Another chapter! Things are really heating up for our friend Davis. He's got the thing, everyone knows it, and now he has to figure out what to do with it.
This was only a writing exercise, but after going back through it, I can see parts of the story that could have easily been expanded to make this a longer, fuller novel. Keep in mind, this really is a first-draft. For instance... Barry? The "pound of flesh" money-shark? What's up with him?
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| In the pocket of the dead guy... |
Hubs and I recently watched "The Maltese Falcon" again. I'd forgotten how Sam Spade hid the bird. In the book/movie (which are basically the same), he puts the bird in a safety deposit box, then mails the claim check to himself. So, he has it, but it's locked away, and even he can't get to it for the next few days. Nice. When I was writing this story, I was trying to think of places to "hide the thing." The pocket of the dead guy seemed like a fun idea...
Chapter Eleven is a shorty--one of those regrouping chapters without a lot of direct conflict, but we see our hero setting things up, and learn more about him in the process. Really, it should have maybe been one scene of a larger chapter, and would be in a longer story.
Here's my favorite line:
When you live forever, with all the money in the world, things just turn to dust. It’s an emptiness that can never be filled.
I told a friend once that I wanted to write "Interview with the Vampire meets The Great Gatsby." That line there, that's what it would be about. I'm still trying to find that story, and when I do, I'll write it for you.
Thanks for stopping by. And, as always...
Enjoy,
LLH
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
"The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis"
By L.L. Heberlein
(copyright 2015, all rights reserved)
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
If I could pull this off, I'd be a freakin’ genius.
If I couldn’t, I’d be dead. For real, probably. Or I’d get others killed. Or I’d get run out of town. Or I’d get dismembered, my body parts shoved in different boxes, and left dismantled in some storage closet somewhere for the rest of eternity.
God, I hate my imagination sometimes.
I made a quick phone call, this time to McGuffin. I got his answering service. Not an answering machine or voicemail, but an actual person on the other end who took the message and said she’d deliver it exactly as I’d said it. I told this person to tell McGuffin “Fuck you very much for the drugs in my coffee. So nice of you to redecorate my office. I have the item you’re looking for. Meet me at Purgatory after sundown.”
I jumped back in the BMW, which I was mentally starting to refer to as the Batmobile. Vampires, bats… get it? I recalled that Clara, while mad about the stone, had said absolutely nothing about the car. It didn’t surprise me. These uber-rich supernaturals often find little value in such things. They like the shiny, and the new, but once it’s purchased or used, things lose their luster. Magical objects, that’s what gets them. Things will real power, real oompf. When you live forever, with all the money in the world, things just turn to dust. It’s an emptiness that can never be filled.
I remember. My life was like that, once.
I wanted cars, more cars, faster, shinier, and I got them. I wanted girls, hotter, with tighter asses, and I had them, too. Clothes and stereos, guitars and television sets. Rolex watches and Prada shoes and jeans that cost five hundred dollars. More, more, more… and all it left me was empty.
Then there came a girl, all fiery red and full of energy, and that filled me up. But dumbass me couldn’t figure out I had everything; I still thought there was more, more, more. The girl left, and everything burned down. Literally. It all burned down.
So now, these days, I make do with little to nothing. Though I could use a little more something. Just enough to cover debts… mine, and now John’s… would be nice. Pay off Lucy’s mortgage, maybe buy the office from her and fix it up for myself. Get that freak Barry to go away… far away.
Shit. Barry. I got that nasty feeling in my stomach again. When would Barry come around?
My heart stopped beating. It does that sometimes when I’m super scared and my body is trying to play dead. My head, however, seems to stay disconnected from such things. Clear. Focused. The demon takes over, and sorts things out. The body shuts down, and lets the demon do its thing. Which is why, I’m sure, when I get the most scared is when I get the most evil. I don’t like my head when it gets that way.
I pulled into the parking garage of the tall downtown building. Hidden underneath is one of the best kept secrets in Seattle. Purgatory, an appropriately named establishment, was once a night club for those in the supernatural community. It was a place everyone could go – good, bad, and indifferent. You could meet up there and know that you were safe, the establishment worked hard to keep it that way. It had begun years ago with the need for a neutral ground. It has since spread from just a night club. There’s meeting rooms, a nice hotel, a fancy restaurant for those with unusual appetites. There are all-night shops for the daylight impaired and a bank for those who prefer to keep their finances in the dark.
It was also the new home of Butterworth’s mortuary… the undead branch of the establishment, that is. It was also the underworld police station. Purgatory was where the council met, and had its beginnings.
Schwartz would be there. India would be there. Out of principle, I never went there.
And yet, here I was, about to drop off a suit for a dead man, hide the stone, and see if I couldn’t pull off what was sure to be the biggest, dumbest idea of my non-living life. Oh, I’d done dumber things, but not on purpose like this.
The first thing I did, being that the hour was so late, and sunlight was coming soon, was to check into the hotel. I got a room using an old credit account from way-back when. I was amazed it was still good. The room was simple, windowless – of course, with black bedding and beige walls. It had a very modern hotel feel, with all the amenities. Shower, soap, mini fridge. And a coffee maker, with a blessed unending supply of those little coffee pods. The demon was thrilled, and decided to let my heart beat for a bit out of pure joy. We’re home, it said! Not really, I told it, recalling the lump in my belly.
I thought of what I had to do. My heart stopped again.
Next up was the mortuary, located two floors up and down a narrow hallway of dark walls, red carpets and dim mood lighting. In the outer world, as I recall, mortuaries are purposely done up in neutral colors, to give a calming effect. Not quite cheerful, but almost. Comforting. Optimistic may be the word. Down here, the contrast was striking. These beings lived in death and darkness, and so to them, the business of death was more darkness, more bleakness. Nothing optimistic about it.
Butterworth’s lobby was strangely modern. Somehow, I’d expected old world furniture and gothic touches. Maybe red velvet curtains and a gargoyle in the corner. Instead, I got polished concrete floors and a high countertop finished in black marble. Modern furniture with clean lines formed a little seating area to the side, and the whole room was backlit from an opaque glass wall. It had the feel of a fancy spa, only it wasn’t at all relaxing.
I dropped off the suit, making sure my little package was left in the pocket, and made a hasty retreat. Checking the time again, it was almost zero hour. Almost. Any minute now, I’d drop dead. I ran like hell down the hall, waited an eternity for the elevator, floated down a few more floors, ran to my room, shut and locked the door behind me.
I didn’t make it to the bed.
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