November Novelists Contest #3
>> Tuesday, November 17, 2009
It's week three already. Can you believe it?
That means it's time for our third contest.
These week, it's the Best Dialogue Contest.
Submit a terrific dialogue between two or more characters (750 word limit) in the comment section below.
First Prize: Plot & Structure, by James Scott Bell.
Contest Deadline: 11:59 pm Pacific Time, Nov. 20, 200.
Winner will be announced Nov. 21, 2009.
10 comments:
“Did you know about this Dr. Richardson?” Xavier gave him a look that vowed retribution. Charles had no doubt he could deliver every threat that gaze promised.
“No. I chose another path in life. I don't associate with the organization.”
“Given your parentage, I find that hard to believe.”
“Nonetheless, it is true.”
“You cannot lie. I supposed I have to take your word, despite my reservations.
“Dad, do you know him?” Lily asked. Her brow was wrinkled in confusion as she looked back and forth between the two men.
“I know of him. I know his family. They are my blood enemies. Yours as well.”
“Geez, Dad.” Lily slammed her heavy mug of cider onto the table. “You make it sound like we're mafia of something.”
“Mafia?” Xavier chuckled indulgently and leaned forward to take Lily's hand. “No, my dear, we don't have any ties to that kind of family. We're something much stronger, much more powerful. My boss would make the toughest of the Mafia Dons piss their pants in terror.”
She froze. For a long moment she sat motionless, starring at her father with her face a mask of shocked confusion. Then, darting a quick look at Charles, she stood and tried to pull away, tugging at her hand, still clenched in her father's unyielding grip.
“Sit down, Lilith,” her father ordered. His voice was deep, laced with tempting compulsion and the underlying taint of evil.
“No.” She shook her head in denial and the scent of her panic flooded Charles's senses. She twisted her hand, fighting to get free of her father. “Let me go.”
“Lily please.” Charles leaned forward and tried to sooth her. “Neither your father nor I wishes you harm. We want to protect you. Please, sit down and listen.”
“Why should I believe you?” she snapped, giving Charles a look so full of fear it made his chest ache.
“Because I saved your life,” he replied, keeping his voice carefully quiet.
“Did you? Or did you just bring me to a place no one could hear me scream?”
“Lily,” Xavier broke in again, “Dr. Richardson is incapable of lying. His blood will not allow it. Please, kitten, sit down so we can discuss this. I have much to tell you.”
“What do you mean?” She sank into the chair once more, still tense, but no longer on the verge of panic.
“Have I told you why I married your mother?”
“I assumed you loved her at some point. I know you separated when I was little but you must have loved her before that, didn't you?”
“No kitten.” Xavier released his daughter's hand, patting it gently before he leaned back in his seat once more. “I never loved your mother, and she never loved me. We had a common goal, though, and that was to have a daughter. She insisted on marriage as part of our compact.”
“You didn't want to marry Mom?” The pain in those words made Charles want to hit Xavier, to punish him for hurting her, to silence him before he could say more.
“It's not that I didn't want to.” Her father gave a negligent shrug. “It simply didn't matter to me one way or the other. To be honest, she was the first of my mates to insist on marriage.”
“The first... mate?”
“You have had many sisters, although none of them lived during your lifetime. They all were precious to me, but none had the gift you have, the gift of my blood. This gift is just coming to power now. You can feel the need. I know you don't understand it, but it is a natural part of you. Don't fight the craving, Lily.”
“I don't know what you mean.” Embarrassment warmed her cheeks, the heat scalding against the crisp autumn air. Her hands shook uncontrollably and she clutched her still-warm mug in an attempt to stop the tremors.
Craving.
Heat filtered through her as the word purred in her head.
No! She was a mature woman. Want was normal, healthy. There was nothing wrong with the desire that had hummed through her. Her father couldn't know about the need spiking through her daily, the lust that consumed her thoughts every day. There was no way he could know about the dreams.
“Get in here, you damn fool. Shut the door before Dorothy sees you.”
The door closed with a soft click and Kline all but collapsed in one of the padded wing-back chairs that decorated Cobb's office.
“Well?”
“I got him. You sure did a fine job getting Cassie riled up. All hell broke loose on that farm. Bourke took off from there like the devil was after him.” Kline wiped his forehead on his sleeve.
“You're sure he's dead?”
Kline gave him a dirty look. “I'm sure. Even if he didn't bite it when the bullet hit him, he'll have bled out within a few minutes.”
Cobb set a glass in front of Kline and raised his own. “Here's to you ,son, for being a hell of a shot and knowing a good deal when you see one. Here's to me for gaining a son, a new property and a pretty widow woman all in the space of a year. She fell for the story about Bourke being a crazy murderer like a fly goes for honey.”
They tossed back the bourbon and Cobb reached into his desk for an unmarked envelope. He tossed it to Kline and then leaned back in his chair. Kline counted the money inside and nodded in approval and tucked it into his vest pocket with the money.
“About the other part of our agreement?”
“I'm proud of you, boy. You didn't even get a good education on lying, cheating and stealing from your old man and yet you've turned out to be a true cold-hearted son of a bitch. It's a pity we weren't able to bond while you grew up.”
Kline sent him a sour look. “Don't go getting sentimental. Just because you're my father and you've accepted me as your son doesn't give you the right to give me the old 'way to go' speeches. I don't need any. I've got a career as a politician lined up without your help. The people of Goldberg think I'm the best thing to hit town since . . . you, I suppose, but still. No one else knows and there isn't any reason for them to right now.”
“Agreed. Did anyone see you slip in here, Davey?”
“To hell with you, old man. I'm not twelve. Davey,” he spat in disgust.
“Kline. Answer the question.”
A cool smile formed on Kline's face. “Matter of fact, no one saw a thing. You gonna sign that piece of paper or we gonna chit chat all day?”
Cobb pulled a thick piece of parchment out of his desk. The newly written will stated Kline was his full and legitimate heir. He would receive everything upon Cobb's death. Kline watched the pen scratch across the surface through narrowed eyes.
“Not bad for a boy who had nothing a few years ago.”
“You keep doing me favors and you'll be a very rich man in no time at all,” Cobb promised. “The talk of the town and every mother with a pretty daughter will have her eyes on you.”
Kline grinned. “I have no doubt about that at all. Say, pop, remember when you asked if anyone had seen me?”
“I don't like pop any more than you like Davey.”
“Sorry, father dearest.”
“Why don't you run along now and get back to your office
before Cassandra comes screaming in to town that her dear husband has been murdered?”
“Because I've got another round of business to attend to before I go.”
“Oh? What would that be?” Cobb was bored with the conversation and anxious to get on with his plans.
Kline pulled his Colt from its holster and aimed it at Cobb's forehead. “Seems Jacob Bourke was aware you'd threatened his wife and he didn't take too kindly to that. He came in here raving about it and you wounded him, but he still managed to kill you. A nice little twist on that story of yours.”
Reporter Alan Poe shoved the door open so fast, the grey-haired man at the desk inside almost dropped the sandwich in his hand.
Without missing a beat, Bill McDowall swallowed the bite in his mouth and smiled. “Alan. Good to see you. I—”
“Ghosts?” Alan spit at him from the doorway as he waved a thick folder in his hand. “Are you shitting me?”
Bill, a friendly-looking man in his late sixties, shifted his slightly overweight frame as he wiped his mouth.
“You want me to write an article about ghosts?” Alan continued. “Do I look like Bill Murray to you?”
“Actually, you’d be more like Carl Kolchak.”
Alan paused, confused. “The geeky guy from ‘Welcome Back, Kotter’?”
“No, the reporter from the ‘Night Stalker’ show in the...” Bill waved at a chair. “Never mind. Let’s talk.”
“All I want to hear is that you made a mistake assigning me this idiotic story.” The worn leather seat complained when Alan plopped in it. The chairs were genuine leather, but they passed their prime about thirty years before. “Did I piss you off?” he asked his editor.
“Excuse me?”
“Did I do something wrong, and this...” Alan slapped the folder on the desk. “...is how you’re punishing me?”
“This isn’t punishment, Alan,” Bill said. “It’s an assignment. A very important assignment.”
“Look, it’s bad enough I work for a magazine that sounds like a porn film, but—”
“Stop saying that,” the older man scolded him. “You know damn well why our magazine is called Deep Throat!”
“Yeah, yeah, after the guy from the Watergate scandal. But—”
“Right! He told the truth when no one else would. And that’s what we do. We’re a hard-edged, no-holds-barred news magazine dedicated to uncovering and revealing the truth no matter how ugly or sordid.”
“I know, Bill. I’ve read the sign out front. But, what the hell does that have to do with haunted houses? The truth is: Ghosts don’t exist. Period.”
“Really?” Bill smiled. “Can you prove that?”
“I don’t need to prove it. It’s a known fact.”
“Alan, you know what I always say: ‘It isn’t the truth…’”
“…until it’s been proven,” Alan finished in a lightly sarcastic tone.
“Exactly. And now we owe it to our readers to uncover the truth about ghosts once and for all. And this...” He pulled a large black and white photo from the folder and set it in front of Alan. “...is the perfect place to start.”
In the picture was a huge hotel that had seen better days. Alan read the caption underneath. “The Evermore Hotel? Why? Not that I care or plan on visiting.”
“Didn’t you read the information I gave you?”
“Only until I reached the phrase ‘ghost sightings’.”
“This weekend marks the thirty-fifth anniversary of the Anderson Marquette murders. In fact, tomorrow is the very date Marquette killed his family inside that hotel.”
“Nice guy.”
“That’s just it, from what I’ve read he was a nice guy. A very nice guy. Marquette was a multi-millionaire real estate developer who loved his family and gained the trust and respect of everyone who knew him. And, as far as anyone knows, he never hurt a soul. Then, one night, he suddenly decides to slaughter his wife and two children in cold blood? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Psychos rarely do. And now what, the hotel is crawling with the spirits of his family out for bloody revenge?”
“So a lot of people believe.”
Alan rolled his eyes. “I don’t…do…fiction. And I especially don’t do bullshit.”
“Hell, Alan, forget the ghost angle. You’re an investigative reporter, so look at the murders like an unsolved crime. Maybe you can be the first to discover why Marquette went berserk and killed everyone.”
“Bill, this magazine has always covered corrupt politicians. Why are we suddenly doing a feature on the undead? I realize there are some similarities, but still. And tell me the truth. I know you, and I know something else is going on here. What is it?”
A note to all contributors:
The limit for the entries is 750 words, but the comment box will only allow a max of 4,096 characters. Even so, I had to cut my entry WAY below 4,000 (less than 750 words) before it would accept it.
Just a heads up. Thanks.
Kateesha smiled broadly and laid a hand on Katelina’s leg. “Isn’t this cozy?”
Katelina jerked away and plastered herself against the window. She gave Jorick a last pleading look, but he only nodded to her and headed for the convenience store.
“Awww,” Kateesha mock pouted. “I get the feeling she doesn’t like me.”
Torina popped down the sun visor and examined herself in the vanity mirror. “That’s not a surprise,” she commented as she produced a tube of red lipstick and applied it slowly to her lips. She smacked them together and glanced over her shoulder. “No one likes you.”
“That isn’t true.” Kateesha’s voice got sweeter with every word. “I seem to recall at least one person who was especially fond of me.”
Torina growled low in her throat and her lips curled back dangerously from long fangs. Kateesha laughed and added, “Jorick likes me.”
The redhead studied her adversary before she said forcefully, “No he doesn't.” She turned back to the mirror and applied another layer of lipstick. “He doesn’t like anyone anymore.”
“Think what you will,” Kateesha said lightly as she looked smugly at Katelina.
Katelina glanced from one to the other nervously, and then through the window at Oren. He stood next to the car, dutifully pumping gas. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a blue, long sleeved, button up shirt, the cuffs rolled up. His long blonde hair had been tamed into a pony tail and his amber eyes stared absently past the numbers flipping by on the pump, as if he were looking into a realm only he could see. But Torina, still in the midst of making herself presentable, interrupted his reverie when she opened the car door and shouted to him, “I need a different pair of shoes after all!”
Oren’s head snapped up and, though he didn’t answer and went back to staring at the pump again, it was obvious that the doorway to his far away world had closed and that he was now focused his task.
He finished pumping the gas and opened the trunk. It slammed shut moments later and he appeared with a pair of spiky–high heeled shoes dangling from his fingers. Torina took the shoes and handed him the old pair.
He stared at them as though they were a foreign object. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
She rolled her eyes and stretched her legs to examine the effect of the new shoes. “Put them in the trunk, of course!”
“I already closed it,” he said flatly and handed them back. “Hang on to them.”
“What?” she cried as he started to walk towards the building, ignoring her. “Oren! Come put these in the trunk!” He continued to walk and she amended, “Or give me the keys! I suppose I can do it–”
Oren reached the glass door to the building and glanced back, his finger to his lips. Then, he disappeared inside.
“Of all the – selfish, asinine...” Torina broke off and hefted the shoes up distastefully. “Hang on to them” she repeated and dropped them into the floorboard. She slammed the door and growled, “I'll show him how to hang on to things!”
Kateesha laughed again and Katelina didn’t comment.
“Saying goodbye?” Geoffrey Douglas’s voice pulled me from my thoughts and I turned to find him standing beside me.
“Good riddance perhaps,” I said with a smile.
Douglas smiled back. “I’ll wager there’ll come a time when you’ll long to see that little island again,” he said.
I shook my head but didn’t say anything, and we both stood in reverent silence, each weighing the gravity of the adventure we were embarking on.
“How long will it take us to reach New Providence?” I asked.
“Hard to say,” he said. “Certainty isn’t one of the luxuries we have out here, Charlotte. We fancy ourselves such rebels, going out on the account as though we cannot be bothered to live by another man’s rules.” He looked down at me. “We rage against kings and laws, and then subject ourselves to the one thing none of us could possibly control,” he said with a small sigh. “We’re at the whim of the sea. We just have to trust her.”
Sam appeared at Douglas’s side, his face still solemn. “The wind is astern, sir,” he said.
“So it is,” Douglas replied. “Make ready, Mr. Parker.”
“Aye sir,” Sam nodded, turned, and stepped away bellowing, “Make ready!”
He was answered by a chorus of voices coming from fore, aft, and aloft echoing the order. “Make ready!”
I turned to Douglas. “What should I do?” I asked, eager to be of some help.
“Keep out of the way,” he said. Then he leaned in close and added, “Wouldn’t want you to get hurt.” He smiled and I instinctively smiled back as he turned his attention to the crew. “Loose the squares, Mr. Parker!” he called.
“Loose the squares!” Sam cried and the order was immediately repeated from high above followed by the whoosh and flapping of slack canvas being released from bindings.
“Come,” Douglas turned back and beckoned me with an outstretched hand. I carefully stepped toward him, slipped my hand into his and allowed him to escort me toward the stern of the ship. “Take the helm, Mr. Parker,” he said as we passed Sam, who was peering up at the topsails. “Hard a’ starboard,” he added.
“Aye, sir,” Sam replied. “Brace for starboard tack!” he hollered as he took his place behind the ship’s wheel.
“Bracing for starboard!” came the crew’s replies.
Douglas and I reached the short series of steps that led to the quarterdeck. “Mind your step,” he said as he carefully handed me up. He skipped lightly up the steps behind me, and I could feel the adrenaline emanating from him as he inhaled deeply. “You’ll have a good view from here,” he said. Then he raised his voice and called, “Mr. Cooper?”
Calvin’s cheerful voice came from somewhere farther up the ship. “Aye Cap’n?”
“Up and loose, if you please!” Douglas called. “Prepare to set sail!”
“Preparing to set sail, Cap’n!” Calvin replied jubilantly.
“On your order, Mr. Parker,” said Douglas to Sam’s back. “She’s all yours.”
“Aye, Sir,” Sam acknowledged with a nod of his head. Then he took a deep breath, his hands holding the wheel hard a’ starboard, and he cried out, “Cast off!”
“Casting off!” came the scattered answers, and The Godspeed was released from the lines holding her captive.
Douglas bent and spoke into my ear. “Here is the magic,” he said through a smile. “Set sail, Mr. Cooper!” he called over my head.
From MARY OF ANGELS
The shift had ended just after first light, but Griswold dragged back to the Border Patrol barn late; covered with mud, bleeding from various lacerations, and dripping wet. Most of his shift was still there, as well as some of the new shift, fooling with saddles and getting briefed by the night squad. So he had an audience. Having to be pulled out of the swamp had put him into a fine fettle and he was trying to hang it on anybody in the stable, but they were having too much fun to give him a clear shot.
“It’s not funny, goddamit,” he snapped. “They aren’t some poor, cute little victims out there, dipshits. They’re fucking vermin.”
“Well, I’ve never seen one verm,” Laidlaw replied with wide-eyed mildness. “Have you them vermin’ out there, Ryan? Or even squirmin’ ?”
Ryan thought, and replied brightly. “Hey, I caught one with vermicelli once. He was just lost, is all.”
“Assholes, I’m making a point here!” Griswold would have happily handcuffed them both, then cuffed them by hand. “It’s not a small thing. It’s like those mice in the stable. Cute, cuddly little fuckers so nobody wants to set traps, get a cat. Just let them eat up federal grain. Shit in the horse chow. It adds up.”
Laidlaw’s response to that was interrupted as Dessa entered, leading her horse. One look at Griswold’s condition and she lit up with mischievous glee. “Oh I can tell somebody prevented some major terrorist incursions tonight. Was it heroic or just herculean?”
Griswold blurted to beat Laidlaw and Ryan to the punch. “Fuck you, Dessa. I got jumped.”
“Was it that Indian chick you’re always chasing?” His face—and his colleagues beaming nods—gave it away. “Oh my God,” Dessa trilled in delight. It was, wasn’t it? Oh no, children. Griswold got dumped by a chick. Can you believe it?”
“I find it easy to believe,” Laidlaw told her, all infuriating earnestness.
“Who gives a shit?” Griswold yelled at them. “It was a gang of the bastards. That’s how it works, you morons. Fucking pack of varmints.”
He suddenly stiffened, glaring at the plan walls of the stable. “I can’t believe it!”
“But you were there, Grin,” Ryan said. “An eyewitness.”
“Not that, oddwad. Look at that fucking mouse, right under our noses!”
Sure enough, a foolhardy mouse had emerged from behind a manger and was moving along the rough pine planks, twitching its nose in provocation. Finally finding a legal outlet for his fury, Griswold pulled his gun in a very smooth gunfighter motion that ended with the deafening report of an overloaded .357 cartridge. A man with certain rough spots, but no slouch with a sidearm: the mouse was instantly converted into a patch of fur and blood surrounding the splintered edges of a hole in the planking.
His fellow officers screamed at him, with their hands on their ears.
“Jesus, Griswold! What the FUCK you doing?” Laidlaw yelled.
Ryan, closer to the explosion, was rubbing his ears. “Don’t shoot in here you dickhead. Or I’ll shoot back. Shit!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Griswold muttered, carefully not showing any of the shock to his own eardrums. “Whine and snivel. But it’s one less vermin eating up our oats, right?”
Dessa had one hand on her near ear, the other tugging at the bridle, controlling her frightened mount. Glaring at Griswold, she pulled the horse back out of the barn.
She was back instantly, straining to keep a straight face. “Congratulations, Shane,” she enthused. “You just saved the government a nickel a day in grain and killed a fifty thousand dollar horse.”
From MARY OF ANGELS
The shift had ended just after first light, but Griswold dragged back to the Border Patrol barn late; covered with mud, bleeding from various lacerations, and dripping wet. Most of his shift was still there, as well as some of the new shift, fooling with saddles and getting briefed by the night squad. So he had an audience. Having to be pulled out of the swamp had put him into a fine fettle and he was trying to hang it on anybody in the stable, but they were having too much fun to give him a clear shot.
“It’s not funny, goddamit,” he snapped. “They aren’t some poor, cute little victims out there, dipshits. They’re fucking vermin.”
“Well, I’ve never seen one verm,” Laidlaw replied with wide-eyed mildness. “Have you them vermin’ out there, Ryan? Or even squirmin’ ?”
Ryan thought, and replied brightly. “Hey, I caught one with vermicelli once. He was just lost, is all.”
“Assholes, I’m making a point here!” Griswold would have happily handcuffed them both, then cuffed them by hand. “It’s not a small thing. It’s like those mice in the stable. Cute, cuddly little fuckers so nobody wants to set traps, get a cat. Just let them eat up federal grain. Shit in the horse chow. It adds up.”
Laidlaw’s response to that was interrupted as Dessa entered, leading her horse. One look at Griswold’s condition and she lit up with mischievous glee. “Oh I can tell somebody prevented some major terrorist incursions tonight. Was it heroic or just herculean?”
Griswold blurted to beat Laidlaw and Ryan to the punch. “Fuck you, Dessa. I got jumped.”
“Was it that Indian chick you’re always chasing?” His face—and his colleagues beaming nods—gave it away. “Oh my God,” Dessa trilled in delight. It was, wasn’t it? Oh no, children. Griswold got dumped by a chick. Can you believe it?”
“I find it easy to believe,” Laidlaw told her, all infuriating earnestness.
“Who gives a shit?” Griswold yelled at them. “It was a gang of the bastards. That’s how it works, you morons. Fucking pack of varmints.”
He suddenly stiffened, glaring at the plan walls of the stable. “I can’t believe it!”
“But you were there, Grin,” Ryan said. “An eyewitness.”
“Not that, oddwad. Look at that fucking mouse, right under our noses!”
Sure enough, a foolhardy mouse had emerged from behind a manger and was moving along the rough pine planks, twitching its nose in provocation. Finally finding a legal outlet for his fury, Griswold pulled his gun in a very smooth gunfighter motion that ended with the deafening report of an overloaded .357 cartridge. A man with certain rough spots, but no slouch with a sidearm: the mouse was instantly converted into a patch of fur and blood surrounding the splintered edges of a hole in the planking.
His fellow officers screamed at him, with their hands on their ears.
“Jesus, Griswold! What the FUCK you doing?” Laidlaw yelled.
Ryan, closer to the explosion, was rubbing his ears. “Don’t shoot in here you dickhead. Or I’ll shoot back. Shit!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Griswold muttered, carefully not showing any of the shock to his own eardrums. “Whine and snivel. But it’s one less vermin eating up our oats, right?”
Dessa had one hand on her near ear, the other tugging at the bridle, controlling her frightened mount. Glaring at Griswold, she pulled the horse back out of the barn.
She was back instantly, straining to keep a straight face. “Congratulations, Shane,” she enthused. “You just saved the government a nickel a day in grain and killed a fifty thousand dollar horse.”
Parker knocked on the door of room 37. Tina’s voice, flat and tired, answered. “Come in.”
She was sitting on her bed when he entered and she smiled. She pointed at the tray with her half eaten dinner. “You hungry? I’m finished.”
Parker rolled the tray into the corner. “I know what hospital food tastes like.”
“I bet I’ve eaten more of it than I ever cooked.”
“Yeah, well, they do their job in the kitchen.”
Tina kept silent. Parker saw glimmering tears and handed her a box of tissues he found on the bedside stand. She dabbed her eyes and sniffled into it. “So. Here I am, again.”
“What happened this time?” Parker prepared for an onslaught of blame, rage and insults.
“Why did we get divorced?”
“Why did we get married?”
She laughed. “That’s a better question, isn’t it? You knew I was nuts, but you proposed anyway.”
“I believed that if you stayed on your meds and didn’t drink that things would be different.”
“You still think so?”
“I used to have hope. But I know we don’t work, Tina. Too much bad history. Even living apart it gets fucked up.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
Parker looked at the wall.
“I was living with a guy named Vic,” she said. “We traded stories about how shitty our lives were. His ex-girl friend was a meth addict who shot him once and was still stalking him. I told him how you were Mr. High and Mighty doctor that everybody worshipped and you came home every once in awhile.” She paused to blow her nose. “Oh, we were a great pair. Then we’d drink ourselves to sleep every night. The bastard hasn’t come up to see me. He left to go sell his motorcycle and never came home. A do-gooder social worker came and hassled me. Some slut Vic had been with called and yelled at me. I got some sleep aids and headache pills and the better half of a bottle of tequila and tried to take a nap forever. When I woke up I was tied to a bed with tubes everywhere. You know, I felt relieved, like I was back at home. It didn’t bother me a bit. What do you think of the African shrink?”
“Doctor Joseph seems like an excellent psychiatrist.”
“Yeah, I believe he is. Too bad he has to deal with a fuck up like me.”
“What’s going to happen now?”
Tina brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “I’m not sure. The social workers are kind of pissed at me for the way I’ve treated them. But the new drugs are helping. I seem to be more in control.” For a moment he saw the Tina he knew in the old days. Before everything.
“That’s good,” he said. “If you follow through, they can help you. And you can get turned around.”
“You know, I still love you,” she said in the voice of a child.
“Tina, it’s over.”
“Even if you are with someone else, I’ll love you. I was so immature then, I didn’t know what I had. I won’t do anything, I promise. You can be happy with whoever it is.”
“I’d better go now,” said Parker. “I just want you to know, your support check may be late this month. Times are a little tight.”
“What, no bad guys to catch?”
Parker stood up. “No, there’s one. But I feel like I’m trying to catch a whale with a tea strainer sometimes.”
Coby slipped past Tima and bounced in Hrn. Brantoff's door. He got one fierce bushy glance, the Editor Uber Alles penciling him out of the story, then turning back to scrawl a note on yellow paper and cram it into a dented brass pneumo ball. But by the time he popped the ball in the breech of one tube the shwoop of compressed air had shot four more balls from other tubes into his basket like golden eggs of some big, portentous bird.
Coby didn't have his hat in his hand this time: he had something better right in his pocket. "One single minute."
"No time." Brantoff growled, the old boar bristling at intruders in his lair. "The Leucatrope has exploded."
Tima loomed in the door behind him with a betrayed angel expression burning off her and retribution in mind.
"Damnedest thing I ever saw."
If Coby had his fotoleit, he could have taken a nice memory of Brantoff right then, beard on his chest and eyes bulging like watery eggs. Tima's mood modulated nicely as well. Reflexively, Brantoff said, "You were there?"
"Right below it by the TorTop omni."
Brantoff quickly converted his shock back to his more usual animosity. "And?"
"My eyewitness account. A block on the portal page, I'd say."
Now Brantoff could really unleash his scorn. "You didn't interview anyone? Get comments from the company? Maybe one of the Archon's lackeys?"
"Didn't have time."
"And neither do I !" He heaved up out of his chair, tusks gnashing, and pointed a quivering finger at the door, where Tima was now smirking.
"Every periodicle in the holding already has it, every rotog in the holding will run it tomorrow."
"That is rather my point." He showed signs of actually lumbering out from behind the desk in ire. Finally giving the verification that would end the office pool on whether or not he wore pants.
"But I don't think they'll have a lumograf."
He wanted to see a little awe from Tima, but was too busy watching Brantoff goggle as he pulled the plaque out of his pocket and artlessly held it up.
Brantoff gaped, his cheeks slack. "How..."
"...much? We should discuss that."
"Five hundred franken. Right now."
Coby sighed, tucked the plaque away and turned, winking at Tima.
"Enough," Brantoff bellowed behind him as more and more brass spheres tumbled into his tray. "Five hundred now, five hundred more in your next check."
Cody didn't turn around. "I have a feeling my next check will come from the Testes."
Outrage blew into a tempest behind him. "The Testament? They don't even pay their own scrivers enough to live on!"
"The Witnessed, then. Or whoever comes up with five thousand. Today."
"Three thousand." Brantoff fretted in the silence then said, "And back on the polit patch."
Coby spun around like a dancer and spread his arms in a congratulatory hug. "That's the man we know and fear! But I need fifty right now. There's a hack waiting for pay."
"Not until we reveal the plaque. There might not even be an image."
"Now that is hurtful," Cody said sorrowfully. "The staff at Gravity will be amazed you'd say such a thing about the picture that brought them to fame and good notice of the Archon and his syndicates."
"Tima, give him a hundred. And get your hands on that plaque."
Coby withheld the precious image from her for a moment, smiling into her much warmer eyes. "You heard him? Three thousand for the plaque and three hundred for the story."
"He never cheats us," Tima said, "Just grinds us down. Shall I receive his story, Meinner?"
"Yes, of course. Or get one of those girls from the salon. Just get it on the gravure!"
Coby followed Tima out of the office and back to her bench. "I knew you'd guard my bottocks, Timachin. And yes I'd be honored to make love to you right here on your bench, but first I have to go toss some of my fresh platty to the hackie downstairs."
Tima handed him a five crumbled twenties from the box bolted to her bench and said, "First let's see if you can find your way back up here."
Which it turned out took much longer than expected.
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