Still on hold, but not forgotten

The ghostwriting is taking a lot of time and mental energy, along with an intense 6 weeks at work. But the little grey cells, they continue to work and wonder and wrestle with the German's Rats. Soon, I hope, I will post the next installment and deliver at a pace to make up for the time I've missed. The Case will not go away! Sal will not retire from it until he has conclusions.

Please, be with the patience and I shall reward.

R

Delayed again...

I have a few hundred words done for the next section and all of a sudden I have three ghostwriting gigs come up at the same time. So, after two short stories and 12,000+ words, I'm down to one ghostwriting project and this blog. SO hopefully, I can get something up here on Friday. Baby steps to a full chapter.

Unfortunate delay

The next update has been delayed due to an excess of work. I have not forgotten! Two posts this week and Sal will begin the investigation proper. For the delay, I have many apologies.

The Case of the German's Rats

The phone chirped twice just as I was sitting down with a nice Scotch and a book. It wasn’t quite as sophisticated as that sounds: it was 10am and the book had plenty of pictures. I had decided on a quiet morning until the hair-of-the-dog had killed off the brain cells that had found the softest tissue behind my eyes and were trying to burrow their way out.

It felt more like late evening with the cold grey light dribbling in through the large paned windows of my apartment. The room seemed chilly. Even with the heat cranked up high, it was impossible to fend off the tag-team of frigid air and dim light that sums up about 90% of a Kansas City winter.

Getting out of the chair that was starting to warm to my presence wasn’t particularly appealing but the money men called. So with a sigh and a draw on the liquid courage, I pushed up.

My work phone was still laying on the nightstand, umbilical attached to the wall socket. I shuffled a few steps across the room and picked it up, thumbing on the display.

The message popped up, along with the sender’s number.

442-025-1146 :                   E 7 11 A

I didn’t recognize the number but, then again, I never did. The company that I worked for as a “Security Supervisor” rarely called directly. Somehow, they spoofed a number and left a message that seemed garbled. I had called the number back a couple of times and gotten odd folks around the country that had no idea they had sent me a message.

The number and the message independently meant nothing. Together they gave me the following:

Meet someone about a suicide (442) at 1146 East 7^th Street at 11am. Pays $25,000 (025)

I was still waiting for that first payment digit to be anything other than zero. Not that 25k was anything to sniff at.

I looked at the phone clock, which said 10:10. The meeting place wasn’t far, so I flicked off the phone, threw it on the bed and headed to the warming embrace of the shower, the rest of my Scotch in hand.

                                                                                          ---x---X---x---              

I pushed through the peeling green door with a couple of minutes to spare. The dull grey of the outside gave way to the nocturnal hues of The Dog House bar. The air was hot and humid like the place was built under a comforter. Stale beer and urinal cakes scented the air. Smelled like home.

Wandering into the musky atmosphere, I took off my woolen hat and gloves and slid the jacket zipper down to reveal my calling card: a red plastic carnation on my shirt pocket.

The barman was doing his best to be aloof and not be disturbed from the TV by the arrival of a customer. One of the stools at the counter had a pile of unwashed laundry on it that was drinking a beer.

The only other occupant was an elderly man, grey hair combed neatly, in a dark grey suit, which looked a few thousand dollars too expensive to be touching the chair he was sitting in. He raised his head that had almost been resting on the rim of his beer glass, focused on my fake decoration, and nodded in my direction.

The floor sucked at the soles of my shoes like it would pull stray hairs from your clothes if you rolled around in it. However, you would come away with a lot worse than a few hairs attached to you if you tried. Probably something permanent and malign.

I ordered a bottle from the bartender who had seemed more open to serving me when I pulled the wallet from my jacket. The clothes pile rustled, a couple of eyes panning over me before they returned behind a dirty lapel.

“Mr. McMillan?” said the smartly dressed man in hushed tones as I reached for a chair at his table.

“That’s me,” I replied. It wasn’t, but I had a series of aliases that the company had set up for me. Less of a trail should the Police, or the Mob, or whoever, come looking for me after a job.

“Do you mind if I see some identification?”

I rifled through my wallet and pulled out the correct ID from the small stack. A manicured hand took it from me when I offered, the other hand resting flat upon the tabletop. It could have been a fake ID, though I was fairly certain most of my clients didn’t want more than to appear serious about the business that we were to discuss.

He handed the card back to me and started talking as I took my seat. His gaze never once rose from the surface of the pale brown liquid in his glass.

“I need you to find out who killed my granddaughter, Elizabeth Williams.”

He slid his hand over the table and left a photograph in front of me. The smiling face of a teenaged girl in a Missouri River State shirt and shorts beamed out at me. She was waving as she stepped into a large, red brick building, groups of people milling around her with backpacks and brochures.

“That was taken a year ago, when she started at MRSU. My son and his wife and I were there,we were so proud of her. She was the first in my family to go to university, you know. A big day for all of us.”

                He paused, whether to collect his thoughts or brace his heart, I couldn’t tell.

“She had just started her second year when it happened. She moved in with some girlfriends, to a townhouse off-campus.”

Townhouses aren’t cheap in the city and I had begun to open my mouth when he pre-empted me.

“I was helping her pay for it all. You might have guessed I’m not a poor man. She is, was, my only grandchild and I would have given her everything I had.”

His voice cracked a little on the last word, emotion starting to color his words. I gave him a minute to compose himself with some deep ragged breaths.

“About six weeks in, she started having problems. She never said what or why, but she was missing classes and calling her mother in tears. Staying at her parent’s home overnight became more frequent. She had depression, you see, so we were all worried about her, though she claimed to be taking her meds. We watched her when we could, offered to let her commute from home, but she was a stubborn, determined child and wanted to get through this in her own way.”

A hand moved over his face while the other reached for the beer. He didn’t take a drink. It was just to have something tangible to hold onto.

“Four weeks later she was found in her room. She had hanged herself from the ceiling fan using a couple of belts. The door had been locked from the inside. Her roommate’s boyfriend helped beat the door in after she hadn’t been seen all day.”

He could have been reading my mind, probably because the thoughts had passed through his own so often.

“I know what you’re thinking and it’s what the Police concluded: Suicide. But I just don’t know, Mr. McMillan. Something else had been going on with her and until I’m sure that someone else wasn’t involved in this, I won’t believe she did it to herself. She had depression, yes, but she was so full of life and I can’t believe it was her own choice.”

His voice had taken on a much more determined tone by the end of his speech, as if he was sure of this, above all else. He believed what he was saying and he believed it $25,000 worth.

“So you want me to find out what problems she was having? See if someone was harassing her?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, and whether you think it drove her to do it. I may not get her back but I won’t let someone get away with taking her from me.”

He did not mention taking my answers to the Police and I didn’t ask. I had my job and whatever came afterwards, my fee did not cover.

---x---X---x---

Warning and Possible triggers.

I have seen this mentioned by other writers that I follow and I want to be sure people are warned.

The material in these stories is usually of an adult nature and may cover unpleasant topics, so that may be an issue for some folks. If you feel that you are not comfortable with the material, or not enjoying the story at all, please stop and leave.

So WARNING: R-Rated (possibly), definitely PG-level. Foul language, sensitive subjects, sex, violence and rock'n'roll all included at some point.

My goal is not to shock and upset but to give a compelling story of mystery and thrills. Please do not allow yourself any unpleasant thoughts or feelings from anything I write. Unless you really really want that from my writing.

R

What to expect.

Tomorrow I will be posting the beginning of a new story, something not already published on Wattpad. It will lead into those stories later (after they've gone through some severe rewriting), but is currently a stand-alone.
Hopefully it will enable me to introduce Sal, his style, what he does, and for whom. But as a bit of basic info:

Sal lives and works predominantly in the Kansas City area.
He was once a private investigator but, in the course of helping a friend, he lost his license and the opportunity of ever having it again.
He now works for an organization that supplies him with PI-style jobs but without the legal strings attached. No murder though. Killing brings too much attention from too many people.
It can be dangerous, it can be unpleasant, but he's good at what he does and anonymity for everyone concerned is the watchword.

I hope that small description will pique your interest and bring you back tomorrow to see how it begins.

R

Thanks for stopping by this newbie blogger's site.

Welcome, Wilkommn, and Bienvenue to whoever you are and wherever you're from. This blog is all new, as I am to blogging. I will be posting stories I have written and will be writing new content just for this blog, Updates will be every FRIDAY! Around 1-3k words each week is what I'm aiming for. If you want to see some un-edited, un-refined material that will be posted here in a different form, check out my Wattpad account.(http://www.wattpad.com/user/RDStephens).

I'll be very happy with any feedback of a constructive nature that you can give. Otherwise, I just hope you enjoy what I'm doing.

Cheers, thanks, and all that.

R