Or as it might more commonly be known as, spending a few hours in a historical museum. which just happens to cover some of the material you need for a school project.
I brought up the subject of living history yesterday after we all packed off to have an hour ride on a steam train and accompanying equally aged carriages.
Since these trains have been missing for nearly fifty years, there is basically two generations of people who have never had the chance to travel in such a manner in their lifetime, unless, of course, they have found a tourist train like our example, the Mary Valley Rattler.
It’s the same as the early days of finding gold in Gympie, in Queensland, Australia. It dates back to the 1860s, and one can only imagine what it was like because most of the history is in books. Yes, they have sketches, and sometimes photographs, but these do not generally date back to the middle of the nineteenth century.
But, visiting a living example of what it was like in ‘the old days’ can give those generations a glimpse of what it was like.
Single room schools, because unlike today when schools now cater to over 1,000 children in varying years, one school held about 20 or 30 in all grades, with a single teacher.
In fact, today, I saw a collection of readers that I remember reading when I was in grade school, a long time ago. Even the desks and the ink wells brought back interesting memories, one of which when I was ink monitor.
But housed in a number of old-style buildings was the information on the diggings, the mines and the impact of gold in general, and, at the very end, the children got to do a little panning for gold, and found a number of small fragments of real gold.
Once they’d been shown by a panning expert that looked as if he had been transported into this time from the past.
There are similar places elsewhere in this country that preserve the past to show future generations what it was like.
After this weekend, we have more than enough information to work on the project, based around gold mining, and it’s impact on the people, the area, and the government.
And best of all, it has generated an interest in the past, reading more, and perhaps if we’re lucky, an interest in writing something based on history, which sometimes is quite difficult when it has to compete with more interesting pastimes like computer games.
This is a spot behind a group of restaurants at Victoria Point, Queensland.
But it could be anywhere, like a spot we saw on a boat trip on a river in the Daintree, in far north Queensland
So, this could be a spot, not far inland from the ocean where smugglers, or drug runners come ashore, in a place so remote they would never get caught.
Unless an enterprising federal agent comes up with a plan to track them from the ocean side using satellite images, or reported sightings of suspicious activity.
My money is on a random sighting, a vague report files in a small town police station, and a body washed up in shore, apparently the victim of a crocodile attack. Or not a crocodile.
It cold be a fishing trip gone wrong in a backwater stream, a weekend away by a dialled group of friends, who are not really friends, which all comes to a head when one of the friends go missing.
Or, I’d you like the idea of historical drama, a story about the first expedition from the bottom of Australia to the very top, for the first time, with all the hazards of rivers to cross, paths to create though the bush, the heat, the animals, the local inhabitants who have yet to see Europeans.
To be honest, I would not want to be one of those early explorers, especially those who went inland and struck desert, or died just short of their goal.
Just as an aside, we did learn about these people, Hume and Hovell, Blaxland, Wentworth and Lawson, Burke and Wills, and others.
The captain seemed calm for a man with a ray gun that could be used on him at any moment.
I cursed the fact we were not allowed to carry weapons, even if they were standard issue revolvers that shot just plain bullets.
But we were on a peaceful mission to discover new life in outer space. We just didn’t expect to find it so soon, within our own solar system. After all we’ve been out to as far as Pluto, and a little beyond for at least ten years without any encounters like this.
If the captain was remaining calm, so would I.
“What sort of help, sir?”
“Identifying the mineral the thieves just took so they can return it. Apparently, these space pirates have spies on Earth who have been there for quite some time, looking at our defence systems.”
That statement begged so many questions I didn’t know where to start. The first, though, was this one of the pirates acting like the space police, for reasons yet unknown?
Had the captain considered this possibility.
“Then they picked a doozie to steal. If they understand the potential of the material…”
Our visitor cut in, “We are well aware of the possibilities of using plutonium in bombs and the damage it can do. We have similar material, but far less accessible.
“How long is a long time?”
OK, I was stuck on this whole invasion thing. It would be naïve of me to think we were the only life forms in space, but actually discovering we were not against assuming so was a little daunting, and a lot to take in.
“Since before your so called second world war. But all of this is irrelevant. Your superior says the decision to join us is meant to be a joint decision between you two.”
“Again, what sort of help can we provide you. We do not have the same speed capability, nor beaming technology, except for moving inanimate objects. And I suspect you know of our weapons capability.”
“You understand the nature of plutonium, and how to transport it safely. I suspect the fools who took it have no understanding of its danger to life forms. When we catch up with them, we’ll need your expertise to render it safe, and then take it back.”
“You know where they are?”
“Where they’re headed, yes. It’s one of the moons of the planet you call Uranus, called Oberon.”
“It’s a bit cold there, and we have been there and found nothing.”
“Did you look under the ice?”
Good point. But, of course, it didn’t answer the fundamental question that just rose to the surface, why was the captain deferring to me when he needed no such help in the decision making process?
I shrugged. “Well, we’ve got nothing better to do.”
For Henry, it’s going to be like walking into the twilight zone.
The odyssey beings at a place called Gringoes. , a place both think is the last place a potential customer would want to be seen, but, that is judging a book by its cover.
Both are going to soon discover there’s a lot more going on than what the eye can see.
This search starts out without a clear plan, and it seems that going in and directly asking for Michelle, which may or may not be her work name or any name for that matter, is going to raise a flag, and may have consequences.
And, Henry, having never been to such places, and despite everything he had read about them, and in that initial foray earlier, is no wiser on how to behave or how to approach the problem.
How much would the girls want just to talk?
It soon becomes a case of hot outside, the night is still simmering from the heat of the day, to hot under the collar inside.
Fortunately, Radly is known.
There are bouncers to appease, madams to charm, and girls to ask innocuous questions.
At least the Turk is not there.
Henry encounters a girl named Suzie, and it’s time for the first dance…
I’ve been procrastinating since last Thursday, telling myself I have to get the next part of one of my stories written, but I keep putting it off. I have to go to Africa, the Niger Delta to be exact. It can wait, I’m not ready for the steaming jungle and hostile villagers yet.
I didn’t do anything on Sunday, and, as a writer, I guess that’s not very good. I’m supposed to be writing a page, or a hundred or thousand words a day, just to keep the juices flowing.
And, suddenly, it’s now Thursday again, or is it Friday – the days are all one big blur.
I’m not in the mood. I sit and stare at the computer screen, and nothing is coming. Is this the first sign of writer’s block?
I dig out several articles on how to overcome it, and start putting their suggestions into action. No. No. Maybe.
No. I don’t think it’s writer’s block.
Perhaps I need some inspiration so I go to my tablet playlist, spend 10 minutes trying to find the headphones carelessly discarded by one of my grandchildren the last time they were here.
And, yes, the tablet was left in the middle of playing a Minecraft video which has drained the battery. Now I can’t find the charger!
Back at the computer, holding a dead tablet, and a pair of headphones, inspiration is as far away as the mythical light at the end of the tunnel. Today it is an oncoming express train.
Perhaps a pen and paper will work.
An idea pops into my head ….
Is it possible the passing of a weekend could change the course of your life? An interesting question, one to ponder as I sat on the floor of a concrete cell, with only the sound of my breathing, and the incessant screams coming from a room at the end of the corridor.
It was my turn next. That was what the grinning ape of a guard said in broken English. He looked like a man who relished his job.
What goes through your mind at a time like this, waiting, waiting for the inevitable?
Will I survive, what will they do to me, will it hurt?
The screaming stops abruptly, and a terrible silence falls over the facility.
Then, looking in the direction of where the screams had come from, I hear the clunk of the door latch being opened, and then the slow nerve-tingling screech of rusty metal as the door opens slowly.
Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, no.
No writer’s block. But I have to stop watching late-night television
With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.
That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.
He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.
I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.
Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.
Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.
At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.
A yellow car stopped inches from me.
It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.
Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.
My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.
At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.
At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.
At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.
I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.
Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.
Now my imagination was playing tricks.
It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.
In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.
I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
There was blood spatter along one wall, and more underneath a chair just out from the wall. On the other side of the room was a table with some rather gruesome instruments on it.
I immediately felt sorry for the archaeologist. He must have endured serious pain before dying. It would be interesting to see a copy of the Medical Examiners report. The room had another overlying aroma other than the mustiness.
What did death smell like?
“Do you think this is where Alex and his cronies hang out?”
“Well, I can tell you for sure it’s not Vince’s lair. He has a house back at Patterson’s Reach. Besides, this mall is Benderby’s territory. It’s his security people who look after this place.”
Then that meant Alex or one of the Benderby’s was responsible for the murder of the archaeologist. Clearly, they were trying to get information out of him, not kill him.
“You think we should tell the cops?”
“You’re asking a Cossatino that question. I thought you knew better.”
“I happen to be in good with the Sheriff. It might make a difference.”
“No, I can assure you it won’t. Too much water under that bridge I’m afraid.”
Perhaps I was hoping she was not like the rest. Of course, if I actually stopped for a minute to think about it, it was probably a lot wiser not to say anything, simply because of the questions it would raise, and the grief the Benderby’s, and particularly Alex, would rain down on me.
We had a piece of evidence we couldn’t do anything with.
For now. That might change in the future.
There were also several filing cabinets and a cupboard in the room, but there was nothing of interest in any of them. It was simply a torture chamber. I had to hope I’d never finish up in here.
“Let’s get out here,” Nadia said, “It’s giving me the creeps.”
I’d felt a shudder or two go down my spine too. If it belonged to the Benderby’s and Alex in particular, he had already passed the point of no return. Alex was a bastard, but I didn’t think he could stoop to this sort of behavior. Vince? Maybe. Like the other members of the Cossatino family, excluding Nadia, he was as psychopathic as the rest.
It just goes to show you couldn’t judge a book by its cover. Alex’s boyish good looks hid something far more sinister underneath.
Just as we stepped out of the room and Nadia pulled the door shut, relocking it, we heard a sound coming from downstairs. The acoustics in the passage and stairwells was quite good, enough, at least, to alert us that someone else was in the building nearby.
“Someone is coming?” Nadia muttered.
“Here?” It was obvious where they were coming to, it was just the surprise anyone else would be around at this hour of the morning.
She glared at me. “Where else would they be going, shopping?”
Annoyance.
We quickly moved towards the next room, the door open, and stepped inside, taking a quick look around. There was another room running off it, and we went in there and closed the door. It had a manual lock, not using a key, and she put it in place.
A quick look around the room showed it to be a bathroom and didn’t exactly have the best of aromas. Perhaps stagnant water.
We stood side by side near the door. We could hear footsteps coming up the stairs, it sounded like two people, and then voices, slightly muffled.
“What did you say we’re here for?”
A male voice I hadn’t heard before.
“A map.”
Alex. I’d know that voice anywhere.
A few seconds later I heard him speak again, “Who the hell left these maps out? Who’s been here? They know the rules.”
“No one. I’m sure of it.” The other voice had a tremor in it.
Alex probably left them out himself, but he was not one to take the blame for anything.
“Someone’s been here. The footprints on the floor. They look fresh.”
We could then hear him coming up the passage. Had we left footprints into the other room and possibly this one? I was almost at the stage of holding my breath.
He went to the end, that last room that had been used as a torture chamber.
“You got the key to this room?”
“No. You know that’s not where we’re allowed to go. Your father’s orders remember.”
“What about this room?”
He was standing in the doorway, and I could see the torchlight from under the door.
“There’s nothing here, no one here. No one had been here, Alex. No one knows about this place. You said so yourself.”
“Except Vince. Mall cops dragged him up here one and beat him up. That was a good day.”
Once more he flashed the light around the room, and along the floor, and it seemed our footprints weren’t showing a path to this door. If he was to come in and start pounding on it, I’d have a heart attack.
“Perhaps no one has been here then, except Ed. We’ll talk to him later.”
The light disappeared, and the footsteps receded.
There were no more voices for a few minutes, then Alex said, “Got it. Now let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
The footsteps and voices receded quickly as they retraced their steps, leaving us, once again, in silence. Except I swear I could hear my heart beating very rapidly.
“Wow,” She said. “That was exciting.”
“What? We nearly got caught.”
“No matter. I could have used my charms on him.”
She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “Instead, I have you.”
50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.
They all start with –
A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:
And the story:
It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.
The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.
He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.
The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent. We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.
There was nowhere for him to go.
The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on. Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.
Where was he going?
“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter. He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.
“What?”
“I think he’s made us.”
“How?”
“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing. Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain. He’s just sped up.”
“How far away?”
“A half-mile. We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”
It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”
“Step on it. Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”
Easy to say, not so easy to do. The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.
Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.
Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster. We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.
Or so we thought.
Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.
“What the hell…” Aland muttered.
I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility. The car was empty, and no indication where he went.
Certainly not up the road. It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit. Up the mountainside from here, or down.
I looked up. Nothing.
Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”
Then where did he go?
Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.
“Sorry,” he said quite calmly. “Had to go if you know what I mean.”
I’d lost him.
It was as simple as that.
I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.
I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.
It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.
“Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.”
I remember Angela quoting that to me when we were doing a tutorial for the Journalism part of my degree. It was only one part of many for me, whereas, for her, it was to become her bread and butter.
She had taken up the role of a reporter on the campus newspaper, and she was inclined to write sharp pieces that would later point to how she would approach the job at the local newspaper, a job assured there for her based on her department head’s glowing recommendation.
Her vendetta against Emily had begun from day one at university and only grew more acrimonious each year. Emily had hardly helped her situation by joining her equally entitled friends and behaving badly.
She knew my secret feelings about Emily and had often mocked me for it, especially after we didn’t find mutual ground. It was probably the one relationship on campus I regretted.
It seemed inevitable that I was about to get entangled with her again, after trying so hard to keep out of her sight. I had scored a piece, the smartest kid in college, but it was hard to tell if it was a character assassination or just a bio that might land me a useful job.
I didn’t bother calling up and asking her.
Xavier had just spent the last half hour roasting me for going to the ball and then demanding to know when and where I had fallen for the meanest girl on campus.
“I hardly think fallen is the word I’d use. I like her, surely that’s obvious because she’s a reasonably likeable girl.” It was difficult to find the words that dodged the bullet that was coming straight at me.
Xavier was a friend, but this would stretch it. She was, categorically, the enemy.
“Perhaps,” I added, “with my new special status, I can put in a good word for you. I know she knows Amy, and I know you like her, and that’s no different to my situation.”
He shrugged. Like me, I don’t think he would ever confess his undying love to a girl who would have no hesitation in humiliating him. “Don’t. I prefer the wistful looking for a great distance and using my imagination. What was she like to dance with? I heard it was a Viennese waltz.”
“It wasn’t anything special. You did the Arthur Murray lessons like I did. And you would have fitted in. The people were just people, Xavier.”
We both looked up at the same time to see Angela chugging her way across the cafeteria towards us.
“That’s my cue to leave. You think I’m pissed; just wait till she gets here.”
And he was gone in the blink of an eye. He hated Angela more than I did. I thought of running, but what was the point. She would just chase me down until I surrendered. Better now than never.
She sat down, no tasking if it was alright, and pulled out her recorder and notebook. She was nothing if not thorough.
“I’m assuming you’ve come here for an interview, though I’m not quite sure why.”
She shook her head, the trademark scowl getting a little deeper. “I hope you’re not going to try and act dumb.”
“Who said it was an act. I believe you told me, once, that I was the dumbest boy on the planet. You’re being an authority on the subject, I accepted my lot.”
The scowl deepened. “You’re going to be a pain in the ass, aren’t you?”
I shrugged. “You reap what you sow, Angela.”
She switched off the recorder and softened her expression. “Off the record, for the time being. What were you thinking, going to that ball?”
“It was a perfect opportunity to put my Waltzing skills to the test. You don’t get that kind of dancing opportunity every day.”
“With Emily, though?”
“She’s just a girl, Angela.”
“One I might add you are so obviously enamoured with.”
“How could one not be, at the moment. I have had a crush on her for quite some time, yes, but up close and personal, it was not something I was going to pursue on or off the floor. Not the time or the place.”
“How did you get an invite?”
“How did you?”
She shook her head. “Try answering some of the questions, or I’ll just have to imagine what the right answer is.”
“OK. Let me ask you a question. Were you appraised of my brain out a week or so ago in this very cafeteria where I chewed out both the girl herself and that idiot boyfriend of hers?”
“It was mentioned. People were surprised, but not shocked. You and she have a very rocky sub-history.”
“Exactly. Her father wanted to meet someone who doesn’t try sucking up to her because of who she is. He invited me for that reason only. You can ask him if you like.”
“I have. You impressed him, and that is very difficult to do. Are you thinking of working for him? He seems to think you would make an excellent fit given your academic history.”
“You mean, marry the boss’s daughter? That’s so 1950s cliché Angela. If anything were to happen between us, and that’s very unlikely, I wouldn’t want to work for him, and things go south. No, not considering it. I have offers from New York, Washington, and Philadelphia. Or I might just stay here and compete with you for a job on the paper.”
Another shake of the head. “You’re very good at ducking and weaving. Perhaps you should consider becoming a politician.”
“I couldn’t, I’m too honest.”
She snorted. “You haven’t told me the truth yet, William. She likes you, that was plain to see when you were together. Her official line is no comment to any of the questions I asked her, and your obfuscating, which smacks of collusion. I’m going to keep my eye on the two of you because there’s a story here.”
“You’re talking about a fairy tale, Angela, and they are just that, tales. You know I like her, and I have for a long time, unrequited love I believe it’s called. I had an argument with her, and it amused her father to invite me to an event that normally I’d never get an invite to because of who I am, and I’m sure all the toffs had a lot of laughs over it at my expense. Emily was there, we danced the waltz, it was fun, and I surprised her in that a slum boy could actually wear a tuxedo and look good, and actually dance in time to the music. That’s the story.
“As for the job, you know as well as I do, Rothstein invited the top 10 college students to an orientation day where they get to see how the company works, and then get a job offer. I’m in the top ten so that’s a no-brainer, even for you. There are no special attachments to it. Knowing or not knowing Emily is not a precursor to getting an offer.
“And as for an ongoing relationship, do you see us together, here, now? No. I am as distant from her horizon now as I was yesterday and all the t=yesterdays before that. I am not going to treat her differently now I’ve been to a ball and danced with her, she is still the same pain in the ass girl she always was, only at the end of this year I will be put out of my misery, and she will move on to the next shiny toy in the toy box.”
“So, you’re not expecting anything to happen?”
“Me? No. They’re the Rothstein’s. Rothstein’s do not mix with people like me. People like me are put on this earth for their amusement. We all are.”
She shrugged. “You make it so black and white, but I don’t think it is. This isn’t over, William.” She picked up the recorder and the notepad and put both into her backpack. “Next time.”
This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.
See below for an excerpt from the book…
Coming soon!
An excerpt from the book:
When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.
Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.
It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.
Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.
But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.
His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.
At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.
For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.
Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.
Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.
Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.
It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.
It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.
Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.
Except, of course, when it came to Harry.
He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.
So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.
There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.
So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.
There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.
She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.
Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.
Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.
Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.
Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.
Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 