the first and last eight hundred words of a very bad
novel:
let's say it's set in Miami.
Michaela Shayne got out of bed and stretched
hard, out to the tips of her long fine fingertips and shapely
toes. She took a hot shower and after drying her tousled red
hair slightly she wrapped the towel around her head and piled
it up like a turban. In the kitchen she prepped her espresso
machine and poured out her morning shot of Blue Label
Herradura. Yes, she was an alcoholic, but then that was par
for the course. She'd never met a private dick that wasn't.
She had it down to a medicinal approach: her first shot with
her coffee, the next about two hours into the working day,
and whenever it seemed appropriate from there on in.
With a double jolt of extra strong espresso following the
tequila, Michaela went back into the bedroom to get dressed.
Not too hard to figure out what to wear -- her entire
wardrobe was either black or white, and nothing in between.
She felt life was morally gray enough without having to stare
it in the face just to get dressed.
She hadn't had enough sleep.
She'd had to bail Roger out of jail again -- after a
fight one of his two favorite bars. Three Aryan Youth types
had chosen last night to crash the place. Roger sent two to
the hospital and scared the third so badly he wet his pants.
After wrangling with Menendez at the desk for an hour and a
half she'd got back home at three.
He could be a pain in the ass. But she could ask for no
better assistant, organizer, and all-around back up. Roger
packed and broke jaws when he had to. And he could word
process like the devil himself. Monday through Friday, Roger
opened the downtown office at nine and closed at five. Unless
she needed him with her.
As soon as she slipped into a short black skirt and long
black jacket, an ensemble that showed her mile of legs to her
advantage, the phone chirped. She knew it was trouble as soon
as she heard that too familiar note of concern for her
well-being in Roger's voice. He cared about her far too
deeply for her to find him enticing. But he was willing to
give heterosexuality a chance, he'd always said, in her
case.
Thankfully he wasn't calling to apologize for last night. He
was calling about business.
"Michaela when I got here, about fifteen minutes ago,
this gangster movie lackey looking kind of guy was here
waiting to see you."
"Elijah Cook Junior? Or more Peter Lorre?"
"Goddamn it, I'm serious."
"Roger. Can the hysterics. Describe the guy,
okay?"
"I will! I will! I'm really okay, really. Just give me
a second."
She waited while he drew a breath, relaxing now that he knew
he had her full attention.
"He was short," Roger said. "Like five three, dark skin,
white hair, somewhere in between 30 and 60, definitely
carrying."
"Nice age estimate," she snorted.
"That was what was so icky about him. I honestly couldn't
tell if he was young or old. His hair might have been
bleached. He had no age lines around his eyes, anywhere on
his face. No sign of surgery, though. He didn't have any kind
of accent."
"Wearing?"
"Dark Armaniesque suit and shirt. Good shoes. Manicured
nails. He said he'd been sent to talk to you and you alone,
that it was a matter of life and death, he actually said
that, and that the person who sent him was someone you once
were very close to. He wouldn't say who. Just refused. Said
he would tell you. God, Michaela, it was SO out of a book, I
had to tell you as soon as he left."
"Is he coming back, or what?"
"I told him to come back at 11:00."
"Okay. Sounds absurd. I'll be there."
"Michaela?"
"Yes, Roger?"
"Don't wear the new white blouse, okay? I don't want this
creature looking at your tits."
"I appreciate your attention to detail, Roger," she said.
"See you in about an hour."
After she closed the phone Michaela stood for a moment
brooding over her Marlboro. Five three, white hair, dark
skin. None other than ex-husband number two. He was right,
they'd once been very close. So he was still spending heavily
on clothes and shoes. Good. Michaela had a special sliding
scale for guys like him.
She moved to the coffee table in front of the couch and cut
the deck. The Eight of Cups. Abandonment of previous
plans.
She pulled on her spike heels and checked herself in the
mirror once more. No unsightly bulge from the shoulder
holster. Hair good. Facial expression just mean enough to
scare off the usual irritating men.
She heard someone outside the apartment door and froze in
her steps. She flicked the holster snap open, slipped out her
Glock and waited. Whoever it was couldn't decide whether to
ring the bell, go away, or jimmy the lock. After thirty
seconds the bell rang and she barked, "Who is it?"
"Guido."
So it couldn't wait until eleven. She put her gun away
and shot back the deadbolt.
That's as far as I thought it worth taking. I wrote this in
the car driving out to the Everglades.
Anyway, Guido's in a bad situation, because someone is
blackmailing him with compromising photos of him with the
boss' 16 year old niece. he doesn't know who's doing the
blackmailing. The boss will kill him -- literally -- if he
seesthe pictures. It goes on from there. Michaela treats him
scornful affection at times and at others with complete
disgust.
Notice she both barked and snorted.
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