Month: April 2024

Searching for locations: A typical diner, New York

We decided to have lunch in a traditional Diner.

On an early morning walk, I discovered the Brooklyn Diner, a small restaurant tucked away in a street not far from Columbus Circle, perhaps a piece of history from the American past.

After all, if you’re going to take in the sights, sounds, and food of a country what better way to do it than visiting what was once a tradition.

This one was called the Brooklyn Diner.  It had a combination of booths and counter sit down, though the latter was not a very big space, so we opted for a booth.

The object of going to a Diner is the fact they serve traditional American food, which when you get past the hot dogs and hamburgers and fries, takes the form of turkey and chicken pot pies among a variety of other choices.

Still looking for a perfectly cooked turkey, something I’ve never been able to do myself, I opted for the Teadition Turkey Lunch, which the menu invitingly said was cooked especially at the diner and was succulent.  I couldn’t wait.

We also ordered a hamburger, yes, yet another, and a chicken pot pie, on the basis the last one I had in Toronto was absolutely delicious (and cooked the same way since the mid-1930s)

While waiting we got to look at a slice of history belonging to another great American tradition, Baseball, a painting on the wall of the Brooklyn Dodgers at Ebbets field, long since gone from their home.

The Turnkey lunch looked like this

which didn’t seem to be much, and had this odd pasta slice on the plate, but the turkey was amazing and lived up to the menu description.

The Chicken Pot Pie looked like this

And looked a lot larger in reality than the photo shows.

But, sadly while it was not bad, it was a little dry, and could possibly do with using the more succulent thigh part of the chicken.

All of this was washed down by Long Island Ice Teas and Brooklyn Lager.

AS for the Diner experience, it’s definitely a 10 out of 10 for me.

An excerpt from “Betrayal” – a work in progress

It could have been anywhere in the world, she thought, but it wasn’t.  It was in a city where if anything were to go wrong…

She sighed and came away from the window and looked around the room.  It was quite large and expensively furnished.  It was one of several she had been visiting in the last three months.

Quite elegant too, as the hotel had its origins dating back to before the revolution in 1917.  At least, currently, there would not be a team of KGB agents somewhere in the basement monitoring everything that happened in the room.

There was no such thing as the KGB anymore, though there was an FSB, but such organisations were of no interest to her.

She was here to meet with Vladimir.

She smiled to herself when she thought of him, such an interesting man whose command of English was as good as her command of Russian, though she had not told him of that ability.

All he knew of her was that she was American, worked in the Embassy as a clerk, nothing important, whose life both at work and at home was boring.  Not that she had blurted that out the first they met, or even the second.

That first time, at a function in the Embassy, was a chance meeting, a catching of his eye as he looked around the room, looking, as he had told her later, for someone who might not be as boring as the function itself.

It was a celebration, honouring one of the Embassy officials on his service in Moscow, and the fact he was returning home after 10 years.  She had been there once, and still hadn’t met all the staff.

They had talked, Vladimir knew a great deal about England, having been stationed there for a year or two, and had politely asked questions about where she lived, her family, and of course what her role was, all questions she fended off with an air of disinterested interest.

It fascinated him, as she knew it would, a sort of mental sparring as one would do with swords if this was a fencing match.

They had said they might or might not meet again when the party was over, but she suspected there would be another opportunity.  She knew the signs of a man who was interested in her, and Vladimir was interested.

The second time came in the form of an invitation to an art gallery, and a viewing of the works of a prominent Russian artist, an invitation she politely declined.  After all, invitations issued to Embassy staff held all sorts of connotations, or so she was told by the Security officer when she told him.

Then, it went quiet for a month.  There was a party at the American embassy and along with several other staff members, she was invited.  She had not expected to meet Vladimir, but it was a pleasant surprise when she saw him, on the other side of the room, talking to several military men.

A pleasant afternoon ensued.

And it was no surprise that they kept running into each other at the various events on the diplomatic schedule.

By the fifth meeting, they were like old friends.  She had broached the subject of being involved in a plutonic relationship with him with the head of security at the embassy.  Normally for a member of her rank, it would not be allowed, but in this instance it was.

She did not work in any sensitive areas, and, as the security officer had said, she might just happen upon something that might be useful.  In that regard, she was to keep her eyes and ears open and file a report each time she met him.

After that discussion, she got the impression her superiors considered Vladimir more than just a casual visitor on the diplomatic circuit.  She also formed the impression that he might consider her an ‘asset’, a word that had been used at the meeting with security and the ambassador.

It was where the word ‘spy’ popped into her head and sent a tingle down her spine.  She was not a spy, but the thought of it, well, it would be fascinating to see what happened.

A Russian friend.  That’s what she would call him.

And over time, that relationship blossomed, until, after a visit to the ballet, late and snowing, he invited her to his apartment not far from the ballet venue.  It was like treading on thin ice, but after champagne and an introduction to caviar, she felt like a giddy schoolgirl.

Even so, she had made him promise that he remain on his best behaviour.  It could have been very easy to fall under the spell of a perfect evening, but he promised, showed her to a separate bedroom, and after a brief kiss, their first, she did not see him until the next morning.

So, it began.

It was an interesting report she filed after that encounter, one where she had expected to be reprimanded.

She wasn’t.

It wasn’t until six weeks had passed when he asked her if she would like to take a trip to the country.  It would involve staying in a hotel, that they would have separate rooms.  When she reported the invitation, no objection was raised, only a caution; keep her wits about her.

Perhaps, she had thought, they were looking forward to a more extensive report.  After all, her reports on the places, and the people, and the conversations she overheard, were no doubt entertaining reading for some.

But this visit was where the nature of the relationship changed, and it was one that she did not immediately report.  She had realised at some point before the weekend away, that she had feelings for him, and it was not that he was pushing her in that direction or manipulating her in any way.

It was just one of those moments where, after a grand dinner, a lot of champagne, and delightful company, things happen.  Standing at the door to her room, a lingering kiss, not intentional on her part, and it just happened.

And for not one moment did she believe she had been compromised, but for some reason she had not reported that subtle change in the relationship to the powers that be, and so far, no one had any inkling.

She took off her coat and placed it carefully of the back of one of the ornate chairs in the room.  She stopped for a moment to look at a framed photograph on the wall, one representing Red Square.

Then, after a minute or two, she went to the mini bar and took out the bottle of champagne that had been left there for them, a treat arranged by Vladimir for each encounter.

There were two champagne flutes set aside on the bar, next to a bowl of fruit.  She picked up the apple and thought how Eve must have felt in the garden of Eden, and the temptation.

Later perhaps, after…

She smiled at the thought and put the apple back.

A glance at her watch told her it was time for his arrival.  It was if anything, the one trait she didn’t like, and that was his punctuality.  A glance at the clock on the room wall was a minute slow.

The doorbell to the room rang, right on the appointed time.

She put the bottle down and walked over to the door.

A smile on her face, she opened the door.

It was not Vladimir.  It was her worst nightmare.

…

© Charles Heath 2020

Mistaken Identity – The Final Editor’s Draft – Day 12

This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.

…

Today I’m dealing with the art of elusiveness, and trying to emulate what it would be like to hide the truth from someone. It would require a great deal of elusiveness and guile to carry it off as though whatever you’ve been lying about for so long doesn’t come back to bite you.

Of course, if I tried it in practice I’d fail miserably, because I don’t have a poke face, and worse, I can’t keep a secret.

So, best not to ask me if I can keep a secret because I will say yes very earnestly, and then give it up when the pressure is on.

I’d never make a good spy either.

But it does make me wonder about all those people out there that constantly tell lies about everything, their past, whether or not they’re having an affair, where they’ve been, and what happened to the money.

Some people are very good at it, especially those who change their names, or have a half dozen different passports.

But, here, in this story, Jack’s mother probably just wanted to believe her twin sister had perished a long time ago, and the longer it became since she last heard from her, the more it was likely she was gone.

Pity. She’s about to come back from the dead.

And, of course, she does know about the doppelganger Jacob, because he had already visited her.

But as to why Jacob has come out of the woodwork, well that has something to do with the past, and an old flame Jack’s mother had a long time ago.

He too has come out of the past for different reasons, none of them good for her health.

More tomorrow.

An excerpt from “Sunday in New York”

Now available on Amazon at:  https://amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

Williams’ Restaurant, East 65th Street, New York, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.

We met the Blaine’s at Williams’, a rather upmarket restaurant that the Blaine’s frequently visited, and had recommended.

Of course, during the taxi ride there, Alison reminded me that with my new job, we would be able to go to many more places like Williams’.  It was, at worst, more emotional blackmail, because as far as Alison was concerned, we were well on our way to posh restaurants, the Trump Tower Apartments, and the trappings of the ‘executive set’.

It would be a miracle if I didn’t strangle Elaine before the night was over.  It was she who had filled Alison’s head with all this stuff and nonsense.

Aside from the half frown half-smile, Alison was looking stunning.  It was months since she had last dressed up, and she was especially wearing the dress I’d bought her for our 5th anniversary that cost a month’s salary.  On her, it was worth it, and I would have paid more if I had to.  She had adored it, and me, for a week or so after.

For tonight, I think I was close to getting back on that pedestal.

She had the looks and figure to draw attention, the sort movie stars got on the red carpet, and when we walked into the restaurant, I swear there were at least five seconds silence, and many more gasps.

Even I had a sudden loss of breath earlier in the evening when she came out of the dressing room.  Once more I was reminded of how lucky I was that she had agreed to marry me.  Amid all those self-doubts, I couldn’t believe she had loved me when there were so many others ‘out there’ who were more appealing.

Elaine was out of her seat and came over just as the Head Waiter hovered into sight.  She personally escorted Alison to the table, allowing me to follow like the Queen’s consort, while she and Alison basked in the admiring glances of the other patrons.

More than once I heard the muted question, “Who is she?”

Jimmy stood, we shook hands, and then we sat together.  It was not the usual boy, girl, boy, girl seating arrangement.  Jimmy and I on one side and Elaine and Alison on the other.

The battle lines were drawn.

Jimmy was looking fashionable, with the permanent blade one beard, unkempt hair, and designer dinner suit that looked like he’d slept in it.  Alison insisted I wear a tuxedo, and I looked like the proverbial penguin or just a thinner version of Alfred Hitchcock.

The bow tie had been slightly crooked, but just before we stepped out she had straightened it.  And took the moment to look deeply into my soul.  It was one of those moments when words were not necessary.

Then it was gone.

I relived it briefly as I sat and she looked at me.  A penetrating look that told me to ‘behave’.

When we were settled, Elaine said, in that breathless, enthusiastic manner of hers when she was excited, “So, Harry, you are finally moving up.”  It was not a question, but a statement.

I was not sure what she meant by ‘finally’ but I accepted it with good grace.  Sometimes Elaine was prone to using figures of speech I didn’t understand.  I guessed she was talking about the new job.  “It was supposed to be a secret.”

She smiled widely.  “There are no secrets between Al and I, are there Al?”

I looked at ‘Al’ and saw a brief look of consternation.

I was not sure Alison liked the idea of being called Al.  I tried it once and was admonished.  But it was interesting her ‘best friend forever’ was allowed that distinction when I was not.  It was, perhaps, another indicator of how far I’d slipped in her estimation.

Perhaps, I thought, it was a necessary evil.  As I understood it, the Blaine’s were our mentors at the Trump Tower, because they didn’t just let ‘anyone’ in.  I didn’t ask if the Blaine’s thought we were just ‘anyone’ before I got the job offer.

And then there was that look between Alison and Elaine, quickly stolen before Alison realized I was looking at both of them.  I was out of my depth, in a place I didn’t belong, with people I didn’t understand.  And yet, apparently, Alison did.  I must have missed the memo.

“No,” Alison said softly, stealing a glance in my direction, “No secrets between friends.”

No secrets.  Her look conveyed something else entirely.

The waiter brought champagne, Krug, and poured glasses for each of us.  It was not the cheap stuff, and I was glad I brought a couple of thousand dollars with me.  We were going to need it.

Then, a toast.

To a new job and a new life.

“When did you decide?”  Elaine was effusive at the best of times, but with the champagne, it was worse.

Alison had a strange expression on her face.  It was obvious she had told Elaine it was a done deal, even before I’d made up my mind.  Perhaps she’d assumed I might be ‘refreshingly honest’ in front of Elaine, but it could also mean she didn’t really care what I might say or do.

Instead of consternation, she looked happy, and I realized it would be churlish, even silly if I made a scene.  I knew what I wanted to say.  I also knew that it would serve little purpose provoking Elaine, or upsetting Alison.  This was not the time or the place.  Alison had been looking forward to coming here, and I was not going to spoil it.

Instead, I said, smiling, “When I woke up this morning and found Alison missing.  If she had been there, I would not have noticed the water stain on the roof above our bed, and decide there and then how much I hated the place.” I used my reassuring smile, the one I used with the customers when all hell was breaking loose, and the forest fire was out of control.  “It’s the little things.  They all add up until one day …”  I shrugged.  “I guess that one day was today.”

I saw an incredulous look pass between Elaine and Alison, a non-verbal question; perhaps, is he for real?  Or; I told you he’d come around.

I had no idea the two were so close.

“How quaint,” Elaine said, which just about summed up her feelings towards me.  I think, at that moment, I lost some brownie points.  It was all I could come up with at short notice.

“Yes,” I added, with a little more emphasis than I wanted.  “Alison was off to get some study in with one of her friends.”

“Weren’t the two of you off to the Hamptons, a weekend with some friends?” Jimmy piped up, and immediately got the ‘shut up you fool’ look, that cut that line of conversation dead.  Someone forgot to feed Jimmy his lines.

It was followed by the condescending smile from Elaine, and “I need to powder my nose.  Care to join me, Al?”

A frown, then a forced smile for her new best friend.  “Yes.”

I watched them leave the table and head in the direction of the restroom, looking like they were in earnest conversation.  I thought ‘Al’ looked annoyed, but I could be wrong.

I had to say Jimmy looked more surprised than I did.

There was that odd moment of silence between us, Jimmy still smarting from his death stare, and for me, the Alison and Elaine show.  I was quite literally gob-smacked.

I drained my champagne glass gathering some courage and turned to him.  “By the way, we were going to have a weekend away, but this legal tutorial thing came up.  You know Alison is doing her law degree.”

He looked startled when he realized I had spoken.  He was looking intently at a woman several tables over from us, one who’d obviously forgotten some basic garments when getting dressed.  Or perhaps it was deliberate.  She’d definitely had some enhancements done.

He dragged his eyes back to me.  “Yes.  Elaine said something or other about it.  But I thought she said the tutor was out of town and it had been postponed until next week.  Perhaps I got it wrong.  I usually do.”

“Perhaps I’ve got it wrong.”  I shrugged, as the dark thoughts started swirling in my head again.  “This week or next, what does it matter?”

Of course, it mattered to me, and I digested what he said with a sinking heart.  It showed there was another problem between Alison and me; it was possible she was now telling me lies.  If what he said was true and I had no reason to doubt him, where was she going tomorrow morning, and had she really been with a friend studying today?

We poured some more champagne, had a drink, then he asked, “This promotion thing, what’s it worth?”

“Trouble, I suspect.  Definitely more money, but less time at home.”

“Oh,” raised eyebrows.  Obviously, the women had not talked about the job in front of him, or, at least, not all the details.  “You sure you want to do that?”

At last the voice of reason.  “Me?  No.”

“Yet you accepted the job.”

I sucked in a breath or two while I considered whether I could trust him.  Even if I couldn’t, I could see my ship was sinking, so it wouldn’t matter what I told him, or what Elaine might find out from him.  “Jimmy, between you and me I haven’t as yet decided one way or another.  To be honest, I won’t know until I go up to Barclay’s office and he asks me the question.”

“Barclay?”

“My boss.”

“Elaine’s doing a job for a Barclay that recently moved in the tower a block down from us.  I thought I recognized the name.”

“How did Elaine get the job?”

“Oh, Alison put him onto her.”

“When?”

“A couple of months ago.  Why?”

I shrugged and tried to keep a straight face, while my insides were churning up like the wake of a supertanker.  I felt sick, faint, and wanting to die all at the same moment.  “Perhaps she said something about it, but it didn’t connect at the time.  Too busy with work I expect.  I think I seriously need to get away for a while.”

I could hardly breathe, my throat was constricted and I knew I had to keep it together.  I could see Elaine and Alison coming back, so I had to calm down.  I sucked in some deep breaths, and put my ‘manage a complete and utter disaster’ look on my face.

And I had to change the subject, quickly, so I said, “Jimmy, Elaine told Alison, who told me, you were something of a guru of the cause and effects of the global economic meltdown.  Now, I have a couple of friends who have been expounding this theory …”

Like flicking a switch, I launched into the well-worn practice of ‘running a distraction’, like at work when we needed to keep the customer from discovering the truth.  It was one of the things I was good at, taking over a conversation and pushing it in a different direction.  It was salvaging a good result from an utter disaster, and if ever there was a time that it was required, it was right here, right now.

When Alison sat down and looked at me, she knew something had happened between Jimmy and I.  I might have looked pale or red-faced, or angry or disappointed, it didn’t matter.  If that didn’t seal the deal for her, the fact I took over the dining engagement did.  She knew well enough the only time I did that was when everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.  She’d seen me in action before and had been suitably astonished.

But I got into gear, kept the champagne flowing and steered the conversation, as much as one could from a seasoned professional like Elaine, and, I think, in Jimmy’s eyes, he saw the battle lines and knew who took the crown on points.  Neither Elaine nor Jimmy suspected anything, and if the truth be told, I had improved my stocks with Elaine.  She was at times both surprised and interested, even willing to take a back seat.

Alison, on the other hand, tried poking around the edges, and, once when Elaine and Jimmy had got up to have a cigarette outside, questioned me directly.  I chose to ignore her, and pretend nothing had happened, instead of telling her how much I was enjoying the evening.

She had her ‘secrets’.  I had mine.

At the end of the evening, when I got up to go to the bathroom, I was physically sick from the pent up tension and the implications of what Jimmy had told me.  It took a while for me to pull myself together; so long, in fact, Jimmy came looking for me.  I told him I’d drunk too much champagne, and he seemed satisfied with that excuse.  When I returned, both Alison and Elaine noticed how pale I was but neither made any comment.

It was a sad way to end what was supposed to be a delightful evening, which to a large degree it was for the other three.  But I had achieved what I set out to do, and that was to play them at their own game, watching the deception, once I knew there was a deception, as warily as a cat watches its prey.

I had also discovered Jimmy’s real calling; a professor of economics at the same University Alison was doing her law degree.  It was no surprise in the end, on a night where surprises abounded, that the world could really be that small.

We parted in the early hours of the morning, a taxi whisking us back to the Lower East Side, another taking the Blaine’s back to the Upper West Side.  But, in our case, as Alison reminded me, it would not be for much longer.  She showed concern for my health, asked me what was wrong.  It took all the courage I could muster to tell her it was most likely something I ate and the champagne, and that I would be fine in the morning.

She could see quite plainly it was anything other than what I told her, but she didn’t pursue it.  Perhaps she just didn’t care what I was playing at.

And yet, after everything that had happened, once inside our ‘palace’, the events of the evening were discarded, like her clothing, and she again reminded me of what we had together in the early years before the problems had set in.

It left me confused and lost.

I couldn’t sleep because my mind had now gone down that irreversible path that told me I was losing her, that she had found someone else, and that our marriage was in its last death throes.

And now I knew it had something to do with Barclay.

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

Sunday In New York

In a word: Hear

Which reminds me, I am told I have selective hearing, that I only hear what I want to hear

But what if you overhear someone?  Would it be by accident or on purpose?  Of course, some people talk so loudly you can’t help but hear them

In reality, to hear is to perceive with the ear something or someone

If you pay attention in class, you might hear what is being said

The judge, far from being dismissive, said he would hear the case

And I’m sure we sometimes wonder if God can hear our prayers

Did you hear the news?  If it’s anything other than COVID I probably did.

Hear hear, now what does that really mean when someone cries it out after someone else makes a statement?

This is not to be confused with the word here

Like when someone asks where you are, you say I’m here, but forget to add that you are invisible

This is going to end here and now!

Here is a book I think you should read

Here, let me take that bag of groceries

How many times did you consider not saying ‘here’ when the teacher called your name at roll-call?  I know I did, a few times

Skeletons in the closet, and doppelgangers

A story called “Mistaken Identity”

…

How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.

In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.

I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.

Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.

There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.

Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.

It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.

For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.

It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!

And a great idea for a story.

That story is called ‘Mistaken Identity’.

A to Z Blog Challenge – April 2024 – O is for Old Enemies

…

This wasn’t the 1920s or 1930s in Egypt where the Howard Carters of this world were making famous discoveries.  It might have felt like that as we sat in the hotel room and she introduced me to the real world of archaeology, that one where time and effort often brought discouraging results and lack of progress, and then how she came to conclude that this unknown pirate that everyone and no one knew about, actually existed.

She was the only one to believe she actually existed and proceeded to explain why she thought differently to all the rest.  The pirate, of course, was female, by the name of Charlotte de Barry.  Born in 1624, she was of an age just as the golden age of pirates began.   Reputed to have taken up with a pirate, she followed him back to his ship, disguised as a man, and learned the trade until her aspirations of captaining her own ship were realised.  Pity then it was via a later Captain who had kidnapped and forced her to marry him, that harbouring a deep down hate for what he had done to her, she bided her time, and working with the crew finally killed him and took over his ship.

Was it a female crew?  It was a question I wasn’t going to ask, but I suspect it was not.  All the references were circumstantial, but there was a journal, not belonging to the captain, but the mate, chronicling their adventures, but the captain referred to in that journal was Captain Rodolph.  Certainly, the story matched that of Charlotte. 

Then there was an account of her in ‘A History of Pirates’, and again, it could be construed it was Charlotte.  I wanted to believe it was true for her sake.  The journal had one particular entry, rather long that detailed the burial of treasure to be collected later, in Jamaica, not far from Port Antonio in a place named, now, Frenchman’s Cove.

The thing is, as a work of fiction, it was entirely believable.  I could write it, and it would be, as she said, a best seller because everyone wants to believe there’s treasure out there, somewhere.

When I asked her about the journal, she said it was a handwritten translation from a number of writing books that dated back to the late 1800s.  She had considered the entries might be the work of a fertile imagination, but there were too many entries that had a ring of authenticity to them, that the writer had to be aboard a pirate ship. 

Others had dismissed them as just that, fictional entries, but she had cross-referenced the dates with other known documents.  A lot depended on their authenticity, and it begged the question of why someone else hadn’t taken the information.  The person she’d bought them off had found them in an old chest up in the attic of her grandparent’s house in England, thought them to be just a work of fiction and put them out for sale in a garage sale.  A lucky find, perhaps.

That didn’t mean I didn’t believe she made a tangible discovery. All it needed was some artifacts, and it would take on a whole new life, and that was where time and money played a huge factor.  Like Howard Carter, those two items were running out.

This, by her own admission, was going to be her final attempt, and I was hoping it would be successful.

After making arrangements to be away for a few weeks and channelling the funds into an account accessible to both of us, we hopped on a plane and headed for Kingston, Jamaica, on the first leg of the trip.

We were planning to head off to the site near Port Antonio, a small Cove where they had to stop and make repairs after a battle at sea with a British frigate, and where the decision was made to offload the treasure into five chests and bury it.

The precise location was not exactly described in the journal, but there were references to landmarks that bore similarities.  It was enough to go ahead and get the government documents required to explore.  She had deliberately made it obscure by outlining a thousand more acres than was necessary.

Imagine then our surprise to find the Jamiesons, father and son, at the check-in counter having arrived the same time as us. It was the best hotel in Kingston, so perhaps not so much a surprise.

Jackson noticed us first.  “Elizabeth, fancy meeting you here.  Or not.  This is your stomping ground.  Found any pirate treasure yet.  What’s it been, seven years?  Did you break a mirror?”

I could see the expression on her face and the anger about to boil over.  I stepped between them.

“I think that was a bit uncalled for, Jackson.”

“Why am I not surprised to see her with a trashy novelist.  Couldn’t be an archaeologist, so you just invent stuff.  I’m not surprised her university funds were cancelled.  It’s going to real archaeology.”

It wasn’t hard to read between the lines.  “Why are you here?”

“Haven’t you been reading the papers?  We’ve found the location of the treasure.  It took a week.  Not seven years.  I guess you’re as big a failure as your boyfriend here.”

She was going to remonstrate, but it wasn’t the place or the time.  We needed facts if he had stolen her dig.  I turned to her and said, “There’s no point discussing this while you’re angry, and we don’t know what’s happened, or if it’s the same dig.  We’ll check in and then find out what’s going on.”  I certainly didn’t want to argue with him here, now.

I could see the anger blazing in her eyes, and if I let her, I was sure that the police would end up being called.  Instead, I hustled her away to a safe distance.  Right then, I didn’t think her opinion of me went anywhere but down.

I saw Jackson say something to the father, and he looked over at us with an odd expression.  Whether or not he had heard his son belittling us, he definitely looked uncomfortable, which to me was odd.

“Why did you do that.  You know what this is about.  He is not content to create his own miracle find.  Now he’s trying to steal mine.”

“You don’t know that for sure.  He might have found something else entirely.  This place has more than one dig right now, and Pirates are in the news.  Let’s check-in, go to the room, and then I’ll make a call.  When my first book was published, I got a call from an editor of the paper here.  I’ll call him and see what he has to say.  Jackson said that it was in the news.”

I could see she was still angry but saving her from making a scene in the hotel lobby was better than the alternative and might play into their hands.  I had to sigh in relief when she did as I asked.

“Do you have someone local you can call and see what’s happening at your site?  I assume you shut it down before coming back?”

“Yes.  I left Jimmie there.  He lives nearby.  Oddly, he hadn’t called to tell me anything.”

“Then perhaps it’s not your site Jackson was referring to.  They could be somewhere else.”

I was hoping it was.

A half-hour later, a local newspaper in hand, and seeing a small story about the famous Egypt archaeologist who was in Kingston to make an announcement about his next exciting project, I arrived back in my room. I could see she was trying to phone her local assistant, just as I tracked down the editor.

He was delighted to hear I was in Kingston and asked if it was for a book signing.

“No.  I’m not sure why my agent doesn’t schedule signings all over the world, it would certainly make a difference to the dark attic I seem to be continually stuck in, writing.”

“Really?”  He seemed to believe me.

“No, not really, but some days I feel like it.  Actually, I’m here because a friend of mine has been working on a dig of her own, investigating one of the few female pirates one Charlotte de Berry, and the myth of buried treasure.”

“A story no doubt you will be writing about.”

“Something like that.  There is another archaeologist in town, we just ran into the Jamiesons downstairs, and I read in the paper there’s going to be a big announcement.  Do you know what it is?”

“As it happens it’s about the same pirate.  But no one believes it’s possible.  One of our experts and believe me she knows everything about Pirates and Jamaica, says that whatever he turns up, it will have nothing to do with Charlotte de Barry, or anyone else.  Any treasure buried or otherwise will not be found. “

“You say that with a lot of scepticism”.

“I read your story on the Jamieson Egypt dig and it dripped with scepticism.  My impression is that you have proof, you just never played that card.  They tried to stop the publication of your first book. Not the wisest of moves because it turned it into a best seller.  It might have just disappeared into the ether had he not.”

A blunt but true assessment.  I had thought it would not get any interest and end up on the remainder tables.  Then came the lawsuit, and the reluctant publisher that had delayed the release, suddenly published and glad they did.

So was I with the three-book deal that followed.

“They simply saw that there was no merit to their case.  But still, it could as you say disappear into the ether.  When is the press conference?”

“Three days.  They’re going to the site, do a preliminary investigation, and then tell the world.  I fear this may be a gigantic hoax and it’s not what we want or need.”

“Then I shall put on my investigative journalist hat and see what it’s about.  And you can have the story whichever way it turns out.”

“Thank you.  We shall speak again.”

I disconnected the call and looked over at Elizabeth.  She did not look happy.  “What did you find out?”

“Jimmie has gone missing.  I spoke to Fred, another chap I was working with, and he said that a large team of people arrived a week ago and set up about a mile away from my site, closer to the Cove.  He says that the man in charge is Jackson Jamieson.  I sent him a photo and he ID’ed him.  I think Jimmie has sold me out.  I told him I would be back with his money but apparently, he called the Jamiesons and said if the price was right, he’d tell them everything.”

“Including the place where you think the treasure is?”

“No.  Only I know where that is.  But if he rips up the site, then might just bulldoze over the top of it.”

“Can they do that?”

“How much money can they throw at it?”

A lot.

“Then we need to get there and see what’s happening for ourselves.  They’ll probably go by helicopter.  We’re going to have to drive there.”

“If we go tonight?”

“We could do that.”

“I’m sorry but this is just too much.  I should have guessed something like this would happen.  It’s all become a very cut-throat business, and I’m just not up for that end of it.”

“Well let’s wait and see.  It all might be a storm in a teacup.”

An hour later, while Elizabeth was showering and changing her clothes, I said I was going down to tell the front desk we would be away for a few days.  In reality, I told her a small lie.

There was one stop along the way.  The presidential suite, where I knew the intrepid father and son archaeologists were staying.  I didn’t have to ask the front desk.

Standing outside, I rang the doorbell, and a minute later, a man came to the door, what looked to me like a butler. 

I’ve come to see Aristotle Jamieson. I don’t have an appointment but tell him it’s Leo Brightman, and it’s in his best interests to see me.”

“Very good.  Please wait.” Then he shut the door again, leaving me out in the passage.

Five minutes passed before he returned.  “Mr Jamieson will see you now.  Follow me.”

It was like some of the very large apartments I had seen in New York when I was contemplating living there. A large living area, a passage to two bedrooms, and a study or meeting room that would double as a dining room.

He was sitting at one end of the table in the meeting room, documents, folders, a computer, and a phone set out neatly in front of him.  The son was not in the room, thankfully.  The butler closed the door behind me, and we were alone.

“If you’ve come to plead her case to withdraw, it won’t work.  Her claim expired two weeks ago, and she should have renewed it.”

“That’s part of the reason I’m here, but not the only.  To be clear, I was, and still am in fact, an investigative journalist.  You will know this because a lot of my first book was based on my investigation into your Egyptian find.  You tried to stop publication and force a few changes, but ultimately, I have you to thank for making me far wealthier than I would have been digging around looking for stuff that’s increasingly rare to find.  So thank you.”

“And yet, I sense a but.”

“The but is a man named Antoine Gascon.”

I could see the flicker of recognition and the attempt to hide that tell.

“He died five years ago.  A grubby little man who forged Egyptian trinkets to sell on the black market for extortionate sums to gullible fools.”

“He was murdered, you know.  I investigated his death because I didn’t believe he had died accidentally.  Turns out the toxicology report the police received wasn’t the real report.”

“Not my concern.”

“Not right now, but it will be.  Six years ago, a week before his untimely death, he and I sat down and had an extensive interview.  He showed me his workshop and the trial-and-error artifacts he created for you.  Just so you know, there are numerous copies of this interview in the hands of various people who will make that information public under certain circumstances.”

“No one would believe it, because, as I said, he has been proved to be a liar and a cheat.”

“That may be, but when he told you he destroyed all the prototypes and moulds, and I know you or your son, he didn’t specifically say, was there when he did, the fact is he kept two, both of which you generously donated to the museum.  When he made those, he made two identical artifacts, which experts will discover when they do a thorough examination.  The location of them is in the recorded interview.  Now you can keep up the charade, or we can do a deal. I’m not interested in making a mockery out of archaeology, but I do want something that will be very easy for you to grant.  If that happens, then you won’t be reading about a certain scurrilous archaeologist.”

I could see he was wrestling with the idea of just bluffing me and sticking to his original story so that no one would believe Antoine.  Had he not shown me the two artifacts, I would have done the same in his place.  I would have liked to be able to read his mind.

After a small sign, whether of defeat, or pragmatism, he said, “And what guarantee do I get in return.”

“If you leave Elizabeth and her dig alone, the interview never sees the light of day.  I don’t care what you do, just don’t destroy her one chance.  You can join her, but it is her dig and her glory.  You have yours and you can keep it.  As I said, it’s in the best interests of everyone that the status quo remains.  It’s up to you.  We’re leaving for her dig site in a few hours.  If she chooses to go where you set up your circus, they should be informed that it is her project and that they are working for her.  Your collaboration will be appreciated.  Your son, just keep him under control, he wasn’t particularly nice earlier.”  I stood.

“Is that all?  I assume you will not be destroying those tapes?”

“No.  Just in case you change your mind in the future, or, if anything happens to you, your son decides to go off the reservation.  What I’m asking for is no skin off your nose.  We don’t have to be friends, but it would help if you simply played nice.”

“I’ll think about it.”

I shrugged.  “Don’t think too long.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2024

…

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 97

As some may be aware, but many not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mice catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years ago.

Recently I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

20161008_135142

This is Chester

Still hiding away.

Like any wise, old, skeptical cat, he’s not believing the good news.

We do not have a COVID 19 case in our house. Of course, we had to wait an agonizing 24 hours before we got the good news by phone.

It shows that our testing labs are getting through the tests, of which I heard in the news there were about 4,000, with only 10 or so new cases countrywide.

Queensland had none overnight, so if our case had been positive, we would have been in the news for al; the wrong reasons.

So, after broadcasting the news, that is, walking up and down the passage saying it was safe to come out, there’s still no sign of him.

But…

I have a cunning plan.

I bought a can of his absolute favorite food.

Come dinner time I’m putting it out.

 

Of course, food trumps fear every time.

He walks past me on his way to the tasty treats, the tail movements indicating he is not a happy cat.

The things I have to suffer at the hands of you humans, he mutters.

So, I say casually, we have guests for dinner.

He stops, turns his head in that dismissive manner of his.
What else can you do to me?

COVID 19, Grandchildren, I suppose you’re going to let me outside.

Do you want to go outside?

With COVID 19 lurking on every corner?

It’s under control.

Right. I’ve been watching TV. You do realize there’s good news and fake news, and there’s more of the latter than the former.

So, he’s going with the confuse the poor human with blather.

It’s working. I say, Go back into hiding. I was quite enjoying the silence.

After dinner, he says, ending the conversation with the angry tail swish. Yes, we are not amused.

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 46

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on the back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.

The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.

But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.

Chasing leads, maybe

It was all over in the blink of an eye.  The swat team had secured the scene, zip ties, and shoved me into a corner with two burly men standing over me, guns ready in case I tried to escape.

Before the next wave, I had time to consider what just happened.  Obviously, Dobbin or Jan had set the scene.  She lied about being able to track Maury, they found him, brought him back to the room, tortured him, and then killed him.  The few seconds I had to look at the body showed signs of intense interrogation.

A side benefit was to stitch me up for the crime.  The fact the police were at the door a minute after I’d arrived meant they had been waiting for me to come back.  That pointed to Jan as the informant.

But to what end.  If they considered I was the only one who could find the USB, why let me get caught by the police.

Jennifer would be safe.  She had been in the foyer a full ten minutes before I arrived, and was sitting in a corner when I passed her.  If they knew she was involved, she would have been missing.  Hopefully, she would have seen the swat team arrive, and leave.

A few minutes after the swat leader spoke into his two-way radio, a middle-aged woman and a young man in his late 20’s arrived, the woman first, the young man behind her.  A Detective Chief Inspect, or Superintendent, and Detect Sergeant.  He was too well dressed to be a constable,.  One old, one new.

The young man spoke to the swat leader, the woman surveyed the scene, looked at the body, then at me, shaking her head slightly.

I tried to look anonymous if not invisible.  The fact they had found no ID on me would not count well for my situation, or so I had been told.  Nor was the fact I preferred not to speak.

Never volunteer information.

A nod from her and the two swat guards took several steps back.  She pulled a chair over from the side of the bed, and once three feet away, sat down.

“I’m told you are refusing to answer any questions.”

“Refusing to answer and simply not talking is not the same thing.”

“You do speak.”

“When appropriate.”

“What are you doing here?”

“This is my room, along with a young lady, who as you can see, is not here.  That much you should have gleaned from the front desk.”

She pulled a card out of her pocket.  “Alan, and Alice Jones.  Not your real names I suspect., nor very original.  Do you know who the man on the bed is?”

“He told me his name is Maury, not sure of his first name, but that wasn’t his real name.  His other name was Bernie Salvin, but that might also be a fake.  He was one of two men who were in charge of my training.”

“For what?”

“I suspect it might be above your pay grade.”

If she was shocked at that statement she didn’t show it.  In fact, I would not be surprised if she had suspected it was likely it had to do with the clandestine security services.  Torture victims were not an everyday occurrence, or at least I hoped for her sake they weren’t.

She gave a slight sigh.  “And who do you work for?”

“There’s the rub.  I have no idea.  I’ve just been caught in the middle of a bloody awful mess.”

The second rule is always to tell the truth, or as close to it as possible so you don’t have to try and remember a web of lies, and trip yourself up at later interviews.  And keep it simple.

“So, no one I should be calling to verify who you are?”

“No.  Not unless you can revive the man on the bed.  I’m only new, been on the job after training for about a week.  I was part of a team running a surveillance exercise when a shop exploded and the target disappeared.  I’ve been trying to find out what happened.”

Her expression whanged, telling me she was familiar with the event.

“Do you find out anything?”

“Only that the would be a body in the shop, a journalist, that was trying to hand over some sensitive information.   I have no idea what it was, or who he was.  The target, whom I suspected was there for the handover, is now also dead. So, quite literally, two dead ends.  Do I look like someone who could do that to a man?”  I nodded in the direction of the body.

“You’d be surprised who was capable of what.  Do you have a real name?”

“I do, but I won’t be telling you.  You have my work name, that’s as much as I can volunteer.”

“A few days in a dank hole might change that.”

“A few days in a dank hole would be like a holiday compared to the week I’m currently having.”

She smiled, or I thought it was a smile.  “I daresay you might.”

There was a loud noise and some yelling coming from outside the door.  A man burst into the room, two constables in his wake.

A man I didn’t recognize.

She stood.  “Who are you?”

“Richards, MI5.”  He showed her a card, which she glanced at.  She’d no doubt seen them before.

“We’ll be taking over from here.”

“This person?”  She nodded her head in my direction.

“Leave him.  We’ll take care of him.”

“Johnson, Jacobs, let’s leave the room to them.  We’re done here.  Places to be, gentlemen.”  She nodded in my direction.  “Good luck, you’re going to need it.”

…

© Charles Heath 2020-2022

Mistaken Identity – The Final Editor’s Draft – Day 11

This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.

…

So now the truth, or a version of it, is out there, Jack now needs to find out who this Jacob is.

Well, he thinks he knows who it is, but he needs some confirmation from his mother about what she apparently has been hiding from him all his life.

Of course, as expected, his mother is being elusive.

In the meantime, I’ve been playing around with the backstory, which, sometimes never finds its way into the book. It serves me to get a better understanding of a character, of several, in what some might call a background paper.

I also wonder if this type of scenario plays out in other families, and if they were, or are, referred to as the skeletons in the closet.

We didn’t have any in our family, well, none that I knew about, anyway. I’m sure there were, we just never got to hear about them.

I guess that’s why often members of a family will go searching the genealogical records, and find out if they are related to someone famous. My wife reckons that she is somehow related to Harriet Beecher Stowe, the writer of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. On our side, we had a Luddite (who wasn’t really a Luddite – long story) transported to Van Diemen’s Land from England.

I know who won that forebear contest!

…

More tomorrow.