The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 88

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.

…

I really am leaving, really

…

A lot can happen in a week.

After leaving the mall carpark, we drove past a scene that could have been right out of a movie, it seemed that surreal. There were 6 police cars, lights flashing, and officers everywhere.

Cossatino was up against his car, with two officers standing over him. Both the sheriff and Charlene were not far away, and I had no doubt Charlene’s career was about to take a huge leap, bringing down members of both crime families.

His two bodyguards were on the ground, looking like they’d just gone ten rounds against the reigning heavyweight boxing champion.

Nadia didn’t slow down when passing, and unless he recognized the car, Cossatino would not have seen us, so dense was the tint she had on the car windows.

One of the other cars had both Alex and Vince in the rear, both looking very forlorn. At that moment in time, I felt like Boggs would get the justice he deserved, in a manner that didn’t require bloodshed, and had to admire the planning and forethought Nadia had put into the operation.

We didn’t go back to her hotel, she suspected the arrest of her father, brother and Alex would not go unnoticed, along with her part in it, despite Charlene assuring her she’d try to keep it under wraps. Instead, we headed out of town to a small motel that few knew about, and an owner who wouldn’t recognize her, or me.

The room was dingy, with a musty aroma that comes from lack of use, but the sheets were clean, the water in the bathroom hot, and the company perfect.

We didn’t speak, there was no need to, and in the end, everything was just perfect.

Of course, expecting the serenity to last was a forlorn hope.

It wasn’t just the thunderstorm that passed through around midnight, but more a sense of foreboding left hanging in the air.

We were woken, firstly by the rhythmic sound of light rain on the roof, which in a way was quite soothing, but then by the sound of the TV news, part of an early morning show that I had only seen a few times, and disliked because of the presenters.

This morning they sounded positively garish, one reporting, in a tone that might have been used to report an end-of-world event,

“This morning we are waking to the news that the two largest crime families in the county have been finally brought to justice.”

It was a tag team event.

“Yes, John. We are learning that the head of the Cossatino clan has been charged with conspiracy to murder and that his son Vincent, had been charged over the murder of a local boy, Anton Boggs.”

To the other presenter,

“Yes, Alice. We understand that the Boggs family has a rather infamous connection to the search for Captain X, long believed to have stashed a large cache of his plunder somewhere along the coastline. This treasure hunt was first started in earnest by another local identity, X Ormiston, who, like the victim’s father, disappeared mysteriously, some years ago.”

Back again,

“We also understand that the son of businessman and long believed to be involved in a number of suspect activities, none of which gave been proved I might add, Alexander Benderby, has also been arrested as an accomplice in the murder of Anton Boggs.”

There was a momentary break, time enough to turn on the TV in our room, and just as the picture came on, “Just a moment,” as the man held a hand to his ear, no doubt listening to someone updating the situation, or that something more important was happening.

Then, “we have breaking news, and we’re crossing to the Sheriff’s office where he’s about to make an announcement.”

The picture changed, coming live from outside the sheriff’s office, with a row of microphones and more standing in front, waiting.

“This is not looking good,” Nadia said.

I think she thought the same as I did, and exactly what I’d told Charlene a few days before, that money trumps justice.

“You think the sheriff’s sold out and will recant the charges?”

“Given how much money both of them have funneled one way or another his way, I wouldn’t be surprised. I honestly thought that Charlene was different “

“She means well, but you have to remember she is subject to the will of the sheriff’s first, and her father second, though those lines may be blurred at times. Had it been anyone else, justice would prevail.”

No time for any more discussion, the sheriff came out to address the media pack.

“At 5:45 am this morning Vincent Cossatino was found deceased in his cell, along with a suicide note asking for absolution for his crimes.”

“Here it comes,” Nadia muttered.

“The note also stated that he alone was responsible for the death of Anton Boggs, the Alex Benderby had taken no part in it and therefore has been released from custody all charges dropped.”

Nadia turned off the TV. “There’s no way in hell Vincent committed suicide or wrote such a note. He was made the scapegoat. So all the others could go free. Something had to be done about Vince and this was dad’s way of cleaning up the mess he left behind. Bastard.”

Deals were done, there was no doubt about it. I wondered what Charlene thought about it?

So did Nadia, who had her phone in her hand, and no doubt calling her.

If I were Charlene, I would not answer, but she did.

Nadia put it on speaker, and put it between us. “What the fuck was that all about?”

“I was taken off the case, for obvious reasons. Is Sam there?”

“Yes,” I said.

“You were right. A deal was done last night, but I had no idea what the outcome was until the same time you just heard. This isn’t justice.”

“Nor what we agreed,” Nadia said.

“And for that, I’m sorry, but I stupidly thought that the law was the law, but apparently it isn’t. I’m about to hand in my resignation but that won’t change anything. Alex will get away with it, despite the confession. Apparently, the recording was damaged when it came to anything he said.”

“Alex might like to think he has, but justice has a way of catching up with the guilty.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Nadia. They’ll be expecting you to do something.”

“Yes, I guess so. Maybe Sam and I will just leave. This place no longer has anything to keep me here. I’m sure my father will get off with lesser charges, and seek to make my life hell for what he perceives as disloyalty.”

“Like I said, I was deliberately sidelined. There’s not a lot I can do, and even if I tried, I’m sure they’d do something about it and then ruin my chances of getting another job. I’m sorry.”

“It is what it is,” Nadia said, then disconnected the call.

She sat still for a minute, maybe more before she looked at me. “How long will it take you to pack a bag?”

“Italy?”

“Anywhere but here. Unless you have a compelling reason to stay?”

I thought about it for all of a minute. There was nothing. If my mother was staying with Benderby, then she would be acquiring a new husband and losing a son. There was no way I was going to be associated with the Benderby’s, and less so, a stepbrother to Alex.

“None that I can think of. I just have to go home and collect a few things.”

“You do have a passport, don’t you?”

Since I had never traveled out of the country, and never looked like I ever would, a few months ago the answer to that question would have been an emphatic no. But my mother had floated the idea of going to England, where her ancestors came from, and, having mentioned a recent death of a relative I had not heard of before, decided that we might take the first step, and get passports, essential items if one wanted to travel.

The plan had not been mentioned again, not since getting the job in the warehouse, and the treasure hint started with Boggs, but the passport had arrived a few days before we disappeared, and she left it on my bedside table.

I was not sure how I was hoping to pay for my airfare, but that was a bridge to cross later.

“I do, as a matter of fact, all shiny and new.”

“Good. I’ll pick you up at your place when you’re ready. Just send me a text.”

…

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.

‘Sunday in New York’ – A beta reader’s view

I’m not a fan of romance novels but …

There was something about this one that resonated with me.

This is a novel about a world generally ruled by perception, and how people perceive what they see, what they are told, and what they want to believe.

I’ve been guilty of it myself as I’m sure we all have at one time or another.

For the main characters Harry and Alison there are other issues driving their relationship.

For Alison, it is a loss of self-worth through losing her job and from losing her mother and, in a sense, her sister.

For Harry, it is the fact he has a beautiful and desirable wife, and his belief she is the object of other men’s desires, and one in particular, his immediate superior.

Between observation, the less than honest motives of his friends, a lot of jumping to conclusions based on very little fact, and you have the basis of one very interesting story.

When it all comes to a head, Alison finds herself in a desperate situation, she realises only the truth will save their marriage.

But is it all the truth?

What would we do in similar circumstances?

Rarely does a book have me so enthralled that I could not put it down until I knew the result. They might be considered two people who should have known better, but as is often the case, they had to get past what they both thought was the truth.

And the moral of this story, if it could be said there is one, nothing is ever what it seems.

…

Available on Amazon here: amzn.to/2H7ALs8

…

An excerpt from “Echoes from the Past”

Available on Amazon Kindle here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

…

With my attention elsewhere, I walked into a man who was hurrying in the opposite direction. He was a big man with a scar running down the left side of his face from eye socket to mouth, and who was also wearing a black shirt with a red tie.

That was all I remembered as my heart almost stopped.

He apologized as he stepped to one side, the same way I stepped, as I also muttered an apology.

I kept my eyes down. He was not the sort of man I wanted to recognize later in a lineup. I stepped to the other side and so did he. It was one of those situations. Finally getting out of sync, he kept going in his direction, and I towards the bus, which was now pulling away from the curb.

Getting my breath back, I just stood riveted to the spot watching it join the traffic. I looked back over my shoulder, but the man I’d run into had gone. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It would be a few minutes before the next bus arrived.

Wait, or walk? I could also go by subway, but it was a long walk to the station. What the hell, I needed the exercise.

At the first intersection, the ‘Walk’ sign had just flashed to ‘Don’t Walk’. I thought I’d save a few minutes by not waiting for the next green light. As I stepped onto the road, I heard the screeching of tires.

A yellow car stopped inches from me.

It was a high powered sports car, perhaps a Lamborghini. I knew what they looked like because Marcus Bartleby owned one, as did every other junior executive in the city with a rich father.

Everyone stopped to look at me, then the car. It was that sort of car. I could see the driver through the windscreen shaking his fist, and I could see he was yelling too, but I couldn’t hear him. I stepped back onto the sidewalk, and he drove on. The moment had passed and everyone went back to their business.

My heart rate hadn’t come down from the last encounter. Now it was approaching cardiac arrest, so I took a few minutes and several sets of lights to regain composure.

At the next intersection, I waited for the green light, and then a few seconds more, just to be sure. I was no longer in a hurry.

At the next, I heard what sounded like a gunshot. A few people looked around, worried expressions on their faces, but when it happened again, I saw it was an old car backfiring. I also saw another yellow car, much the same as the one before, stopped on the side of the road. I thought nothing of it, other than it was the second yellow car I’d seen.

At the next intersection, I realized I was subconsciously heading towards Harry’s new bar. It was somewhere on 6^th Avenue, so I continued walking in what I thought was the right direction.

I don’t know why I looked behind me at the next intersection, but I did. There was another yellow car on the side of the road, not far from me. It, too, looked the same as the original Lamborghini, and I was starting to think it was not a coincidence.

Moments after crossing the road, I heard the roar of a sports car engine and saw the yellow car accelerate past me. As it passed by, I saw there were two people in it, and the blurry image of the passenger; a large man with a red tie.

Now my imagination was playing tricks.

It could not be the same man. He was going in a different direction.

In the few minutes I’d been standing on the pavement, it had started to snow; early for this time of year, and marking the start of what could be a long cold winter. I shuddered, and it was not necessarily because of the temperature.

I looked up and saw a neon light advertising a bar, coincidentally the one Harry had ‘found’ and, looking once in the direction of the departing yellow car, I decided to go in. I would have a few drinks and then leave by the back door if it had one.

Just in case.

newechocover5rs

Inspiration, maybe – Volume 1

50 photographs, 50 stories, of which there is one of the 50 below.

They all start with –

A picture paints … well, as many words as you like. For instance:

lookingdownfromcoronetpeak

And the story:

It was once said that a desperate man has everything to lose.

The man I was chasing was desperate, but I, on the other hand, was more desperate to catch him.

He’d left a trail of dead people from one end of the island to the other.

The team had put in a lot of effort to locate him, and now his capture was imminent. We were following the car he was in, from a discrete distance, and, at the appropriate time, we would catch up, pull him over, and make the arrest.

There was nowhere for him to go.

The road led to a dead-end, and the only way off the mountain was back down the road were now on. Which was why I was somewhat surprised when we discovered where he was.

Where was he going?

“Damn,” I heard Alan mutter. He was driving, being careful not to get too close, but not far enough away to lose sight of him.

“What?”

“I think he’s made us.”

“How?”

“Dumb bad luck, I’m guessing. Or he expected we’d follow him up the mountain. He’s just sped up.”

“How far away?”

“A half-mile. We should see him higher up when we turn the next corner.”

It took an eternity to get there, and when we did, Alan was right, only he was further on than we thought.”

“Step on it. Let’s catch him up before he gets to the top.”

Easy to say, not so easy to do. The road was treacherous, and in places just gravel, and there were no guard rails to stop a three thousand footfall down the mountainside.

Good thing then I had the foresight to have three agents on the hill for just such a scenario.

Ten minutes later, we were in sight of the car, still moving quickly, but we were going slightly faster. We’d catch up just short of the summit car park.

Or so we thought.

Coming quickly around another corner we almost slammed into the car we’d been chasing.

“What the hell…” Aland muttered.

I was out of the car, and over to see if he was in it, but I knew that it was only a slender possibility. The car was empty, and no indication where he went.

Certainly not up the road. It was relatively straightforward for the next mile, at which we would have reached the summit. Up the mountainside from here, or down.

I looked up. Nothing.

Alan yelled out, “He’s not going down, not that I can see, but if he did, there’s hardly a foothold and that’s a long fall.”

Then where did he go?

Then a man looking very much like our quarry came out from behind a rock embedded just a short distance up the hill.

“Sorry,” he said quite calmly. “Had to go if you know what I mean.”

I’d lost him.

It was as simple as that.

I had been led a merry chase up the hill, and all the time he was getting away in a different direction.

I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, letting my desperation blind me to the disguise that anyone else would see through in an instant.

It was a lonely sight, looking down that road, knowing that I had to go all that way down again, only this time, without having to throw caution to the wind.

“Maybe next time,” Alan said.

“We’ll get him. It’s just a matter of time.”

Find this and other stories in “Inspiration, maybe” available soon.

InspirationMaybe1v1

Writing about writing a book – Day 16

As we now know Bill realizes that he had been captured and interrogated by someone, ostensibly Chinese, but not exactly from the Viet Kong

I’ve been pondering how Bill ends up in the hands of the Chinese, well, I know how he does, and this needs to be put down.

Some pieces of the puzzle are coming together.

”’

Davenport arrived at the airstrip where I was waiting in a makeshift building, with windows, easy chairs, a self-serve bar, and best of all air conditioning. Waiting for the chopper that was bringing in my replacement from Singapore airport.

He didn’t normally come to see us off so I thought it either odd or just a change of heart. He had brought the shiny Cadillac, an ostentatious piece of Americana that never failed to capture the local’s imagination.

Davenport was, I soon discovered, a man who liked to impress upon the world how great America was. I hadn’t the heart to tell him it failed on me.

He had crisp fatigues on and looked as though he had just stepped out of the shower, very clean, very cool, and very refreshed. The car’s air-conditioning would have helped. We all got that first ride from the strip to the camp in that car, and it was memorable, to say the least.

The driver stayed in the car, engine running, as he stepped into the lounge. “Chandler.”

“Sir.” No snapping to attention, neither of us was in uniform.

“There’s been a change of plans.”

“Sir.” This didn’t sound very good.

“Your replacement is not coming. Some trouble on the plane over. Can’t spare a man so you will have to fill in. I’m sorry.”

I went to say that I’d done my rotation, but the look on his face told me it would fall on deaf ears, so instead, I shrugged, let the driver, who had appeared out of the car as if on cue, collect my case, and followed Davenport out to the car.

It was definitely cooler in the car. Davenport slid in the other side, the driver closing his door, then got in himself. I had to close my own. We headed back towards the camp slowly.

“We need 6 men for this op, Bill. I’ll find some way of making this up to you.”

I shrugged. “If you say so.”

I’d been looking forward to getting out of the jungle and getting back to civilization, as well as Ellen, who had been waiting patiently for the last six months. She would not be very happy when I finally got to tell her.

“Oh, but the way, I took the liberty of calling your wife and apologizing on your behalf and said you’d probably be another week at the most. She didn’t seem to mind. She sounds like a nice lady.”

“She is. She has to put up with me.”

“Yes. We all have that problem.”

I listened to the hum of the air conditioning, the only other sound inside the car. Usually, Davenport had a symphony playing over the radio, but not today. He seemed different, more aloof, but, then, after the altercation, I had with him recently, we hadn’t spoken much after that. Not unless we had to.

“The job isn’t difficult,” he said when we were nearing the compound. “Another prison camp, and this time the intel is solid. Buggers were careless and we’ve got some pictures. The only problem is getting there. It’s going to be a bit of a hike.”

Another of his understatements. I could remember the last ‘bit of a hike’. “When do we leave?”

“First light tomorrow. Chopper to the drop zone then a day’s march to the camp. RV at the drop zone from day 4 till you get there.”

“Who’s in charge?” I’d run the last operation so I was hoping it would carry forward.

“If you’d been staying instead of being a last-minute replacement, it would have been you. Instead, we had to bring in a couple of specialists who have been on the ground here quite some time. They know the terrain and the people.”

New guys. I hated new guys. Especially those who purport to have experience on the ground. Invariably they didn’t and I’d had words with Davenport more than once about it, especially when we had such a high attrition rate. I believed it was only a miracle that I had lasted this long, and I was now tempting providence this time around.

“I hope they are better than the last two.”

“They are. I picked them myself. At least you will be there to keep them on the straight and narrow.

Which was exactly what I didn’t want.

Damn.

Back at the compound, I dragged myself back to my old quarters, hoping they hadn’t given away my billet just yet. It was a hut if you could call it that, which had seen better days, but it kept the rain out.

I shared it with another soldier, or ex, I didn’t really know, and he was not the sort of man you asked, and even less talkative than most. I knew his name was Barry McDougall, that he was Scottish, he didn’t wear a kilt and had killed men with his bare hands, one in a barroom fight.

Allegedly.

I was not surprised. He was six feet six inches tall, all muscle, and always surly, and unlike many of the English that had come and gone, didn’t complain about the heat.

I dumped my bag on the locker at the end of the bed and sat in one of the two well worn easy chairs. Barry was in the other, reading.

He lowered the paper and looked at me. “Back, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Miss the chopper?”

“No.”

“Beer’s cold.”

“Thanks.”

I got up and went to the fridge. One of the perks of the job. An endless supply of cold beer.

“Get me one too.”

I did and passed it to him, the sat down again. He took the beer and went back to his paper.

“Seen the new guys,” I asked.

A voice from behind the paper, “Yes.”

“Any good?”

“No.”

“Another fun run in the jungle then?”

“Looks like it.”

We drank in silence. What more could be said?

There is more but I have to let the words jumble around in my head while I sleep. More on this tomorrow!

…

Mistaken Identity – The Third Editor’s Draft – Day 30

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

…

It’s over, done, but not dusted.

The writing might be done, but to get through nearly 70,000 words in 30 days is quite an achievement.

It’s been a battle, and time management has been shot to hell more than once.

There were days I honestly believed I’d get nothing done. I don’t know how people who have a day job could ever get much writing done at night.

I’m looking forward to a few day’s rest, and not having to face the word processor ready to input words.

As for how it finishes, I hope, will get past that ever-inquisitive editor. Even so, the end is in sight, it may change but not substantially, and I will add a post to tell everyone what the editor thinks.

As for now, that’s it!

…

No more tomorrow.