Random NVDT – Writer(ly) Concerns #9 – “Pinkly”

“The rain was washing the blood pinkly away.” *

Oh. My. God. Really?

I was going to pop the first THG III chapter. Then I was going to say no, wait up, here’s a backstory chapter so it’s not like instant melodrama. Then I was going to finish the Mescaline Blue short, but it got such resounding reviews I bailed. Besides, the last bit sits at 2.35k and needs to be 1.4k. I can’t seem to cut and paste and shuffle and get the story told so screw it, he said, virtually yet still resolutely  tossing it underhandedly at the Rubbermaid trash bucket that sat dustily and blackly in it’s shadowly corner where it bounced, ricochetly off the swinging top, to roll languidly across the floor disrupting the cat sleepily napping. Napping sleepily Nappily sleeping?

Good. God. I really was going to do all those things until I was thrown mightily to the floor, incapacitated by the headline sentence, to lie numbly, stupidly still.

I have a theory. A lot of authors, particularly the franchise-able ones, have research assistants and staff and as they get on down the road the Franklin W. Dixon / Carolyn Keene effect kicks in. In fact the Spenser series originated by Robert B Parker is in Taco Bell land now with someone I suppose apprenticed/interned/researched with/for Parker when Parker was among the living. I noticed the same thing in the last few Tony Hillerman’s (that sucked, personal opinion) and the last few Elmore Leonard’s that were re-runs. Well, a deep study will show all those formula western/cop/detective things to be recharacterized re-runs, but that’s what we do, invent characters to plug into a stroy.

I think successful authors know how low the candle is getting, and hand off more and more of their duties. Because there is no excuse, outside of medication or getting confused about which series he was writing that Parker, the man who picked up the torch and finished a Raymond Chandler book, to write, on the coldest day in hell, the word “pinkly.” Or “wetly” for that matter. Or for someone who prided himself on his literary background use the word “languid” and the LY variation of it repeatedly. To describe dust motes, dog walkers, lawn sprinklers and the approach of a woman. And that’s the first half.

“Pinkly” is also one of those things wrong with the major publishing houses. Like tires and mac and cheese, it’s branding, not content. First off, no one caught it. No one at a giant publishing house raised an eyebrow at “pinkly.” I promise you if I played “pinkly” in a scrabble game I’d get hammered.

The last several Ace Atkins as Robert Parker outings are laughable for their lack of editing and proof reading. I wouldn’t let some of that junk out as a docx file to anybody. I know they must be selling on the label, based on the reviews of people waiting for the real Spenser to come back. Somebody better summon Edgar Cayce, quick.

Stupid, boring chattery content? I’ll own that, and have a hard drive full of it. Sloppy and lazy execution of same? No way. Even if it’s chit chat pablum, it needs to be well constructed chit chat pablum.

What has any of that got to do with anything? I’m pretty sure, and concerned, that the events and (mis)adventures of Jackson in Hollywood and Deanna in Cambridge in THG III are rough and drafty and will be received as such. And maybe I’m hedging a little about vomiting draft quality work. However, after reading the lazy slop that has been published by award winning authors and their award winning franchisees, after “pinkly”? Get the mop and bucket.

*School Days © 2005 by Robert B Parker

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Random NDVT – Writerly Concerns #8

Writer’s Block – The Muse

I got five emails over the weekend about Writer’s Block. Three from “editor and writing coach” blogs (those people are full of shit, generally, and their examples and suggestions pathetic), one from someone ranting on me after 45 years saying I must have writer’s block because I mentioned they wouldn’t talk to me about anything of consequence, and one from a writer friend who should know better. Look here people. I did product specialist Artist Relations in the music business. I have stories. But I ain’t telling anybody’s stories out of school. I don’t care if you’re a priest or a rock star or an ex high school cheerleader. Because?

I don’t have to. Dig this. There is no Writer’s Block. It’s an urban myth. Like finding Jimi Hendrix’s guitar in a pawn shop for $50. Writer’s Block is the direct result of trying to control your output. News Flash. Unless you have a pre-ordained point and a target, you have to actively participate in the creative process, not force it. If you have ever had to create for $, in any medium, you know that you develop your craft to the point that you jam (extemporaneously create) until something gets you on the same wavelength as the art director or the editor, and gels.  Or you sit, adjust the fine tuning on the cosmic radio because the Muse never sleeps, and listen. And you get a gift. Too simple?

No.

I was going to go into inspiration and the Muse ad nauseam with people and examples. Instead I say just write it up. What did you do this morning? Where did you go? Who did you see? I could write three fake trendy WP poetry blogs off the grand dog that got out, the hardware store geezers and pink (!) wood filler putty. Nothing about Van Halen, Rick Wakeman, or anybody I went to high school with. Trust me, there’s some quality material going to waste right there.

However, and I’m not L. Ron Hubbard looking for a religion to start, but next time someone says “Writer’s Block” to you, tell them it’s bullshit and I said so. Why? Go to a hardware store.

Hardware store
Not home center
Hardware store
I go there to feel young
Young-ger
Because of Plumbing Geezer in a
Wheelchair with
Oxygen tank
I see him against a green
screen
Scuba diving in that rig
Remember “Sea Hunt”?
Doubtful –
I say I need some three inch nipples
He snickers
Don’t we all
I chuckle
Out of social polite-ness
Locker rooms and sexism are
Everywhere
He tells me he was a Hippie
Honest to God Haight Ashbury Hippie
I say my recovery nurse after they rebuilt my
Asshole
Said she was there
Maybe I knew her he says
She said all the guys were horny, smelly leather clad
Assholes with corny
Lines trying to get
Laid
Same as always and she said
No
A lot.
You guys would tell her
You have
Hang Ups and she’d say
No
I’m not hung up, I just don’t want to make love with
Your
Stinky ass
Right now
Scuba plumber laughs out loud says
Yep
She knew me, anyway
Hands me a nipple says
These things travel in pairs
Woody Allen I say, hot and cold
Why plumbing parts sound like women parts
Hot
And cold
I fail to acknowledge that
Wisdom –
On the way to the register I
Think
In Oklahoma
We read about Haight Ashbury Hippies and
Pretended
About all that was
Different?
Geography and
Publicity
And
According to the remodeled asshole recovery nurse
Okies
Seriously
Might have bathed
More often

Random NVDT – Writerly Concerns 4

Pardon me, your writer is showing

Here it Comes – Show Don’t Tell – My Take – For the most part a society that Googles everything from forgotten salad dressing ratios to what does guacamole taste like hasn’t got a clue. I looked it up for us. The takeaway?

“Show, don’t tell” should not be applied to all incidents in a story.

Why not? Because it would take forever to write. Or read. There are successful writers out there who ignore this and write and write and write. And others attributed to the same style write very little. Here we are again with a RULE that means nothing. Dial it up, dial it down, ignore it altogether. Properly applied I believe, as I do about dialogue, it all has to do with rhythm and pacing. Musicality.

The first of two approaches to “show don’t tell” involve using flowery, evocative language. Exercise: Put the reader in the stinky bathroom of a desert gas station. No, just kidding. To what end? To prove you can write about rust stains and dried turds and warped mirrors and peeling paint on cinder blocks and decades of dried urine in the grout for two and a half pages? Maybe, if it was a guy who got beat up by mobsters and left for dead in the desert and you want to put the reader’s face on that floor with him when he crawls in out of the sand. But to me that’s writing to prove you can.

The other approach is drop a few nuggets, let the reader fill in the blanks. Truth – You know we don’t see in color with our peripheral vision. Our brains fill it in for us based on context. That’s the iceberg concept. Hemingway, etc. So if I say to you “a porch twenty feet from the bayou on a humid summer night,” I might offer “pungent” and a mosquito swat that yielded blood and maybe a sweaty bandanna wipe but the rest of it is on you. Because there’s a story being told on that porch and all that flowery sense of place crap is background and there’s no reason to waste a John Williams theme on crickets and frogs and foley work. Personal opinion only. Unless of course you write like David Foster Wallace and then, by all means, watercolor it all together and knock it out of the park for us.

Narrative – Narrative is great to get from impact scene to impact scene, as above. Personally I shorten narrative to it’s extreme cutoff point. Example: Deanna stepped through the steam and the mist, boarded the train more homesick than she ever imagined possible. Done. She gets off the train and the story continues. Narrative is a great device to get some story told from point A to point B and is necessary to kick the story along without the minutia of Deanna brushing her teeth that morning and giving five pages of flashback about why she’s homesick. A decent author would have put us in her shoes chapters ago. Which brings me to –

Narrative excess – An equally wordy writerly option to show, don’t tell excess and a way to show off your research and waste a LOT of time that isn’t show, don’t tell. Unless you want to write about the texture of deciduous tree bark, like the restroom floor example above. Example: I have been reading this damn book that is both a good story and well written and a humongous PIA. I mean the main character gets up off the bed in a motel room from a conversation with a girl (not a sex scene, just dialogue furthering the story ) to go splash water on his face. We are treated to two and half pages of dense, blocks of text backstory. Which could have been easily condensed to a paragraph, or had it been me, three lines. It would have made a great ‘insert backstory video clip here’ in a movie. Maybe. And the whole damn book would have been at least 30% shorter had it been written in a linear time line. The flashbacks and backstory are worse than any Noir film. Like Timothy Leary moments. Exercise: Person sees reflection in sugar dispenser top. Now, jump out of mid dialogue getting the story told into deep reflective space for 600-800 words and then jump back into the convo with other person saying “Are you OK?” “Yeah, just thinking.” Just thinking my ass. Maybe the thought flew by but just reading it my coffee got cold and I’m still in a red vinyl booth in a diner no further along than I was three pages ago.

I don’t call the rules into question or try to sell them or even justify how to avoid them. All I want is for everyone to see that style is everything, and to write like we mean it. Regardless of what it is or where you find your voice. Tell your story. To the best of your ability. Every time. Turn it up. Or turn it off.  Remember, when your fluffy fill up space writer is showing…

And neither should we. Get to the red ‘Vette of your story. Leave the Volvo in the dust.

 

Random NVDT “Standards” and a Writerly Concerns Update

Standards are supposed to make life easier. Devices from different manufacturers should talk to one another. My favorite was the original “plug and play.” Not. The same may be said of “class compliant” USB, leading us to believe drivers aren’t needed. Display to multiple monitors? Well, there’s 1.1, or 1.3 or 1.4. Which HDMI? If there were standards, blades or other accessories from one blender or mixer or coffee pot would work with others. “Standards” are set in place to make sure things are “standardized.” Like #2 Pencils whose lead varies widely. Number #2 Phillips screwdrivers. Some are deeper and pointier at the tip, some are more robust. Some are magnetized. Forget all that, lets get to something important. Like synthesizers.

The little white MXR box in the photo – I’ve had that since 1975. I still have it because I know standards are baloney. Several years ago, I decided to back out of the computer and get myself some gear with knobs again. There was all this noise about “euro rack standard” for inter-connectivity. More baloney. I bought a Moog Mother 32. I was so proud. I sold some stuff I liked to buy it, and it cost too much for what it was, but I knew Dr. Bob from way back. It sounded like a Moog. Sort of. I won’t go into why I sold it, but I did. For a combination of reasons. Not so “Standard” factored large because it wasn’t. Just like it wasn’t in 1975 when I went on an adventure from couch surfing in OKC all the way to Garland Texas, home of Arnold and Morgan Music. I bought an Oberheim SEM from Charley Lowe. I called first to be sure they had one. They did, off I went. A cold front blew through while I was gone, and back in OKC I walked from downtown, in my hippie moccasins, in the slush, to where my gear was stashed. I didn’t die. It’s all down to youth, not diet or exercise or clean living.

What? I couldn’t trigger the OB with my MiniMoog? Hold on. I saw Jan Hammer do it. That’s why I…A custom cable? Cinch-Jones shorting trigger to 3.5mm mono +5. Huh? I took the schematic for the cable to the tech at the high end stereo store who always brought my Flame Linear power amp back from the dead. He laughed when I said I thought there were standards, because I’d read about them. Nope. Volt per octave pitch tracking, maybe. The rest? Hah! He built the cable for me, and later a tin project box that did it better. Fifteen bucks. And I had to listen to loud Rolling Stones and his screaming baby when I picked it up from his house.

Then came the synth mess in my gravatar. Four Moogs, an Arp, an OB module and an OB sequencer. That was my fake T-Dream video soundtrack and band synth rig. Without the MXR and a snake nest of cables with transistors inserted in them it would have been chaos. Rather, uncontrolled chaos.

The MXR was designed to take a signal and amplify it, sans coloration. The intended job being to sit on the output of a guitar, gain it up and clip the input of a guitar amp without altering (too much) the guitar’s tone. I stuck that bad boy on the output on the trigger signal of whatever was the boss, cranked it and popped the trigger inputs open on whatever needed to listen. Forty-three years ago. And I’m doing it now? How sad is that?

I worked for the guy who pushed for and developed MIDI to stop all that crap (backstory). But – Sequential and Roland, the two companies who adopted MIDI first? Is 1 zero or is zero zero? Program change 1-128 or 0-127?  Standards. MIDI does work, though. Thank God. Even if it doesn’t require a gazillion colorful cables to do the same thing.

My MXR is still there if I need it to wake up a Moog with a Korg because trigger and gate are the same thing, different names. They’re “standard.” Only they’re not. I like my knob stuff. I like patch cables and all sorts of crazy sounds. I also like program memory, and foregoing that, at least pitch range selectors tied to a tuning so I have a short path back to reality. Even if that is a moral dilemma to some modular synth purists. There’s an old joke, when looking at a big modular synth draped in patch cords and some arteest going all artsy and talking poly rhythm modulations (baloney). The joke was was to elbow the person next to you and call out, “Okay, great. Now quick, tape’s rolling, get us a French horn.”

Which is why I sold the Moog. One oscillator, no range select and bunch of 3.5mm patch points that talked to each other and some of them to the outside world. And one very important one, the gate/trig, that required the MXR to function with certain external devices. Michelin money for a trailer tire? Baloney.

I solved a lot of the “standards that aren’t” with the Arturia Beat Step Pro sequencer. It sends out three sequences on three channels, or a butt load of gate/trig with enough voltage to blow open the most stubborn modern and vintage gear. The old “if they don’t understand you, talk louder” routine. But why should I have to buy another piece of gear to make the children behave?

Next up – power supplies. The MXR was built before wall warts were even imagined. There is no jack for one on the unit I own. 9V batteries only. There were days where it was buy batteries and play, or eat. The first time I saw a Radio Shack 9v wall wart with 9v battery terminals on it I freaked. It might have been $19. Ridiculous at the time. But it beat batteries. I borrowed a rat tail file from the guitar tech at Rock World and cut a hole in the MXR for the wire to escape. And even now wall wart jacks are various sizes, various voltages. Different barrel sizes on the supply, center + or -. Jesus. In my garage I have an old, beat up drummer’s trap case on wheels with years worth of power supplies. When I’m about to get rid of them a use pops up. How crazy is that? Gear does not communicate with each other, cables of different types and specs are required, power supplies are specific, active or passive, got a battery? My kingdom for a battery! My old bass player’s last girlfriend bought him a fistful of rechargeable batteries and a charger to keep him out of homeless shelters just keeping the active pickups in his basses functioning. This is about musicians, people. No wonder any player with money has a tech and IT runs any business with more than three people.

***

Retraction. “Switching on the lights, I trudged downstairs etc…” just reads stupid to me. I have been informed that it is a participle phrase that modifies “I”, the noun, not the (in my mind) associative action verb of trudged and is perfectly “legal” based on the position of the comma and “I”. As you wish. For my .02, that sort of thing, like Garlic and Cumin, starts to own whatever it’s in and a little goes a long way. It gets worse when they are used to modify the subject of a weak verb like “is”. Elmore Leonard sits in the back of my mind repeating, “If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.” Follow the action, don’t sort it. Like Deepthroat. “Follow the money.” “Following the money, crooks you will find,” or “you will find crooks” sounds like Yoda, doesn’t it? Stilted? Regardless of my opinion, the one big takeaway is – Do not leave your participle hung out to dry or you will be arrested by the grammar Nazis for exposing your dangling modifier!

Here you go, “ing” as a noun modifier and not a weakened verb.

http://www.chompchomp.com/terms/participlephrase.htm

 

Bobby B – Don’t Let The Pretty Face Fool You

Last One. Unless someone asks for Bobby’s Houma House Denouement 

“All of you. Out.” Liz Vernier’s voice was level with a sharp, beveled edge, and packaged with a glare that could have turned an Arizona swimming pool into a hockey rink.

“But we have more –”

She raised the inside corners of her eyebrows and maybe a quarter inch of her tongue sneaked out onto her upper lip.

“Yes ma’am.”

She, Carrie Louise, Bobby and LBI District Chief Bastik watched the parade of plain clothes and uniformed police from three agencies swivel their hips, shift their holsters and radios in a dance through the narrow crosshatch of legal assistants at their desks in Liz Vernier’s outer office. They re-convened at the elevator, all shuffling, staring at the floor. A pack of sheepish, recently chastised over-equipped and overgrown boy scouts.

Liz kept the glare and focused it on Bobby who had stopped letting it bother him some time back but played along when it was to his advantage. She tapped the tip of a high gloss index fingernail on a yellow and black plastic fishing tackle box.

“What manner of lunacy prevailed on that pea brain of yours to think, even for an instant, that bringing two million dollars halfway across the country in a tackle box was a good idea?”

“He wanted…” Carrie Louise folded her arms tight across her chest, tried to mimic Liz’s stare. “He wanted motel time with that…actress. Bobby B’s in love with his pecker lunacy, that’s what lunacy.”

“CL that’s bullshit and you –”

“You two can do this later. If I’m lucky she’ll kill you. I asked you a question, Mr. B.”

“The tackle box was Annabelle, this morning. She said whoever was after the money probably wasn’t done, so…And the rest seemed like a good idea. I mean, I was coming home anyways, Bernie wanted to see her people –”

“Bernie, Bernie, Bernie.” CL wiggled quote fingers around the name every time she said it. “I’m about sick down to my butt of ‘Bernie’, Mr. B.”

“I’m not telling either of you again.” Liz pointed pistol fingers with both hands, heels still on the desk. “Lafayette? I need an explanation.”

“Another motel –”

“Carrie Louise Roche, shut it and keep it shut.” Liz never took her eyes off Bobby. “Lafayette?”

“Not far from Port Barre. For, uh…Bernadette. We didn’t want to stay in Houston,” He shot the glare back at CL, “And spend another night in a mo-tel. I asked one of those pretty airline counter fellas if there were any other options and they hooked us right up with a ride on a mostly empty corporate charter. It worked out. You know, for Bernie.” Bobby played lost swamp boy for a few more beats. “I wasn’t sure what to do in California, with the money and the bank and all.”

“Your Mr. DeHavilland couldn’t advise you?”

“He was gone. He’s out –”

“Raising investment money for a restaurant franchise that is now guaranteed to be a hit. If I didn’t know better, or thought any one of you involved were capable of pulling it off, I’d say this wild west robbery fiasco and subsequent media feeding frenzy was the marketing ploy of the century. Fading niche content TV host reinvented as hero who saves the day for swamp bred bikini model and a down-bayou rube. Both of whom just happen to work for him. I’m tempted to tell the press this money that raised hell over half of Louisiana is you backing out of the restaurant deal.” She let that sit. “But it seems Mr. DeHavilland and Monterrey Mick the Mouth beat me to it and they have you all tied up in a neat little bouquet of the happy, down home heroes family.” She poked the long, polished nail index finger at her wide-open mouth in a gag me gesture, pulled it and blew a breath out the corner of her mouth. “It’s all a giant crock of gator shit. You and Carrie Louise need to have a conversation. Take it outside and off the premises.”

For the second time Liz and Chief Bastik watched a trek to the elevators. Bastik chuckled silently hard enough to rock in his chair. “Glad I’m not him.”

“She’ll skin him, but I’m afraid she’ll never let him go. What about the bimbo?”

“Two rooms in Lafayette, both slept in. Nothing there. Talked to the housekeepers, they think maybe she intercepted a pizza but couldn’t prove it. Her little machine gun cleared the Feds,” he snapped his fingers, “like that. She’s clean except for running away and joining a militia when she was fifteen. Possible suspicious disappearance of a pizza and looking good in suntan lotion and short shorts aren’t crimes.”

“The last two should be. And you’re all expecting me to believe Bobby is truly stupid enough to wait for Wells Fargo in Huntington to come up with two-million cash because he likes to do business that way?”

“They sent him and two armed couriers to a Brink’s warehouse with a voucher. Paper trail checks all down the line.”

“Damn. What was the noise I heard about the FBI?”

“They were on a gun smuggling case. Macon’s dinks overheard them showing off their badges to the desk girl, called in, thought they’d make great cover to get next to the target.”

“You know that as fact?”

“No, they’re all dead. But what I do know is half-wit dinks and that scenario makes perfect sense in Dinkville.”

“Shit.” She leaned back in her leather exec chair, tossed a pen at her desk. “Macon?”

“Macon was crooked as a Cypress root, and if he knew anything besides what he told us, he took it with him. The only other calls he made that afternoon were LBI business and a couple to a six-dollar burner that pinged down by the river and disappeared. It was obvious he was buying information with rock, Liz. Information someone didn’t want bought. He was a cop, though, so we’ll shake the bushes, bring out the bagpipes and fold a flag. In a couple weeks we’ll shoot a methed up skin head covered in swastikas for resisting arrest and find Macon’s murder in his manifesto.”

“Your idea?”

“No, but it’s the one to run with. Dirty cops are bad press. Dead, white extremist meth head cop killers make everyone happy.”

“White, methed up skin head lives don’t matter? You watch. Somebody’ll be butt hurt, show up at your press conference with a sign.” She sighed, from somewhere deep inside. “The FBI anywhere near this bothers me. What do you think I should do about the money?”

“Bank it. Or burn it if you don’t believe Macon told you everything and you’re still worried about the FBI. And have two mill laying around to replace it.” District Chief Bastik stood, profoundly gay, totally unaccustomed to his uniform and uncomfortable in its forward manliness. “I’ll pass your sincere condolences on to the Director for the loss of one of our rising young stars and he’ll be more than pleased to accept your promise of a generous donation to the fund of his choice.”

“This stinks, Bastik. All of it.”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t let it fester too long if I were you. New plays are most likely being run around us as we speak, and we’re down two snitches and one fixer with a badge.”

Liz watched his slightly pigeon-toed solo through the legal assistants, the big, round brim hat in his hands incongruous until she thought of John Wayne playing a gay cop-o-crat and snark laughed through her nose.

***

Special Agent Hyland brushed the back seat beside him with his hand, as if to rid it of his last two guests. The big Samoan relocated himself from outside, peered out the Lincoln’s front passenger window with the silenced .22 in his right hand, pointed up. “Thoughts, Sir? Divine insight?”

“Orrin Peachman is not a problem. He wants to keep being a loner car and boat mechanic down on the coast, try to grow some decent hydroponic weed in the bedroom his old roommate occupied. He’s a situational killer with small dreams, not a sociopath, and he saved us some cleanup work. Give them the sanitized go-home money and a dangerous admonition, tell Holbert and Keefe to take them to the Lafayette bus station.”

The pistol remained. “The girl? Holbert might kill her for running her mouth before they get across the bridge.”

“That would be a bonus. All Paris knows is that Mick got drunk, told her about a kid with money in a briefcase and she called her Pimp’s bro. She’s too stupid to lie. If Holbert doesn’t kill her, she’ll run her mouth about that Cartel nonsense one too many times and end up face first in a topless bar shitter with her throat cut. Not our problem.”

The pistol came down. “What about the kid?”

“What about him? He sold it in Vernier’s office like he owned it when he could have sold us down the river for having to back out of the frame and leave him high and dry. Instead he out-drove bullets, had cars blow up around him and still stood up for us on this deal because he’s not terribly fond of Liz Vernier, who for reasons known only to her, is trying to rip his girl out from underneath him. He’s unofficial family.”

“Hot pants?”

“Ah. The surprisingly clever, multi-faceted, machine gun wielding Bernadette.” A faint smile crossed Hyland’s lips. “You know, she could have disenfranchised me in California when I handed that pink Ruger back and the money was sitting on the table. I saw it in her eyes. Being with the Agency made me not worth her risk-reward equation, an equation that a less intelligent, purely avaricious person wouldn’t even have run. Don’t let the pretty face fool you, Liko. She and that Annabelle woman are at least as dangerous as we are. In fact, I think I’d rather handle snakes with the unwashed faithful than spend any more time than needed around either of them. And for damn sure only a fool or a rattlesnake with a death wish would get between them and our young Mr. B.”

The Samoan snickered. “Background says Annabelle Monette fed two Florida Matchstick Men to the swamp, sent their jewelry and phones to the man who hired them. You weigh in on that?”

“Swamp Vue didn’t burn to the ground last summer, she and Bobby are still with us. The Matchstick Men are MIA. What I said about dangerous women and Mr. B.”

The Samoan shook his head once, started to unscrew the silencer on the assumption it wasn’t needed, stopped halfway. “The car douche?”

“Nobody listens to Mick. He’s a semi high-profile Hollywood Jester in a Hawaiian shirt. He’ll drop his wrench in one hand and dick in the other lifestyle now that he has Bernadette to contend with as a business partner, not an employee playing T&A delivery girl.”

“Jesus. Out of the fire and into the pan is like a daily with that dude.” The Samoan finished unrolling the silencer, studied Orrin and Paris, both pacing nervously, the two female agents bored, leaning against their car. “Think Vernier will burn the money?”

“If she does she has to replace it from somewhere. We have her trail either way. Speaking of money…” He waved toward Orrin and Paris with the back of his right hand. “We’re done here. No place on Earth smells like Louisiana and I’d like to forget how I came to know that. Soon.”

Bobby B – Ruckus

Next to last episode!

Mick kept an apprehensive distance as he walked around the maybe once-upon-a-time bronze-ish dually pickup that appeared to have survived a demolition derby. It belched black diesel exhaust erratically while something underneath ground out a not very reassuring metallic Industrial dance groove. “Do you ever steal anything worth driving?”

“Diamond plate steel bed, back of the cab, too.” Orrin laid his hand on top of the steel lined bed gate. “Found it on Craigslist. I called the man, said it had been an oil field broke pipe and bit hauler. Steel’s to keep shit from comin’ through the back an cuttin’ you in half. He’s off weldin’ in Oklahoma, told me where it was at if I wanted to have a look. No neighbors, nobody to miss it. The steel was what impressed me.”

“Yeah, steel.” Paris had shoplifted some gum and size too small clothes that had revived her stripper swagger. “You never seen the Bonnie and Clyde car?”

Mick wanted to ask which one of the dozen or so out there, including two he’d been involved with. Instead he turned around, put his wrists together.

“Hook me up. I’m not dying in the back of an ugly assed truck with my fans thinking I had anything to do with this.”

“Which part?” Orrin popped a smile between mischief and evil. “The money or the truck? You free to get dead in the back seat of this thing for nothin’. Right, girl?”

“Thaz right.” Paris hit a joint the size of a Jalapeño, got her ‘been boning a new guy who can take care of me’ on. “Or make him dead now, babe, ‘cause his sweaty ass stank is gettin’ too much for a lady to deal with.”

“Find us a lady to object,” he winked at Mick, “an I’ll drop his stanky ass in a heartbeat.”

***

The modern-in-the-Eighties concrete and recessed glass six story office building was owned by Vernier, Leduc and Delome, and their law firm occupied the top three floors. Liz Vernier would arrive at 8:10 on the dot, park in the Loading and Unloading Only area in front, leave her car running, load out whatever lawyering material she’d taken home onto a collapsible chrome dolly and walk away. She would speak, perfunctorily and absently, when she passed VL&D’s valet driver going the opposite direction. Bobby knew the routine because he and Carrie Louise had waited for her many times in the early days of organizing his settlement money.

The plan was for Annabelle to pull up and wait for Liz. When she showed, Bobby would drop from the truck, walk inside with her and hand over the money. It all went to hell when Liz pulled up and Carrie Louise climbed out of the passenger side door.

“CL?” Bobby forgot what he was supposed to be doing anf hit the pavement at a trot. “Hey, CL, wait up.” Bobby caught up with her ten feet from Liz’s SUV.

“Bobby?” Carrie was straddling the elated-massively pissed off fence. “I like your…Where the hell have you been?” She grabbed his arm, looked past him at Bernie. “And what is she doing here? What –”

Paris, in blue and white pinstripe City Garage coveralls like the usual VL&D valet, ripped the briefcase out of Bobby’s hands and ran. She cleared the curb right into Annabelle’s arms, spun out into Bernie who kicked her feet out from under her. Rapid gunfire blew the windows out of Liz Vernier’s Caddy just before the rusted diamond plate, black smoke belching truck going five miles an hour in reverse knocked the Caddy SUV over on its side and up onto the sidewalk. Everyone had dropped in place when the shots were fired except Paris who jumped up and into the beat to shit pickup.

Annabelle’s .45 came out along with Bernie’s petite automatic, both aimed at the rectangular hole in the diamond plate where the truck’s rear breather window should have been. Paris stuck a 25 caliber Saturday night special out the window and randomly emptied the small clip. Bernie spun to her left, ducked and fell on the sidewalk behind Annabelle’s truck, bleeding from a through and through between her collarbone and top of her shoulder.

Annabelle knelt down, grabbed Bernie’s good arm, lifted her, cleared the sidewalk and a three-foot tall planter where they landed on top of Liz Vernier, Carrie Louise and Bobby, all three on their phones with 911. Two security guards trotted out the front door of the building, banging away at the rusty truck with snub nose .38s, like they were good for a gunfight beyond the confines of a phone booth, and ended up falling behind an identical planter on the opposite side of the entrance walkway, dodging higher caliber fire from the belching diesel. The truck, hobbled by the reverse collision and the pre-existing Industrial dance groove, lurched and ground its way down the parking aisle where it could, if it ran long enough, make a right down the back row and exit the lot.

There was a small boom from the truck, followed immediately by Liz Vernier’s Cadillac SUV exploding, large chunks of it landing on Annabelle’s new truck.

“Goddammit. That right there is gonna be Carfax business.” Annabelle dug around in Bernie’s purse for clips to the machine gun still clenched in Bernie’s right hand, Bobby picked up the pink Ruger when it fell out. Annabelle jammed a clip into the Berretta, stuck two more in her back waistband. “Déjà vu all over again, Bobby. You ready?” Bobby nodded. “Tires are yours. The little hole is mine.”

“Use the Force, Luke-abelle.”

She grinned before they rolled over the top of the planter and across the sidewalk. Annabelle raised up over the bed of her truck, Bobby over the hood and they threw fifty-two rounds in a big hurry at the waddling dually. The ass end of the pickup dropped to its rims, the mirrors were gone, and wailing sirens were getting closer.

***

“You fucking idiot ass idiots!” Mick, huddled on the floor of the truck’s backseat, was screaming. “I was minding my own shit, getting drunk in a titty bar, I fucking wake up and I’m in an episode of welcome to my redneck suicide vacation. What the fuck is wrong with you people?”

“He’s right, idiot ass.” Paris threw the briefcase at Orrin. “It’s empty! We got nothin’ an I’m gonna be dead and broke wearin’ WalMart panties and no lipstick in a piece a shit truck!”

“You forgettin’ the fashionable coveralls.” Orrin tried to look through the shattered windshield and guide the truck, afraid to stick his head out. “You got a better idea car man…” He waited for Annabelle’s second clip to empty, several rounds zipping through the hole and adding insult to the windshield’s injury. “I’m all ears.”

“Make the turn, jump, follow that overgrown ‘crick’ or ‘bye-you’ or whatever the fuck you people call it and get the living fuck out of here. Alive.”

“I don’t know, hate run with nothin’ to show for the trouble. How ‘bout you, car man? What are you gonna do?”

“Make it easy for you to decide.” Mick kicked the passenger side back door open, jumped out before the truck crawled around the corner. He turned, bent forward at the waist and lobbed one of the grenades from Orrin’s duffel bag over his head and back in the door he’d come from.

***

A cop car screeched to a stop in front of Mick, another one headed for the truck that had rattled and belched its way ricocheting off parked cars and the curb almost thirty feet down the back row. The truck blew before it ambled into the cop car, but still managed to send the cruiser’s hood up and over and shattered all its glass.

Mick was jack-rabbiting up the parking row on his knees faster than the cop could keep up with him.

“Where the hell you think you’re –”

Two more explosions rocked the parking lot, the cop’s hat took off, Mick kept scrambling. “He’s got a gym bag with eight or ten more of those fucking grenade things, and some dynamite.”

The cop barked the grenade count and ‘back the fuck off’ into the radio clipped to his shoulder, dragged Mick by the collar between two parked cars, pushed him over on his side and flinched when two more grenades went off.

“Must’ve been what I saw you toss in there when you jumped, huh.” He pulled a knife, sawed at Mick’s wrist and ankle duct tape, flinched with another boom. “End of the day you’ll be some kinda hero for killin’ those fuckwads and stoppin’ this shit.”

“I’ll be happy to autograph anything you bring me but your dick.”

“Funny guy. Only you do put me in mind of somebody.”

“Monterrey Mick.” He held out a hand. “Mick’s Cust –”

“Nope.” The explosions had stopped, the cop peeked over the hood of the car to see what he was missing. “Some pimp I busted a year or so ago.” He asked the radio about fire department support, noticed the Ambulance that was part of the original emergency call was closing its back doors, EMS personnel trotting to the front. “Now that you mention it, he did look sorta like that car guy you’re talking about. Thinner, maybe. You aren’t a pimp, are you?”

“No.” Mick poked his head up with the cop’s. “But I play one on TV.”

“Musta been it,” the cop laughed. “That guy, trying to be you.”

“Funny guy.” Mick counted fourteen squad cars, in the way of the firetrucks that needed to deal with what was left of the pickup, the cop car that had tried to box it in, and maybe a dozen other collateral damage cars, some on fire, not counting the Caddy on its side in front of the building.

***

The black Town Car slowed beside a tall man and short girl climbing out of the overgrown drainage ditch half a mile from the office building. The back window shussshhed down, Agent Hyland’s face appeared. “Need a lift?”

“No thanks, mister.” Orrin took in their reflection in the waxed finish of the Lincoln. “We fine. Too much ruckus around here. We goin’ to the shelter down on –”

“I insist.” The back door opened the same time that a Samoan man got out of the front seat and expanded to the size of a Camry standing on end. Orrin and Paris climbed in the back.

***

Orrin stared through the tinted windows of the Lincoln, now parked on an empty pier, at Paris being led away by a couple of women in dark pants suits from another Lincoln just like the one he was in. He rubbed his forehead with the heels of his hands. “We dead now, or later?”

“Depends on what you have to tell me. I always say that honesty is the best policy. Lying to me is a once and done.” There was no way for Orrin to miss the Samoan fitting a silencer on a long barreled .22 semi-auto target pistol.

“Mister…” Orrin pulled his stare back to straight ahead, hoped Paris didn’t say anything stupid. “I find truth, like beauty, often be a matter of convenience, and always in the eye of the beholder.”

“You are a rare and very wise man. One, I hope, who knows truth that results in a mutually beneficial outcome must be malleable as well as in subjective agreement.” Hyland folded his hands in his lap, closed his eyes and leaned back into the seat. “Tell me a story about you and the ‘ruckus’ back there, knowing that I am already in possession of one I like without you.”

Bobby B – Better By The Minute

Bobby used an oar to pole the Stinger aground at the Ramah mud ramp. He stepped out, dragged it up a little further, offered Bernie a hand down. She took it, dropped on her butt next to where he’d dropped on his back.

“Now what?”

“I hadn’t gotten this far.” He turned his head in the direction of a door slam, squinted when the power beam from a night fishing light landed on his face.

“About time you brought my damn boat back.”

He picked the tall black woman out of the late dusk and the photo flash eye burn, mostly by voice. “Annabelle?”

“The one and only. What took you so long?”

“Y’all didn’t give me enough gas to get hardly anywhere.”

“That’s a show boat, baby. Not much of a tank. Expected you to take the straight shot down Standard to Atchafalaya, hook up with Junior and come home through the back door. He calls, tells me you have some fool ‘wander around the bayou to Big Muddy plan’. In my polyester paint job show boat.”

She motioned with the beam to a man standing by a dually pickup that had an empty, polished chrome trailer hooked to it, waved the light around and pointed at the Stinger. She opened the back door of a seriously lifted crew cab Tundra, held it while Bobby tossed the shotgun, the briefcase and the cooler inside. Bernie climbed in first and saw their suitcases.

“Boudreaux?” There was panic in her voice. “She’s got our bags. And a .45 under her jacket!” She pulled the pink Ruger, fumbled it on the floor of the backseat. “Ohhh…Shit, Boudreaux! The FBI…Everybody…They’re all…We’re being erased.” Annabelle caught Bernie mid-flight from the truck, bench pressed her back in the door.

“Little girl, the only thing about to be ‘erased’ is my patience.” She held Bernie in place with one hand, pointed at Bobby. “Since last evening when our boy called? I’ve had people who should be building boats scattered out all over hell and gone trying to stay ahead of you two, and cleaning up after.” She winked at Bobby, pushed Bernie back in the truck. “Days like this ‘erased’ is the best idea I’ve heard in a month of Sundays. When I told this boy Annabelle Monette was how crazy got done? I had no idea how much work he could make out of that.”

“Down bayou is always this way?”

“With him? Hell yes, one kind of way another. Go around and get in the damn truck, Boudreaux.” She slammed the door behind Bernie, got a glimpse of the worried boat loader taking CYA pictures of the Stinger showboat before he loaded it. “Erased don’t even start to cover it.”

Bobby tossed the scotch plaid throw Annabelle used for a seat cover into the back. Bernie curled up under it and was asleep before they hit the interstate.

“How far did you have to row?”

“Too far. Kinda heavy for a Stinger.”

“Loaded. All that leather look and faux wood finish, chillin’ console, rumble fishing seats.” She peeked over her shoulder at Bernie. “I didn’t know, about you, and her. I booked two rooms. If you need that changed…”

“Two rooms. We’re not…” Bobby hesitated. “We’re friends. She made working out there tolerable. And we’ll be business partners when Creighton gets that lined out. Business partners like you and me, anyway. ‘Great idea, Bobby, you’re the man. We got work to do, so don’t let the door hit ya where the good Lord split ya’.”

“Had a visit from Mr. Creighton DeHavilland. Esquire.”

“Yeah? Hittin’ you up to invest?”

“Nothing of the kind. He asked, considering my manufacturing history and assorted other ass kissing, could I add a ‘small industrial furniture plant’ on Swamp Vue’s ‘upholstery department’ to build custom restaurant seating. I told him the Salvation Army did our upholstery. Didn’t even slow him down. He said that was marvelous, and a conscientious write off to boot. I agreed. We’re on standby to contract with them and have it ready to go if that Monterrey Mick character surfaces again.”

“A lot of people are hanging dreams on Mick.” He thumbed toward the back seat. “That one in particular. I’m hopin’ for her sake he’s not dead in a ditch or busted somewhere.”

“So you are worried about her?”

“She has that need, like Momma had. Won’t be another pretty bayou girl who can’t seem to get to her destiny, whatever it is. She’s smart, pretty, got a chip on her shoulder a mile wide, a temper, and a pocket size machine gun in her purse. She’s the whole recipe for mess herself up casserole. Yeah, I’m worried about her.”

“I caught her with my bare hands and she’s made out of dynamite and electricity with a figure that might well do a man harm. I wouldn’t worry too much. Unless you’re not certain about that room arrangement and looking for an excuse.”

“Jesus, Annabelle. It’s been a long day that started out being dumped by the FBI and shot at by strangers. I’m not sure about much of anything. Except those two rooms. I told you –”

“I heard, baby.” She laughed, softly. “Smart and pretty and a big chip are tolerable. The temper and machine gun are the two to stay out ahead of.”

***

“Been a long day and getting longer by the minute, Macon.” Agent Hyland pulled his gum out, stuck it in a wrapper he’d saved, flipped it at the dumpster behind a run-down 24/7 Jack in the Box, slipped his thin leather driving glove back on.  Still don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“You do, or you wouldn’t have met me.”

“You eat a lot of Crack in the Box? Too much of it can turn your brain inside out.”

“Fuck the chat. I got the call for a shooting at Mud Point Trailer Park on Whiskey Bay this morning. You show up ahead of me and about two feet behind the Troopers, jam the investigation, scatter my people and leave me with a compromised crime scene, no facts and a ‘go get ‘em, scout’ routine. Faucheaux let it drop the kid and hot pants had two million in a briefcase, headed for Liz Vernier. Liz Vernier’s business is my business. I want in.”

“How much of me and the money have you communicated to Vernier?”

“None. I told you. I want in.”

Hyland’s eyes turned hard and he put a gloved hand on Macon’s shoulder. “Between Liz Vernier, your boss and me is the hardest place you’ll find yourself, son. They need deniability, you’re expendable. Fucking with me is a once and done.” He stared Macon into a Mexican standoff. “So far four people angling for a piece of that money are dead. If they stay on schedule the other two who know about it will be dead by tomorrow afternoon. Maybe I decide I can’t trust the hot rod guru and he’ll go with them. You come to the table with nothing but your hand out, you’re another likely. Greed breeds carnage, Macon. Step off while you can.”

“Faucheaux knows, too. He –”

“Faucheux knows squat. He’s an opportunist who saw a way out from under a shitty truck and took it.”

I’m an opportunist. I’ll put Liz Vernier in the middle of it, however you want. She goes down with Bobby and the rest of them. All your witnesses are dead, we get some media show with her dirty money and walk with a bonus.”

“The money isn’t dirty. And the kid is my diamond in an ever-expanding shit pile of ‘God smells like money’ assholes. I may not like Liz Vernier, but unlike you? She’s far more valuable alive than dead. Did you hear that?”

“I heard. But it’s not right. I thought…The two agents in Lafayette. My two couldn’t have –”

“No, they couldn’t. Mine had orders to fold if confronted. I needed to see air around all the players.” He shook lightly with silent laughter. “I told Bobby I was out of it to force his hand. Never expected him and a two-bit actress to run the gauntlet in a Cobra pickup waving a sawed-off elephant gun, just to keep their word.”

“Neither did we. Tell. Me. About. The money.”

Hyland stepped into Macon, slipped a medium bag of rock into Macon’s suit coat pocket, whispered. “You still don’t get it. If I told you, I would have to kill you.” He backed out of Macon’s space. “My operation requires the money be delivered directly into Vernier’s hands, by Bobby. Without interference or being tainted by any reference to the agency. Last time. Forget whatever you think is going down, forget the money and me and Liz Vernier and get out. Can you do that?” He searched Macon’s face with his eyes. “Thought not.”

A black Town Car appeared behind Hyland. “Sorry, Macon.” He dropped into the back seat. “This wasn’t your night.” The electric window shhhhsed closed in Macon’s face.

“Yeah? Well…” He watched Hyland’s car slip away, flipped it off. “Fuck you, too.” He walked to his car, yanked the door open.

Hyland tapped his driver on the shoulder. “LBI Agent Macon Jarrett has disenfranchised himself. He doesn’t need time to make contact.”

The driver touched the side of his watch. “Done. Disenfranchised?”

“His word. We need to look it up. See if it’s proper usage before we add it to the ‘sanction’ thesaurus.”

***

The patrol cop waved her flashlight over the kid glued to his spot in a puddle of vomit in the Jack in the box parking lot, his right hand frozen to a wheeled trash can.

“You haven’t touched anything? You puked, called 911 from the cell you gave me, haven’t moved?”

“No ma’am.”

“Tell me again?”

“I come out with the trash and seen him, like that, whatever used to be his head ‘sploded out all over, an, an,” he barfed into the trash can, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I called 911. You an me, here we are.”

“Think hard. You didn’t see anybody, hear anything?”

“I done thought plenty hard already. If I’d heard shootin’ I’d a never came outside. Nothin’. Nobody. Nothin’.”

“You can let go of the can.” She handed him his phone back. “Have a seat on the sidewalk for me.” She walked back to Macon’s black Dodge where he sat, one leg in, one out, slammed awkwardly up against the door post. The left side of his head gone. She shined her light across the interior of the car to the hole at the very top of the passenger side window, followed the angle with her eyes to Macon’s head, out into the lot and back to the hole. A tour of Afghanistan told her it was a distance shot. Infra-red scope maybe, to read the target at night. Whatever was left of the bullet would be in the brain goo field and useless. The shooter’s location, if they could find it, would reveal nothing. She collected the badge, wallet, phone and decent sized bag of crack she’d retrieved from the body and set on top of Macon’s car, put them in a gallon Ziploc evidence bag, walked over and sat by the kid. She pulled off her latex gloves, pointed at the shattered security camera.

“How long has it been like that?”

“Since three or four times ago that we was robbed.”

“Getting better by the minute.” She heard the sirens screaming, shook her head. Two patrol cars, an unmarked car and a crime lab van screeched into the parking lot. An ambulance lumbered in behind them.

She stood, patted his arm with the back of her hand. “Go inside, clean yourself up. Tell whoever’s in charge to shut it down, make a pot of coffee. A long night just kicked into overdrive.”

“Nobody to tell, ma’am. I’m all by my lonesome, eleven to four.”

She scanned the lot swarming with uniforms and suits and crackling radios, all headed her direction.

“Lucky you.”