Contemplating Something New
I’m an eclectic writer of fiction. My greatest commercial successes are in mysteries, and I decided to try one last one. It’s tentatively titled “Tyranny.” I’m thinking of posting it here as I write it so that you can see the sausage being made up-close and participate in the decisions. This will not be a novel written by committee.
Let me know if there is any interest, please.
Shortly before writing this, I was taken to the local ER by my wife and hospitalized for a few days for sepsis. This week, I was taken to the ER via ambulance bleeding profusely from my head. NB; Scalp wounds are notorious for impressive amounts of blood but little real damage.
I've realized I don't really have the energy to do this. My apologies to those waiting for it.
I'd love to read your fiction.
Here's a very short story I wrote during my Damon Runyan phase. I hope you enjoy it.
DROP DEAD GORGEOUS
It was October 23, 1927. The city was Chicago.
Bullets of icy rain stung the pretty cheekbones of the diminutive blond bombshell as she tripped down the cracked, litter-strewn sidewalk. She was wearing high heels and fighting to keep her shopping bags from blowing out of her hands. At the same time, she kept trying (without any success) to force her skirt down with her left elbow . Her head was bent low to keep her stylish, little hat from blowing away
"Now, there’s a broad that’s drop-dead gorgeous," remarked Light-Fingered Louie. He pointed his crooked index finger across the street at her. His companion, Tiny Morrison, gave no indication that he’d heard.
Louie dug his elbow into his partner’s giant toadlike belly and said, "Check her out."
Tiny grunted and slapped Louie’s fedora to the filthy asphalt of twenty-second street.
"Watch your mouth," said Tiny, "Just keep moving."
Louie dove to grab his hat before it blew away. The wind caught it in a sort of dust devil and spun it around behind him. The little man turned and ran five crooked steps before catching up with it. He grabbed it, slapped it twice against his right thigh, and pushed the crease back into the center of it.
He smoothed the brim, pulled it up in the back, pressed it down in the front, and jammed it tight onto his head. He pulled his lips forward with a clenching right hand and then hurried to catch up with his partner.
The two men shuffled along, leaning into the wind. The woman, across the street and now parallel to the two men, stopped in front of a decrepit warehouse and struggled to organize the load she was carrying. She transferred one large bag from her left hand to
her right and she juggled a small box that had been balanced on her purse to an empty space between her left elbow and her waist. Before moving out again, she shook herself to check her stability. Satisfied, she took a deep breath and prepared to continue her journey.
Louie couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
"Hey, isn’t that the broad that dropped the dime.." he said.
"Shaddup," said Tony. " It's not. Now, keep up with me, or I’m leaving you behind."
Two steel doors on the tenth floor of the depository rolled open and a black grand piano banged its way out of them. Two men in coveralls pushed it to the edge of the roof, looked down to see the sidewalk far below them, and then they pushed the piano off the building. The woman took just two halting steps before being crushed beneath it.
The sound of the crash caused Tiny to lose his hearing for a few seconds. Louie, already half deaf, felt the concussion as much as he heard it. It made a horrendous racket in the deserted street, almost like an explosion.
Across the street, blood began pooling, then pouring down off the curb. Parts of the giant instrument were still moving. The woman didn’t make a sound.
Tiny Morrison rubbed his hands together, then dug into his deep coat pockets and grabbed a pair of soft leather dress gloves. He pulled them on.
Then, he asked Louie, "Did you see that?"
"No, boss, I sure didn’t," said Louie. "Not one thing. Hey. How ‘bout lunch?"