray rose and dug a card from his wallet. “Well, we’d like to talk to Ms. Spelman. If your HR department can help us out any further, we’d appreciate it.”

“Of course.” Felts pocketed the card without looking at it.

Ray was still sitting. “I noticed a post on one of the bulletin boards. About a guy that’s been causing some problems for your security staff?”

Felts grimaced, for effect. “That.”

“Is there a reason you haven’t called us in to help out on this?”

“I think that the pride of our security chief is mostly the reason we haven’t turned to outside help. Rest assured, that man is fairly harmless. There’s been a mild case of trespassing. Nothing more.”

To Beth, Ray didn’t look convinced. “Well, you have our card if you need us on that count too.”


30th 07 - 2010 | 1 comment »

Process: Writer’s Lock

This was originally posted at http://katen.livejournal.com.

Been suffering from writer’s lock this week.

Not writer’s block, writer’s lock. Due to the way we work, it can strike at any time, but it especially occurs during editing. In my mind, I have trouble reframing a scene enough to do the necessary rewrites to it. My concept of the scene becomes locked down. To some degree this is related to killing the beauties (as my teacher Marly Swick put it; also known as murdering your darlings). My brain has trouble accepting that a scene could be written as well as it already has been; that the perfect flow cannot be tampered with. Even when the scene is lacking important narrative information.

For example, I’m working on what will potentially be Ch. 1 of Luck for Hire. One of the main points of the scene is to establish Aleister’s adversarial relationship with Devine, Chance and Merit and their security head, Davis. Our original talk about the scene included the two meeting. Eric felt that was an important point. I agreed. And then promptly wrote the scene in a different, less effective way. Eric called me on it, though not immediately. My broken scene was enough to make him briefly forget what was originally intended. I’ve been fiddling with the changes since Wednesday. While I understand how the scene needs to go, it’s been locked.

The solution, to belabor an analogy, is a mental door-breaking of the scene. I can try starting over with a blank slate, but the previous version of the scene can’t be un-thought. I jimmy the edges of the scene until I let myself back in. Or something like that. In the case of this Luck scene, a real-world logistics problem cropped up and broke the spiffy beginning I’d written. I’m still not done writing the chapter and I’ve lost confidence that it is well written. That doesn’t mean it isn’t or that my opinion won’t change in time. It’s just not the zippy little collection of scenes that it was.

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23rd 07 - 2010 | 9 comments »

Fiction: Mr. Luck to the Rescue

This is a retread of “Not the Girl for Him”. The first 500 words or so are pretty much the same: Mr. Luck “playing” blackjack. The difference is who is observing him. Gone is Rosalyn. Instead, we meet Dana. While there are slight changes throughout, I’ll mark in bold where the biggest deviation begins. The scene concludes in a very different manner.

—###—

Mr. Luck to the Rescue

Every private detective in every novel, TV show, or movie is pleasantly labeled as “down on his luck.” That’s a term for the poor. Of course this is because private detectives in novels, TV shows, and movies are good people. They help the needy and if they’re involved in shady dealings it’s in the interest of doing right regardless of margins.

Mr. Luck was one of those good people. Or at least he tried to be. He was selective about his clientele and didn’t worry about whether they could pay. And that’s why Mr. Luck generally turned to magic to make a living.

Aleister Luck always chose a busy blackjack table. If there was someone loud, flamboyant, or self-centered, so much the better. In comparison, the casual observer wouldn’t notice Aleister Luck and the casino didn’t get too suspicious when he wasn’t the only one with a pile of chips in front of him.

Tonight, his fellow players were a pair of giggling middle-aged women, a quiet bearded man, and a college-aged kid accompanied by his blonde girlfriend. The women were fairly new to the game. The kid had been drinking and his girlfriend found his poor math skills exceedingly funny. The bearded fellow was sandwiched between them.

A near perfect set up.

Dealt from a shoe, all face up, no one really noticed that Mr. Luck didn’t look at his cards.

He had instead trained himself to look at people’s hands and wrists, blocking out the card faces. The ladies both had manicured nails, doubtless the product of an afternoon at the casino’s spa. The college kid had a tattoo of ornate lettering that started at wrist. Luck couldn’t read what it said. Luck’s own hands were a geography of dry skin and hangnails. Dealers’ hands were never interesting. They were clean, soft, and dealers rarely wore jewelry.

He didn’t watch to see what the other players were dealt or what the house had. He motioned for another card without any information. He simply knew it was the right decision. He put chips forward haphazardly too, never checking their color or the size of his stacks.

He won when he wanted and he lost when he wanted. Occasionally, he shifted his efforts to someone else at the table. With a thought, he knew that the card dealt next would be what that player needed. On the surface, he wasn’t a good enough player to be noticed, but every time he walked away from the table, Mr. Luck had enough to live as he liked. His banker took care of the details.

Things started to go wrong after the second lady, the one wearing a gaudy crystal ring on her right hand, split a pair. That was really more information about the table than Aleister Luck preferred, but it wasn’t anything that should cause him trouble. She lost when Aleister saw her winning. The next hand, Aleister lost when he had decided not to. Panic became an itch in the back of his throat. How much had he lost? How had he lost? His faith shaken, Mr. Luck excused himself from the table, sweeping his winnings into a plastic cup usually used for slot tokens.

And then he saw her.

She was sitting on a stool at the vacant table next to Luck’s. She had been watching him and flashed a smile when he had turned toward her. Observed, his magic had failed. How much had she really noticed about Aleister Luck?

Luck nodded politely and headed to the bar. He tried to ignore her. The lack of a compelling sport to watch on the big screens didn’t help. She followed and took a seat next to him.

“Can I buy you a drink?” she asked.

Polished. That was Aleister’s impression of her. Glossy dark hair. The right amount of makeup where it needed to be. She wore a casual suit and a chain of rich gold.

Luck weighed her interest. She wouldn’t be put off easily. “Sure,” he said.

“What will you have?” The bartender hovered on the other side of the bar.

“Gin and tonic.”

“Same. My name’s Dana.” She offered a hand.

“Aleister. Aleister Luck.”

“Luck. Are you particularly lucky, Mr. Luck?”

“Not at all.” Aleister answered honestly.

She tapped a manicured fingernail against his plastic cup full of chips. “You seem to be doing pretty well to me.”

The bartender placed two highballs on the bar.

She could be casino security. Or, sometimes people happened upon Aleister. Instead of seeing an ad or looking him up online, they found him.

The answer wouldn’t be found in her sleek hair and the earrings that matched her necklace, but Aleister picked up one of the drinks while looking at her. The flavor of the gin was satisfying. Whether unconsciously or not, Dana mirrored his actions.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” he asked.

“No, I…” She glanced at Sports Center playing on the flat screen and at her hand holding the gin and tonic. “I just thought you might be an interesting person to know.”

“I see.”

She might be attracted to him, for whatever reason. Aleister wasn’t good or even novel looking. He was careful not to be outstanding in any way. Still, every so often, a woman took an “interest” in him. She’d pay attention to him. She’d stalk him in the nosey way women had. Most men didn’t notice or mind. For Aleister, though, this could be a problem.

“What kind of business are you in?” she asked. She sipped at the drink.

“Usually, I investigate certain matters for clients.”

“Oh? Like a private investigator?”

“Yes, something like that.” On the screen above the bar an impossible football play caught Aleister’s attention. The receiver, concerned about the defensive player behind him, seemed to get only the tip of one finger on a wobbly pass before the rest of his hand reeled in the ball. He was watching the second replay when Dana said, “That must be exciting. What’s the most interesting case you’ve been involved in?”

Mr. Luck heard it in her voice then. The timbre of her words was off. She knew who he was.

He ignored the question. “What is that you do, Miss… Dana?”

The question shouldn’t have taken so long to answer. “I work for a law firm.”

“Lawyer?”

“Sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?”

“My work includes many different things. Some investigation, in fact.” She set her glass, empty of all but ice, on the bar.

“What firm?”

“Pardon me?”

“What firm? What law firm?” Sports Center had moved on to a story about recruiting violations.

“Devine, Chance and Merit.” Despite the prestige of the institution, she said the words quickly, and Aleister thought he heard fear in them.

Aleister kept his tone light. “I know of it, of course.”

“Yes.”

“In fact, I’ve had a few run-ins with some of your colleagues.” On commercial break, a buff gentleman hawked men’s deodorant. “But I think you probably know that.”

“Yes…” she slurred.

He switched his attention back to her.

Dana sat with her hands flat on the bar. She was staring somewhere past the inside edge of the counter. Her eyes were wide and dark.

The bartender was gone. He’d already removed her glass.

“They’re going to kill me,” she blurted. “They’re here. They’re all around.”

She pushed away from the bar without getting her feet under her. The barstool tipped and she tumbled to the floor. She was scrabbling away when Aleister took her by the shoulders and hefted her to her feet.

“My friend is a little distraught,” he said to no one in particular. “Lost a bit of money.”

He left his cup of chips on the bar as the started toward the door of the casino.

She struggled and Aleister pinned her arms to her side.

“We need to get out of here,” she whispered. “There are assassins in the chandeliers. In the balconies.” She twisted and turned as they moved through the cavernous lobby. Mr. Luck resisted the urge to check if anyone was following, if there was anyone watching from the sweeping stairway to the casino’s restaurants and shops.

“We’re going,” said Aleister. “We’re going.”

“They’re going to shoot me!”

“No, they’re not.”

Once they were outside, Aleister was less worried about Dana being loud, but increased his grip on her arms. She quieted but also struggled more. “We need to be faster!”

Luck had parked nearly a block away, but he moved in the opposite direction. More people. More alleys. He didn’t look back despite Dana’s warnings. Her wide, overly dark eyes saw enemies behind every sign and in every moving car. Aleister was peripherally aware that the ever-present Las Vegas crowds were giving them a wide birth. He didn’t like it.

Tires squealed somewhere behind them, followed by the acceleration of an engine. Dana wrenched away from him and darted back the way they had come. She was clumsy and Aleister had no problem capturing her again, but he saw the sedan speeding toward them.

Mr. Luck closed his eyes as he picked Dana off her feet. He lurched a few steps before opening his eyes again and taking stock. Three long steps would take him to a space between two buildings that was tighter than the sedan. The alley was dark, there would be no outlet. Aleister shook his head and lunged out into traffic. He kept his attention on Dana’s face, her polish replaced by wild fear.

More tires shrieked and the shouts of bystanders added to the cacophony. Aleister tripped up the opposite curb and nearly dropped Dana. The pause in their flight was enough to allow the driver to swerve toward them. After all, Mr. Aleister Luck, hobbled somewhat by the woman he was carrying, was headed for an open corner. He wouldn’t be able to outrun the sedan.

The driver didn’t notice the fire hydrant and neither did Aleister Luck. Only Dana saw the spray of water that erupted as Luck dodged around the corner.

—###—

More process:
We wanted a “Mr. Luck to the rescue” scene. After some talking (in person since Eric’s back from Nebraska), Eric convinced me that I could re-purpose the casino scene written a couple weeks ago. The more exciting aspect was placing this scene more firmly in the chronology of the book. This will probably be chapter 2 of Luck for Hire.


10th 07 - 2010 | no comment »

Process: On Collaboration by the Collaborator

Originally posted as a comment by Eric Nabity at http://katen.livejournal.com.

The first thing to understand is that the way we work together has changed as time has passed. Lucinda at the Window started as a short story that she wrote and I read. My first question was essentially what was going on. Katherine had little idea, at least none that she cared to share, but I had several ideas. She liked one of them and a discussion started about what should happen next as well as how the story could end. This proceeded throughout the writing of the book. Katherine took the ideas from me that she liked, but the process often consisted of Katherine writing large chunks and have me read them and consult. It wasn’t at all efficient, but it reflected our relationship, which wasn’t that far along yet.

Currently, my job is to define the world, the major players in the story and the conflict, essentially the dynamic system of the story. All of these are not perfectly defined when we start, but there is usually at least a significant portion worked out. Then we talk. As Katherine has mentioned, it starts with a discussion of the main ideas. Once we agree that she understands at least part of what I’m trying to communicate, we discuss the sequence of events. Obviously at the beginning, we talk about how the story will start while keeping the general vicinity of the destination in mind. Usually, a chapter/scene is defined by what plot events have to occur. There will also be some discussion about thematic components that need to show up somewhere in the manuscript. Then, Katherine attempts to translate that very non-linear pile of poorly communicated information into a narrative that is interesting. The process continues with me evaluation what she writes and critiquing how the story is consistent with the world system and plot. This can lead to discussions to clear up communication errors and/or about what will happen next. I try to avoid critiquing anything that doesn’t significantly impact the world system or main plot, because that isn’t my job. This certainly places Katherine in the position of having her work being criticized more, but plenty of the mistakes are my fault due to poor communication or lack of foresight.

As an example, Aleister Luck. I defined the system for magic and worked out how it would work in a few scenarios. Most of those were related to how he makes his living on games of chance, as being a PI is more of a hobby for him. Katherine decided to go with a casino scenario, which was not my preferred choice because it doesn’t work so neatly. However it is probably a better choice for character interaction. In any case, it just so happened that while I was on the plane to Omaha doing some further work on the system and how he would have to execute it in the casino case, Katherine was writing her short story using the not so well worked out casino system. Fortunately, it didn’t take too much effort to fix.

At the end of the day, we each have our own jobs. Both of us do a fairly good job of not poking our noses too far into the other’s business.

Eric


9th 07 - 2010 | 1 comment »

Fiction: Not the Girl for Him

Originally posted at http://katen.livejournal.com.

Aleister Luck had a problem and her name was Rosalyn.

***

Every private detective in every novel, TV show, or movie is pleasantly labeled as “down on his luck.” That’s a label for the poor. Of course this is because private detectives in novels, TV shows, and movies are good people. They help the needy and if they’re involved in shady dealings it’s in the interest of doing right regardless of margins.

Mr. Luck was one of those good people. Or at least he tried to be. He was selective about his clientele and didn’t worry about whether they could pay. And that’s why Mr. Luck generally turned to magic to make a living.

***

The night he became acquainted with Rosalyn, Luck was happily working the blackjack tables at Jummer’s Casino. The night started out uneventful.

Luck always chose a busy table. It was more interesting to spread winning around. If there was someone loud, flamboyant, self-centered at the table, so much the better. In comparison, the casual observer wouldn’t notice Aleister Luck and the casino didn’t get too suspicious when he wasn’t the only one with a pile of chips in front of him.

This night, his fellow players were a pair of giggling middle-aged women, a quiet bearded man, and a college-aged kid accompanied by his blonde girlfriend. The women were fairly new to the game. The kid had been drinking and his girlfriend found his poor math skills exceedingly funny. The bearded fellow was sandwiched between them.

A near perfect set up.

Dealt from a shoe, all face up, no one really noticed that Mr. Luck didn’t look at his cards.

He had instead trained himself to look at people’s hands and wrists, blocking out the card faces. The ladies both had manicured nails, doubtless the product of an afternoon at the casino’s spa. The college kid had a tattoo of ornate lettering that started at wrist. Luck couldn’t read what it said. Luck’s own hands were a geography of dry skin and hangnails. Dealers’ hands were never interesting. They were clean, soft, and dealers rarely wore jewelry.

He didn’t watch to see what the other players were dealt or what the house had. He motioned for another card without any information. He simply knew it was the right decision. He put chips forward haphazardly too, never checking their color or the size of his stacks.

He won when he wanted and he lost when he wanted. Occasionally, he shifted his efforts to someone else at the table. With a thought, he knew that the card dealt next would be what that player needed. On the surface, he wasn’t a good enough player to cause anyone to notice him. It might have only been luck, but every time he walked away from the table, Mr. Luck had rent, utilities, and enough to eat well.

Things started to go wrong after the second lady, wearing a wide turquoise necklace, split a pair. It was really more information about the table than Aleister Luck preferred, but it wasn’t anything that should cause him trouble. But she lost when Aleister saw her winning. The next hand, Aleister lost when he had decided not to. Panic became an itch in the back of his throat. How much had he lost? How had he lost? His faith shaken, Mr. Luck excused himself from the table, sweeping his winnings into a plastic cup usually used for slot tokens.

And then he saw her.

He had encountered her one or two times in the past on the casino floor. She always smiled at him, but he took it as a gesture of general friendliness. Nothing of note.

Tonight, she was sitting on a stool at the vacant table next to Luck’s. She had been watching him and her face flashed an honest smile when he had turned toward her. Observed, his magic had failed. How much had she really noticed about Aleister Luck?

Luck nodded politely and headed to the bar. He tried to ignore her. The lack of a compelling sport to watch on the big screens didn’t help. She followed.

“Can I buy you a drink?” she asked.

She was small with honey hair and lightly tanned skin. She wore light pink lipstick and clothes that could be described as breezy by a newsstand magazine.

Luck weighed her interest. She wouldn’t be put off easily. “Sure,” he said.

She took the chair next to him and offered a hand. “Rosalyn,” she said.

“Aleister. Aleister Luck.”

“Luck? Are you particularly lucky, Mr. Luck?”

“Not at all.” Aleister answered honestly. She could be an employee of the casino, but he didn’t think so. “Rosalyn, is there anything I can help you with?”

Sometimes people happened upon him. Instead of seeing an ad or looking him up online, they found him.

“No, I…” And there it was, a blush below her tan. “I just thought you might be an interesting person to know.”

“I see.” She was attracted to him, for whatever reason. Aleister wasn’t good or even novel looking. He was careful not to be outstanding in any way. Yet, every so often, a woman took an “interest” in him. She’d pay attention to him. She’d stalk him in the nosey way woman did. She’d find out what she could about him.

In short, until she lost interest, his life was ruined.

—###—

Right. So. Here we are. The first meandering steps into the world of Aleister Luck. If it is confusing, please comment. Feedback is good!

Also, I apologies in advance if I never write about Rosalyn again. This is play-piece. It might have nothing to do with the novel that Eric and I end up writing. It’s meant to be a troubleshooting exercise. My “wouldn’t it be cool if” is met with Eric’s sense of system. The piece came pretty easily with some angst Wednesday night when Eric mentioned a new facet to the rules governing Luck’s magic. I sent it to him yesterday and Eric bounced it back with a couple notes. I think the changes I made in regards to those notes have improved the piece. Regardless of whether this eventually “makes the cut” in any way, shape, or form, I’ve enjoyed doing this more than anything I’ve written this year.


8th 07 - 2010 | no comment »

Process: First, a word about collaboration.

Originally posted at http://katen.livejournal.com.

JT asked a good question about the collaborative process that Eric and I engage in. The reply because post-sized:

My journal entries tend to simplistically reflect my side of the process.

We each have our role, and our roles are complementary.

I’m pretty bad with plot. Given enough time, I could probably become competent at cobbling together enough “and then this happens” to form a novel, but it wouldn’t be pretty. My strength is stringing words together in a (hopefully) clear and (hopefully) compelling manner that form characters and places and things.

Eric is full of story ideas, and I hear a fraction of them. I’d say that when he proposes an idea it’s already gone through a fairly rigorous crap filter. What Eric can’t do is write. Well, he can and he can do it quite well, but it’s a torturous process. I can’t fathom how it could take a week to craft 1000 words of prose, but that’s around Eric’s speed. Conversely, he doesn’t understand that I don’t immediately see how the actions of characters will naturally play out.

So together, we’re closer to being a whole writer than we are apart. But that doesn’t quite explain the process.

What I depict is the easily quantifiable part: I write, submit for critique, rewrite, repeat. What goes on behind that is hard to nail down. There are cases in which Eric offers an idea, I pull a face and voice my doubts, and force him to rigorously defend his position. That usually results in either my being convinced or Eric talking himself out of the idea. He does occasionally writes a passage that I can’t quite handle. And then I smooth it out.

It may be dangerous and non-PC, but this is not an even relationship. I’m filtering Eric’s vision through my writing. The core ideas are his. This doesn’t mean I don’t add to it. Some of the best bits happen when I spring something on Eric (a locked tinder box, an extra character named Balito), but in the end what I write has to be consistent with his initial ideas.

Bad analogy: It’s like he has an idea for an all-salmon menu, but I have to come up with the individual dishes. As soon as I decide that trout should be substituted for salmon or that a salmon/chocolate sorbet is a good idea, I’ve deviated from the idea too much. On the other hand, I can say that it’s a bad idea to have a salmon-based desert and suggest something that works, but isn’t salmon.

Do I occasionally feel picked on during the process? Of course, but I generally trust Eric’s judgment and he keeps away from being critical of my writing style and the like. Unfortunately it’s always the things that need work that get attention. “Good job on that” should carry more weight, but “this is wrong for the following reasons” gets more time. And I’m sure Eric has his anxieties when broaching a new idea. I know I hate explaining mine.

In the end, if I can’t get behind the vision, it’s not going to work. Zeta Iota wasn’t working. I couldn’t put enough of me in it to write anything but bland prose. The hope with Luck for Hire is that this is a vision I can play around in. We’ll see how it goes.


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About This Blog

In July of 2010, Katherine and Eric Nabity began work on a novel featuring Mr. Luck. This blog includes some proof-of-concept vignettes, progress notes, "alternate takes", and commentary on the collaborative process that Eric and Katherine engage in.


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