Ugh. I think having all day to get some writing done, and knowing it, actually paralized me for a good part of the day. I didn’t really get writing until this evening, and even then I was stuck at around 500 words for over an hour.
I finally got it though, and I’m back ahead of the curve, so all’s well that ends well I guess.
Oh, and to point out, because I’ve gotten a few questions about this, over on the left you’ll see, under “Projects” a link to a NaNoWriMo page. On that page is a progress chart showing how I’m doing, and a link to each of the different writing posts, in order, so you can read from the beginning.
So, without further delay, here’s day five’s entry in all its raw, unedited glory.
Idle Hands (working title) - Part 5
I fished the cell phone out of my coat pocket and looked at the little screen on the front of it. Derrick’s name and number glowed back at me. I flipped it open and answered.
“What’ve you got.”
“I talked to Dever. Man, that guy’s still a tool, I don’t care if he is a cop.”
“For the sake of my sanity, and your ability to reproduce, tell me you didn’t say that to him, or anything else that might scare him off.”
“Oh no, I played it smooth. You were right, he’s all about PIs. I think he would’ve given me his mother if I’d asked. He’s going to CC us on everything he can get his hands on. He’s part of the records and crime scene division, thanks to Idle being a backwater little town, so that should be everything.”
“Good. Let me know the moment anything comes through. Anything at all, even if it doesn’t look like much, it might mean something. This job is forty percent…”
“Forty percent intuition,” Derrick interrupted, “sixty percent perspiration, and ten percent dumb luck ‘cause you don’t know any better. You’ve told me more than once, Nick. So, did Emmett know anything worth knowing, or did you just get your Tarot read?”
That wasn’t right, there was only one “psychic” in town so that wasn’t hard to fit together, but I’d never told Derrick Emmett’s real name, and as far as I knew the only name he had listed in the phone book was Madera Tajeda.
“How did you…”
“Nick,” he said in a tone you might use with a slow child, and interrupting me again, the punk, “there’s this wonderful new technology, involving interconnected networks of computers, they call it the internet. Turns out, they store all kinds of interesting information there.”
“Fine…”
“That,” he interrupted me yet again,”and I’m really, really good.”
“Good for you, now shut your head before I paste that trap of yours shut for good.”
“Oh, Nick, you know I love it when you talk like Marlowe.” Damn it, he was right, I knew better. ” Do it again, you old gumshoe, really put the screws to me this time.”
I gritted my teeth so hard I was afraid they would shatter. I took one deep breath before continuing.
“Emmett doesn’t have anything yet, but he will. He’s privy to everything that goes on around here, one way or another even if he isn’t involved, and he’s smart enough to know that I’ll eat him alive if he hold anything back this time.”
“So what’s next?”
“I honestly don’t know, until something more turns up. In the meantime, I’m going to take on some eggs and bacon down at Rosie’s. You should probably catch some sleep. Bunk in the office, don’t leave until we’ve gotten something useful from Dever.”
“Fine, but I’ve got to take off in a bit, I’ve got an exam that I can’t miss if I plan to graduate on time.”
I sighed. This is what I agreed to when I took on college student to help out around the office. If I kept him from his scholastic obligations, or if he flunked out, I’d have to start paying him the full rate. On balance, it worked out well for everyone involved.
“Fine, do what you have to do, but get your ass back the second it’s over.”
“Sure thing boss man.”
I hung up without another word.
Rosie’s Cafe was your typical greasy spoon. There wasn’t a single chair or table that didn’t have duct tape holding it together, most of the plates bowls and mugs were chipped, the walls were variously grease and nicotine stained, and the wait staff were invariably ancient and alumni of the “I’ll get there when i feel like it” school of customer service. The was usually stale, occasionally palatable, and I’m sure it was slowly killing me from the inside out, but it was hot and strong enough to kill moose. It was also served starting at four, this time of year, in order to cater to hunters gearing up for a day of traipsing through the woods with rifles and bows in the hopes of gunning down woodland creatures, along with the occasional fellow hunter. Actually, I reminded myself, it was just bows for the time being, rifle hunting season didn’t start until tomorrow. This crowd was either bow hunters, though I doubted they all were, simply because there weren’t that many of them usually, or rifle hunters heading out a day early to stake claim to the best locations for tree stands and the like, or just taking the excuse to get off work and shoot the shit with fellow hunters.
I used to be a hunter myself, until I joined the army and lost my taste for shooting at anything, if I could help it. Then I became a PI, and even though it’s an exceptional year in which I use my heat even once, it’s always a possibility. Go figure.
I pulled into Rosie’s with Bertha making so much noise that people inside started and looked out into the darkness trying to figure out what was out there making that god awful noise. I guess I was going to be paying Harvey a visit so he could put my old iron horse back together again. Those looks were going to bother me until I did, and it spoiled any chance of a surprise visit.
I parked and got out as the old girl sputtered a few times then died. There were half a dozen other cars in the small dirt parking lot, an old Jeep Wrangler, a blue Subaru Forrester, a brand new looking Ford F-150, an older F-150, a Honda Civic with a ridiculous wale tail spoiler, and a Monte Carlo. A black, mid-80s Monte Carlo SS with tinted windows and a white skull decal in the rear window. I knew that car. Damn it all.
Wally McCollin, a local punk who’d been implicated in a number of crimes ranging from armed robbery to petty theft. I’d ended up investigating him several times myself for the families of victims or their insurance companies. There was always plenty of circumstantial evidence, but nothing ever stuck. Some high school girls even accused him and some friends of raping them at a frat party they’d attended a few years back. Bobby wasn’t the college type, he hadn’t even finished high school, but he never missed a party and seemed to enjoy crashing them and all but daring anyone there to tell him he didn’t belong. I thought that finally he was going down with that one, but the investigation went a whole lot of nowhere and he walked again.
I’d often wondered where he picked up that teflon hide that had gotten him out of so much trouble over the years. Either he had powerful friends - and in a place like Idle that wasn’t likely, as there wasn’t much class variation to speak of or political clout to go around - or he was very smart. I doubted that even more, mostly because I’d actually met the man. On our first meeting he’d put out a cigarette on his tongue then belched in my face when I introduced myself, looking all the while as if he’d made the wittiest comment possible. “Smart” wasn’t the first adjective that came to mind when describing Wally McCollin. I had no idea how he got away with the things he did, but I knew without a doubt that he did. I’d rarely dealt with anyone who screamed “guilty” as loudly as he did.
If Rosie’s wasn’t the only place open at is time in the morning that had somewhat decent coffee and eggs, I would have left. As it was I was about ready to fall over from lack of sleep and stress, and I needed a hot meal, so I gritted my teeth and went in.
Several large, bearded men in hunter-orange vests sat at the bar, regaling each other with tales of twenty point buck that got away, or the misdeeds they’d managed to slip past the game wardens. A few others of various descriptions sat alone, eating in silence, killing time before it became light enough to see. And in the corner, beneath an impressive mane of curly blond hair, was Wally. He was carving something into the table, just daring someone to stop him with his eyes. When he saw me he puffed his barrel chest up a bit and smiled menacingly. I pointedly ignored him and took a seat at the opposite end of the counter from the grizzly men and their questionable accounts of deeds long past.
Rosie Larue, a petite and prematurely wrinkled woman in her late 40s, wandered over to me only after filling in a few more squares on the crossword puzzle from yesterday’s Portland Press Herald.
“Hey Shamus,” she said, her French Canadian ancestry showing in her accent as strongly as ever, “long time no see. I was beginning to think you had something against old Rosie. What are you doing up at this hour anyway, you don’t seem the hunting type.”
“The damned don’t need sleep, Rosie, you of all people should know that.”
She smiled broadly, showing the gaps in her front teeth.
“I always liked you Shamus, the coffee’s on me this morning. But you’re paying for everything else, and I expect a tip,” here she jabbed her gnawed stub of a pencil at me, “I’m running a business here, not a charity.”
“That’s fine Rosie, I wasn’t planning on paying for the coffee anyway after the last cup fought back. And I’ll have the eggs and bacon, over easy, and don’t skimp on the grease, that’s the best part.”
“You got it hon,” she said, and winked. Then she leaned in to whisper, “don’t look now, but you’ve got trouble, and I ain’t gonna be the one to tell him to leave.”
She left then, fairly scurried into the kitchen as Wally walked up behind me. I could smell that cheap cologne he wore that he probably thought made him irresistible, and I could hear his breathing. He was a big boy, he probably had six inches and fifty pounds on me, but some of those were the wrong kind of pounds, and cardiovascular exercise wasn’t a big thing in the McCollin clan.
“Hey private dick,” he fairly bellowed, emphasizing the last word like he was the funniest man alive, “I heard your buddy Cheevers got popped. Real shame, she was a nice bit of tail.”
I refused to bite, he wasn’t worth it.
Without turning around I said, “hey Wally, didn’t Cheevers kick your ass once for saying that to her face? I mean, that’s why you switched to school girls, right Wally? Because the real women were too much of a threat, right?”
Well, OK, maybe a little bite.
He roared, actually roared like an enraged animal, and grabbed my shoulder. His hand was like a mechanical clamp and I knew that shoulder was going to turn a delightful shade of purple before long. He spun me around on the stool, and I came to rest with the barrel of my Glock pressed firmly against that beer gut of his.
“Don’t, Wally, I’m not in any mood to explain to Gunn why I had to put a hole in your gut. Not that I’m worried, this is clearly assault, a specialty of yours, don’t think I haven’t noticed. I’m sure that once I told him you were badmouthing one of his officers, who was just murdered and left to rot in the woods, he’d have me hold you down so he could beat you with both fists while you bled to death.
“Your move big boy.”
He thought it over. I’ve heard it said by television writers that the audience loves a slow thinker. They’d adore Wally, I could almost see the gears spinning behind those dull, angry eyes of his as he mulled over the implications of carrying on and getting shot. The cafe was silent and all eyes were on us. He hadn’t been subtle when he provoked me, and ten witnesses had seen that he laid on hands first, and eventually that seemed to sink in. He took his hand off my shoulder, slowly, and took a step back.
“Good boy, I guess even gorillas learn eventually. Now be a good primate and pay Rosie.”
His face reddened, “I already paid, dick.”
“Well then pay her again. Call it a generous tip for being such a jackass.”
His face reddened further and he gnashed his teeth. His eyes flashed murder as he took out his wallet and threw a wadded up ten dollar bill onto the counter.
“That’s better Wally, we’ll make a productive citizen of you yet. Now breeze before I decide that you’re paying for everyone here.”
He was practically shaking now, as I gestured towards the door with my gun.
“I’m gonna get you, Shamus, some day.”
“The depth and breadth of your imagination astounds me, Wally. Seriously, how is it you don’t forget to breath occasionally?”
He snorted and backed towards the door. When he got there he shot another menacing look around the cafe, then at me, and then walked out, slamming the door open so hard it’s amazing it didn’t come off its hinges. I turned back to the counter and ignored the stares from the other patrons. After a moment conversation picked up again, though in a quieter tone than before.
Rosie peaked out of the kitchen to confirm that Wally had left, then stalked up to me with a mug of coffee in hand.
“What the hell was that? What were you going to do, shoot him in my place and put me out of business, eh? Just for that, you’re paying for your coffee.”
“He left, didn’t he? besides, he was badmouthing Cheevers. You remember Officer Cheevers, don’t you Rosie? Didn’t she help you out when your husband left and tried to take everything you own? She’s dead, and he was being an asshole about it.”
After a moment, “yeah, I remember. Fine, your coffee’s half price. And that’s final.”
She slammed the mug down and stalked off. I sipped my half off coffee and covertly scooped up Wally’s sawbuck.
I hadn’t felt this good all day, and it sure wasn’t the coffee’s doing.
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