7th
01 -
2011
|
4 comments »
“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.
20th
08 -
2010
|
4 comments »
“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!
23rd
07 -
2010
|
9 comments »
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.
9th
07 -
2010
|
1 comment »
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.
