Okay . . . I know; I've been writing the first Smitty novel, (the full length 'No shit, Maynard!') novel now for about a year. Off and on. Stops and Starts. A page here. . . a paragraph there.But I'm gonna finish it sometime before the end of Summer. No . . . really, dammit! No kidding! Sometime before Summer!
The biggest problem is how to write an action novel that's over 200 pages in length. Yeah, we ALL know and love Jason Bourne and others of his ilk . . . and they're in stories 700 pages and longer. But Good Golly, Gabby. Writing a character like Smitty for 700 pages or more?! You gotta be kidding me.
Still . . . I'm pushing for 300 pages. Lots of action; a genuine plot . . . believable characters. The works. And Smitty at his nastiest. So I thought I'd give you chapter one (again. I think I've done this some time back), just to give you a taste of what's coming. Actually, blowing my own horn here, I think it's one of the best openings for a novel . . . EVER! But that's just me puffing out hot wind. Take it for what its worth. So here goes. Enjoy.
One
Nerves.
Twisted to the breaking point. Wound so tight he could barely keep his hands
under control. As he sat in the booth of
the small diner and directly across his partner he tried to act calm. Tried to look normal. Impossible.
Even when he lit his cigarette it was obvious. The hand holding the cigarette lighter danced
the flame around at the tip of the cigarette like he was beating a drum. But flipping the old Zippo closed with a loud
snap he slid the shaking hand into a pocket and sat back in the booth. Eyes filled with worry he turned and stared
into the gloom of a foggy night.
Nerves.
Fear.
Knowing he was doing something wrong. Knowing that, if caught, it would be the end
of his career. The end of
everything. Ten years. Ten years as a cop. Flushed down the tubes and forgotten. If he was caught. If. . .
“Artie, you all right? You feeling sick?”
He blinked a
couple of times, his partner’s voice bringing him out of his dull reverie of
the night’s fog and forcing him to turn and look at the red nosed cop sitting
in the booth opposite him.
His partner for the last five years.
. . an Irishman by the name of Joe Gallagher, sitting across from him lowered
his cup of coffee and looked at him with eyes of concern. All night long on their shift he had barely
spoken three words. And then the call
came in to go out and check on the report of a body lying in the street down in
front of Pier 86. And sure enough it was
another victim. Another butchered
woman. Number five for the maniac the
papers had dubbed ‘The New Jack Ripper.’
“I’m . . . fine, Joe. Fine.
It’s just that, well . . . it’s the fifth prostitute killed. The third one on our beat. Cut to pieces like she was a piece of fine
beef fresh from the slaughter house.
Jesus, what a mess. And what a
crowd we had to hold back. I mean,
people everywhere. Reports and
cameramen. Everywhere! Down to get a glimpse of the body. Sick.
Just sick if you ask me.”
His partner frowned, set the coffee
cup on the table, and nodded. Yeah. It had been a bloody mess. Always is when someone is eviscerated. Just thinking about the gory mess the two of
them had stumbled on made him shiver involuntarily.
“Listen, the shift’s over. We can write our reports tomorrow. Let me drop you off at your house. Get some rest. Drink a beer or two. Try to forget about it.”
“You go on home, Joe. I’m supposed to go over to a friend’s house
and drink a couple of beers with him.
I’ll just call a cab and wait for it here.”
Gallagher’s brown eyes narrowed
thoughtfully as he sat in the booth and looked at his partner. Artie Jones was a good cop. A very good cop. Slightly bald, getting a little paunchy
around the middle, always a smile on the man’s face. Yeah, a good cop. But one who thought too much. Cared too much. Maybe . . . maybe tried too hard in trying to
make the world a better place. Not that
there was anything wrong in that. The
trying. The caring. But sometimes it got
to you. Sometimes the meanness of
mankind becomes overwhelming.
Sometimes, to be brutally honest, it
was best to not care so much and just do the job needed to be done. Better that than driving yourself into an
early grave trying to save the souls of those who didn’t want to be saved.
“All right. But get some rest, Artie. Jesus, but you look terrible. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Artie nodded, waved a hand, and
smiled as his partner slid out of the booth and walked to the diner’s
entrance. He turned and watched Joe
unlock the door to the black and white patrol car and slide in. It was almost one in the morning. Dark.
The street lights glowing a dull orange yellow, filling the wind swept
street with an eerie feeling almost palpable.
What if the sergeant found out? The Louie?
What if someone sees him talking to him? Hell!
Was he even going to meet him tonight?
I mean . . . come on! He was a
cop. He was supposed to arrest this guy
if he ever crossed paths. And hell, his
off hand inquiries–hesitant and awkward–he tried on to a few street bums he
knew asking about his guy called Smitty might have fallen on deaf ears. No one knew who the hell this Smitty
was. He was supposed to be the mob’s top
hit man. He was supposed to be
invisible. He wasn’t even really known
by those who employed him, fer chrissakes!
No two mobsters brought in for questioning ever describe Smitty in the
same fashion. He was tall. He was short.
He had shaggy brown hair. He was
a blond with a flat top crew cut. He was
heavy built. He was a slim as a
toothpick.
Crazy. Just crazy.
No one knew what this guy looked
like. All anyone could say for sure was
the guy was an absolute merciless killing machine. He somehow could slip in, silence his victim,
and slip out and no one would know until hours later. And he had connections. Knew everyone who was anyone to be known on
the streets. That was the deciding
factor. That was the single point for
him to get this wild idea. Ask Smitty
for help. The police department, the
entire city, was baffled. Scared. Frozen in indecision. This madman left no traces. He left no evidence behind. He left no DNA material behind. It was like .
. . like he was a ghost who prayed upon those who practiced the oldest
profession in the world. No one knew
why.
So maybe it would take a ghost to
find a ghost. A killer to stop a killer.
A shaking hand ran across his lips
as he looked down at his coffee cup.
With the cigarette between his fingers he reached for the cup just as he
heard the noise of an approaching car through the plate glass window beside
him. Lifting the cup Artie turned to
look outside.
And froze in mid motion. Eyes almost popping out of his head with a
mixture of surprise and horror.
A cab–an old Ford Crown
Victory–battered and abused, sitting parallel to the curb in front of the
diner, it’s right rear door open.
Waiting. Waiting for someone to
get in. The clatter of his cup slipping
out of his fingers and bouncing on the table top made everyone in the diner
turn and look at him. Blinking a couple
of times, color draining from his face, he stared at the taxi for a heartbeat
or two and then turned to look at the eight or ten people sitting in the
dinner.
They were staring at him. Faces puzzled. Or bemused.
“Hey, buddy!” the guy behind the
diner’s long counter said, holding a phone up to one ear and staring at him
irritably. “It’s the cabby outside. He’s says the meter’s running. So how about it? You want him to take you someplace or not?”
Artie Jones stared at the diner’s
chief cook for a moment in shock and turned his head back to look out the
window and at the waiting taxi. He
hadn’t called for a taxi. The story he
told his partner about going over to see a friend tonight in a taxi was just
that. A story. So how . . . how . . . . how . . . ?
“Hey, Mac! Some time tonight, okay? I got orders to complete.”
Artie felt himself nodding. And then moving his hands and his body to
slide out of the booth. He felt himself
walking down the length of the diner and out through the entrance into to the
hot night. Like an out of body
experience he saw himself walking down the sidewalk toward the open door of the
cab and folding himself up and sliding into the back seat. He saw himself close the cab’s rear door–saw
the cab accelerated away from the curb rapidly.
Saw it all–experienced it all. Yet couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. It was so . . . so surreal. So bizarre.
The car accelerated hard down the
street and then made a sudden right hand turn.
A block later it turned again sharply–and turned again straight into an
alley. The headlights went off as the
car bounced and rolled down through the alley rapidly and came out on the
opposite street. The lights came back on
and the car slowed down.
In front of him all he saw as the
back of the head and the upper shoulders of a man wearing a cabbie
uniform. Glancing down at the back rest
directly in front of him he looked for the small plastic pocket which was
supposed to show the cabbie’s license and photo. There was no license. No photo.
But there were eyes. Cold black
orbs staring at him–reflecting off the rear view mirror whenever a sliver of
street light flashed past.
Cold eyes. Hard eyes.
The eyes of a killer.
“I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
A surreal, almost rasping harsh
whisper. Coming out of the darkness of the front seat. Unnerving.
Making Artie involuntarily wince.
“Smitty?”
“That’s what some people call me,
Artie. But I answer to a number of
different names.”
He felt a cold chill run down his
spine. He tried to swallow. Tried a couple of times. But he was so scared there was nothing to
swallow. He lifted a hand up to his
face. Almost. But he stopped suddenly when the whisper
exploded in the darkness. Like a scalpel
flashing out of the darkness.
“Make sure you keep you hands away
from your gun, friend. Away from any
pockets. Understand?”
Artie hesitated, looked at his
hands, and then back up at the rear view mirror and nodded.
“Good. Now tell me. What does an honest cop like you
want to talk to a man like me?”
How was he going to do this? How was he going to ask for help? He was a cop, fer chrissakes! Cops go after the bad guys. Cops solves the murder cases. Cops are the ones who are supposed to protect
the public from madmen like . . . like this new Jack the Ripper. Or from the likes like Smitty.
“Well, you see . . . we’ve . . .
we’ve got a problem. There’s man we’re
after. Crazy, insane. A madman, actually. He’s going around killing women. Prostitutes.
And we’ve got nothing. Absolutely
nothing. He’s been killing for the last
four months. And we know about as much
now about this guy as we did when we found the first body.”
The cab flew down empty
streets. Never staying on one street for
more than two blocks. Swift, hard turns
right and left. Mostly right hand
turns. A few left. But in general Artie got the feeling they
were traveling in one twisted, jagged, clockwise circle. Somehow he knew that when this conversation
was over he would be back at the diner.
“So what is it you want me to do.”
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a statement. It was decision time. For Artie.
Say what had to be said, Artie.
Say it firmly and without hesitation.
And let the Angel of Death–as some people whispered this man actually
was–decide if he would help or not.
“We’ve got to take this guy off the
streets. We’ve got to stop him. Stop him before he kills again. So . . . so I’m asking you to help us.”
Silence.
Slivers of light exploding in the
interior of the cab momentarily as they slid underneath a street light. Explosions of light. Followed enveloping, inky darkness. Surreal.
Down the empty streets the cab flew.
The street walled in on both sides by long rows of old apartment
buildings and brand new apartment complexes.
Sitting in the back seat of the cab Artie waited. Waited for some kind of response to come out
of the front seat. Waited. And waited.
Each passing second working like a carpenter’s file sliding across raw nerves.
When the dark figure in front
answered the man’s harsh whisper almost sent Artie screaming out of his
seat. But somehow–somehow–he controlled
his urges and tried to react calmly.
“Why would I want to help you,
Artie. You or the police.”
He blinked a couple of times. He opened his mouth to answer. But nothing came out. He realized he had no idea why this man would
help him. Why would a killer hunt a
killer? The only thing he could do was
shrug his shoulders and shake his head in despair.
“I can’t answer that,” he admitted
and smiling weakly. “I don’t even know why I came down here. Desperation I guess. If my desk sergeant or the task force
lieutenant found out I was in this cab with you I’d been suspended indefinitely. Maybe even arrested. Certainly fired. But something tells me we’re not going to
find this guy. Not by our normal
methods. It’s like this guy isn’t
human. He makes no mistakes. He disappears into the night. Leaves nothing behind. So I thought . . . I thought . . . you might
be our best hope. Our only hope to nab
this guy.”
Silence. Again.
The car rocking and swaying as it
moved. The flashing explosions of
light. The shadows of parked cars and
SUVs whipping past them. The rows upon
rows of town homes and apartment buildings.
All of that painted in layers upon Artie’s hyper active conscience as
the figure in front remained silent and drove.
“How do you know I am not this
madman? You know what I do for a
living. That’s why you’re here, isn’t
it? So tell me, why not consider me as a
prime suspect?”
He shook his head no. Silently. Vigorously. The one thing Artie was sure of was this; the
guy known as Smitty wasn’t a homicidal maniac.
He didn’t kill for some sickly thrill–some perverted pleasure. Smitty was a professional. A master at blending in and out of a
crowd. Of taking out his assignment with
a cold efficiency a lot of his fellow
police officers grudgingly admired. And
so far . . . so far as he knew . . . this dark eyed man had never killed an
innocent victim. Each of his kills had
been someone from out of the crime world.
Someone who deservedly needed to die.
“I know it’s not you. I know this.
These murders don’t fit your MO.
They don’t make sense. Your hits
always make sense. You hit someone for
money–but your targets are slime balls who need to be put down. Uh . . no offense, by the way. About the slime ball thing.”
A flicker of a smile flashed across
the dark eyed man’s thin lips. But the
eyes never blinked. They kept moving.
Watching. Calculating.
“What do I do with this man if I
find him. Do I kill him? Do I hand him over to you?”
“I dunno, Smitty. I dunno,” he answered.
Truthfully he didn’t know.
If suddenly a street cop came
walking into the precinct house with this guy cuffed what would he say? How could he explain to everyone this
miraculous nab when the entire detective division was completely stumped. How could he explain this to his
partner? Joe would have a thousand
questions to ask. Questions he couldn’t
possible answer. Not in a hundred
years. Not in a thousand years.
“So you’re asking me to find this
guy and take care of him. You don’t
necessarily want me to kill him. But you
can’t bring him in. And I can’t reveal
myself to your bosses. Interesting. What we have here, Artie, is a
conundrum. A social intersection of
impossibilities. A most curious
dilemma.”
It was as if he was a giant balloon
filled with helium and a kid came along with a big needle and stuck it in
him. All the energy, all the worry, the
fears, the emotions, dissipated out of him and into the night like escaping
helium out of the balloon. Dropping his
head in defeat he stared at his hands silently.
Blinking back tears of frustration.
“This is what you’re going to do.”
The voice. Not so harsh.
Still a whisper. But softer. Almost gentle.
Looking up Artie’s eyes flashed to
the rear view mirror and saw the black eyes of the killer staring at him. A flicker of hope burst into his gut. And he waited. Waited to hear what Smitty had in mind.
“Tomorrow night at exactly a quarter
to midnight you’ll leave everything the police have in a folder in the back
seat of this cab. The cab will be parked
on the corner of Fourth and Elmore. In
front of a liquor store called Bud’s Light.
You know where it’s at.”
Artie nodded. He knew the place well. Been there several times to buy a bottle or
two of good wine on the way home from work.
“Everything, Artie. Forensics reports. Photos.
Everything. Even the doodles the
detectives scribble on the note pads.
Can you do this for me?”
Yes.
Absolutely.
“Do it by yourself, Artie. Don’t involve your partner in this. Don’t tell anyone else about our little
meeting. Don’t make me start thinking
this might be some kind of trap. Just a
friendly warning. If I think you’re
trying to screw me, Artie, I’ll come for you.
And I’ll find you. Understand?”
Gulp. Yes, he understood. There would be no one else he’d talk to. There would be no traps. Smitty had nothing to worry about in that
department.
Silence. A long stretch of terror filled silence.
And then the screeching of brakes
and the car rapidly decelerating to a stop so suddenly he was almost thrown
into the front seat. When his momentum
threw him back into his seat he looked up and out of his door side window. And blinked a couple of times in amazement. His house.
The small ranch house sat back deep from the street, a carpet of thick
green grass between him and the house.
The lights to the house were off.
Except for the front porch light.
The front porch light was always left on. His wife always left that on for him to see
his way to the front door.
He threw the back door open and
started to get out. But the whisper
froze him in his seat.
“Remember what I said, Artie. About not making me worried. I know where you live. I know where your wife works. I know where you hide the spare key to the
house. I know about the gun you keep
under the mattress on your side of the bed.
I know, Artie. I know everything
about you.”
He barely had time to slam the back
door closed before the cab took off down the street. Bright red tail lights lit up the night
momentarily before disappearing around a street corner, leaving him standing
almost in the middle of the street. He
was shivering like a kid straight out of a cold shower. Shivering uncontrollable.
How the hell did he know about the
gun underneath the mattress? About the
spare key? How . . . . . ?
Jesus.
Jesus.
He was scared. More scared than he had ever been in his
life. Eyes staring into the void of the
empty street in front of him he kept asking himself the same thing. Over and over. The same thing.
What the hell have I done? What the hell have I done? What the hell have I done?
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