Month: January 2024

The Things We Do For Love – The final editor’s draft – Day 27

…

Henry and Diana are sent to a hospital where Henry’s father is on call, both are appalled when he discovers the identity of one of the victims and is ready to operate on his son.

Banner curses his late arrival as the Turk got away, and so, apparently, did Michelle.

She returns briefly to see Henry and talk to Harry.  She asks if he is willing to help make those who caused Henry pain, and he readily agrees.

Henry survives but will be in an induced coma for a while.

Harry gets the call, and with some of his friends, they are off to capture those who caused Henry’s injuries, principally Felix and the Turk.  The mission is run by Michelle, whose slowly evolving plan has reached maturity.

First Felix, at one of the parlours.  He has one weakness, and it is his downfall.

Then the Turk, who thinks he is invisible, but there is one person who knows all of his secrets, his one weakness.

Both end up in a room, securely bound, awaiting their fate.

It’s going to be a long slow death.

Banner runs into one of his old felons, who just happens to be the Turk’s neighbour, and who is able to fill Banner in on some details, like who may have perpetrated the kidnapping.

He heads to Harry’s place and all but accuses him, but with no tangible evidence, all Banner has is suspicions.  He leaves empty-handed.

…

The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation.  I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample.  I was going to give them the re-worked short story.  Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself.  We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected.  I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party.  I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble.  No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

 

Get it here:  https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

 

In a word: Bar

There’s more than one way … er, perhaps it’s better to say, there are many ways to use the word bar, which is not bad for a three letter word.

 

Bar, the one you associate with drinks, in hotels, restaurants and we’ll, just bars.

Probably the best type of bar you might find me in is a Sports Bar, where you can snack on buffalo wings a tall glass of beer and watch with ice hockey in winter or baseball in summer.

It’s one I use from time to time when asked, what will we do, and the reply is often let’s go to a bar.  The best bars are underground, dark and dingy, full of eclectic people, with a band playing almost passable music or better still jazz

 

Bar, as in the legal variety

There are so many legal references to using bar, that the one that I am most familiar with is being admitted to the bar which means that you can now practice law.

Raising the bar, if that’s possible, where the bar is that imaginary level which offers sinks very low.  When someone says they’re going to try and raise the bar, you may be assured there will be a long battle ahead, simply because people generally find it hard to change.

 

Bar, as in we are not going to let you in here.  Yes, this is the irksome one where you find yourself, often for reasons unknown, barred from somewhere or something.  This may also be referred to by saying everyone may enter bar you.  

 

Bar, as in an iron bar, the sort that is sometimes used as a blunt force object by villains to remind the victim they owe any one of a loan shark, bookie or the mafia.  God help you if it is all three.

There are also iron bars of a different sort, those that are set in concrete outside a window most likely in a prison where the objective is to prevent escape.

It gives rise to an old expression, that person should be behind bars.

 

Then there is just a bar, such as a bar of gold, which I’m sure we’d all like to have stashed away, but not necessarily in the mattress, or the more common variety, a chocolate bar, which I have one now.  What’s your favorite?

 

And just to add to the list of meanings you can always refer to sashes or stripes as bars.

Confused?  Well, there’s still music, and the bane of yachtsmen, sand bars but I think we’ll leave it there.

Welcome to the English language

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

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!

PIWalthJones1

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.

© Charles Heath 2019

Writing about writing a book – Day 13

Life impinges on the idyllic

There’s the expectation and then there’s reality.

My idea of shutting myself away in my lonely garret and writing, coming out into the fresh air every now and then, just to make sure neither North Korea or the United States haven’t turned the world into a nuclear holocaust, was simply a pipe dream.

Being single again doesn’t abrogate you of the same responsibilities you have before you became single.  You still had children, and those children have children, and, yes, you can see where this is going.

The mobile phone, so silent for the past few days, makes the unusual sound it makes when a message arrives.

Thank heaven for tech-savvy granddaughters!

And before you say, quite casually, that I would be better off without technology, after all, all Hemingway had was a typewriter, I’m afraid to say there is no Luddite in me.

In fact, do Luddites still exist?

So, as I said, the phone dings, and as I’m not expecting anything, I try to ignore it.  Three minutes later it dings again, and it’s a warning.  The Gods are getting impatient.

It’s a message to pick up the grandchildren from school and deliver them home.  It’s something I haven’t done in a while, but it’s an opportunity to see them, and they always have words of wisdom as only a thirteen and ten-year-old can.

It’s a while since I have.  I suspect my involvement had been curtailed somewhat because their nanna had been available, and the more preferred option.

Or maybe they had just asked their mother to get me to pick them up so I could see them.  I had said, a while back, I was relatively reluctant to go around to see them because of how awkward it might be, and to give them time to adjust to the new arrangement the divorce had brought about.

And since I’ve been spending all my time recently immersed in conspiracies, was this one perpetrated by my daughter in law?

I’ll soon find out.

Mistaken Identity – The Third Editor’s Draft – Day 24

I have been working on the story, the editor is asking for a third draft after making suggested changes – and I’m now working on it

…

So, here’s a question.

If your mother and her twin sister are identical twins, how will Jack know that he has rescued the right woman?

We all know how some identical twins like to play tricks on their friends, by substituting each other. It’s a wicked game on the unsuspecting, but for a criminal, it’s a ploy that just might work.

But there’s that other issue we have between the son and the mother, quite a few years of lying and half-truths to get past, and a great deal of explanation.

Perhaps their reuniting is not going to go the way the mother or the son thinks.

Meanwhile, Jack is working on the idea of visiting his real father and trying to get some explanations out of him.

And, where is Maryanne?

Is it a bit late in the day to say that I’m not quite sure how this is going to end because one is not coming to me that will satisfy tying up the loose ends.

I suspect tomorrow will be the day when the last planning will be done. It may cost a day of words, but it will get the story done.

It’s the pointy end of the project and it has to come together.

Doesn’t it?

Today’s effort amounts to 1,786 words, for a total, so far, of 58,087.

More tomorrow.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 82

Here’s the thing…

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.

…

The rescue story

…

When I woke again, it was noticeable that it was light outside the room, even though the curtains were drawn.

My mother was sitting, or rather slumping, in the chair beside the bed, asleep.  She looked tired, worse, like she had been to hell and back.

I guess the thought of losing me, after my father, might have been too much for her to bear.  It also brought up the question of why I hadn’t told her what I was doing.  At the time, it didn’t seem to matter, I’d always be coming home, and there was no question in my mind that anything bad might happen to me.

So, of course, there was an easy answer and a more complicated answer, but I had to hope she wasn’t going to jump to any conclusions before I had a chance to explain.  And then, when I thought about it, what could I say that was not going to tip her over the edge?  In not planning for the worst eventuality, the worst had happened.

I’d done everything I said I would never do, and for selfish reasons.  It was nearly the death of me.  How could I expect her to understand any of it?

She stirred, then slowly sat up, and stretched.  Those chairs were not comfortable at the best of times.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She stopped mid-stretch and looked at me.  It was not with anger or annoyance, but relief.

“How are you?”  She lowered her hands to take mine in hers.

It was a strange question, given my condition, and being in a hospital.  Yet, I guess everyone asked that same question out of courtesy or to make polite conversation.

“I’m told I’ll live.”

“A good thing too.  I’m glad they found you.”

“Who?”

“You know, that slip of a girl you told me you liked, but she was too good for you, or some such nonsense.”

“Charlene?”

“The sheriff’s daughter, yes.”

“She still is.”

“Only in your mind Sam.”

Forever the matchmaker even on my near-death bed, she had always been looking for the right girl, never accepting that our station in life made certain choices impossible.  And, even if Charlene liked me, she would not be allowed, but that was something my mother would never understand.

“What day is it?”  I had no idea of the date or time for that matter, but it had to be days later.

“Thursday. You were missing for nearly eight days, and it’s been a further five days while being treated for severe dehydration.”

First question, what happened to Boggs?

It was as if my mother could read my mind.  “I was told that when they found you, you were asking about Boggs.  I’m sorry to tell you he was found deceased yesterday in one of the caves.”

Had he got lost, or did Alex and Vince go after him too?  They hadn’t left in the same direction, so in all likelihood, he simply got lost, though being the climber and cave Explorer he was, that seemed unlikely.

“That Cossatino girl recovered quickly, but she’s still here, under observation.  She’s been saying she’s not leaving until she sees you.  I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Sam. The sheriff is considering charges against that whole family.”

“She didn’t do anything wrong.  It was her brother and Alex who tied us up and left us for dead.”

She didn’t get time to respond, but the astonished look on her face told me something was very amiss.  The sheriff and Charlene had arrived with the doctor, and a nurse who hustled her out of the room.

The doctor examined me, asked a few questions to determine whether I could withstand an interrogation, and then left me with the interrogators, the sheriff, standing back after closing the door, and Charlene, in the seat my mother just vacated.

She had her notepad open on a blank page.

“Firstly, I should apologize for taking so long to send out a search party.  For the record, I received your text message.  I assume you sent that before you left.”

“As we walked out the door of the shoreside hut.  I assume that was the first place you looked.”

It was obvious it wasn’t, so I was beginning 5o wonder what happened.  My first question was, “when did you find out we were missing.”

“Your mother came to the office two days after the message.  She said you hadn’t come home but wasn’t overly worried because she assumed you were with Nadia.  She only came because your work had asked her if you were ill because you hadn’t turned up for your shift, and that it was the first time.”

“As a courtesy to your mother Sam, I said I would look into it.  I went to the warehouse and Alex said you had taken off with Nadia and had left him in a difficult position.”  The sheriff wasn’t making excuses, just reporting the facts.

I hadn’t been thinking about Alex simply because I didn’t want to, not right then, but I was probably going to have to.  My first thought went to Nadia, who, by the time we realized that we might die, had all but signed his death warrant.  If she survived, she was going to kill him, and her brother, and her explicit description of how she was going to make them suffer made me shudder.

Charlene noticed.  “Again, I’m sorry, but we have to go through this.  What happened after you left the hut?  Take your time.  I know this might be painful, but it is necessary.”

Given what the sheriff just said, I had a feeling that implicating Alex wasn’t going to be easy.  Having a head start on us, he had time to get a story out there, and friends who would readily lie for them.

And Nadia being on the outside of her family, the Cossatinos would close ranks around Vince, and between Alex and Vince, refute any allegation I made, and quite possibly Nadia too.

It would be good to know what she was thinking.

“For whom?  Because from where I’m sitting, and judging by the expressions on your faces, I’m the one who’s in trouble here.”

“We just want the facts, Sam.”

“It seems to me you’ve already got them, and what I have to say, if there was anything to say, is irrelevant.  I don’t know anything about what happened to Boggs, and I’m not prepared to speculate.  I don’t know what Nadia told you, but I remember very little about what happened, except we were in a cave, and then I woke up here.”

It then occurred to me to look at my wrists, and there were only faint marks to show I’d been tied up.  I knew then someone had come back and untied us, so that if we hadn’t been found, our deaths would not be suspicious.

“We just want your side of the story.”

So the Benderby’s could refute it once the sheriff delivered my statement.

“You just got it.  If Nadia gave you hers, then that should be it.”

“Nadia won’t tell us anything, not even why she was in the cave.  It seems it was a place where pirates might once have visited, but except for a bundle of straw and an empty chest, there was nothing.”

And there it was.  The bodies had been removed, the crime scene cleansed, and we were simply trespassers the Cossatino’s could prosecute.

“Boggs had taken us spelunking, obviously in a place we shouldn’t, but I thought with Nadia coming with us, we didn’t need permission.  Perhaps the assumption was wrong.”

“Cossatino isn’t interested in charging anyone with anything.  He’s just happy we found his daughter.”

Pity the feeling between daughter and father wasn’t mutual.

“The good tidings abound.  Everyone is happy.”

“I’d still like to know why you were adamant Alex had something to do with the professor’s death.”

“I don’t.  I hate the bastard, it’s as simple as that.”

“We know the professor was killed at the mall, you got that right, and dumped on Rico’s boat, but there was no evidence Alex was there, or any safe, desk or anything except dust.”

Of course.  Alex had been on a massive clean-up exercise, just in case we survived.  It was going to be a very interesting first meeting when I saw him again.

“A good guess then.  I’m no longer interested in treasure, Boggs, God rest his soul, or anyone else for that matter.  Soon as you’re done with me, I’m gone, and you will never see me again.”

With that I rolled over to face the other way, the interview as far as I was concerned, done.

“This isn’t over Sam.”  Charlene was disappointed but she’d get over it. 

And my estimation of her just fell below zero.  It was clear Alex had got to her. And she believed his story.

Of course, I just realized what I’d said to my mother, and had to hope she didn’t repeat it.  But, knowing her affiliation with Benderby, I had no doubt she would tell him, so I could expect a visit from his lawyers, threatening all kinds of punitive action if I dared to repeat it.

As for Nadia, the fact she said nothing told me everything.  Both Alex and Vince were going to face a different type of justice, and I was going to ask her for an invitation.

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

The Things We Do For Love – The final editor’s draft – Day 28

…

Henry wakes to the realization that, one, he is in hospital with no memory of how he got there two, his brother Harry is nearby, three that he had no idea if his rescue mission succeeded or failed. And lastly, what happened to Radly.

The reality, he had been used as a human punching back, Michelle had disappeared, along with the Turk, and Harry made the conscious decision not to tell his little brother what had transpired while he was in the hospital.  Good news though, Diana and Radly were in the same hospital, and were alive.

Harry has pieced together the night’s events, and ever relating it, he wonders how any of them are still alive.

His father comes to visit, and it’s apparent he doesn’t know the real reason Henry is there.

There is light at the end of the tunnel.  Henry has bought a house in his now favourite village by the sea, easily accessible by train, for now, and plants to go there when discharged.

Michelle has not returned, and he has told himself that she might never.  It’s that old saying, better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.

Then it’s off to Morganville.

…

Searching for locations: Washington DC, USA

Washington is a city with bright shiny buildings and endless monuments, each separated by a long walk or a taxi ride if you can find one.

We might have picked the wrong day, shortly after New Year’s Day when the crowds were missing along with everything else.  Or, conversely, it was probably the right time to go, when we didn’t have to battle the crowds.

Sunny but very cold, the walking warmed us up.

First stop was the Lincoln Memorial

DSC00833

It was built to honor the 16th President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln.

It is located on the western end of the National Mall in Washington, D.C., across from the Washington Monument.

DSC00834

The building is in the form of a Greek Doric temple and contains a large seated sculpture of Abraham Lincoln and inscriptions of two well-known speeches by Lincoln.

The next stop was the Washington Monument

DSC00840

The Washington Monument is an obelisk on the National Mall in Washington, D.C., built to commemorate George Washington. Construction of the monument began in 1848 and not completed until 1888.  It was officially opened October 9, 1888.


We then took a taxi ride to the Jefferson Memorial

DSC00851

This monument is dedicated to Thomas Jefferson (1743–1826), one of the most important of the American Founding Fathers as the main drafter and writer of the Declaration of Independence.

Construction of the building began in 1939 and was completed in 1943.

The bronze statue of Jefferson was added in 1947.

Questions, sometimes without answers

At what point does a writer become a journalist?

Quite often journalists become writers because of their vast experience in observing and writing about the news, sometimes in the category of ‘truth is stranger than fiction’.

I did journalism at University and thought I would never get to use it.  I had to interview people, write articles, and act as an editor.  The hardest part was the headlines.

How much does that resemble the job of coming up with a title for your book?

Well, several opportunities arose over the last few months to dig out the journalist hat, put it on, and go to work.

Where?

Hospital.  I’ve had to go there a few times more in the last few months than I have in recent years.

And I’d forgotten just how hospitals are interesting places, especially the waiting room in Emergency.

After the second or third visit, I started to observe the people who were waiting and ran through various scenarios as to the reason for their visit.  None may have been true, but it certainly was an exercise in creative writing and would make an excellent article.

Similarly, once we got inside the inner sanctum, where the real work is done, there is any number of crises and operations going on, and plenty of material for when I might need to include a hospital scene in one of my stories.

Or I could write a volume in praise of the people who work there and what they have to endure.  Tending the sick, injured and badly injured is not a job for the faint-hearted.

Research, if it could be called that, turns up in the unlikeliest of places.  Doctors who answer questions, not necessarily about the malady, nurses who tell you about what it’s like in Emergency on nights you really don’t want to be there, and other patients and their families, all of whom have a story to tell, or just wait patiently for a diagnosis and then treatment so they can go home.

We get to go this time at about four in the morning.  Everyone is tired.  More people are waiting.  Outside it is cool and the first rays of light are coming over the horizon as dawn is about to break.

I ponder the question without an answer, a question one of the nurses asked a youngish doctor, tossed out in conversation, but was there a more intent to it; what he was doing on Saturday night.

He didn’t answer.  Another crisis, another patient.

I suspect he was on duty in Emergency.