Happy Thursday. To help keep my own feet to the fire, I'm using Thursday as my public accountability day. That means, posting a bit of coherently creative output for you to read and feedback on every week. If I perform according to my own intent, what I put here will be available as a whole elsewhere at the same time or shortly after appearing here.
In Warm Blood is currently available as a part of The Official Private Eye Handbook, first book in the CITY OF MAGICK series. Please, feel free to take a look here, though, and at subsequent chapters. Let me know how you feel about it. For those of you finding your way here relatively late, no problem. The start of the story is just a click away.
IN WARM BLOOD
Chapter 10
I didn’t expect Heliopolis would be easy to penetrate. Her killer deserved as much of a chance as he’d given to Whitney: to not see me coming at him. I needed time to plan how I was going after White. Home seemed like the best place for that, even with the kiddie cops. Despite his name, Homer got lost three times on the drive. We stopped for some take-out and I drove us back to my building. I parked in the underground garage.
“Why are we parking down here, Brick?” Homer asked.
“I don’t like being bothered with getting in and out of here usually, but this way we have a better chance of not being seen.”
“Increased odds of making it to sunrise sounds good to me,” Overknight offered. “Homer, if you go on ahead and make sure it’s clear, we’ll follow with the pizzas.”
“I’ll send the elevator back down,” Homer said.
“You getting cautious in your old age?” I asked.
“DeBrave goes by-the-book. If you want to reach old age,” she said, “just let us do our job, Brick.”
“I’m not stopping you,” I said. “Ferrari signed on with the forces of evil a long time ago. Bombs and mayhem are the man’s style. They’re what he knows. On the up side, it makes him predictable.”
“Yeah, but he’s known for car bombs, Brick,” Overknight said. “He’s got a guy who specializes in it.”
“How nice that must be for him. Some people just drift, never knowing where their true talents lie.” The elevator didn’t take long to come back down, so we started the ride up to meet Homer. About halfway up to my floor, there was a thunderous rumble. The elevator shuddered and the lights flickered. Overknight and I looked at each other. I reached for my gun.
“We’ve got to stop the elevator, Brick!” she shouted, dropping the pizzas and lunging for the control panel. “I’ve got to get you out of here!”
“No way,” I told her, blocking the panel of buttons. “We can’t just leave Homer behind, especially not when we‘re already on the way up.”
“Our job is to protect you,” she demanded. “He knew the job was dangerous when he took it, remember? You’re supposed to be cooperating, remember?”
“Not with the bad guys,” I told her. “If you want to protect me, get your gun out and clear your head because I’m going to check on your partner.”
“Brick--”
“Don’t try talking me out of it,” I said. “Dinner’s already a bust. Now I’ve got an appetite for action.”
“Fine,” she said, staring coldly at the doors as she pulled her pistol. “Just don’t be a wuss and die on me.”
The look in her eyes, on her face, said that she was ready to kill. We were about to hit my floor when I asked, “You sure you’re ready to rumble?”
“Fine time to ask,” she said. “Yeah, I‘m ready, Brick. Let‘s bring the pain.”
“Anytime.“ The doors slid open. Sprinklers were pouring their icy rain down into the smoky hallway. Emergency lights and flickering flames were our only help as we kept low and approached my apartment. Alarm bells rang in the distance as I told her, “Stay low and sharp.”
“I know my job!” she snapped back. “You’re not my first dance partner, Brick.”
We reached the flaming hole that used to be my new door. We also saw what was left of Homer amongst the charred rubble.
“Bastards! Alright,” Overknight said, grabbing my coat sleeve, “Homer’s beyond help and we need to get out of here. You have any neighbors we need to help get out?”
“My neighbors? No, they’ve learned to keep their heads down when the loud noises start.”
“Which way are the stairs?” she asked.
Ironically, the stairwell door opened just then and a goon squad started pouring into the hall with guns blazing. “Down!” I told Overknight, knocking her to the floor as I returned fire. She started shooting back along with me, but it was pretty clear that we were outgunned.
“Give it up, Stone! Make it easy on yourselves!”
I couldn‘t fault their strong negotiating position, just their logic. “Forget it, punk!” I snapped back at him. “Cowardice sickens me and I don’t even know how to surrender. Brick Stone is not French!”
“You’re going down!” someone else shouted, opening fire from the opposite end of the hallway.
Through the smoke, I saw one of the walls rippling like water as men with guns charged through it and into the hall. We had been outflanked with another shadow portal, just like in the alley. Then Overknight took a bullet in the shoulder and dropped her gun. As she picked up the gun with her left hand, I hit her with a tackle that sent us tumbling to the floor just inside my apartment. Another second and the weakened floor collapsed, dropping us into the apartment below what was left of mine. Whoever’s it was, it looked like they had just become as homeless as I had. Above us, the sounds of shooting continued.
“Ow,” Overknight moaned. “Not sure what hurt worse: getting shot, tackled or the fall. Is the building collapsing?”
“Just a little. Some fun, huh?” I asked her. “I don’t think they’ve realized they’re shooting at their own guys yet.”
“What’s your next brilliant move?” she asked me.
“Well, salvaging my security deposit’s a lost cause, so I get you to the hospital,” I told her, helping her to her feet. “Hold your hand over that hole and try not to go into shock.” She was losing a lot of blood. We had to move fast.
“Somebody has to watch your back,” she said as we staggered to the elevator. “Ferrari’s obviously gotten desperate.”
“Don’t worry about me,” I told her. “I’m fine. You’re the one who’s leaking. People who hang around me have a nasty habit of having bad things happen to them.”
“Yeah, me, too, but we knew the job was dangerous--”
“No, I’m going to go share the misfortune with Ferrari,” I said. “After I take care of you, I’m going to go find him and watch bad things happen to him.”
“What?” she asked as we started back down to the garage in the elevator.
“Oh, no, your hearing’s going. I said--”
“No, Brick,” she insisted. “You were right: you can‘t just go after Ferrari! It’s suicide!”
“Overknight…Jen, what happened to all that fire and spunk? I can take care of myself…and Ferrari, too.”
“Let Cross handle it, Brick,” she said weakly. “It’s too dangerous.”
“One little scratch and you start sounding all wussy,” I told her. “I’d watch that if I were you. You’ll make people start to wonder if you’re just all talk.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “You mean, they might confuse me for you?”
“You should be so lucky.” She hadn’t lost her sense of humor, but that wasn’t keeping her from getting as pale as Whitney. By the time I got her to my car, she was barely conscious. The Charger’s tires screamed and the engine roared as we sped back out into the city streets.
Happy Thursday. To help keep my own feet to the fire, I'm using Thursday as my public accountability day. That means, posting a bit of coherently creative output for you to read and feedback on every week. If I perform according to my own intent, what I put here will be available as a whole elsewhere at the same time or shortly after appearing here.
In Warm Blood is currently available as a part of The Official Private Eye Handbook, first book in the CITY OF MAGICK series. Please, feel free to take a look here, though, and at subsequent chapters. Let me know how you feel about it. For those of you finding your way here relatively late, no problem. The start of the story is just a click away.
IN WARM BLOOD
Chapter 9
Down on the south side, the security on the front door of The Griffin was diligent and made the entry line long and slow. Rather than bother with the mass of lemmings that dragged themselves out to drink and dance the night away, we entered through the stage door at the rear of the building. Blending in with some of the people going in the back was simple. Once we mixed in, acting like we belonged backstage got us to where we needed to be. We had to push through lots of people that seemed to be oblivious to getting in anyone else’s way. There were young and old, pretty and tough-looking, colorful and grungy, which I think were the ones responsible for the stronger smells, but we did get there: the dressing room of a band called “Once Upon a Time.” “OUT is in” their fans liked to chant.
Homer got to the door first and chose to knock then enter, rather than kick the door in or let me kick the door in. Once again, my teachings went unlearned. It saddened me a little and I sighed as Overknight and I followed him in. We walked into an odd mix of new smells. Looking around, I could see it was the smoke from different incenses and cigarettes that made my nostrils sting, but it seemed to counter the smells from outside the room.
There were a couple of assistants, working on whatever their tasks were, while the other two guys and three girls seemed to be more relaxed as they looked at themselves in mirrors or checked their guitars or tapped drumsticks or talked about their upcoming show. I couldn’t tell who was ready to go onstage and who wasn’t. Obviously, the three of us stood out from them as much as they looked different from us. After all, they were supposed to be “The Realm’s Most Dangerous Band” according to all their posters.
“Hey, who called for an order of cops?” the guy with the drumsticks asked as I shut the door behind us.
“I ordered Chinese, man,” one of the guitarists said.
“Good evening,” Homer said, flashing his badge. “We just have a few questions that should only take a few minutes and we can get out of your way again.”
“Be quick, man. We’re on in fifteen.”
“Fifteen? That’s barely enough time to finish these off,” one of the guitar players proclaimed, holding up a half-empty bottle of whiskey. “Grab some glasses, officers. Help us out.”
“It wasn’t me, chief. I got an alibi.”
“She said she was seventeen, I swear!” another guitarist said, letting the first refill his glass.
Funny bunch. “Robin Diana Wilson,” I said with a little more volume and authority.
“Oooooh,” a few of them chanted.
“Sounds like trouble for the girl wonder,” one of the band’s girls taunted the one beside her.
“I guess that would make you her,” I said to the brunette sitting in the barber chair with her back to the mirror.
“No need for all that,” she said, downing the rest of her drink and handing the glass to her hair stylist. “You don’t look nuthin’ like my daddy. He was th’only one in the habit of usin’ all three, and then only when he was riled.”
“But it is your name,” Homer confirmed.
“Robin Elektra now,” she said.
“They must not be fans, Robin.”
“You came into The City on a work visa as a musician, what, five years ago?” Homer continued to probe.
“Yeah, from north Texas,” she responded. “What of it? You came here to take surveys at the mall and look at you now: asking big boy questions. Your parents must be so proud.”
“Alright, look,” I stepped in, “we don’t have five years for Homer to catch up to current events and get to the point of this.”
“Awww and I was just starting to have fun,” Elektra said, pushing out her full lower lip in a mock pout as she finished.
“I’m sure you were,” I said, “that’s rock and roll, but one of my ass pains is that I need to find Stark White. One of yours is me until you get me heading in the right direction.”
She laughed and said, “I agree, he is an ass pain. He must’ve stolen something really pricey this time. Let me guess: something rare and magical.”
“Yeah, a woman’s life,” I said, shoving Whitney‘s amethyst pendant into her hand. “He ambushed her with a sniper rifle and a magic bullet and shot her down in the street.”
“Holy shit,” Elektra whispered as the room got even quieter. She stared down at the Monarch’s Hope, sparkling in her supple hands. “I..I guess he’s finally lost it. He’s been a selfish piece of crap for years…but I never thought…I never thought he’d go that far.” Elektra was getting more agitated, sitting there shaking her head in disbelief as she stared into the purple light. Her deep red lips trembled. “Hell, I even thought he might straighten out and become a decent guy one day, but…”
“It looks like this is news has become upsetting for you,“ I said. I had learned that sometimes it could be helpful in an interrogation to act sympathetic. “It’d probably help you feel better if you just start spewing info…and then we can bounce and you can go do your little show.”
“Hang on,” she said, holding out a hand to one of the young men on the far side of the large dressing room. “Covenant, can you hit me with the Divinity?”
“Sure, Rob,” he said, opening his hand to let an oddly shaped liquor bottle levitate across the room to her.
“Divinity?” Homer asked. “Draught of the Divinity--”
“Turn your head, stiff,” Elektra said firmly, “or wait outside. You want my help or not?”
“Let this one go, Homer, OK?” Overknight asked her grumbling partner. “Murder investigation. We‘re prioritizing.”
“I-I knew he…was getting worse…,” she said, taking a swig of the blue intoxicant with one hand and wiping hot tears from her cheek with the other. “Back when he first showed up around dad’s saloon, he just seemed like another guy that wanted to make a buck and get into my pants.”
“And you fell in love and--”
“Y’know, I never did,” Elektra told us. “Dad and I loved music. It’s got a magic all its own. It touches hearts and souls,“ she said, crying some more as she handed the Monarch’s Hope back to me. “Dad tried to explain that to him, but the fool could never feel that. Still, he got obsessed with the idea of chasing down magic and using it to make his life better. He took off to squeeze whatever he could out of the world. After dad died, it was just me. I finally let the saloon go and let my love for music bring me here. Lucky me, the last guy I ever wanted to see again had already beat me here.”
One of her friends handed her a tissue.
“Last time he got pinched, though, he called you,” Homer said. “He called a lot. What’s he to you?”
“He’s no friend of mine,” Elektra said firmly.
“Obviously,” Overknight said, “they used to date.”
“Hey, she’s good,” Elektra said. “It was only two dates, oh, no…one. He dropped in on me while I was at lunch once, ate half my food and said he owed me dinner, so we went out once. You guys should let her talk more. She‘s sharp.”
“We have to pay her by the word,” I said. “Keep going.”
“Yeah, well, my would-be boyfriend’s real name is Matt Stark and he called me way too much,” Elektra confirmed. “Fortunately, I realized years ago that he was a greedy SOB with
zero soul. All he ever cared about people was what he could get out of them for himself. I never knew him as more than a conniving weasel. He’d lie and steal to get whatever caught his eye, but if he’s started killing people…wow…Anyway, I finally went downtown to tell them to put him someplace with no phones…or lights. That’s when I found out about the new name and the newfound ambition. He cooled his heels for a while, but he did a favor for somebody connected while he was in, so--”
“He exploited it to become a bigger bad guy when he got out,” I said. “He probably started working for one of the rising bosses. He‘s definitely fast-tracked way beyond petty theft.”
“Yeah, the next time I saw him,” Elektra said, “he’d ditched the Harley, the boots, the denim and had started doing dirtier deeds to build bigger piles of money. He was trying to show-off with a gold limo, cash, shinies and a suit worth more than his narrow ass. He still turned my stomach, though, so I took that as a strong sign to send him on his way again.”
“Any idea where he went when you sent him off?” I asked.
“Or maybe he mentioned whose organization he’d joined?” Homer asked.
“No on the who,” Elektra said. “As for where, he bragged about a great view. He offered a phone number…He offered a lot of things, but I didn‘t want anything more to do with him. He was still obsessed with magic. He still wanted my dad‘s old harmonica,” she said, holding up a polished brass and chrome harmonica, “but neither of us would ever let him have it.”
“I see,” I said.
“Brick, doesn’t Heliopolis use gold limos?” Overknight asked me.
“Heliopolis…Yeah,” I said, “that’d fit. It’s one of the tallest luxury hotel casinos in town. That‘d account for the great view worth bragging about.”
“A crooked casino with housing for organized criminals,” Homer said.
“Don’t be a sore loser,” I told him. “I’m sure you’d have lost money in an honest casino, too, Homey.”
“Hey, I’ve got a system!” Homer protested.
“Anyway, that sounds like a good place to look for him next. Thanks for the time and the help. Have a good show.”
“You want to show your gratitude?” Elektra asked, her voice turning grim. “Find a way to put that dog down before he hurts anyone else and we‘ll call it even.”
“I promise you, White’s high on my priority list,” I said. “His time’s been running out since he put a hole in somebody close to me.”
“Oh,” Elektra said softly, sympathy in her eyes, “I’m sorry I hadn‘t realized. The girl he shot…you two were close?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. “She was standing right next to me. Now, come on, you two. We’ve got a busy night ahead.”
I'd say the dishes are done, but that wouldn't really be true. I don't think any cleaning is ever done. It's a cyclical thing. You can have low points in the cycle, but it never has an end. That's a basic reality. This is probably why some people find it so appealing to thrive on take-out food. That feeds the fantasy of avoiding the persistent drudgery of household maintenance.
As a dad, domestication is more of a requirement. Household maintenance doesn't just mean taking care of the trash and yard work. Today, it was taking care of dishes and laundry and sick wife and cooking everyone a breakfast they would eat. Finicky kids are funny: they'll eat any sweet processed crap a cereal company stuffs into a colorful box, but when someone upon whom their life depends goes into the kitchen and lovingly prepares a custom meal for them they get picky. Part of being a domesticated dad is learning to fight the urge to unleash swift and blinding violence against the people around you when they become annoying.
"Awww...I don't like this."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't."
"You ate it yesterday. You loved it."
"I'm not hungry."
"You said you were hungry five minutes ago."
"I'm not hungry."
"Just eat it."
*unintelligible grunt* accompanied by a pronounced slouch
"Fine, just pout then."
Noise? That's just the sound of my internal conflict becoming external, why? It only sounds like my forehead bouncing off the wall.
Back when I was single, I had absolutely no responsibility to feed people who annoyed me or even just couldn't decide what they wanted to eat. If my friends and I got together on the weekends and my turn came up to make a food run, the guys learned quickly to make decisions on what they wanted. When I got on my feet and pointed my finger, I asked the question "What do you want?" and expected an answer from these people who claimed to be hungry and had me going to get them food. "Uh..." earned a response of "Nothing for you" and I moved on to the next guy in the poll. Imminent starvation does wonders for reactivating a society-addled survival instinct.
I'm not a fan of coddling children. "I don't want spoiled milk," I've always said, "why would I want spoiled kids?" I've been assured there's a law against throwing them out when they go bad on you. I trust my mom, so I'm willing to take her at her word, but I also recognize that she carries some bias. Still, she knows how I feel. Hey, she took part in raising me, so she's responsible for some of it. In fact, on my birthdays, I call her to wish her a "Happy Mother's Day" and thank her for not caving in the back of my head with a rock when she had the chance. Still, we all want our kids to be able to survive out of the nest, but we also want them to have a reasonably comfortable path getting to that point. Some of them appreciate it and others don't. A lot of them are clueless.
I've got one video game junkie who's halfway through teenage. He seems to have decided that I need to teach him humility. I wouldn't say he has much of an interest in it and he doesn't seem to enjoy it, but at least it makes me laugh. Like many teens, he seems to think he's smarter, stronger, tougher, etc. than he is. I think they go through that sort of thing because their growth has them more developed than they've ever been. It goes to their teen heads, swelling them. That really seems to make mine hate facing that dad actually is smarter, stronger, tougher, etc. than he is. The stark reality threatens the gossamer edges of his bubble made from fantasy and denial.
What can I do, though? We're like the BEFORE and AFTER pictures in the old Charles Atlas ads. I can count his ribs, weigh more than twice what he does, can bench press more than three times what he can and my shirts fit him like bedsheets. When we watch Jeopardy!, his favorite answer is "Uh..." and I can certainly do his homework better than he can (not that I would do it for him). I'm a writer, but I get up and do things, too. He's a kid and he'll stay in bed till noon if he's allowed to. There's no part of my mind that says my acting like Clark Kent for the sake of his ego is a good idea.
As long as he can keep them to himself, I'm easy-going enough to let him have his fantasies most days. Kids use fantasy as part of their growth process. It helps them deal with reality in controlled doses. It's similar to the way we grown-ups shield them from certain things till we feel they're old enough to deal with them. So I let him have his fantasies...to a point. I try to restrain myself from crushing fragile little egos (we want them out of the nest, not curled in a ball in the corner), so I try not to rub his nose in too much reality as long as he doesn't get out of line. Sometimes, though...well, teenage boy. Which means, he asks for it. He doesn't always realize he's doing it, but he does ask for it.
One of the ways a lot of kids learn the limits between their delicate fantasies and our collective reality is to push at the borders. When that becomes dangerous or just irksome (which I think most parents are probably familiar with), the "teachable moment" flag goes up and parenting time starts. I used to have a plan for my rambunctious charge to dig himself a hole in the back yard that was deep enough for him to stand in, then have him stand in it while I filled it back in up to his neck. The last part involved waiting to see how long it took him to break. Mom, again, said I wouldn't be allowed to do that either. Another dream fell, shattered. Well, not really shattered, since I keep it tucked away in one of my happy places. That means I have to be creative when the parenting balloon goes up. It also means the kid is not going to enjoy it, but there's no reason for me (the parent) to miss an opportunity for some fun. When it's your turn, trust me, run with it. It's part of household maintenance. It helps keep you, the parent, happy. Plus, the earlier you deal with...whatever, the happier you'll be in the long run.
Was I ever that bad? Mom says I wasn't and we've already established that, despite her bias, I trust her. I was an odd child, preferring to stay in reading and writing even after being licensed to drive. I grew into an odd adult, but my wife says she's happier that I do this rather than eat pork rinds, drink beer and watch sports. Admittedly, it means that I do lack some of the exact experiences to draw upon for ammunition, but I've managed to learn a few things about human nature. For one thing, I'm waiting for the day when each boy will decide it's time to do the Man Dance. Not all boys have that day, but I've heard that many do. As a coming-of-age moment, the Man Dance is that special time in a young one's life when he decides it's his time to stand up and challenge his dad, usually because that swelled teen head has gotten the better of him. It usually ends up with a boy's bubble being burst by reality.
Children also seem to have the ability to poke at my love and compassion in a way that triggers my concern for their lack of developed sensibilities. Sadly, the kids don't seem to have developed a sense of appreciation for my sarcastic wit. It can make the life lessons take a little longer and I have to deal with "Huh?" a lot. I've gotten pretty good at sighing...and shaking my head...and communicating with a stern stare. Still, I persist. My brain clings to the idea that it will someday be able to awaken our children's brains. It has something to do with there being a joy to teaching that brings satisfaction to the soul, I think. Did I mention the part where it's funny, too? When I hear the words "Thanks, dad," couched in a distinctive tone of exasperation, I know my work is done.
And when I say "done", I recognize that it's a cyclical thing. Kids can only handle so much teaching at once and I don't think there's ever an end. That's just the reality. Of course, there are days when the teaching/learning part seems that it might be the fantasy.
I feel a sigh coming.
