A man's hat

This is a short story I started a few days ago partially thanks to The Shadow One's tutorials' renovating my literary flame, so to speak. So tell me what you think and if I should keep writing. This is the introductory chapter. Enjoy. Comments are welcome.


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Chapter 0


A man’s hat.

Sorry.

Because I’m talking about someone with a sizeable ego maybe I should say a Man’s hat. Or even a Man’s Hat. They are both technicalities unspecified on that website on writing tips I’ve been browsing through a few days ago when the day was too hot for customers to keep me busy.

Back to the man’s hat. The man is 85 kilograms of Caucasian Homo Sapiens sitting at a desk at the end of the bright office with his shirt rolled up his arms. He is also my partner in the business.

The hat is 300 grams of Australian leather sitting on top of the man’s desk, casually covering a pile of emails that the man had to sort out during the day. A sizeable pile.

But the man is enjoying the sunny summer day besides the open window and the smell of marihuana from the coffee shop underneath the window mixed with the sounds of the tourist boats going up and down the canal with the speakers shouting out the historical transcendence of the inclined buildings in four different languages.

The office is small and bright on a second floor of an old building close enough to the museum quarter. A great location for our kind of business, although the steps are a bit too steep for some of our potential clients. But, as the man said once, we have to separate the men from the boys.

Our business includes finding stuff. All kinds of stuff. From jewels to people to art and, above all, fat paychecks every now and then. The police have used our services a few times with mixed results – hey, if you don’t like what we can find, don’t ask us to find it – (we are still trying to blend that into our logo), but we were not quite detectives. We never did any of that stuff about finding out if he is cheating on me and when and with how many. That is invading people’s privacy, and we did have our principles.

But fat paychecks have been rare during the last couple of months and the man’s unwillingness to do his job has only increased. Not like was getting any more sociable either. Right now he had been silent like a greek statue sitting at a desk for the last three hours.

He did get like that every now and then though, and on those darker days of his he could outdrink Boris Yeltsin together with all his ministers, not say a word to anyone for days and let his stubble grow until something changed his dark mood. On the bright days however he was the best man to have around, he spoke four languages, and the waitresses in all the cafes on our street would give him free lunches.

- Do you want coffee? – I asked to break the sleepy mood. He stared at me blankly for about a minute as if he didn’t quite understand what I was saying and then shook his head negatively.

Great. Some partner.

I left the office and headed down the corridor to the coffee machine. The only option that didn’t have a red – “product not available” - light on it was black coffee. I pushed the button and waited for the hot – that’s the best thing that can be said about it – liquid to pour down into the plastic glass and realised that sugar wasn’t present either. I stared at my coffee with vengeance before walking back to my desk.

Nothing has changed except that the scent of marihuana from the window was dissipated by a light breeze that intensified the noise of the roadworks on the other side of the canal.

The caffeine was digging slowly into my brain when I’ve finished the little I had to do concerning finding a person for the police, and prove that she was in LA and not Amsterdam therefore ruling her out of the list of possible witnesses in some or other case.

I yawned and stretched. Again. The day was almost over as far as work went, and my partner didn’t seem to be in a mood for beer afterwards. He stood up, chewed something in his mouth and put the hat on. Then looked at me and said his first sentence in hours.
- Come with me, we might have gotten a job. – I was sure he didn’t get it chatting on the phone and I internally thanked Internet for the anonymity it offered as I locked the door of the office.

Very interesting, SwordsMaster. I especially like the way you use the surroundings to create the atmosphere.

Please continue.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Ludens

Very interesting, SwordsMaster. I especially like the way you use the surroundings to create the atmosphere.

Please continue.

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Thanks :bow:

Here is chapter 1 for your enjoyment

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Chapter 1


Thin Lizzy insisted that the boys were back in town on the Jag’s sound system as we drove effortlessly through the late evening traffic making our way back towards the centre of the city from the more industrial area on the south-west where our interview took place. Somehow the man underneath the Australian hat seemed pleased with the fact that we had something to do – not because his chatter was anything but non-existent, mind you – but his spirits seemed to be higher than they were in the office.

Described in one word, the gentleman who interviewed us was sharp. Described in two words, he was not sharp. He was dressed in a fitted suit but you could see that he was uncomfortable wearing it, as if he was forced to for many years, but still wasn’t feeling quite free in it. I know that expression very well, because it’s the same my partner has whenever he has to wear a tie and keep his sleeves down. The expression of a gambler not quite sure if his bluff was through.

What this gentleman asked us to do was to find a woman and her daughter that turned out to be his daughter too. Actually what he wanted us to find was the daughter, with the woman being a necessary evil as she had the legal custody of the child.

The child in question wasn’t a child anymore, she turned 18 and the father wanted to know if now that she was old enough to decide by herself, she would like to move in with him. The problem – and that’s where we kick in – was that neither the address nor the phone number he had with their last known location were valid anymore as several postal notices informed him over the last few months.

Rebecca de-Clare was the name of the young lady. Marianne Galante was the name of the old lady, and Ismael de-Clare was our employer. Or customer. Same difference.

The conversation didn’t flow until after a decent dinner at a centric Japanese restaurant full of trendy couples having some food before filling their stomachs with alcohol and other many and varied drugs available in night Amsterdam.

- So how’d you get the job? – I managed with my mouth full of noodles.
- I googled it. – was the answer. At least he was talking now.
- You know, it’s not my fault you are in a bad mood so why am I suffering the consequences? – this was starting to feel like a marriage.

- We are not married, are we? – Sometimes I wonder if he actually is psychic.

I decided this wasn’t going anywhere and concentrated on the noodles. It was just pointless. We knew each other too well and for too long a time. I know why he was in a bad mood. His girlfriend for a year just left the city and moved back to Wisconsin – don’t know whose fault that was – but I could tell he wasn’t happy about it. For a second I thought about calling her to see if she changed her mind, but then remembered I didn’t have her number and asking him for her ex’s number just a week after they broke up was just plain wrong.

- Are you going to have those? – I pointed. He just shook his head and I reached for the plate.

The waitress, an attractive Japanese woman, came around to ask if everything was fine and my partner gave her a smile and said it was. He was definitely in a better mood than in the morning. Must be the Japanese food. Or the prospect of enrichment through finding that de-Clare lady. Or my company. Yeah, right.

-What’s the plan for the job, then? – Oh, he was talking. His unbearable chatter.

- What we always do. Have a look in the internet and the yellow pages first, then go visit the places, rule out the ones that are impossible and then see what happens. – He’d done it before. Maybe he drank too much last night?
- I know. But are we looking for both of them together or separately? Are we looking in Amsterdam only or in Europe or everywhere in the world? Cause it is going to take us some time if they’re in the middle of Nepal…- He had done it before after all and actually had a point.

-Hmm, yeah. I say we start with Amsterdam and then see where that brings us. – That seemed like the most logical solution. We would start looking at them separately to increase our chances and then rule out the most unlikely combinations.

He chewed a “Sure” and fell silent again.

The Japanese waitress came again with the desserts selection and then again with the bill. We looked at each other in a willpower competition. Finally I got my wallet out. I’ll get back to you on this. My partner smiled a satisfied smile and finished his coffee.

Bastard.

Excellent. Please go on ~:thumb: .

Thanks, sorry for not updating, major exam coming. Will update sometime this week.

Well, sorry about the delay. Real Life was busy. Here's chapter 2


Chapter 2


I screamed as I stapled my index finger. Playing with the stapler while searching for a file on the hard drive of my PC was not the smartest thing I’ve done today. The stapler was one of those models that didn’t open so I had to twist the staple before managing to get it out of my finger, screaming obscenities in the process.

My partner got in with a coffee.
- Are you ok? – he asked in a calm voice.

I nodded with the finger in my mouth and tears rolling down my eyes. He left one of the coffees on my table, walked over to his desk and let his weight fall on the chair. The breeze had changed this morning and the smell from the coffee shop downstairs was less noticeable. It smelled like sea. That big green extension of salty water somewhere outside my window.

Back to the matter at hand, our search has been moderately successful. We found a few people with the names given to us, but they didn’t have apparent relation to each other. We had another couple of potential matches left to visit today, and the man with the hat was arranging the meeting on the phone.

Another meeting. We’ve met a dozen people over the last week but as I said none of them met all the criteria we needed. We were starting to consider moving out, and checking outside Amsterdam, but none of us wanted to make that call to the boss and acknowledge defeat. A minor one, but nothing to be proud of, none the less.

As my finger stopped bleeding and my tears dried, I looked back to the computer screen. Online White pages. France. Some 40 matches in Paris only. I could only guess how much time would it take us to check the rest of France, get rid of the most absurd cases and personally visit the rest. That’s why I had the feeling that one of the two people left in Amsterdam would give us a clue. Or, more accurately that was my wishful thinking.

- I hope one of these will give us something to work with – said my partner across the room. How does he do that?!
- Yeah. I was just thinking the same thing. – Maybe it was just professional deformation or something feng-shui related.
- I can see the tears in your eyes as you look at the Paris phone directory. – There was a grin on his face. The tears in my eyes had to do with me stapling my finger and not with the page, but in any case he was right. Going outside Holland, or, God forbid, Europe would ruin us just on phone bills. And that is extremely bad for business.

I put a plaster on my finger before leaving the office for the first meeting in the Haarlem area my partner has arranged in one of the cafes. So we took the N200 and headed West with enough time to make the five o’clock meeting. The cafe we were meeting in was in the Smedestraat area, so we managed to park nearby and walked the rest of the distance.

- It’s a female – said my partner showing an impressive deductive power. I nodded. Rebecca and Marianne – I remembered. Most likely female.

- How are we going to recognise them? – I asked. My partner made his polarized sunglasses flash in the evening sun as he turned towards me.

- They will. I described you to them meticulously. – How nice of him. Two women looking for me.

- You always so generous. – I replied only to watch him shrug and then grin.

- You know, I live to give. - I couldn’t tell which was more present, sarcasm or vanity.


Ten minutes later a well dressed lady sat in the seat in front of us.

- Good evening. – She said with a French accent. – I’m Marianne Galante.-

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More, more, more! :smash::smash::smash:
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Thanks Mouza



Chapter 3

Marianne Galante was 42, taller than average, well built, and fair haired. She had blue eyes and a friendly smile. Probably the combination of all those made my partner shift on his chair after her greeting. Or maybe it was professional interest. I couldn’t tell.

We introduced ourselves and offered her to choose something from the menu while we talked. Apparently she didn’t know the exact nature of our business, but my partner told her it was important and concerned an investigation about her family.

- We would like to talk about your daughter ms. Galante. – started my partner. Her smile disappeared and I deduced it was a subject close enough to grab her attention.

- My daughter. –She sighted. – Ok. What is it?

- Your ex-husband, Ismael de-Clare wanted to know if your daughter would like to move in with him, now that she has the legal age to decide for herself….

- How many times have you seen my ex-husband? – she interrupted with a hard note in her voice.

- Just once, but… - I started but she interrupted again.

-You don’t know anything about his life, then.- She said. We had to admit we didn’t.
- My daughter hasn’t seen him in years, and she is in an age when she might find attractive the kind of life he can offer her. – she paused for a second and sighted again. – Who am I kidding? Money is always attractive for us, girls, and especially when we are teenagers with a social life… -

My brain had worked out so many sarcastic and slightly chauvinistic jokes about that aspect of the female personality, that finding a woman that admitted to it herself left me blank

- …But I raised her myself, and call me selfish if you want, but I do not think he earned the right to call her his daughter after being absent from our lives for so long. – I was going to take up her offer of calling her selfish, but she kept on talking and I repressed my urge.

- …And the court didn’t grant him custody because of his gambling problems. – Gambling? I didn’t recall Ismael mentioning that during our interview and I felt my partner’s stare on me. Technically it wasn’t our business, but it could affect the outcome, so we should have looked into that before setting up the interview.

- Did he win? – I heard myself asking, completely out of place. I cursed myself internally for my lack of empathy.

- He did, occasionally. – I could tell she was slightly put off by my inopportune interruption. – But I don’t know much about that. He always tried to conceal it as much as possible if you know what I mean… - Oh, I knew. Gambling and losing is not something to be proud of. My partner had had the vice a few years ago.

- Is that why you got divorced? – My partner asked. Her expression changed subtly.
- In part, yes. – she said. We understood. It wasn’t of our business. Or, at this point maybe it was.

- So would you agree to allow us to talk to your daughter about it? – Back to business.

She thought about it for a while. Finally, after finishing her tea she looked at each one of us and shook her head slowly.

- No. I wouldn’t. – After that there was nothing left for us to do but nod, pay for the orders and leave after politely wishing her good night.


Both of us kept silent as we drove back to Amsterdam. We would report to Ismael tomorrow with our findings although the prospect of it made my mouth taste bitter. I didn’t like the idea.

- When did we start looking into family problems? – my partner’s voice was quiet and almost reflexive.

- When did you start getting sensitive about your job? – I countered.

He remained quiet almost until the end of the road. As we took a right, he looked at me again and replied so late I wasn’t expecting a reply anymore.

- When Sarah left me. – he said like a confession. Sarah was his ex-girlfriend from Wisconsin. For the first time I didn’t know what to say.

- I’m sorry. – I said.

After another pause he looked at me again. His tone was different.

- Is pizza good enough for dinner?-

I like this story, it's.......different from the others

i.e. it's not about somebody 3000 years ago, we can relate to these guys.....

MORE!!!!!!!

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More, more, more! :smash::smash::smash:
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Quote:

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Originally Posted by ian_of_smeg16

i.e. it's not about somebody 3000 years ago, we can relate to these guys.....

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Hey! What about those stories written thousands of years in the future?

And this is a good story. Keep it up!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by ian_of_smeg16

i.e. it's not about somebody 3000 years ago, we can relate to these guys.....

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True. That, in my opinion, is one of the strengths of Harry Potter which puts it among the most popular books in the world, ever. Many would just "feel" that the thing could've been real after all, and that somewhere in today's London there could've been the Diagon alley.

Great story, Swordmaster. Please continue on.

Swordsmaster, I gotta say, you are a really good writer. Your style really reminds me of a young Hunter Thompson- as in Rum Diary Thompson, before all the drugs really got to him. The story, unfortunately, isn't my cup of tea, but keep it up- you're doing really well.

kewl style man... u have a way or putting the sentences in a better order and way than I do........ :wall: :whip: :cowboy:

Very good work, SwordsMaster.

I have only two small comment: firstly, your use of hyphen as a dialogue marker is sometimes a bit confusing. Try to use the quotation marks. Secondly, given the title of the story I would expect a more prominent role of the man's headdress. ~D

Please continue!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Ludens

Very good work, SwordsMaster.

I have only two small comment: firstly, your use of hyphen as a dialogue marker is sometimes a bit confusing. Try to use the quotation marks. Secondly, given the title of the story I would expect a more prominent role of the man's headdress. ~D

Please continue!

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I actually have a quite decent part of monologue-reflexion but I wrote it after I posted chapter 0 and I didnt want to disturb the flow so I'll stick that in whenever the occasion presents itself.

The dialogue. Well, I don't know. It seems like every author does it differently, I'ver read a lot of people that use hyphens and probably just as many who use quotation marks...

See, at first my idea was to use quotation marks for inner "thinking" or internal monologues, but as the story is told from a very subjective point of view, I thought that would be unnecessary....

Thanks all for the comments and the kind words. :bow:

Well, luckily I've had a bit of free time tonight, so I've finished Chapter 4 and here it is for you:


Chapter 4

Ismael’s office was big and well illuminated with expensive furniture and leather armchairs for guests and a small coffee table made of black marble. There was a computer on his table, a telephone with a lot of buttons and a bronze head that served for decoration and as a paperweight.


- So she refused, then? – Ismael de Clare towered over his desk. I thought it was probably the same position he used to intimidate his employees. My partner looked unimpressed as he was sitting in the comfortable armchair covered in black leather.

- That is correct. We can provide you with the contact details if you want them. – he said in a voice that sounded as if he was giving de Clare a lesson in etiquette.

- But you expect full payment…- de Clare added in a quieter tone as he walked towards the window.

- Of course. We found the people you asked us to find and we are now giving up the information you provided us with. – I put a few folders on the table and sat back again.

Ismael considered us for a moment. You could tell he was trying to decide if he should try and push us further. For what though? We were giving him the information he was entitled to have, and we did the job he asked us to do. Maybe he was thinking if we have been digging in his legal affairs.

Finally he took a chequebook from a drawer in a table, looked at me and then my partner again and then at my partner’s hat on the table, and then filled in the cheque. And I was far from imagining that that is where all our problems would start. I mean, a cheque was a very promising beginning for a business relationship.

My partner was silent, for a change, for a very long time as we made our way down to the Spui and sat in the Luxembourg. His hands were playing with the hat on the table and he seemed to ignore the beer completely.

- What is wrong? – I asked. I didn’t feel the best with myself either and I was irritated although I tried to convince myself that we were just being professional and that it was ok for a father to know the whereabouts of his daughter.

- I don’t know. - he barked. – I just don’t think this is right. He didn’t look concerned about them. Did he ever ask about what did she look like? No he didn’t. – That wasn’t of much importance, but I think my partner just wanted something to hang on to.

Surprisingly although I was arguing against him, I wanted something to hang on to as well. Maybe I was expecting him to give me some argument that would convince me to do something about it. I don’t know.

- He is the father, though. – I was giving him the same stuff I was giving my brain, with the same result.

- He is a gambler. – Apparently my partner didn’t believe in redemption.

- Well, then you are a gambler too on your scale. – It was a bit harsh, but I was irritated and we knew each other for a long time. Time gives you certain privileges.

- Sarah didn’t leave, did she? – there was bitterness there. And anger. And something fragile as well.

He remained silent. Then sipped his beer and left.

I didn’t stop him.

I stayed there. Finished my beer. Then I finished my partner's. And then ordered another one.

Finally I was able to take a deep breath in and look around me leaving the worries of the day somewhere in the back of my head, to be dealt with tomorrow.

My partner’s hat was still on the table.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by SwordsMaster

I actually have a quite decent part of monologue-reflexion but I wrote it after I posted chapter 0 and I didnt want to disturb the flow so I'll stick that in whenever the occasion presents itself.

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I see ~D .

Quote:

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The dialogue. Well, I don't know. It seems like every author does it differently, I'ver read a lot of people that use hyphens and probably just as many who use quotation marks...

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Well, the internet is home to many people that speak many different languages and a lot of them don't know the proper usage of English punctuation marks. Hyphen are used to indicate a severe break in the sentence, either because it was interrupted ("But you said–" "No, I didn't!"), or because an unrelated sentence was dropped in the middle ("For our tour of the museum, we will now proceed to the main hall, which houses one of the finest examples of early Impressionist art – Sir, please don't touch the paintings – and also many other interesting works.").

Hyphens are used as dialogue markers in several other languages, but this is not correct in English because it would interfere with the hyphen's other functions. The point of punctuation is to avoid confusion, but using a punctuation mark for multiple functions rather defeats this point.

Ahem, sorry for ranting off like that, improper use punctuation is a pet pieve of mine. ~:)

Quote:

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Hyphens are used as dialogue markers in several other languages, but this is not correct in English because it would interfere with the hyphen's other functions. The point of punctuation is to avoid confusion, but using a punctuation mark for multiple functions rather defeats this point.

Ahem, sorry for ranting off like that, improper use punctuation is a pet pieve of mine.

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Thats cool, there are things that upset me about other people's writing too... ~:cheers:

See, most of the literature I read in my teenage years was either Russian or Spanish and not English, so I'm kinda more used to hyphens.... I might change my style after I finish "A man's hat", but I don't want to change the whole story because of that. Being lazy is one of the reasons, yes. ~D

Is this still to be continued?

I would be sorry to see this story go unfinished.

Quote:

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Originally Posted by Ludens

Is this still to be continued?

I would be sorry to see this story go unfinished.

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:yes:
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:gah:
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Good news guys, I might be able to post the next chapter by the end of the week.

Thanks for the attention :bow:

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:elephant:
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Ta,ta daaaaa!!

New chapter ready. Was away surfing for the weekend, so didn't post it as intended. Sorry, but when the surf is up, the surf is up....




Chapter 5

I put the hat on and left the place. The car was gone. My partner must have assumed - correctly- that I wouldn't drive. I wasn't really in the best shape to drive or operate heavy machinery anyway.

I kept walking towards home, ignoring the trams and the drunk english teenagers, and the stoned teenagers from all other nations. Drug tourism only got bigger with the Euro. Apparently our european friends were happy enough to let their youths go get stoned to another country as long as they kept trouble out of home. Which usually meant more work for us.

By 'us' I meant my partner and I.

I made my way across the canal in the darkness, and the crownds became thinner at the other side. I still hadn't noticed the two cars following me.
I was too worried about walking in a straight line as I crossed the road. After another few minutes of pacing the empty streets, I ended up in the park
just across from the Opera House.

I breathed in deeply. The alcohol was starting to disipate with the cool air and the exercise.

That moment was when the first car, big and dark, stopped besides me and two men got out. Big men. Dressed in dark clothing.
As they approached I knew they were not there with good purposes and tried to prepare myself for a fight. Before I could even think of how to do that one of them hit me in the stomach.
I bent down, winded, and then a punch exploded behind my left ear just as I struggled for air. The night exploded in pieces and I was unconscious.



When I recovered my senses I was in motion. It took me a minute to realise that I was in a car. More specifically my partner's car. And that there was a bloody baseball bat on the back seat. My partner's shirt was also bloody.
Sometimes I'm really happy that my partner has just about enough social skills to resolve his differences with a baseball bat. Maybe he should run for president. I'll ask him sometime.

- I followed you. - He said, before my drunk and beaten brain could come around to formulating the question. Psychic, I'm telling you.

I digested that.

- Why would anyone want to follow me and then beat me up? - I managed.

- Because you were wearing my hat. - He meant that I looked like him to a pair of contracted goons that only had a few details to work with and the hat was probably the most significative one.

- So...? - I didn't quite follow.

- I gave our friend Ismael false information. - He didn't even blink. That is why he was trying to justify himself in the cafe.

- And why would you do that? - I was getting angry. I mean, my partner's principles had just cost me a bump the size of a pigeon's egg...

- Because she didn't deserve it. - He said quietly after a bit of a pause. Suddenly all the anger was gone. I let air out.

Sometimes his gentlemanly outbursts have really bad timing. At least he could have told me.
Deep inside I knew he did the right thing, and that I should have thought of it myself.

- Now what? - I finally mustered. I touched my head. Pain.

He grinned in my direction.

- You have no choice but go with the flow now. -

- For your own sake I hope 'the flow' doesn't mean another beating.- Was he being funny? Nah. Was he?

- In words of Tyler Durden: "we are about to hit bottom".

I just shook my head.

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:2thumbsup:
:jumping:
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Next chapter coming up shortly. I'm just really busy with Real Life... It is mostly done anyway.

I thought you might want to know...

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~:thumb:
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Quote:

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Originally Posted by Mouzafphaerre

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~:thumb:
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What he said. ~D

Thanks for your patience. Chapter 6 is ready. Comments as always are very welcome.:bow:



Chapter 6



We had been sitting in the car for some twenty minutes. Right in front of us was the house at the false address my partner gave our employer. Ex-employer.

It was a clean street south of the city centre, nice, medium-class houses with a lot of vegetation and cycling lines following the sidewalks.

I was now even more convinced that my partner did the right thing, although I had that taste in my mouth you are left with when you face things you didn’t want to face. Or hoped you wouldn’t. Like if you discovered your best friend was scoring your girlfriend.

Of course this was much less poetic and as far as I could see, no females were involved whatsoever. It would be surprising if they were, considering the nature of what was going on, and the hour.

In short, the house was being raided.

There was a van outside with concealed plates, a guy standing by the van, another one by the house – I could see the burning dot of the cigarette in his mouth move around as he looked up and down the street – and another three men inside.

They had been in for a few minutes and looked professional.

- Does anybody live there? – I enquired. My partner was staring at the house.

- Not anymore. – he looked me straight in the face. I should have recognised the street. It was his own old place. A chill went down my spine. Some courage he had.

- Do you mind if I crash at your place for a few days? – he was smiling. The big bastard was smiling just as some goons were turning his house upside down. I mean, in his place I would be really mad, and I would ruin the plan and break into the house and take as many of them with me as possible.

- What about your stuff? – I managed.

- Most of it is in the trunk. The rest is not worth the hassle of saving it. – I think he had been preparing this since we met that woman in the café.

My attention was brought back to the house just as I opened my mouth to add something else. The men were leaving. They didn’t make any audible noise, turned on any lights or broke anything we could see. Professionals, as I said earlier.

My partner twisted the key and the engine turned on smoothly. He kept the lights off as the men climbed into their van and made their way down the street. As they turned around the corner, we followed them.

- What is that they are driving? – my partner turned to a main road without even checking if there was incoming traffic, and switched on the lights.

- A gray Fiat. Scudo, I think. – I noticed we were moving in a westerly direction.

- Do you know where we are going? – my partner just shrugged.

- Ismael is a resourceful man. – he said. He was wrong though. I was resourceful, Ismael was on a whole different level.

-Speaking of resources… What does he do for a living? – I asked as we took a left and saw the van two blocks ahead taking another left.

- He owns a casino. – was the answer. I though about it. That left me with more questions than I could hope to get answers for. So I decided that time would provide as much information as I might need.

My partner’s gambling inclinations were suddenly in sharper light. The fact that he didn’t want to talk about how he got the job also offered an interesting insight into the whole situation.

The Jag kept moving smoothly towards the west, and I pressed the stereo button to silence the thoughts in my head. “Paradise City”. How damn appropriate.

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You should seriously consider having this published in a periodic as a series. :2thumbsup:

Only twoone minor typoes for the sake of being picky: "for a living" it should be, not "leaving" and "A gray Fiat" with an 'a'; "grey" is about dogs, as in 'greyhound' or my LIB brother and web patron 'Grey Dog'. ~D

Add/Corr.
Forget about the gray/grey. I see Tolkien uses grey, only grey and nothing but grey for the colour. :wall:
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Quote:

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Originally Posted by Mouzafphaerre

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You should seriously consider having this published in a periodic as a series. :2thumbsup:

Only two minor typoes for the sake of being picky: "for a living" it should be, not "leaving" and "A gray Fiat" with an 'a'; "grey" is about dogs, as in 'greyhound' or my LIB brother and web patron 'Grey Dog'. ~D
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LOL, Thanks. Corrected... Odd mistakes, my english isn't that bad... No, I mean, Really ~D

Very good. I second Mouzafphaerre's statement about a periodic.

I have two comments though: the first is that it is sometimes a bit hard to determine who is speaking. For example the bit where the I-person asks for the car-make, I initially thought it was the man with the hat talking. Secondly the man with the hat is dominating the story a bit too much for my taste. Off course, it is his story, but I'd like to know more about the I. Exactly what is his role, except for serving as the narrator?

But these are just minor things. Please carry on ~:thumb: .

Can't reveal everything yet. You will have to keep reading... ~;)

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Very good. I second Mouzafphaerre's statement about a periodic.

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I would, but my female fans don't want to share me with others and my laziness is too impressive to put myself under such pressure...~D

Although who knows?

Next chapter will be up this weekend. I need some sleep and alcohol ingestion before I can sit on a PC again... The pre-christmas rush has me all over the place.... ~:cheers:

Sorry for the delay. I managed to burn the power supply unit on my PC so I had to wait to get into college to get this posted. Thanks again for keep reading this.
Comments are welcome, as always.
:san_smiley: (ha! funny smiley!)


Chapter 7


It was my turn to be on watch in front of Ismael’s office building. We had spent the last forty hours watching the place, taking four hour turns, but the grey van was still parked at the door.

The weather was horrible. Just plain disgusting. Fog in the morning and pouring rain that started just after midday and forced us to move closer to the building to keep eye contact with the object of our observation.

I sighted and lowered the binoculars. The blinds on Ismael’s windows were closed, the van was still on the same spot and water kept pouring out of the sky. The pedestrians - the brave few who were goofing around in the rain – didn’t look particularly suspicious either. A mixture of pitiful and irritated appropriate to the weather and the time of the day.

My partner slept in the Jag parked on the opposite corner of the junction, in the direction opposite to mine so that no matter which way our target moved one of us could follow without disrupting the traffic and drawing too much attention on ourselves. We liked to perfect these little details. It gave a professional impression to our customers.

So I brought a dark BMW to the scene which wasn’t suspicious because in the area we were in, there were about a dozen of them parked on the street. I brought something more convincing and intimidating with me too. Underneath my seat there was a German made HK USP45, a very handy weapon loaded with 12 rounds of calibre .45 and an extra clip in my pocket. I was not getting another beating.

A car arrived to the building. It wasn’t Ismael’s car – not the one he used to go home anyway; one of us followed that one every time – and two men got out. One of them wore a white Jewish kippah , and the other one looked like a bodyguard: well dressed, tall and with good shoulders. That reminded me of a joke I heard a while ago and which was quite inappropriate for the seriousness of the situation, but the brain does these things.

Back to our men. They left the car right in front of the entrance, although it was a non-parking zone, as indicated by the yellow net on the road, surprisingly bright through the rain, and that made me think that they were either really important or in a great hurry or that the driver couldn’t read the signs. Something told me it wasn’t the last one. Must have been the years in the job.

I had to make a decision. Keep watching the building or follow these guys when they came out.

I rang my partner. I heard seven tones before his sleepy voice sounded through the speaker:

- Go on. – he said – Bless me. – Oh, the good old sarcasm.
- Listen. See that car parked at the entrance? –
- Wait…. – I heard him turning – Yeah. – the voice sounded more alert.
- I am going to follow it because it’s on my side of the road, and you will have to stay on watch. – I kept my eyes on the entrance.
- OK – he hung up. He had no need of further encouragement.

I grabbed the binoculars again in an attempt to read the car’s plate, but with the rain and the angle I couldn’t distinguish much. I then took a picture of the car, the building and then both of them together. And then I raised the binoculars again.

The two men were leaving. I turned on the engine just as the big guy closed the door and I wondered for a second if someone was watching us from inside Ismael’s building with the same dedication with which we were watching it from outside. I hoped not.

I followed the car, and managed to take a picture of the plates a few blocks away, as we stopped at some traffic lights. We were moving towards the centre again.

After about an hour driving in heavy traffic, they led me to a back street behind a big building. I stopped outside on the other side of the street and pulled my binoculars again. The men entered the building through the back door leaving the car in the alley. I turned to a main street and went around the building.
Here was the wolf’s lair:

“Casino Diamond”

~:thumb:

Sorry for not updating. I'm just really busy until February. There will be more.

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About time! :2thumbsup:
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Originally Posted by SwordsMaster

Sorry for not updating. I'm just really busy until February. There will be more.

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At least you are posting. I have been working on a story for thirteen months now, and I am still stuck at chapter two. :gah2:

In other words: don't worry, and take your time. ~:thumb:

And I would like to thank my fans, my dog, and the Gods, and present to your attention the next chapter:

Enjoy

Chapter 8


After parking the car away from the casual eye, I sneaked around the back. The back street was everything a casino needs for supplying itself: loading and unloading decks, rows of rubbish bins for different purposes, a fair smell of rotten food from a day's cooking, and big cardboard boxes that bums have not got their hands on just yet.

As I searched the street for a suitable entrance to the building, a noise and sudden bright light made me duck for cover behind some container. Peeking through the gap between the smelly black plastic and the wall, I saw that one of the loading bay's doors was open, and two men were dragging something out to the street in a rubbish bag. They did not look like kitchen boys though, their shoulders were way too big, and their silent commitment way too serious for a couple of kitchen boys taking out the thrash. I instantly knew there was a body in that bag. I had to know who's.

One of the men walked back in, closing the door behind him, and the other lit up a cigarette before dragging the bag to the nearest container and walking towards the exit of the street. I imagined they were waiting for something. Probably transportation.

This was my only chance so, as carefully as I could, I sneaked around my hiding spot towards the black bag. I put on my gloves so as not to leave fingerprints, and watched the goon who stopped a few metres away from the entrance into the alley and seemed concentrated on smoking and watching the street. I reached the bag, and ripped with my keys the part where I thought the head should be.

I was right, the head was there. It answered more questions than it solved. From the bag, our Ismael's dead eyes were damn questioning for a dead guy. We thought he was the bad guy.

My first reaction was to return to my hiding spot but I took out my phone and took a picture of the body framed in the dark alley, with the casino's name clearly visible.

Who the fuck are you? - I heard behind me.

I had forgotten about the man, and there he was, like a big mountain of muscle and firepower. I could smell the metal. I stood up, I had to keep him talking.

Excuse me? - I said.
I said, who... - And then I punched him with all the power I could muster. I hit him somewhere between the nose and the ear, and then punched him again, straight, and felt the crack of bone under my knuckles, then I kneed him in the crotch, and head butted him as he bent – a move I had learnt with choreographic precision in the old days of bar fighting in Asia – I continued with another punch to the side of his head that made him fall over, and ran as fast as I could towards my car.

There was no explanation for this in my head. Unless they were completely independent events, a local mafia war or something of that kind.

Impossible. I do not believe in coincidences. As cliché as that is. There must be something else. Maybe my partner will know. Or maybe the woman knows more than she told us. Or maybe I should find and ask the daughter. Although before I did any of that I had to know who benefits from killing our employer. Who owns the casino now? I could hardly hope for an interview with his lawyer, but maybe the woman would be able to tell me.

I sat in the car, wiping the blood off my clothes, and then I looked up. A very familiar car parked around the corner from the entrance of the casino.

A nice, albeit short, episode. I am glad to see you are continuing this.

Extremely good and highly readable. Please continue!

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Originally Posted by Ludens

A nice, albeit short, episode. I am glad to see you are continuing this.

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Perhaps I spoke too soon? Or is real life interfering again?
:book:

Really sorry about this. I just have no time for creativity. A major thesis deadline is coming up, and it is not all working out as smooth as I'd hoped. So unfortunately there is not going to be an update for a while.

This being said, I do plan to finish this thing, as the plot is already planned and it would be a shame to waste it.

Again, sorry.