MeSan (A Story of the Streets)

He really couldn't say when they or where they first met.
All he could recall was that she was in a hurry to go somewhere and that he was never in a hurry to go anywhere. The streets of the city were a gray dirty affair like the stoic jumble of disorganized chaos crammed in between the orderly building blocks that defined his world. There were glimpses of color but most days were just gray, so gray that the word "were" drove him crazy with the desire to find a can of paint and throw it out onto the grayness just to change the predictability that existed from street to street.
Then she appeared in his path as he trudged through the city on his way to a job that was largely meaningless other than it gave him income to continue to exist in this dull sense of life among the gray boxes of the city. She was a thin girl, almost a whisper of a dream, in gray clothes like the other people on the sidewalks trudging midst the bland colors of cars trundling along in their collective gaseous wakes. what made her stand out to him as she was walking straight towards him, a RED blouse peeking out from under her torn gray coat.
When the intersection between them finally closed she looked up into his eyes and smiled. Then it was as if they had always known each other. A certain familiarity seemed to exist there between them, as the rest of humanity crowded around them as if they had become an island in the stream of emotionless motion. She reached out to touch his arm.
"There you are." She said. Her voice small yet strong.
His heart thudded into his chest, breathing was harder than normal as if her red blouse had awoken the blood in his veins.
"Where are you going?"
"To- to work." Help! I need to talk, I need to breathe. "I think."
"Great, I will walk with you."
She kept a hold of his arm as she turned to stand beside him and they began to move back into the mortal current of urban life.
Strangely, he could never remember whether they ever made it to his job or not.
The walk was all there was in that memory, that and the RED blouse, her smile, the touch of her hand in his.

Time passed.
He wasn't sure how much, but it could have been days, weeks, years. Each day, he would leave his small featureless apartment and meet her on the streets. He was never sure it was in the same place, he never stopped to consider that it was. She was always there before him. He seemed to be always late.
She would come up to him and say:
"There you are."
And the walk would begin, usually ending when (and if) they got to his job. It would resume when he left at the end of his shift. She would be waiting for him outside his building.
"There you are."
The soft touch of her warm hand.
Sometimes they would walk on by his workplace, and spend the day walking the streets looking at nothing other than each other, Him, trying to memorize every inch of her. She leaning slightly against his shoulder, the faint smile playing against her lips. They did not talk much, except to decide what turn was next.
At the end of the day, she would stop and he would realize that they were at his building. He would go over, every reason he could think of to ask her up to his tiny one-room apartment. Every cause that would make her come to his bed, but nothing came as they would look into each other's eyes.
Then she would let go of his hand, smiling up at him before turning away and disappearing into the crowd of people who always seemed to be all around them.

Time passed.
Seasons in the city are somewhat indistinct. It's warm, then it's wet, then it's cold, sometimes it's windy, some days it is so hot that everything slows down to a molten state. Nothing moves but the endless stream of vehicles moving across the overpass, the tarmac asphalt going nowhere but always going.
They stood in the rain, they were standing in the rain when it all changed.
"I've got to go." She suddenly said. There was no smile on her face.
"I'm running late."
He looked down at her, all his forgotten fears creeping out of the shadows where they had apparently been hiding.
"Will you come back."
She tried to let go of his hand but he found he did not want to let go.
She forced a smile as she looked down at their hands.
"I'm sorry." He said and forced his hand to let go of hers.
She looks disappointed for a brief moment, then she was gone and he was there standing alone in the rain.

She did come back, but it wasn't the same.
For one thing, He would walk out of his building in the morning and not find her where he was sure that she usually waited for him. She would eventually show up, rushing along slightly ahead of the wave of crushing humans pushing along towards their collective destinations.
"I'm running late." She would say taking his hand, pulling him along.
They would walk to her place of work, another featureless shell squatting in the concrete forest of buildings. She would look up at him and say:
"I've got to go."
Then her hand would slip from his and she would be gone into the dull monolith and he would be alone in the chaos of the day.
When he got off, he would not find her waiting for him so he would wander back to her place of work only to wait for minutes that seemed like hours and perhaps they were. She would finally emerge from her building looking tired and taut as if she was wound up to breaking. Then he would take her hand and they would walk away from that place back to his apartment.
They would pause there and as he would begin to search for the words that would not come she would slip her hand from his and smile sadly before vanishing out of his life once more.

He wasn't sure about what had happened until one day, when the rains had stopped and the chills began to fill the city streets. On that day, as he stood waiting for her, he knew what had bothered him for all the past few weeks or months, she no longer wore that red blouse. He felt, perhaps for the first time, a dread, a kind of despair as he knew that her hands were no longer warm either, they had grown cool, that they had become harder than the softness they had once shared. Such a sweet sense of sorrow filled him at that moment, there on the curb as a cold wind howled through the steel canyons of this unforgiving city.
She was there, in front of him, she looked up into his face, as the tears wet his skin. She smiled nervously biting her lip. He shook his head, he didn't even know her name.
"I'm running late." She said reaching for his hand.
Time stopped.
"I don't even know your name," he said.
"I've got to go," she whispered before she fled into the chlorinated fog rolling around them.
He didn't go back to work that day.
He didn't go back to work.
He lost that apartment.
He didn't see her again.
He went back to the place they met but she wasn't there.

He found another job. A job he could remember doing each day. He became a courier, ferrying packages and messages from one building to the next. One day, a message brought him to her place of work, the squatting behemoth of glass and rock clawing at the ever-present smog above it. He looked up at the doors of the place and fear and dread and excitement filled him. His heart hammered at his chest but he went in any way. He delivered his message to a man sitting behind a big desk who did not acknowledge his existence save only to take the letter from his outstretched hand, open it, read the paper and crumple it before dropping it into a waste can by his big desk. He left, as he walked down the long halls lined with windows, he could see the cubicle drones working away at their computers.
It was then he saw her. He froze in place in the hallway. She looked thinner than she had ever had and sad as she frowned at her monitor in concentration. She wore no colors in that white room with gray walls and gray desks, Her clothes were featureless as were those of all who sat around her.
I hate the word "were," he thought.
He wanted to pound on the glass but he knew it would do him or her any good.
He knew he had to act, to do something to bring the color back into her life.
He turned and walked away with a new confidence that he never knew he had.
She watched him go, trying to decide where she had seen him from.

Fear is the nature of life, she thought as her fingers rested on the keys of her keyboard. Who had that strange man been? No matter, there was always more work. Life is about the progress of work.
You can track it, see how far you have come, how far you can go.
Really, there is no time for anything else.
No time.
Her hands are shaking as they hover over the keyboard.
Carefully she pulls them into her lap where no one can see the fear grip them. Calm, I must be calm.
"Is there a problem?"
She looks up at the Man towering over her desk.
She shakes her head.
"Just a cramp, sir."
The Man tuts. clicking his tongue against his teeth in disgust.
"Sorry."
"Back to work." Is all he says.
She must force her hands back up.
The hours go by.
The day drags on.
The walk home is dull, a dull ache pushes against her brain.
She finds her small door, the narrow room that makes her apartment looms before her.
The narrow bed, gray sheets, the solitary window that faces the alley, the dead flower in the window box, the faded curtain drifts out on some current that filters down the alley promising a breeze that never comes.
She lies in bed waiting for sleep. She doesn't long for any comfort of it in the grey city in the gray night where the city illuminates everything with a subdued light that becomes gray as it clears the streets.
When sleep comes, the bliss of the Abyss follows folding her into a dreamlessness.

Except she did dream.
Once her formless soul fell into the REM state, she found herself in the colored dream.

Morning came.
She awoke staring at the ceiling of her apartment wondering what had happened in the night.
She tried to reach for it with her mind but the memory of the dream slipped away into the grey morning.
She got up.
She dressed in the drab clothes.
She brushed her teeth.
She ate the grey oatmeal.
She locked her door.
She walked out into the light.
She stopped at the corner almost sure she was supposed to meet someone.
Someone who never came.
She walked to the bus.
She rode the bus with the grey people there.
She walked into the grey slab building.
She rode the drab elevator to the 17th floor
She walked down the rows of identical desks
She sat down at her desk
Where a RED rose sat in a glass vase on her desktop.
She stared at the rose in shock.
The Man came to stare at the rose as well.
"What is this?' he says.
"I don't know, sir," she says.
It's a lie. She knows that somehow her dream has found her.
"Get rid of it." The Man says. "Then get to work."
She carefully lifts the rose out of the vase.
It is so light and soft, she almost fails to see the YELLOW note.
Carefully, she picks up the note, it reads.
"MeSan" that is all. but she remembers the name and what had happened before
she lost the dream. Now with the rose in one hand and note in the other she turns to find the Man considering her.
"I quit," she says.
"You can't quit. You're fired." He says.
She smiles at him, he flinches, no one smiles at him. She turns away and runs down the rows of identical desks past the drab sameness of people until she finds the stairs. Through the RED door and down the stairs. She barely notices the descent to the street. She steps out onto the curb to find him on his messenger bike there.
"There you are," he said.

DefCon Final

Just a quick note to remind you the DefCon story has moved to my website and it's own blog page.
A lot of experimentation has resulted in a book format for those of you who are new to this story, should be ready by Christmas, plus new installments there soon.

Life

is short and sweet.
or so they keep telling me

The Lion walks commentary

I started this project as an idea that my mother and I discussed trying to publish a book that was a collection of Witch Doctor and similar stories that captured the wealth and depth of the mystery that was and probably still is South Africa. I felt that the collection would need a framework or vehicle to carry the reader from one tale to the next. I was not comfortable with the idea of just presenting the public (reader) with another collection of stories. So I took a page from Robert Aspirin's Sanctuary series which were a series of short fantasy stories told by various authors all under the roof (or rather within the walls) of a Fantasy setting called Sanctuary. To some degree those books did work for the most part.
I later was forced to abandon the project as running down enough source material became tedious and bothersome to collect and my own creativity was pulled to other projects and the requirement of basic income consumed my energy to expound on the original concept. Added to that was a failed attempt to return to SA to add to the collection and give some fresh experiences to fill out the background more thoroughly.
Finally, and perhaps most disappointing was the total lack of enthusiasm I received from pretty much everyone I talked about the project to.

So, I put it all to the side and begin work on some non-fiction project that have consumed me (for the most part) until recently.

Who knows if I will return to it. it would help if I knew I had an audience for the amount of effort that it will ultimately take to produce it with any real quality.

A Lion walks under the shadow of the African Valley of the Moon: A Trek into the stories of Southern African and one man’s heart.

Bartlomeus Ridder lived a life filled with trouble and turbulence of which his boyhood chum, Michael knew nothing of save that he had always suspected that Bart’s future would not be promising or bright. Bart’s life ended at forty leaving a shattered family and a lost brother somewhere out in Namibia not knowing that Bart had died. Michael, who had found Bart through Facebook and had just begun to recover the lost years since he had returned to the States, did not realize the impact his friendship had made on Bart during those brief years at Max Stibbe.

            Michael had already looked in returning to South Africa to meet up with his old friend and look for others who made up his own past. His experiences with Facebook had forced him to reevaluate his own interpretations of his life, but with Bart’s sudden death had made it unavoidable for Mike to confront his own demons rather than just consider them. Michael decided that it was time enough to return to the Dark Continent, the land of his birth.

            To those of you, who have never been to Africa, know this, Africa is about land and this fact has more impact on a person’s soul than most can possibly recognize. Once in Africa always in Africa, the land is as inescapable as the promise of death. There is something about the land that will never let you completely go. Sure you can go somewhere else, live someplace else, even call it home and believe every word of it in your hearts of hearts, but Africa still owns a piece of that soul regardless. This was especially true for Michael.

            Michael had the advantage of being born there, so the part that belonged to Africa had settled in his soul from the beginning. He considered East Tennessee his home, did not long to live elsewhere and figured he would die there as well. But when he would close his eye and let his mind run free it would return him to the veldt of the Transvaal and he would run with the buck through the long grasses.

            He could not explain it to anyone who had never been to Africa, had ceased trying to talk about how it was almost like hearing the mythical drums in the jungle when his mind would wander. The drums had sounded louder and louder over the past few days since the news of Bart’s death had reached him in a tearful phone call from his estranged daughter Natasha. Michael knew that he would have to go and help Natasha put the pieces together, never mind say goodbye to his old friend.

            Michael’s mother was from East Tennessee and his father was from the Transvaal. His parent’s had met in Europe in the sixties and fallen in love and later married after his mother came to South Africa. They settled down to life in the largest city, Johannesburg. That was many years past and life had not gone quite what it should seem, but Africa had gotten into his mother’s soul as well. Michael had come along after another child and apparently was a bit of a surprise for his father when he did.

            Michael’s parents had not remained in South Africa long; his father had dreams of American living and persuaded his mother to return there. So an ocean crossing by ship was arranged and they were bound for the promise land. American life was very much a dream for Michael, a waking dream from which awakening as the eventual return to South Africa seven years later. His parents could never quite explain the reasons for going back, at least his mother had a firmer idea of what she had wanted, but his father avoided the topic completely for many years following.

            Michael first met Bartlomeus Ridder in the spring of 1981 at a school out in the middle of nowhere in the veldt east of Pretoria, the capital city of South Africa. Max Stibbe School was a boarding school on farm outside of a small town (someplace) east of Pretoria about two hours northeast of Johannesburg.

Juliet

Juliet, 

She is my poem, my muse, my love song
I sing it to her above me up there on her 
balcony
Under this full moon out from her bedroom
her hands fall upon the iron rail
my Shakespeare fails and speechless my words
run dry in my arid throat
words no longer rhyme as if the stop thump of 
my heart has forgotten how to start
She sings my name into the night
I find the pen is in my hand 
it is heavy with my sudden delight
to scratch to scrawl to write our names 
entwined on the white city walls
Juliet, I love you more than the stars
above, more than the flowers in the spring
more than the water in the well
more than the empty oaths I will tell
call to me and I will come to the
window where her lamp light breaks
on a stage, on the paper on the tattered page
her ink is scribbled on my heart
her lines are read written for her part
I life is a play and we stand now upon his whim
will William give me a chance like this again?

let's start again

       Paul sat up slowly, his face was  on  fire and it was wet. He absently wiped at the wetness on his cheek. Fucking women, why did  they have to get so violent? In his own opinion it was all this women's lib and  medication that was making them so unreliable. If we had been alone, I would have hit her back, he thought sullenly. He clambered to his feet, something  ran down his cheek.
       That Bitch! Monday,  when he got into the office,, he would  call that asshole down at the Police Station and tell him that he was going to press charges! He  was  right by God. He  wasn't going to take this  lying down. No one threatened Paul Murray  and got away- his bladder chose at that moment to remind him to be elsewhere. He inwardly clenched then began walking towards the men’s restroom.
        “She sure knocked the spit out of you.” cheered a man in blue jeans and black shirt that said something like `Hell Yeah!’ on it.
        "Fuck you asshole." Paul mumbled as he strode past  the overweight man.

Where the spit hits the fan

He glanced back to the concession counter to confirm that he had been heard. He looked back to Caitlin, who sat stiffly with a shocked expression on her face. She looked as if Paul had just slapped her and Paul decided that this was better than hitting her. Almost all the color had drained from her face, her mouth was moving but no sound escaped from her lips. Her right hand worked a class ring around her index finger in rapid twists. She blinked and then blinked again. Paul looked back to the concession stand to find everyone, three employees, an assistant manager and a customer staring back. Steven, the manager was in his office with a phone call, but had stopped midway and stood with the phone dangling in one hand as if deciding what to do. Paul then turned back to Caitlin.

“Are you listening to me!” Paul said as he turned back to face her. He heard the door to the office close behind him. “I will ruin you.”

Caitlin did not answer. Her right hand kept twisting the ring. She appeared to be caught in the moment. Then the color began to return to her face. She looked at Paul with newfound hatred.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to.” Paul said as he glanced once more to the concession stand and noticed that the manager had joined them. Paul noted that he wasn’t coming over and relaxed.

He looked back at Caitlin. To his surprise, she made a quick movement and her right arm blurred. Paul barely had time to blink before Caitlin’s right hand struck his jaw with a resounding smack and a searing pain stabbed his face. She literally knocked the words out of his mouth, slapping him so hard that his saliva hit the wall. Paul toppled off the bench and rolled to the floor with a thud.  He lay there in shock as Caitlin rose to her feet. She looked at him, then at her hand, as if seeing the ring for the first time. A look of realization flooded into her face as she eyed first her hand and then Paul’s face.

            Cheers erupted as the employees and a customer broke the silence. Caitlin looked back at Paul, somehow knowing what he would do now. She looked over to the concession stand to find both Steven and his assistant on the phone.

“Cops,” she murmured, “no, oh not that.” She turned away from Paul and fled the theater out into the night and the rain. 

Note: I like this scene, it's where we see that Caitlin Marshall is made of firmer stuff than what Paul Murray has decided she is. I want to someohow rewrite it in order to enhance her femininity while keeping her human. There must be some measure of the sexiness/lust/mix that Paul feels for her there but at the same time a hidden strength that he has not seen or at least taken notice- I I feel it is important since Caitlin will be the prime suspect for awhile in the early part of the book. As Sam Waterton would say- it points to motive, and motive is all.

The good old days (sort of)

A year ago, Caitlin had joined the District Attorneys’ office fresh out of law school. She was vigorous and ambitious. She won several cases in the lower courts and had set her targets on the higher ones. She had drawn the attention of both the DA and the Attorney General with her erasable calm, professional demeanor and her quiet focus as she tackled one case after another. She seemed driven, Paul was attracted to that drive believing that it would make her formidable in bed, after all it he believed he had that same drive.

Paul had met her at a subsequent meeting and asked her out. Apparently his idea of an aggressive invitation had not been shared. He had placed his hand on her buttocks as a flirtation. She had not welcomed his touch nor his suggestion of sexual activity and had slapped his hand away. Then to confuse everything she had smiled. Maybe Paul had read it all wrong but to his understanding if a woman slaps your hand then smiles she wants it even if she is going to play hard to get. Paul had “pressed” his point harder after that.  Then the next thing he knew, he was being charged with sexual harassment. How did she dare to charge the Assistant DA with such an act? Caitlin had even gone so far as to suggest attempted rape. It was not hard for Paul to convince the predominantly male office that she was just one of those “Militant Feminists” out to destroy men. That she apparently was out to topple men in high places, like Paul and then claim his job. That this had been her ambition all along and that any one of their jobs (i.e. the DA or Attorney General) was next. The case had been thrown out for insufficient evidence (primarily thanks to a call from the DA on behalf of the AG) and Caitlin summarily dismissed.

Paul smiled at the thought of this woman, having whored her way to the peak only to fall all the way down. Oh, he had informed the DA as to her true nature. Had her disgrace been complete she would have left him alone, but the DA wouldn’t allow him to sue her for libel. He had fervently wished to pursue it, if only to strike back like a kid in the schoolyard.

Caitlin had changed weaponry and came back at him from new directions. She tried to slander his name to the press- that had failed when the Attorney General had backed Paul’s defense. She then began to follow him and harass him over the phone. Paul had a judge put a restraining order against her, but it had only slowed her down. She began to question his friends, neighbors, and girlfriends. Fortunately she had never learned of Peggy, and Peggy had no knowledge of Caitlin. Still Paul could not help the way he felt about Caitlin and now looking at her like she was a cornered animal; he felt a strange sense of power come over him. Recalling the excitement of gripping her arm, the feel of her goose flesh gave him a excitement that he rarely felt. He wanted so much to reach out and slap her across the face.

“What do you want?” Caitlin began fiercely.

“What do you think, I want?” Paul quipped back. “I have a restraining order against you.”

But I…“ She began, then stopped. “Look, this is just a misunderstanding, I just came to see the movie.”

“Where’s your date?”

“Where’s my what? I came alone.”

“From the West Side?” Paul shot back, the theater being on the northeast side of Knoxville.

“I was looking for a change of place- I mean pace and this grand old’ theater came to mind.” Caitlin smiled. “How could I have known that you were here?“

“How could you have known? Well, you have been interrogating my neighbors and friends about where I go, what I eat, and who I see.” He said this with an air of authority, feeling power in his words.

“No. It’s not like that.” Caitlin interrupted. “I didn’t interrogate anyone.”

            “Shut up! Look- what we did is over.” Paul said raising his voice, knowing he could be heard. “You can’t have it back. Get on with your life and leave me alone!”

“What do you mean what we did?” Caitlin replied, her face going pale.

“If I ever see you again,” Paul said commanding with his tone. “No- if I ever hear of you again, I will sue for every dime you have to your name. No- every dime you will ever have to your name. If that isn’t enough, I will have you charged with solicitation and prostitution!” Paul realized he was shouting, but the glee of his manner kept him going.

“And I mean every word of it you- you clinging, conniving bitch!”

notes: Paul Murray is mostly a split personality, that one finds more often among men then women, there are women like him but few are that much like him, most of those are probably that way because of someone like him ruining their lives at some point. Paul Murray is a predator who has taken the desire and need to dominate women to a level where he cannot fully separate the sexual from the sense of power over dominating them. Peggy represents the woman who feels that this kind of man (and believe me she has no idea of what her "boyfriend" actually is.) She has misinterpreted him to such a degree to believ that somewhere inside of the lust and dominanace that she means more than being an abject. Her relationship is not without reward, Paul does tolerate distractions like romantic movies in order to get what he wants but he is more interested in the ends to the means than in the process. Ironically, many men I have known operate on this principal alone. In fact, most of Pornography and pornographic material cultimates in what those men and thus Paul Murrray want/desire/need- total sexual pleasure through the domination of a person,persons or thing. It's ironic (to me) that the entire industry can be summed up in two words (primarily with a small concession to women). The porn Industry calls this moment the "money shot" and it means the one moment where all their "efforts" are summed up in a single frame of action, the male climax. The reason I am talking about this is to understand what I want you to see in Paul is that this part of his personality has overridden the other side of his persona and is basically getting out of his control. 

In which I hope Paul Murray proves to you that he is a Perv

“Please behave; we like to have it comfortable for everyone.” Steven said as he walked past Paul, in a tone low enough for Paul to think that he was the only one who heard it. Steven walked on towards the concession stand.

Paul waited until Steven-the manager- or- whatever the fuck he thought he was- was out of earshot and then looked back at Caitlin. Caitlin was staring off in the direction that the manager had taken. Paul gave a grunt of disgust at her distraction and said.

“Excuse me, Miss Marshall?”

Caitlin came back to reality. “Yes?” she answered nervously. She looked at Paul as if she had just noticed him as he signaled with his right hand to a baroque style bench, one of eight that ringed the lobby. She turned and walked over to it still massaging her arm. She was angry, hurt and still afraid. Paul could see it in the furtive movements even as she tried to hide them.

Paul followed her, his frustration and anger cooling as he observed the gentle tilting of Caitlin’s hips as she walked. Her buttocks were tight and muscular and moved smoothly as she walked- unlike Peggy’s which were wider and softer (still looked good stuffed into those Jeans he made her wear when they went out). That guttural feeling returned, and Paul found a new heat building in him as she sat down, adjusting her black velvet skirt over her knee. Caitlin’s legs were long and well toned. She was taller than Peggy was, as almost as tall as Paul himself. She had blonde hair that fell in deep curls about her narrow shoulders, her skin was smooth and her breasts- her breasts were perfect. Paul felt his heat rise as he looked at Caitlin’s breasts held away in her velvet v-cut blouse. She was showing cleavage. They were a little larger than Peggy’s, rounder- though it could be the Victoria’s Secret bra- softer looking- hell he knew what they looked like, he had seen them once and very close up. Paul thought about cupping each of her breasts in his hands. His daydreaming ended when she made a throaty sound and his eyes met her icy blue. Paul’s fever fell like ice in a wind storm.

She glared up at him as he went to sit down beside her. She slid further down the bench in order to leave as much space between them as there was possible without falling off the bench. From his position under this cold new glare; Paul began to remember why he had come to hate this woman so much. What had started out as an innocent flirtation had become a nightmare of harassment and subsequent law suits. He stared back at Caitlin feeling a new deep sense of rage creeping up inside of him.

Strangers on a Train

            Paul instantly felt a surge of relief to escape Brad Pitt. He secretly wished he could escape Brad Pitt forever. Paul rose quickly to his feet only to receive hisses and muffled threats as he blocked the screen for the couples in the rows behind. He glowered back at the hissers but quickly realized that he could see non of them in the dark theater.

Jerks! Paul thought- Brad Pitt isn’t even in this scene, but he stooped anyway as he sidestepped towards the aisle. Reaching the aisle, Paul quickly strode for the lobby and certain freedom. He was just about to push through the doors when he ran right into someone in the darkened aisle. Surprised he began to apologize when he stared into the frightened eyes of a woman.

It was Caitlin Marshall.

Paul reached out and grabbed Caitlin’s left arm and yanked her towards him then pushed out the door. They both burst out into the spacious lobby of the theatre. Paul angrily held onto her arm as he walked into the lobby as if he intended to throw her out. She struggled ineffectually to get free. She must have realized she was trapped in his momentum. Paul felt a surge of power and sexual arousal at the idea that he had this power over her. With a burst of energy and inspiration he pulled her up to him then all but hurled her forward in front of him as they neared the front doors.

 “Just what the Hell?” Paul began, turning on the woman. He saw a man in a maroon blazer and tie spin around from the concession counter even as he heard the words echo off the walls.

“Is everything okay?” A voice questioned over his shoulder.

How had he gotten there so fast? Paul thought in frustration.

“Would you mind your own business!” Paul snarled without turning, still glaring at Caitlin- who stood like a girl needing desperately to go to the bathroom.

for some reason I can see Paul realizing this need and imagining it

This is probably closer to what he was thinking later
bot pics are from Strangers on a Train

[It's curious what comes to my mind as I rewrite this so many movies (and years) later.]

Prelude: Paul Murray Goes to the Movies

 

“How much of our lives are in the movies?

                                                How much of the movies are in our lives?”

                                                                                                (Anonymous)

                      “Nothing is as certain as death and taxes.” Joe Black reflected, as the movie dragged on about certainties in life. Paul Murray stifled a yawn and wondered again how he had let Peggy drag him out to the movies. He was a busy man and movies did not usually make his schedule unless the movie was a prelude to sex. In this case it was. Peggy was his regular girl- though he kept others on the side whenever he got bored of her. She was good enough for a laugh and in the sack, but Paul always liked to keep his options open.

Peggy Milsap sat to the right of Paul in the darkened theatre, desperately trying to hold back the tears as Brad Pitt steamed up the screen. Paul glanced at the tearful Peggy then back to the screen to watch Brad Pitt confess his love to another beauty that one could actually conceive of dying for. Not that Paul would have died for anything- or anyone for that matter. He certainly would not have died for Peggy even though he believed he loved her, but only occasionally, in moments of weakness.  He was instantly grateful he hadn’t married her, although he had nearly asked a year ago. Paul knew that he would never dare marry Peggy or any other woman; he could not afford such a character flaw in his life or professional career. Unless, of course, he did actually run for office- then maybe he would chance it. But it was unlikely, Paul Murray had far too many skeletons to hide to make a very public run for elected office. No, it was better to remain where he was; especially since he knew where the real power lay.

He stifled another yawn wanting to look away from Brad and his all-to-beautiful partner engaged in the love scene. He looked to his left at the couple, five or six seats down, all snuggled together as they watched the movie. Disgusted, he looked back at Peggy, wondering if he could stand such an entanglement. He wondered as to why they were still together. He found no reasons intellectually, so he appraised her physically instead.  Peggy for the most part was a plain woman in appearance, slender and small. She had a round doll-like face with a narrow nose and small mouth framed by straight black hair. Her mouth was sweet to kiss but had left no lasting impression. On her nose rested a pair of full-rimmed glasses, librarian size and shape. Peggy only wore them when she went to movies or to read. She reads too much, Paul thought, as his eyes wondered on down. He glanced briefly at her slim arms which were crossed under her breasts- the only feature that he could see at that moment that held much interest and longing for Paul.

            Paul gazed at Peggy’s breasts, which were pushing hard against her tee shirt. Her nipples protruded against the flimsy bra that Paul made her wear when they went out. Paul smiled, Peggy’s breasts were small and hard; he realized at that moment, in the dark, that was why he stayed. A low fever of desire rose inside Paul as he stared. Paul now satisfied with this newfound answer relaxed and sighed. A fresh feeling rolled over him as he looked back at his sole reason for staying, something stirred deep down inside of his being. Paul purred.

This purring noise was deeply “guttural,” a sound-like that of a lion looking at his next meal. Peggy gave him a look of real surprise. Her face had reddened from her tears and now a fresh blush came into her cheeks and she almost smiled. Her smile froze on her face, like a tongue on frozen metal, as she saw where Paul’s gaze was glued. Her frozen smile melted into a grimace of disgust, her arms quickly cutting off his view.

“Paul!” she hissed almost to loud to be a whisper.

“Paul!” she repeated lower with sharper inflection.

Paul snapped out of his reverie like a rubber band freshly sprung. He looked into her icy expression.

“Yes my sweets?” He managed to choke out.

“Would you get me a Pepsi” She quickly added, “diet please.”

“Okay Honey.” 

A new direction...oh boy!

No I don't know what happened to draft 2. And hopefully I will finish the book on Draft 3 so that you will e-read or read Draft 4 or 5 in one sitting soon.

“ANY CONCESSION FOR MURDER…”

An Arthur Dixon Novel

By

Michael D. Jansen van Vuuren

Foreward:

I began writing Any Concession back in 1999 during a Mystery Writing course I took at UT with the Indomitable Dr. Manchip-White. He will go down in my book as the best writing professor I ever had. Sorry Dr. Weir- not that you would ever read this commercial pulp- non-literary garbage (as you were wont to describe it) and thus there is the reason that Dr. M-W took the cake.

I initially wrote about 20 pages and then rewrote and rewrote the same 20 pages. In late 2000, I rewrote the initial draft and added another 20 pages and got stuck. Major writers block.

Why one might ask if they are prone to do? Well I will quote Dr. M-W: “Reading is inhaling and writing is exhaling. If you want to write my boy, you must read and read everything!”

I had fully exhaled and had no more breath.

Since then I have down a lot of breathing.

So now 12 years later, I am going to exhale some more.

I want to thank Tony Hillerman, Dana Stabenow, Robert B. Parker and Elmore Leonard for opening the scope of all that I could write about and where.

This leaves me in Knoxville, Tennessee with a Carl Hiassen high and the need to share a story about this crazy town and some of its colorful denizens. Lastly I must pay homage to Steven Womack who took on Nashville and mostly won with a series of fairly ridiculous mysteries that were lots of fun to read. Oh, and if I left out my Mother I would burn forever in Fantasy Book Hell. She got me to read other books (even some that would have Allen Weir jumping for joy) and talk about them with her. She also led me to Hillerman and Stabenow and now to Henning Mankell.

For the next 40 or so pages I will be reposting (reviewing what I have written) and making changes and offering comments on this or that but I will use a different font and brackets like this ][ to indicate them. Call it an work in progress that I am going to share with all of you.

Interludes and such

Today I found draft 3 of Any Concession and started rereading it. A few things struck me immediately, I can write a mystery better than several of the mystery (published) writers I have read in last few years and why the hell didn't I finish this years ago..... got distracted I guess by that annoyance called life- to bad I cannot blame it on love instead.

So Now I am pleased to share with you Draft 3 of Any Concession and announce that I will in fact be finishing it!

another installment

Apologies for the delay (health issues thankfully resolved)

The lights were on in house six, a crowd of four cops, Darby and the Coroner were standing around a seat in the seventh row. Dixon walked down the aisle to the second row above the seventh and began crossing the house. When he reached the middle, he sat down in a seat and waited for the coroner to finish. Jan came in and walked over to his row. She brought him a cup of coffee and Dixon took it with thanks.

“Sorry about the mix up on the phone.” He whispered.

“It’s okay,” she said, whispering as well. “You are not the only one doing it.”

“I am still sorry about that.”

Darby looked up and spied Dixon and Jan. He frowned, turned back to the coroner and nodded. The coroner shook his hand taking his leave. Darby looked back to Dixon.

“Hey Dixon, what are you doing up there?”

“I didn’t want to go where I was not welcome.”

“Jan, would you tell Weyr that he can bring in the body bag now.”

“Sure Darby.”

She left.

Dixon stood up.

“So who’s the stiff?” he asked.

“You mean you don’t know? No one told you?”

“Nope.”

Darby laughed.

“What? What’s so funny?” Dixon demanded.

Darby stopped and shook his head, holding up his hand.

“This is rich, no one even bothered to tell you. Well this-“ Darby pointed to the barely visible head next to him. “This is an old friend of ours, the guy who got you to quit the force. It’s Paul Murray, Dix.”

Dixon dropped his coffee.

The cup his the seat in front of him, splashing coffee backwards onto Dixon’s abdomen. Dixon danced around, first with whelps of pain then curses until he sat back down.

“Aw shit.” He pronounced. Dixon threw up his hands.

Darby stood there observing the tirade with a puzzled expression on his face. He walked over to the left aisle and came up Dixon’s aisle until he sat down next to him.

They sat there awhile.

            “Dix, I didn’t know that you were friends.”

            “We aren’t, I mean we weren’t.”

            “Then why are you so upset?”

            “Murray had hired me because he was afraid that some one was stalking him.”

            “Why didn’t he just go to the cops?”

            “Because he was sure that his stalker was a cop.”

introductions are made

Dixon walked in out of the cold, the lobby spread out before him. Dixon closed his eyes taking in the smell of the popcorn and smiled. He always performed this ritual when he came here. He felt through the space his mid soaring to the ceiling and back down to the plush carpets and steps, the brass rails and felt ropes that hung upon them.

Someone was calling his name and then pushed him. His dream shattered and he opened his eyes.

            “Dix!”

            “Hello Steven?”

            “This isn’t the time! Will you get serious?”

Steven Lowe was in a panic. Sweat ran down his face and stains showed on his shirt. He had shed the jackets after they had heard the scream. Peggy Milsap now sat on a bench to the far side of the lobby with Jan Connelly who was trying to comfort her.

“So.” Dixon began.

“So, this Ass-hole comes into the theater and pushes this woman around and she punches him, then he messes up the bathroom and I tell him to leave. But he doesn’t, he goes back into the theater and croaks. Now the cops are here and Darby can’t explain the reason why this guy died in my theater. If Mr. Creedlan finds out he might close the theater.”

“-And you don’t want to lose your job, and I better help you or I will lose my free pass to the movies?” Dixon finished for him. Jan was right, Steven was losing it in a big way. Dixon grinned and put his arm out taking Steven by the shoulder.

“Well, we can’t let that happen. Where is Darby?”

“He’s in house six.” Steven looked back to Dixon. “So you’ll help?”

“Of course, but not for money or free movies. I’ll do it for friendship and because I owe you.”

“Thanks” Steven relaxed and smiled feebly. “I needed that.”

“Sure that are what I am here for.” Dixon said stuffing his wallet back into his jacket. “Now get me some popcorn- extra butter and butter salt.”

Dixon wheeled around and walked towards the house six door.

Steven grinned and went to get Dixon’s request.

arrival

A murder at the Park Side, Dixon thought as he climbed to his feet. He looked back at the glowing screen of his computer. Should I leave it?

Yes. He bent over and clicked the save button with the mouse. He was already mentally on his way out as he grabbed his coat and ball-cap. He turned back to the computer as his screen saver kicked in; a police car ran up and down the screen. He sighed; the case he had been working on would have to wait until tomorrow. Paul Murray and his stalker case could wait. The murder at the Park Side, his favorite places in Ralston, now that was just too inviting to miss.

Rain and snowfall was all the weather that came to Ralston in the winter. When it was not raining, it was snowing. Dixon pulled his coat tighter around him and locked the door to his house. Darby would always say things like-“If it rains in Ralston, it snows.”

This always struck Dixon as odd, although tonight Ralston had proved Darby’s philosophy true. The sheets of rain had given way to a blizzard of snow. Dixon dodged the freezing puddles as he traversed the dark street to get to his car. The cold bit down on him and he was numbed as he fumbled with his keys. Finding them, he stuck his lighter to the key-lock with hopes that it was not frozen in the snow. It was covered with a thin sheet of ice.

            Dixon sighed in frustration, stepped back and kicked the locked door with a thump. He nearly slipped. Stumbling back to his car door he slid his key in a rattled it back and forth until it gave. Forcing the frozen door open he slid into the cold confines of his car. The engine started with the first turn and as the car warmed up, Dixon hunched of the heater. The temperature slowly rose.

            Dixon had bought the Buick after his finally got paid on his most recent case. He had owned a truck before that but it had been too much trouble to park in the city. He loved that truck, smashing it into cars and generally terrorizing his attackers. He had owned the truck along time, since he was at the academy. He smiled as he shifted the Buick into drive and with a last look across the street; he drove east towards the Park Side.

            The Buick, which was dark blue, had been a good choice as it blended into traffic as another unremarkable four-door sedan. The perfect surveillance car, Dixon had found it useful to follow Paul Murray and his many enemies around the area. He had taken to parking the car across the street, so no one would ascribe that the car belonged to him. This reasoning was two fold; first, Dixon hoped it would keep it safer from would be vandals (the truck had suffered that fate on an earlier case) and it would keep Henry Love out of his life. Henry Love was his sister’s ex-husband who thought that Dixon would be the perfect mediator between himself and Laura Dixon. Dixon had decided to stay out of it. He parked his car in different places, so Henry would not know if he were ever at home. So far the plan had worked.

            The idea of buying the Buick had led Dixon to reach over conclusion and he reconsidered them as he sped onto the bypass highway. First, he could not afford to have sports car like Magnum P.I.- Dixon’ hero and inspiration in life. Magnum had a Ferrari and lived in sunny Hawaii, whereas Dixon lived in Ralston where there was always rain and usually snow. Besides the insurance would kill him and the Ferrari was anything but inconspicuous. Driving a junky car like that of Colombo would be signature, but it would probably break down all the time and it was not any less conspicuous than a sports car. So Dixon stuck with his non-noteworthy car, and the fact that it only cost him two thousand dollars.

            He had bought the truck because he thought that Lee Majors had made a valid point about the versatility of such a vehicle in his 1980’s show The Fall Guy. What I really need is a TV-PI show set in Ralston or at least Atlanta.

            Dixon nearly missed his exit to the Park Side, so caught up in his thoughts about the car. The snow had stopped falling, revealing the gray aura of the Ralston night-lit sky. The Park Side sat on a low hillock to the lower side of the East Gate Mall. The theater had been built in the 40’s and had endured through history as a great movie house. The exterior of the theater had been recently redone in a retro-fifty’s facade. The current owner of the Park Side, a fan of big band and swing had it refinished to look like an old dance Palace. The triangulated marquee was lit advertising movies as its’ sequence lights flashed blue red yellow and green filling the winter air with the glow of its performance. Reflections of this and the flashing lights of the eight police cruisers in front of the box office decried a spectacle that had drawn a crowd despite the freezing weather.

            Dixon drove his car off to one side of this riot, and chose a spot between two Toyota Celica’s and headed in on foot. Coming under the bright marquee, Dixon encountered the Police line. Officer Peter Felx blocked his path with a strong arm.

            “Hey!”

            Dixon pulled his faded wallet out and flashed his license out.

            “I know who you are Dix.”

            “So let me pass.”

            “Who invited you?” he shot back.

            “Let him through Felx.” Sergeant Martin Ross joined them.

            “But Sarge, he doesn’t have an invitation.”

            “Let him pass Felx, Darby wants him.”

            Felx made a face but dropped his arm

            “Don’t stay too long Dix.” He sneered.

            Dixon smiled with all his teeth showing and crouched under the Police tape.

            “Thanks Ross.” Dixon told the Sergeant.

            “Don’t flatter yourself Dixon, I only let you in because Darby wants you here.”

“For whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap

I

“For whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.”

(Galatians 6:7)

The phone rang for a long time before Arthur Dixon heard it. He sat asleep in front of his computer in the shadowy office above his home. His head was tilted forward as he snored in stuttering phrases. The ringing pierced the fog of drowsiness and he awoke with a snap as if he had just been stabbed. With a jerking motion, he went for the phone, but his handicapped movements knocked the handset from the cradle. The handset hit the floor and bounced under the desk. With a groan, Dixon slid out of the chair and crawled under the desk.

The voice in the handset led his blinded hand to it. Dixon rejoiced at finding it and tried to stand up, slamming his head and back into the ceiling of his desk. He winced at his failure as he returned to his knees and backed painfully out from under the desk. Exhausted from the effort, he collapsed, leaning back against the desk. He wearily remembered the handset and brought it up to his head.

“Hello?”

“Dix?”

“Yes. What do you-.” He found it impossible to finish.

“Dix, are you awake?” A woman’s voice spoke.

“Yes. No, but I will be soon.”

“Can you come down to the Park Side?”

“Yes. Yes I can- who is this?”

“It’s Jan. Don’t you remember me?”

“Uhm.“ Dixon closed his eyes trying to summon forth a memory of the speaker.

“You don’t remember me.”

“No, wait I do. It’s-“ Nothing came. “I’m sorry, who?”

“Officer Janice Connelly.” Her tone was flat, Dixon decided she was either mad or in a hurry or both. Suddenly his memory jogged, an image appeared in his head.

“Oh! Jan- Darby’s new sidekick.”

“Yes, that is me, although you apparently don’t remember our earlier conversation either.” She was very mad.

“No. No I don’t.”

“Let me refresh your memory. We discussed the fact that I was Darby’s new partner- not his sidekick or his girl, but his equal. That is what partner means, Dix.”

Her words were sharp and Dixon paused.

Silence.

“Oops.”

“It’s okay.” She said, “I’ll forgive you, again.”

“Thanks” Dixon replied with relief.

“Look, the reason I called is that Darby wants you to come down to the Park Side right now.”

“Tonight?”

“Now. Right now.”

“Why?”

“There’s been a murder.”

That detail woke Dixon up, before that he was almost convinced that this whole conversation had been a dream, a bad one. Now it seemed to be a bad reality, and Dixon sat there wishing that it had stayed a dream.

“A murder? A murder at the Park Side?”

“Yes.” She replied. “Look I’ve got to get back, Darby’s giving me a signal and Steve’s getting restless.”

“What about Steve?” Dixon asked but she had already hung up.