First Dig Two Graves – the editor’s second draft – Day 28

This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.

…

So, what happened really happened to Worthington?

Did John get reunited with his mother in the hospital?

What of Rupert and Isobel?  Did she get to meet the elusive and enigmatic Tsar?

These are all questions that will be answered in due course.

There is also the matter of what happens when John and Zoe/Irina finally meet up after he learns that she regarded him as expendable, and knowing her as he did, didn’t doubt for a minute she meant it.

Is it the folly of falling in love with an assassin?

Once again we end up at the grandmother’s residence in Sorrento, languishing sans Zoe, contemplating the future, a future that might not have Zoe in it.

His idea of setting up an investigation bureau is alive and well, run by Rupert, staffed by people who have the skills but not the confidence of others who had employed them.  Rupert is the master of picking lame ducks and turning them into swans.

Isobel, on the other hand, does not improve with age or being in a somewhat iffy, long-range, possible romance, thing.

Does Zoe return, does she call, can she drag herself away from her recently rediscovered father?

Again, you’ll have to read the book.

…

There’s no word count at the moment because everything is in outline awaiting writing. That will happen, I hope, tomorrow.

NANOWRIMO – April 2024 – “The One That Got Away” – Day 3

Suspicious circumstances

…

It’s a matter of getting from a normal busy life, running a very successful and very well-regarded institution, that from the outside was one everyone was envious of to where she is lying in an induced coma following an accident that is still being investigated.

Perhaps we get a glimpse into the detective who will be later called on for a more complex investigation into her life and sadly death.

The question we have to ask is, was this just an accident as a result of her poor health, some were saying a result of her wild childhood early years of dung and alcohol abuse (the privileged life of the youth of the elite wealthy being paid back in spades) or something else.

Is there something about charities that’s not all above board?  With a new management team installed by her father, is the money getting to those who need it, or is it to pat the names needed to be in the high-profile donors?

It strikes me that ages ago when I was talking to a group of others about making donations to a charity that had a high-profile person as spokesperson it had to be good if they spoke on behalf of it for nothing in return.

My illusion was shattered in seconds.  That personality was paid plenty to spruik the charity, drove around on a large expensive car provided, and hosted endless lunches and functions for those who seemed to live an already lavish lifestyle.

It’s a premise I am investigating and will use as a possible outcome to what should be a beneficiary-orientated charity versus one that is there to principally serve the high-profile spruikers.

…

Words today, 2070, for a total of 4867

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

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’.

First Dig Two Graves – the editor’s second draft – Day 28

This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.

…

So, what happened really happened to Worthington?

Did John get reunited with his mother in the hospital?

What of Rupert and Isobel?  Did she get to meet the elusive and enigmatic Tsar?

These are all questions that will be answered in due course.

There is also the matter of what happens when John and Zoe/Irina finally meet up after he learns that she regarded him as expendable, and knowing her as he did, didn’t doubt for a minute she meant it.

Is it the folly of falling in love with an assassin?

Once again we end up at the grandmother’s residence in Sorrento, languishing sans Zoe, contemplating the future, a future that might not have Zoe in it.

His idea of setting up an investigation bureau is alive and well, run by Rupert, staffed by people who have the skills but not the confidence of others who had employed them.  Rupert is the master of picking lame ducks and turning them into swans.

Isobel, on the other hand, does not improve with age or being in a somewhat iffy, long-range, possible romance, thing.

Does Zoe return, does she call, can she drag herself away from her recently rediscovered father?

Again, you’ll have to read the book.

…

There’s no word count at the moment because everything is in outline awaiting writing. That will happen, I hope, tomorrow.

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 83

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.  He has reminded me that it’s Groundhog Day.

So I had to ask, where on earth did you get that from?

Everybody knows it’s Groundhog Day.  He sits there with this knowing look in his face, and it dawns on me, he’s been looking up stuff on the computer again.

I am going to have to remember to turn it off.

In Canada and America maybe, but we don’t have it here because we don’t have the cold and snow like they do.

We have cold because you light the fire.  I’m sure there’s been snow.

Now I know he’s finally losing it.

It’s 35 degrees Celcius outside, and even when it is cold it’s still 16 degrees Celcius, not Fahrenheit.

Look, get with the program here.  We need something to celebrate.

Why?  And a second later realizing I should not ask.

It’s been a bit dull, no mice, no treats, all bad news on the internet.  Oh and by the way, since cats only get cat flu, you want to be careful not to get that new coronavirus going around.

I shake my head.

Now I’m definitely turning off the computer at night.

Cat flu indeed!

 

 

 

The cinema of my dreams – Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 32

I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a 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

 

I ordered breakfast to be brought to my room, then sat back and read the paper, culminating in a second cup of coffee and a half-hearted attempt at the crossword.

My mind was not sufficiently clear of all the implications of what I’d seen last night, and before that.

The first task was to go back to the office and get onto the computer to track down the address the car was registered to.  It was not the flat.  My guess that it was a sort of safe house.  He may not have had reservations about Jan, or who she worked for, not until he became the prey.

Then it occurred to me that if Jan didn’t know where the USB was, then she had to realize he might have rumbled her perfidy.  Maybe he was not as easily fooled as I first thought.

But it didn’t explain why Nobbin was in the dark over the USB’s whereabouts, as he had told me to give Nobbin a message.  Perhaps there’s been a secret message behind that message.

Now, my mind was spinning out of control.

Like O’Connell/Quinley, and in accordance with more lessons on tradecraft, I too, had what I would like to have called a safe house, a small flat on the outskirts of Wimbledon.  

I also had an off-site parking space that was a reasonable distance from the flat, so that if I was being hunted, the car would not lead them to my hiding spot.

There I had a shower, changed, and headed for the underground.

I took the train to Charing Cross, getting there around nine, to take the short walk to the hotel.

Not expecting to find her in the room, I used my key to let myself in.

I was wrong.

She was in bed, still asleep.  Or was until I let the door slam shut.

She didn’t exactly come out from under the covers with a gun pointing at me, but I would be willing to be there was one under her pillow and her hand was on it.

“Sam?”  It was uttered sleepily, the sort that would normally send a shiver down my spine.  Not now.

“I hope you’re not intending to shoot me?”

“No.”

I could see her hand moving slowly withdrawing, and then watched her sit up and swing her legs over the side.

Still in basic clothes.  Obviously, no time to go and get some pyjamas then.

“What happened to you?”

“Got side-tracked on what I thought might be a lead, and it wasn’t.  Just a waste of time and a long night.  Thought I’d come here and get some shuteye.  Perhaps not.  Are you going to order breakfast?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll have a pot of coffee and a paper, preferably one with a crossword.”

She rang down a breakfast order, full English, then said she was having a quick shower.  I heard the water running and wondered if she was giving Severin a short report.  Old trick, running water hides conversations.

Breakfast arrived at the same time as she came out of the bathroom, hair up in a towel, and in one of the hotel dressing gowns.  My imagination got a five-second workout before I grabbed the paper and the coffee and sat in the corner.

She could have the desk.

“Do we know where Maury is?” I asked suddenly.

“Who?”

She hesitated before answering, a moment to give herself time to process the question, and if there were any hidden meanings.

“You know?  You dropped a tracker on him.”

“Oh, him.  He must have found and dumped it.  It was pinging about 100 yards from the flat.”

Of course.  There probably wasn’t one in the first place.

“Pity.  I’d like to turn up unannounced, give him a bit of a scare.”

I went back to the crossword, keeping an eye on her, noticing every now and then giving me a sideways glance.

“Did you go anywhere after the flat?”  Again sudden, out of left field.

“No.  Just come straight back here.  Do you want to keep the room for a few days?  See what happens.”

“Sounds like a good idea.  Look, I have to run an errand this morning, unfortunately, it’s not a work matter, so I’ll give you a call on my way back.  You must want to talk to your people and let them know what’s happening if you haven’t already.”

I finished the coffee, folded the paper, and stood.

“At the very least,” I added, “I have to go back into the office and report to Nobbin.  I’m sure he’ll be impressed with the lack of progress.”

“Won’t you run into that other fellow, what’s his name?”

“Severin?”

“Him, yes.”

“I don’t think so.  His name will probably be very high on the ‘we’d like to talk to you’ list if he shows his face.  Anyway, I’ve got your number.”

I deliberately waved the phone where she could see it, and the implication she could probably use it to track my movements.  That might have been the case if there was a sim card in it, and it was similar to the phone she last saw me with.

It was not.

Where I was going, no one was going to follow me or find me.

© Charles Heath 2020

First Dig Two Graves – the editor’s second draft – Day 27

This book has finally come back from the Editor, so this month it is going to get a second revision, a second draft for the editor, and beta readers.

…

It’s the final battle.

Never trust anyone else to do the job you should have done yourself in the first place.

It’s an interesting premise, but somehow encapsulates the ethos of this story.

Who is Romanov?  Zoe, Irina, whatever you want to call her, he’s her father.

But…

The notion that anonymously putting out a finder’s fee on his daughter’s head, coupled with the ire of Olga over the death of her son, sent everyone from the Minister in the Kremlin down into a tailspin.

The first effort, had the kidnappers just followed the rules, would have got an enormous payday, and everything would have been resolved there and then, in Marseilles.

No, people got greedy.

So did all the others, getting wind of what was at stake, enough to retire, or continue to retire in style.

Dominica, Yuri, and even Olga had she been smart.

She was not.

People didn’t have to die.  Zoe could have been spared a killing spree, and John some maybe quality time with Olga.  It’s a mistake Olga won’t make again.

And John, now with a father-in-law, well it’s just another surprise in a long list of surprises.

…

NANOWRIMO – April 2024 – “The One That Got Away” – Day 2

One of those mornings

…

We’re unravelling the mystery behind the slow deterioration of our main character.

When did this mysterious malady first manifest itself?

The point here is that there is always a starting point or a catalyst.  It might not always be pinpointed by the person but by someone else who can look from the outside and assess all of the evidence.

And it’s not always an easy task when you don’t really know when it first began because it creeps up on you without you realising it.

Until one morning, you can’t get out of bed.

Of course, there are convenient answers to Amy’s question, and in moments of extreme paranoia, only one name will come to the fore, the name of the person you hate the most at the time.

And then it’s not difficult to attach the reasons to that name, correctly or not.  In her debilitated state, it was easy.  Whether she could prove it, was the hard part.

…

Words today, 1128, for a total of 2797

The story behind the story: A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers

To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years.  Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.

Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.

I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021.  It even has a cover.

PIWalthJones1