Calvado - A Novel

Chapters

2007-10-30T05:36:00.000-07:00

At the end of each scene is Behind the Curtain. This is a short description of how I imagined the scene, rationale behind the action, the point, and anything else I can think of about the scene that might be of interest to... someone. Please check it out and feel free to comment, if you so desire.

Scene One: Racing The Delaware Water Gap

Scene Two: The Autopsy

Scene Three: How Calvado Got Rich

Scene Four: Date With a Dead Man

Scene Five: The Morning After The Dead Man's Date

Scene Six: Shots

Scene Seven: Is This a Hospital?

Scene Eight: Gummo

Date with a Dead Man

2007-10-27T23:10:00.000-07:00

"What do you do for a living, Mr. McIntire," Calvado asked when their martinis arrived.

"This and that and some other boring stuff."

"What kind of this and that?" Calvado sipped her drink and instantly wished she had eaten before coming. One sip and she was light-headed. Better slow down: still, the martini tasted good.

"It's all boring. It all has to do with buying crap cheap and selling it at hugely inflated prices. Boring, boring, boring."

"You know," Calvado said. "A lot of people are defined by their work. They are what their jobs are. And, I've noticed, that when someone doesn't want to talk about their jobs they are really refusing to talk about themselves." She smiled at McIntire.

"I, for one, am not defined by my job. My job provides me with the money to be who I am. It does not define me."

"And who are you, Mr. McIntire?"

"Call me Mack. All my friends call me Mack. What do your friends call you?"

"I have no friends. I'm a medical school student."

"Speaking of jobs defining you, does your job define you?"

"I have no job."

"Did. Did your job define you?"

"What job would that be, Mr. McIntire?"

"It's Mack. Your bikini-clad, pouting lip, clothed as if a hooker modeling job."

Calvado laughed. "No one has ever put it quite that way before, Mr. McIntire. 'clothed as if a hooker.' I like that." She raised her martini. They clicked glasses. Mack finished his off, but Calvado had some left. "Are you going to order another?"

"Nope. I said one drink and I have finished," he mock-glared at her, "my one drink."

"Ooooh, a man of his word." Calvado gulped down her drink. "I haven't met a man of his word in ages."

"Well, as the sage of our times as put it, 'to live outside the law, you must be honest.'"

"And do you live outside the law, Mr. McIntire?"

"Mack. Call me Mack. My father is Mr. McIntire and he's been gone 20 years."

"Mine ran away when he found out my mother was pregnant with me."

"Mine died."

"Sorry."

"Well, I'll forgive you," Mack said, "If you tell me what your friends call you. I can't go on calling you Ms Calvado all night."

"Why not?"

"Well, first, Ms Calvado, we're not going to be together all night. And second, I've told you my name, you have to tell me yours. It's part of the Canterbury rules."

Calvado laughed and signaled the waiter. "Canterbury rules?"

"Okay, okay. Some other rules. The rules of order, or something."

"Speaking of orders, what would you like? I no longer hold you to your word," Calvado said. "You may order one more drink." She held up her index finger with its long, polished fingernail. "Just one."

"Perhaps," Mack said to the waiter hovering near them, trying to get a glimpse down Calvado's t-shirt, "perhaps we will order a bottle of wine. A cabernet, I think. Don't you?" he turned to Calvado.

"That is one very large drink, Mr. McIntire."

"Mack. Okay?"

Calvado nodded. When Mack turned to the waiter, she put her hands on her boobs and shook them. The waiter coughed himself into a fit and excused himself, coughing all the way to the kitchen.

When Mack looked at Calvado with a "what the hell?" look on his face, she only shrugged her "haven't got a clue" look. Then smiled.

"My friends, those that I have. The two that I have," she said, "call me Calvado."

"That's exceedingly unimaginative."

"And Mack and McIntire are exceedingly imaginative?"

"No, but I'm a boring businessman. You, you're a fabulous fashion model slash med student."

"Was. Was a model."

___________________________

Next: The Morning After... With Gunshots.

Behind the Curtain: Dates

How Calvado Got Rich

2007-10-24T23:36:00.000-07:00

The detective sat down and looked at the witness. She was, he thought, the most beautiful witness he had ever seen. Much prettier than that actress in "Basic Instinct." He picked up his cup of coffee, stared at the woman's legs, and wondered if she dressed like that actress.

"Uh, detective?" the witness asked.

"Yes?" Timmons answered.

"I believe your cup of coffee is empty. And has been for the past five minutes. Can we get on with the interview?"

"Ah," Timmons looked into his cup. "So you're right. Well, okay. Now, Miss Calvado, I called the manager of that apartment address you gave us but no one answered. I'm sending over a... Well, yeah. Okay. Uh, do you have any idea what Mr. McIntire did for a living?"

"First, it's Ms Calvado. Second, I told you I met Mr. McIntire at the free clinic. I only met him that one time."

Timmons kept his eyes on Calvado's lips as she spoke. When they stopped moving he looked up at her eyes. The bluest eyes in captivity, he thought. And a smart broad, too.

"Why did he come into the clinic?"

"He needed medical attention obviously."

"Yeah," Timmons grinned and picked up his coffee cup. "I kinda figured that out by myself. Why did he need medical attention? What was his medical problem?"

Calvado frowned and looked at the dusty linoleum. "I don't think I should break the patient-doctor confidentiality. You've heard of that, haven't you, Mr. Timmons?"

Timmons nodded. "Yeah, yeah. I see. Well, look, first, Miss Calvado..."

"It's Ms Calvado, detective."

"First, Miss Calvado, you're not a doctor, so half of that confidentiality thing just landed on bullshit island. And second, your patient is dead. He ain't going to sue you, the clinic, or anybody else now. So the other half of that confidentiality horsepucky is on the same island."

"I'd have to check my notes."

"Notes? You keep notes of people who stagger into your free clinic? Impressive. You remember this guy's face but not his illness. Now, why, for the second time, Miss Calvado..."

"Ms."

"Why did Mr. McIntire need a doctor?" Timmons spun his pencil around and tapped the point on his desk. "Miss Calvado."

"Ms. He had a stab wound."

"The doctor in charge is supposed to notify the cops when a patient comes in with a wound like that. Gunshots, knife wounds, baseball bat to the side of the head wounds. You know, shit that just might indicate foul play."

Calvado fidgeted in her chair. She pulled a bobby pin out of her hair and began chewing on it. "Can I, uh, ask you a question, detective?" she asked.

"Shoot."

"Can I get in trouble for, uh, not reporting Mr McIntire's knife wound?"

"You? You mean, the doctor in charge, don't you?"

Calvado shook her head.

"McIntire didn't see a doctor."

Calvado nodded.

"McIntire didn't even go to the free clinic, did he, Miss Calvado?"

Calvado nodded.

"McIntire lives in your building, right? He knows you're a med student. He comes up to your apartment and gives you practice sewing up a knife wound. And he says it was self-inflicted. He cut himself, uh, chopping up carrots for a stew. Am I close, Miss Calvado?"

Calvado nodded and started to cry.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, don't pull this woman shit on me."

"He, he, said he was in a hurry. The knife slipped, he said. And, and, he didn't have time to go to a doctor. Could I just, you know, help him?"

"Miss Calvado, are you aware you may just have tossed your medical career in the toilet?"

Calvado nodded. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her white medical coat. Timmons watched as the coat opened to show her t-shirt. That, he thought, would look good on any French model. Calvado looked up at Timmons and frowned.

"Mr. Timmons, could you please not stare at my chest all the time?"

"I was just trying to figure out what it said."

Calvado closed her coat. "It says, 'brain surgeons do it with a skull saw.'"

"Ouch," Timmons said. "That's got to hurt. Was that your goal, Miss Calvado, to be a brain surgeon?"

"Ms. Yeah."

"Well, if I happen to mention to your medical school that you sewed Mr. McIntire up, you could kiss that dream goodbye. Now, tell me more about this Mr. McIntire, if you would."

Calvado looked around at the police station. It looked just like the ones she saw on TV: crowded, busy, messy, and badly lit. Near the door, two uniformed cops were pretending to fill out forms. Calvado knew they were trying to get a better look at her. Since just before puberty, men had tried to get close to her, either physically or emotionally. Once her boobs came in, she didn't know who was trying to be a friend and who wanted to know her just so they could get laid. By the second year of junior high school, she had a rule of thumb: if a boy she didn't know was being nice to her, he wanted to get laid. Now, ten years later, the rule still worked.

When she was fifteen, Calvado's mother took her to an advertising agency in mid-town Manhattan. Without an appointment, she and her mother walked in and asked to see the art director. They sat in the reception area for three hours. Calvado kept asking her mother if they could go home, but her mother shushed her.

"Just read your book," her mother said.

When the art director's assistant finally appeared, it was obvious to Calvado that she was being nice and would soon dismiss both her and her mother. Calvado was glad; she wanted to go home to study. Instead, the worst thing that could have happened, did: Calvado got a modeling job. Within a year, Calvado was making $10,000 a shoot; small potatoes compared with Elite Models, but still, $10,000 for a five hour photo shoot was... excellent.

Calvado lived with her mother and never knew her father. Her father was a big unknown. Her mother never talked about him and had no proof of his existence. And Calvado's mother was poor. If she lived in Alabama she would probably have married a cousin, lived in a trailer, and gone to stock car races every Sunday. But she lived in Manhattan. In a small, overpriced, cramped apartment in a rickety building on the cusp of Harlem. Morningside Heights by name.

As a child, Calvado loved to read and the only thing her mother would splurge on was books. Books about butterflies, books about magic dragons. Books that Calvado would read again and again. In the fourth grade, her reading interests veered away from fiction and into first, general science, then into biology. One Christmas, a friend of a friend of Calvado's mother gave Calvado a used copy of Gray's Anatomy and Calvado discovered her greatest desire: to be a doctor and use this wonderful book everyday.

After puberty, when Calvado looked more like a fashion model with her long legs, her breasts, her blonde hair, and blue eyes than a junior high school student, she read and studied science more and more. To her there were two choices: stay indoors, read, and study or go outdoors and hear the whistles, catcalls, obscene propositions; maybe get rubbed upagainst by some pathetic old man with a scraggily beard. Studying always won out.

Until her mother dragged her to that advertising agency.

"Might as well make the most of what you've got," her mother said as she dabbed eyeliner on Calvado's right eyelid.

"Mom," Calvado complained.

"Just this one agency, kid, then you can go back to your books."

From fourteen to twenty, Calvado hauled her biology, chemistry, anatomy, and physiology books to a rush of photo shoots for cars, clothes, whiskey, ratchet sets, make-up, oil, coffee, spark plugs, dogs, and winter cruises to Puerto Rico while her friends had dates, boyfriends, and their senior proms. But at least Calvado helped her mother move out of the flea-bitten building on the edge of Harlem and into a nicer place. Her mother was happy. Calvado was not.

"Brain surgery?" her mother yelled. "Brain surgery? You could make ten times what those quacks make. You can be a super model!"

"I don't want to be a supermodel, mom. I want to be a brain surgeon!"

At twenty, Calvado started college at NYU. She tested out of as many classes as she could and, at twenty-two, graduated with honors. She got into medical school, cut her hair, threw away her make-up kit, moved into her own apartment in a nice neighborhood but not too expensive, and settled down to the life of a med student.

Other students complained of not having enough time to date or go drinking with their friends. Calvado never dated anyway, so she merely replaced one time-consuming enterprise (modeling) with another (medical school.) She studied 12 hours a day, she took classes 8 hours a day, she slept 4 hours a day. She was in heaven. Gray's Anatomy was open 24-hours a day; her never-closed book.

She did have one date. Early in her second year of med school. A small date. A 'pretend' date, the man called it. Not a real date, just a couple of friends having dinner or maybe going to a Broadway show and a couple of drinks? Calvado shook her head, shows and drinks take too much time.

"Okay," the man said. "How about, uh..." He pursed his lips together as if he were thinking.

Calvado wondered if she should apply her rule of thumb. He kept his eyes on her face when they talked, though. She's sure he grabbed a peak at her ass when she walked away from him, but what kind of man wouldn't?

"We meet at Bickerstaff's at, say, 6:00. Before the big dinner crowd. We have one," he held up a crooked index finger, "drink. We have dinner. Be back here by," he glanced at his watch. "8:30, 9:00 at the latest." He smiled at her. He reminded Calvado of a photographer she slept with when she was 17: funny, goofy, and a little sincere.

"Okay," Calvado agreed. "But I insist on paying my share."

"Oh, yes, please," the man smiled, "I insist. Have you seen the prices at Bickerstaff's? My god, why don't they just siphon out your bank account? I'll make the reservations. See ya," the man said as he stepped out of the lobby of their building and into the busy West Side street.

"You don't know anything about him," her mother argued.

"He's polite. He stares at my face not my boobs. He dresses well."

"John Gotti dressed well, too, and he killed people for a living."

"Mother," Calvado complained. She ran the iron over her Chanel t-shirt. "It's just dinner."

"And drinking! He's going to get you drunk and slip that, that date rape drug in your glass!"

"Nothing that hasn't happened before." Her mother gasped. "Just kidding, mom. Would you relax. I'm just having a, a, little break from studying."

"Finally. You've only been studying for eight straight years. Non-stop, I might add." Her mother took the iron from Calvado and finished ironing the t-shirt. "You should wear that nice blue blouse. The one you got in Atlanta."

"Too showy."

"Showy?"

"Cleavage."

"Ah."

Calvado slipped into her jeans, tied her hair up in a loose bun, checked her make-up in the mirror and held her hand out for the t-shirt.

"Bra?" her mother asked as she held the t-shirt out of range.

"You think so?"

"You don't want to show cleavage, but you're okay with a pair of hard nipples staring at the man all night?"

"Bra," Calvado said and hurried off to the bedroom.

_________________________________

Next: Date With a Dead Man

Behind the Curtain: Back Story and Mystery (?)

Racing the Delaware Water Gap

2007-10-13T05:34:00.000-07:00

As Mack pushed his Firebird down the freeway through the Delaware Water Gap, he had two thoughts: first, the place had really gotten trashy in the last ten years - it had lost the rugged, refreshingly New Worldly feeling it had when he first saw it; and second, if he could make it to Chicago and find Slim Jim before D-Man, he'd be safe.

He could explain everything to Slim Jim: the money, the girls, the deaths. Everything. Then, if D-Man showed up, Slim Jim could help Mack.

Yeah, he thought, got to get to Chicago pronto.

He pushed his foot down on the accelerator and watched the speedometer climb to 75. 80. 85. He eased off. He didn't want any local or state cops stopping him, slowing him down, and delaying his confession with Slim Jim. Not in this Firebird. Now with what he was carrying. He looked in the mirror. He couldn't see any cops, but still, he eased back to just above the rest of the scattered cars and trucks. He was glad he was traveling at night - few sightseers. The more serious travelers, the ones who had business 500 miles away in less than 12 hours, the ones who positively, absolutely had to be in another city, they rode at night like some men rode cheap whores: hard and quick.

When he first went to New York City, Mack showed up at Grand Central at night and all the other people there were lost, runaways, pimps or whores. And a cop or two. Mack took the first bus out of Chicago and got into New York just before closing time. He had to find a place sleep and keep away from all the pimps and whores in his first two hours in the city. Great start, he thought and shook his head. Nothing's changed.

A red light popped on on his dashboard.

"Damn it," Mack yelled. The Firebird needed oil. He should've checked it when he got gas but he was in too much of a hurry to get out of town and on the road. He saw the garish lights of an interstate gas-junk food-rest area with a Conoco sign rotating lazily against the night sky. He'd pull off there.

An SUV pulled up beside him. Nice rig, Mack thought. All black with tinted windows, no chrome, and not a dent or rust spot anywhere. Mack sped up. He didn't like cars matching his speed on the highway, especially not this night. The SUV kept pace with him. He glanced at it again.

"Shit," he yelled out loud. "It can't be....."

He floored it. The SUV stayed right beside him. He slammed on the brakes. The SUV did the same, so Mack floored the Firebird. The red light seemed to get brighter, stronger. It was almost like a flashing disco light.

"Hang on, babe," he said to his car. "Just half a mile..."

The SUV swerved into him. Sparks showered off of the Firebird as his door handle flew off.

"Damn it!"

The SUV smashed into his left front fender. Headlight glass jumped in the air. Mack cut the wheel to the right. The SUV cut right. The two cars moved in perfect precision.

"Damn it to hell!"

The red light got brighter. All Mack could see was the red light and the SUV crashing into him. Off to the right Mack saw an opening: a hole in the interstate's concrete barrier. He slammed on the brakes. He spun the Firebird to the right. He headed to the hole. He floored it. The SUV caught his right rear fender. The Firebird started to rear up. The front end slowly went airborne. The SUV crashed into the back of Mack's Ford. Then, slowly, it seemed to Mack, the Firebird started to fly. It went up and up and Mack knew it was going to leap over the concrete wall and land like a ballerina on the other side; the SUV would crash into it while Mack and his Firebird would gallop out of New Jersey and on to Chicago.

"Maybe I'll just friggin' fly," Mack smiled. He could see his Firebird floating through the air like a peregrine falcon; too bad it wasn't white, he'd love to be a giant white bird: Up there with the bats, butterflies, and jumbo jets. He wouldn't have to worry about a thing: no bad guys, no oxygen deprivation, no gasoline. He'd just sit, listen to his CDs and enjoy. Enjoy the flight up and away. Maybe he'd circle the globe, maybe he'd do a loop-de-loop over the Chicago loop. Yes, he could fly; his Firebird could fly. If he wanted it hard enough; if he wished for it hard enough.

Then the car hit the earth. Which was hard enough. Then the wall.

_________________

Scene Two: The Autopsy Room

Behind the Curtain: How Scene One Came To Be

The Autopsy

2007-10-11T20:28:00.000-07:00

"Now, as you gentlemen and ladies can easily observe, I have a naked body on a metal slab behind me. The police, bless their hearts, found him very early this morning, I had the privilege of doing the site analysis at about 3:00 AM. Since our patient had absolutely no identification on him what-so-ever, we cannot contact his next of kin. The police then hauled his ass in here. Now, this John Doe is dead. Am I right?"

Twenty-five medical students nodded their heads.

Dr. Henrietta 'Hank' Slovensky shook hers.

"No, you overeducated macaroons, John Doe is Not dead. And do you know why he is Not dead? Because you haven't checked to make sure he's dead. You can Not look at a patient from across the room and tell if said patient has croaked or not. For crying out loud, if you saw the chief of staff asleep in his office would you immediately assume he was Dead? My goodness. Okay," Hank surveyed the group searching for the one she knew would faint at the sight of a blade inserted into the dead man's sternum. "You," she pointed at a pale-looking female with her long black hair tied up on top of her head and stuffed under a surgical cap. "Get your Ivy league butt over here and tell me what you see."

The long-haired medical student looked around to see if, by hope and chance, the medical examiner meant someone else, someone other than her.

"You!"

No, she didn't. The long-haired student shuffled slowly to the cadaver.

"What's your name?"

"J...J..Jennifer."

"Well, J, J, Jennifer, educate the rest of us over-achievers what you see on the slab this morning."

"Well, ah, er. I see a man." Jennifer said. She glanced at the man's face but couldn't look at him for long.

"Very good. So, we have a John Doe who, as Jennifer has aptly pointed out by examining his genitalia in detail, is male.. What else?"

"Hmm, his chest seems to be, uh, damaged."

"Ah, yes," Hank agreed. "The old damaged chest ploy. Jennifer, honey, if you ever want to get through this autopsy, and by ever I mean sometime in the next, oh, 28 minutes, you're going to have to speed up your examination. Gather round, my little ducklings, gather round. Now, as Jennifer as ascertained, our John Doe has a penis and a crushed chest cavity. What does that indicate? You," Hank pointed at a male student.

"He got hit by something heavy?"

"He did?" Hank questioned.

"I mean, uh, he might have gotten hit by something like heavy?"

"Is that a question, young man? Jennifer, was that a question? It sounded like a question. Voice raised at the end of a sentence, like, you know? Clear precise speech, ducklings, clear and precise speech, if you don't mind. As it turns out, our Mr. Doe met the steering wheel of his car."

"Excuse me, Dr. Slovensky?"

Hank turned to the questioner: a tall, blonde woman with the looks of a fashion model. She held a clipboard to her ample breasts; her hair was cropped short, almost like a man’s. Probably, Hank thought, to suggest studiousness instead of slutishness but only ending up looking dykish.

"Yes?" Hank asked.

"I, uh, I think I know this, uh, John Doe."

_________________________

Next: How Calvado Got Rich

Behind the Curtain: Cutting to the Chase

Gummo?

2007-05-27T06:01:00.000-07:00

On paper - or at least on computer - the Gummo section starts on page 25 and I have no idea where Gummo came from. Did I need more tension? Did I want to introduce a couple of heavies but didn't know what to do with them? Did I need another med student?

This is how I usually work when I'm barreling through November: I write. I think about what can happen next while I go about my day-job which gives my co-workers the opportunity to view a zombie with a 1000-yard stare up close and personal. I work out what comes next in the novel based on what I have already written. No net, remember. Then I run to my laptop and pound it out before it slips through the grey matter onto the floor like so much flotsam and unwanted jetsam.

Sometimes when I'm torn between two directions the novel could go: more action, more romance, a quick trip to France on the Concorde for lunch at Rick's Americain Cafe, I think of a stalling tactic. What can I write that will up my word count while being at least partially faithful to the novel at hand? (Partially faithful, remember that for your next relationship.)

Gummo may have started life as a stalling tactic. But please remember: the novel evolves based on previous chapters. So, while it may have started as a stalling tactic, the characters and action swirling around them may well show up in future chapters.

If editing were my passion, I would give 'the other man' who dies on Otis Redding a more colorful tag, a more lively quirk, a more identifiable trait so that when he returns to beat up Ron, he is more noticeable, more menacing, and more a person than a stand-in character. And I would have changed Otis Redding to Frank Sinatra or vice versa, just to be cute and cuddly and have the readers shower me with praise. Alas, I leave editing to other more passionate souls.

Finally, I have no idea where I pulled the name Gummo from. Yes, I know he was one of the Marx Brothers, but why Gummo and not Zeppo, Harpo, Groucho, or Chico? I guess 'Gummo' and 'the grey-haired man' were alliterative enough for me. It was just a nickname, anyway, so ... cheers!

Gummo

2007-05-27T05:55:00.000-07:00

The bar was closed. Two men nursed whiskeys. The bartender kept glancing at the clock. The two men ignored him. One man had grey shoulder-length hair and a silver earring. The other man wore Addidas shoes, sweats, and headband. Both of them had .45 caliber automatics in holsters on their shoulders.

"Walton. Remember him?" the grey haired man said.

The other man nodded and sipped his whiskey.

"Read his obituary the other day."

The both nodded and sipped their drinks. The grey-haired man looked up at the bartender.

"You gotta go to the little boy's room or what?"

"No, sir. I'm fine, sir. Thank you."

"Then stop staring at the damn clock."

"Yes, sir. Refill, sir?"

The grey-haired man snorted and motioned the bartender away with a short wave of his hand. The bartender walked to the end of the bar and watched the two men for a second. He reached beneath the bar.

Both men put their hands on their automatics.

Very slowly, the bartender brought a book out from under the counter with one hand. The other hand was above his head. When the two men saw the book, they relaxed.

"Got it in a 415F thing. Out in Jersey some god-forsaken place," the grey-haired man said.

"Hey," the other man said. "I'm from Jersey."

"You don't look like no friggin' cow."

The other man shrugged his shoulders. "You should see my wife." Both men smiled.

"November 2." The grey-haired man shook his head. "Can you believe that?"

"Sure."

They stared at the counter. The grey-haired man rubbed his mustache and picked his nose.

"What's with November 2?" the other man asked.

"You know where Walton was from?" The other man nodded. "And you don't know shit about November 1st and 2nd?"

The other man nodded. "Yeah, I don't know shit. Didn't Kennedy get capped on one of them days?"

"No." The grey-haired man sipped his whiskey. "Moron." The two men stared at the bottles on the shelf behind the bar. "Kennedy got capped November 20."

"Hey, I was close."

"Yeah, right." They looked at their glasses, then up at the bartender. He was reading; too engrossed to notice their need. "Hey, Ronnie, how 'bout a re-fill?"

Ron looked at them, glanced at the clock, then walked toward them.

"We closed an hour ago, gentlemen. If a cop comes by..."

Both men laughed and pushed their glasses toward Ron. He gave both of them one more shot.

"This one's on the house," Ron said. "And for the road."

"Yeah, yeah," the grey-haired man said.

"And for what it's worth, Kennedy didn't get killed November 20th. He got it November 22. Any junior high school twerp knows that."

"Hey," the grey-haired man scowled. "Don't you start getting nasty with us, Ronnie. We're old enough to be your fathers."

"You probably are my fathers," Ronnie muttered as he returned to his book at the end of the bar. As he was about to open it, the public phone rang. He looked at the phone, glanced at the clock, then the two men. "Either of you two gentlemen expecting a call?"

Both of the men shook their heads. The phone continued ringing. Ron opened his book. The phone rang and rang.

"Answer the damn thing," the grey-haired man ordered.

Ron walked to the phone.

"Yeah," he said. He listened, he looked at the grey-haired man. "No, he ain't here. We're closed." The person on the other end said something and Ron nodded. "Yeah. Night." Ron hung up and looked at the grey-haired man. "You know a guy named McIntire?"

The grey-haired man stared at Ron. The other man stiffened, grabbed his drink and downed it in one gulp.

"Gotta go, Gummo. Gettin' late. Thanks for the drinks."

"Hey, what about November 2," the grey-haired man said.

"Some other day," the man said and was out the door before the grey-haired man could say anything else.

"Friggin' cow," the grey-haired man said.

"So, before you go, you know this McIntire guy?" Ron asked.

"What if I did?"

"What am I, a cop? Don't get all paranoid on me, Gummo."

In one quick motion, the grey-haired man had his automatic out and shoved up Ron's nose. With his other hand, he grabbed Ron's string tie and yanked him closer. Ron could smell the whiskey on the grey-haired man and the grey-haired man could smell the fear on Ron.

"No one calls me Gummo but my friends," he spit into Ron's face.

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"You smart ass punk. Get me another whiskey."

Ron couldn't move. The man had his tie in one hand and a pistol shoved up his nose. "Sir," Ron said. "I can't move."

"You're lucky you're still breathing, you little brat. What'd McIntire say?" He shoved Ron away.

Ron picked up his glass and gave him another shot. "He said to meet him at, uh, some place. He said you'd know."

"Damn."

"What?"

"It must've started."

"What?"

"Shut your face, punk."

The grey-haired man stumbled out of the bar. Ron locked the door behind him and watched through the window as he careened his way down the nearly empty street. When he had gone around the corner, Ron pulled a cell phone from his pocket. He punched in a number. He waited.

"Yeah, he just left." He hung up and turned around.

A .45 stared him in the eye. The other man stood behind the gun.

"Who'd you just tip off, Ronnie?"

"I, I, I, I don't know what..."

The other man shot Ron in the foot. Bam! Without warning. Ron fell to the dirty floor, howling and cussing.

"Now, one more time. Who'd you just tip off?"

"I, fuck, I, fuck this fuckin' hurts, I..."

The man slapped Ron across the face with the pistol. He smiled down at the wounded, bleeding bartender. "Last time, then I get serious. Who'd you tip off?"

"This, this guy. Shit this hurts. This guy, don't know his name. Uh, tall."

The other man twirled the muzzle of his automatic around Ron's left eye. "Tall. He talk funny like? Like maybe somebody beat the living crap out of him one day and left him with half a friggin' tongue?"

Ron nodded.

"Yeah. Lisping mo-fo. They call him the Singer. You know why?"

Ron shook his head.

The man holstered his automatic. "Cause 'fore he got his tongue sliced and diced and sushied up, he wanted to be a friggin' jazz singer like he was Frank Sinatra or something. What you wanna be, uh, Ronnie? You going to college, right? Big NYU man. What you wanna be?"

"I, I, I, I don't..."

The man kicked him. "You know what you know, Ronnie. You wanna be a big shot, high-priced, doctor, right?"

Ron nodded. He watched blood seep out of his shoe.

The man pulled a knife from his pocket, flicked it open, and smiled. "You need fingers to be a doc, doc?"

"Oh, shit, no, man, please, don't..."

"What kind a doc you wanna be, Ronnie? Gyne-friggin'-cologist? You gotta have fingers for that, don't ya?" He put his foot on Ron's hand.

"Please, don't. Look, I don't know nothing. I don't know..."

The man kicked Ron. Hard. In the head. Blood squirted all over the man's shoes as Ron passed out.

"Hey, brand new friggin' shoes!" He whipped his automatic out, aimed it at Ron's bleeding head, and squeezed the trigger.

A shot cracked the silence. The man flew over Ron and crashed into a table. He slipped onto the dirty floor. His gun swirled around and hit the juke box. It started to play Redding's "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay." The man was dead before Redding started to sing.

"Hey," a voice said. "I got a 217 here. Need an ambulance. The address is..."

Ron struggled back from unconsciousness and looked up. "You," he mumbled.

"Yeah, me," the grey-haired man answered.

________________________

Next: Coming Soon

Behind the Curtain: Gummo?

Short, Though

2007-05-27T04:59:00.000-07:00

I put Calvado in the hospital but I didn't want it to be normal hospital. More like an underground hospital for criminals, maybe? I'm not sure. I knew Mack wouldn't let her bleed to death but I also felt he wouldn't take her to a normal hospital - too many questions (which we established in a previous chapter about doctors having to report gunshot wounds.) Why doesn't Mack want to be known to the police?

But it is definitely short. Why so short? Well, let me explain my wonderful writing regime.

First, I write on a laptop, of course, because I can write where ever and whenever I have the time or inclination. And, I've learned, even a few minutes of time is enough to bang out a short piece, say, like "Is This a Hospital?" or one of many short stories I have dabbled with from time to time. This scene was probably written during a thirty-minute window of opportunity somewhere in my day.

Second, I wanted Calvado to be unsure of where she was and to be slightly disoriented. I don't know if I accomplished that; I do know I've managed to disorient some readers who wonder where she is and who is the lady in the next bed and why does she have a gun. All good questions that I can strive to answer in coming episodes.

Is This A Hospital?

2007-05-27T04:55:00.000-07:00

Calvado woke up the second time late at night. She tried to find her alarm clock but soon realized she wasn't even in her room. She took a quick inventory and came to the conclusion she was in a hospital. And it was dark outside. And the woman in the bed near the window snored incredibly loudly.

She tried to sit up but found she was attached to an IV bottle, so she laid back down and stared at the ceiling. She felt the pain in her right shoulder and knew someone had taken a shotgun pellet out, sewn up the wound, and slapped a bandage on it. A big bandage, it felt like. She wondered where Mack was.

She found the nurse call button and pushed. And waited. She pushed it again. The woman in the other bed stopped snoring. She coughed and spit, then went back to snoring.

Calvado pushed the nurse call button again. Three times quickly. Again the woman in the other bed stopped snoring. Calvado pushed the button. The woman got out of bed and walked over to Calvado.

"Yeah?" Not a welcome, not a curse. Somewhere in-between.

Calvado stared at her. The woman rubbed sleep from her eyes, scratched her butt, and yawned. She was missing a tooth.

"You the nurse?" Calvado asked.

"Nope. You want something or can I get back to sleep?"

"Can I get up?"

"Nope."

"I have to pee."

"You got a bedpan in there somewhere. Find it, use it." The woman turned and strolled back to the other bed. Calvado saw the holster strapped to her back.

Calvado waited. She waited until the other woman started snoring again, then she got quietly out of bed, slipped out of the room, and pulled her IV bag along the empty hospital corridor towards the public telephones.

_______________________

Next: Coming Soon

Behind the Curtains: Short, Though

It Ain't The Bourne Identity

2007-05-27T04:41:00.000-07:00

Having grown up with Hollywood movies that have increasingly emphasized action over character, I sensed I need some right about here. A slow building of a relationship, drinking too much wine, and sense of foreboding and suddenly we need more action than talk here. So, I popped out with some weaponry.

A shoot out in the hallway. Someone - who? Another question I have to answer - is shooting Calvado. Why? Another question to get me out of any writer's block during this, November, the cruelest month. And how did Mack know to come to her rescue? Ah, yes, he lives in the same building and was probably up with the first shots; an early riser, no doubt.

If I had the time and desire to edit, I would probably write a tighter action scene but as it is, I'm letting this one live. I'm not too sure about Calvado passing out and the knight in shining armor that is Mack coming to her rescue but I know, from reading further, that Calvado is not a damsel in distress; she can handle herself as we have seen in her modeling career and her sense of self. (How many times have I used 'sense' in this posting?

I confess that action sequences are not my strong suit; if I have a strong suit.

Shots

2007-05-27T04:18:00.000-07:00

Calvado dreampt of gunshots. She dreampt of handguns and shotguns. She dreampt of Mack. Her brain kept nudging her to wake up, nudging her with increasing urgency. Finally, she opened her eyes. The gunshots weren't imaginary. They were coming from... In the hallway! Calvado grabbed her cell phone. Punched in 911.

"Emergency," a man's voice said.

"Gunshots," Calvado said. Her apartment door flew off the hinges. Three blasts from a shotgun crushing the wood. Calvado gave her address to 911. "Hurry! They're in the..." Six shots. Pistol shots, Calvado thought but she didn't know why. She ran to her bedroom window. Unlocked it. Silence in her apartment and the hallway. She forced the stubborn window up. She bent over to climb out just as someone jiggled her bedroom door. She slipped quickly out onto the fire escape.

The last thing she saw in her bedroom was the door being blasted by shot after shot. She ran, fell, jumped, swung herself down three flights of stairs on the escape and ducked into the ninth floor. She tried to look up the fire escape. She hoped no one was looking down.

"Ma'am? Are you still there?" the emergency operator asked.

"Shh," Calvado whispered into her cell phone. She realized if anyone were to run down the fire escape, she'd have to hurry to the elevator. But if the killers were half-way competent, one of them would be in the elevator, too. Why did she think there was more than one killer, she wanted to know. Ah, she thought, pistol shots and shotguns. At least two.

She glanced up the fire escape. No one was there. She looked into the hallway. It was empty, too. She put her cell phone to her ear.

"Hey," she said. "There are two guys with guns stalking me. Like hunters."

"Can you see them?" the operator asked.

"No. I'm on the ninth floor. They're on the 12th. I think."

"Police units are on their way. Stay where you are and..."

A bullet blew a hole in the wall beside Calvado's head.

"Shit," she said as she jumped onto the fire escape. She looked down the hall and saw a person in a business suit. He was reloading his shotgun as he ran at her.

"Shit," she screamed and threw herself down the escape. She knew a shotgun would blow the stairs apart; she hoped she could find another open door. She looked down. She saw light coming from the sixth floor escape. She hurried, she ran, she jumped and fell toward the light.

Shotgun pellets rained passed her. She felt a bee sting in her right shoulder. She jumped into the sixth floor. A hand jerked her away from the door. She punched back as hard as she could. Missed the person but hit the wall. Her fingers cracked and she knew she'd broken one or two. The person pushed her to the ground. She tried to kick, but hit only air. Then she heard two pistol shots. A shotgun ripped at the doorway. More pistol shots.

She sat up. A man was crouched by the door to the fire escape. He was looking up. He had a pistol in his right hand. Another pistol was shoved in the back of his jeans. He fired three times quickly, then switched guns.

"You're empty, Mack," someone yelled. Mack stayed quiet.

"Mack?" Calvado whispered. Mack motioned for her not to move, but he didn't take his eyes off the fire escape. A footstep clanked down the fire escape. Mack slipped back into the building. Another footstep. Mack aimed.

Calvado froze. She tried to stop her heart from beating, fearing the noise would alert the killer. Another footstep; Mack tensed. Calvado held her breath.

"I know you're empty, Mack, come on out."

Silence. No footsteps, no talking. Mack signaled for Calvado to lie on the floor. And back up. She slid backwards like a snake until her feet touched the elevator doors. She reached up to push the down button. A huge bang wrenched her attention back to the fire escape. A shot! Two! Then silence.

Mack stood over something. From Calvado's viewpoint it looked like a pile of dirty clothes. Then she saw the blood creeping along the carpet. Mack reloaded both pistols, shoved them in his waistband, and looked at Calvado.

"You okay?" he asked.

"This is not the best way to wake up with a hangover," she replied but her lower lip was vibrating like nobody's business.

"Are you okay?" Mack asked as he walked near her.

"Yeah, I'm fine." Calvado put her right hand on the floor and pushed. She hoped to get to a standing position but the pain in her right shoulder knocked her flat. "Shit," she groaned.

"Reason I ask is, you're bleeding."

Calvado looked at the carpet. Blood dripped on it. From her hand. Blood which was running down her arm from her shoulder. She looked at the drops of blood plunking down on the carpet. She looked at her hand as if it belonged to someone else. Her blood wouldn't gush out of her hand like that. It must be someone else's. Then she looked at Mack.

"Mack," she muttered. "You never told me."

"What?"

"What you do," she said a second before she passed out.

_______________________

Next: Is This a Hospital?

Behind the Curtain: It Ain't the Bourne Identity

Foreshadowing Raises its Ugly Head

2007-05-27T04:03:00.000-07:00

Wow. Two foreshadowings in one scene.

Why can't Mack see Calvado again? What is it about the daylight that causes him not to want to see her in public? Who is this Mack guy anyway? What does he do?

Why can't Calvado get some sleep? What happens to her that prevents her beauty and brains sleep? Has she never had a hangover before? Is she missing classes?

Why did I write those two foreshadowings? Well, the answer my friend is simple: to get me motivated to try to figure out the answers. That last paragraph of Mack explaining to himself that he can't see Calvado again raised the obvious: Why not? question in my head. And now, given that November only has so many days, I have to find the answer and weave it pell-mell into the story, the characters, and the very fabric of their being.

Working without a net has its excitements, its privileges, and its conundrums: how to move the plot along while developing characters when you don't know what the plot is or who the characters are? By asking and answering your own questions, is how.

The Morning After ... With Gunshots

2007-05-27T03:50:00.000-07:00

"I've never talked to a man... a man has never talked to me without staring at my boobs. Or my legs. Or... Never my eyes. They never look me in the eyes when they talk to me. Eyes are the windows to the soul, somebody said. But no, men don't look there." She emphasized 'there' the way most women emphasized the word when they meant their vaginas. "I think the only man I could fall in love with will have to be blind."

"I," Mack said, "unfortunately can see and exceedingly well. Have a drink."

The waiter poured wine into her glass, glanced at her boobs, and then poured Mack his glass of wine.

"Nice breasts?" Mack asked; the waiter blushed, coughed, and walked off with a mumbled apology. "There goes his tip."

"You did say 'tiP,' didn't you?"

Mack smiled. Calvado smiled. They clinked glasses together and were on their way.

After the first bottle of wine came, a second. After dinner, came an after dinner drink and after the after dinner drink, came the long stagger home.

"I'll get us a taxi," Mack said.

"Screw the taxi, Mack, let's hoof it. It's only... How far is it, Mackie-babe."

"Well, for the sober, it's 12 blocks." He held Calvado by the shoulders for fear that she would tumble over.

"How much for the recently inebriated, Mack? I like that name, Mack, Mack. A certain manly swagger to it, you know, Mack?" Calvado stumbled into a potted tree. "Excuse me, ma'am. Oh, you're a tree. Look, Mack, a tree."

"Yes, Calvado. Come. I'll get us a taxi."

"Not for me, Macko."

And thus they began a long, weaving, staggering, hiccuping trip up twelve New York City blocks that a sober jogger could probably cover in fifteen minutes or less but took Mack and Calvado one hour and twelve minutes; 72 minutes. Calvado talked about everything: dresses, posing with a can of tomato juice ("The Tomato - that's me - and the Tomato Juice. Get it? Ain't art directors original?"), the physiology of a snail, and a few thousand other topics that popped into her head as her body struggled to put one foot in front of the other.

Mack steered her away from dangerous hedges, bushes, and trees and oncoming traffic; he suggested less frivolous paths toward their apartment building than through garbage cans and locked windows.

He thought she was charming drunk; she was beautiful sober or drunk, but drunk, she was charming. She had a laugh that reminded him of summer, she had a smile that etched sorrow on his heart. He wanted nothing evil to happen to her so he knew, as they staggered home, that he would never, could never, take her out again. He considered moving, but it would be costly and he liked his apartment. He knew he would be civil to her, jovial, good-natured, and supportive. In their apartment building. In the street, though, no. He could not see her in the streets, in the public, again. Too dangerous. Too risky. Too... Mack.

•••

Calvado woke up with a first class hangover. She tried to focus on her alarm clock, but failed. She watched the room dip slowly to port; she shifted away from the window and it's obnoxious sunlight. The room sank slowly to starboard. She closed her eyes and tried to review the previous evening. She remembered sipping wine. And stumbling up the street. And... That was about it. She tried to place Mack in the events of the evening. He was at the restaurant. She was pretty sure he helped her home. Then what did he do? Did he undress her? She felt her body. Nope, she was still dressed. How'd she get in her own apartment? Did he unlock it and then, what? Lock it behind him as he left? Does he have a key? Is he still in the apartment? She looked slowly around her bedroom but didn't see any male clothing.

She decided to risk standing up. She didn't make it. She tried again. She sat on the edge of her bed, her head in her hands, and waited for the floor to return to its stationery state. It didn't. She laid back down, closed her eyes, and hoped for tomorrow.

"I still don't know what Mack does," she thought. As her brain switched itself off and sleep overtook her, she hoped she could sleep for a fortnight. This was not to be.

________________________

Next: Shots

Behind the Curtain: Foreshadowing Raises Its Ugly Head

Dates

2007-05-27T03:36:00.000-07:00

First dates are like a dance unless you know your partner well. How far can the conversation go in any direction before someone says, stop, too far?

In this scene I was introducing Mack to Calvado and, it seems, Mack is older than Calvado, but I'm not sure at this point. I believe when I wrote this Mack was in his 40s or 50s but as the novel progressed he got younger. I still have no idea how old he is. I have my suspicions, though.

This date starts out simply enough and friendly enough. I didn't, for some reason, want them to fall in love but I wanted them to fall in like and build on that relationship. Also, I wanted Mack to like Calvado's brains and character more than her body. Talk about farfetched. I think that's one reason I thought of Mack as in his 40s or 50s. He's been there, done that and is looking for something else, something more meaningful.

What would I have changed had I the inkling to edit? I wouldn't have had Calvado shake her boobs at the waiter. It isn't her style to tease men (or women) that way. Perhaps she would have caught the waiter's eye as he stared at her boobs and gave him the evil stare but she wouldn't do the boob-shake.

The Back Story and Mystery (?)

2007-05-27T03:21:00.000-07:00

Okay, we're in the third chapter, we're moving along nicely, we have our main character (Calvado) and her backstory: hard-working and beautiful. A model and a med student. Why a med student and why a model? In the popular milieu these two jobs are polar opposites: beauty and brains.

Why beautiful? So she could be a model, make money, and run in a crowd that wasn't high school or college. So she could be a bit more worldly than your average 22-year-old and not likely to fall madly in love with the first man she sees.

Why smart? Because smart people are more fun to watch than slow people, usually. I wanted her to use her brains on a number of levels: she knows men want her body because she's beautiful but she also loves science. A much more entertaining character, in my opinion and, since I'm the writer of this tome, my opinion counts quite a bit.

I didn't know it when I wrote it...

Maybe I should mention that I don't work from an outline. I didn't outline anything about this novel before I wrote the opening scene. Everything is happening as I type it.

I didn't know it when I wrote it but when I will need a policeman in the future, Mr. Timmons will come in handy. I was glad that I gave him more character than one found in cardboard or on many TV shows.

At this point I'm still plotless but I don't care. I want to see two or three things:

How and why do Calvado and Mack meet?
How do I get to the end?
What is going to happen?

These questions will have remained with me throughout the writing of this novel. And, I hoped when I wrote it, the reader, though I had no idea who the reader was. I was actually hoping the reader would be a literary agent at one of the major publishing houses but that would require editing. I hate editing. I'd rather wait until the next November and write another novel. (Which I did.)

Cutting to the Chase

2007-05-27T03:02:00.000-07:00

Many many moons ago someone pointed out that I begin a lot of chapters with dialog and then fill in the action as we go along. This someone said it was both entertaining and frustrating because if the reader's image of what was being said didn't line up with what I intended, then the reader got lost and had to re-read the opening dialog, given what they eventually learn as the read the chapter.

But, they also added, it is entertaining and urges the reader forward because the inquisitive reader wants to affirm their suspicions of what the dialog was about is correct.

For those reasons - habit, mostly, and to be entertaining - this chapter begins with dialog, in this case, a minor character (a doctor) instructing a major character (Calvado) in the fine art of cutting a corpse. I thought this would be a unique 'meet cute' scene as this is the first time the two main characters meet in the novel. Although it is not the first time they meet chronologically.

Also, one of my friends thought about returning to school to get an advanced nursing degree but balked at having to take autopsy class because, as she said, "What if I meet an old friend on the slab?" Indeed, what would you do if you were a med student and came across an uncle on the autopsy slab?

Hence, we have the autopsy scene. Plus, I like to write characters no matter how small a part they play in the overall scheme of things. I believe this is the first and only time most of the characters in these scene shall ever be seen. They needed the best I could give them as far as characterisation was concerned. I hope I did well by them. Given time constraints.

This is the second day of NaNoWriMo. And I'm ahead of my writing goal.

How Scene One Came To Be

2007-05-27T02:20:00.000-07:00

November One hits the calendar. I'm poised for the National Novel Writing Month and the race is on. How will I open my novel? What should the first scene be? A race! Of course, it seems obvious now. One character, who will become one of the main characters, has to outrun something or someone because of something he has done in the past. Or, as it turns out, something even worse.

Decades ago I wrote a novel in which the main character who, having some idle time, spies on innocent people outside the Chicago Greyhound bus depot just for the fun of it. He describes himself as a hunter and the passersby as the hunted; he, or I, used lots of animal metaphors: sleek, quick, cat-like and the main character even had a car he liked: the Impala. In Calvado, too, you can see the animal influence.

For Calvado, I started with the end, thereby making the whole novel a flashback but one, I hoped, that held everyone's interest for the length of the novel. Why? Well, there's a theory about that. I think that if I know where the novel will end, then I have a goal to work toward. Each action or scene or even character is used to propel myself as I write toward the end. Not knowing the end would lead to me meandering about the countryside like a lost kite - at the whim of the whirls of wind.

Not knowing what happens but knowing how it will all end makes the writing exciting for myself: a highwire act with neither a net nor a prayer. But the tension, the deadline, the task ahead is all the more clearer for me with the end behind me.