I don't believe I'm doing this...
Nov. 4th, 2011 03:07 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
realsorienBut... I'm trying another novel on NaNoWriMo. Here's what I've got so far.
The cigarette smoldered in the ashtray, lain amongst the corpses of so many others. The smoke from it rose in a single thread to join the fading cloud from its fellows at the ceiling. Michael glanced up at the clock; nearly 7 PM. No sign of his supposed client. Taking the last drag from his smoke, he stubbed it out and sighed. He’d suspected that the business would fall through, but hope sprang eternal. And once again, nothing.
He rose from his desk, the worn-yet-comfortable chair yielding his weight with a creak. Fetching his hat and trenchcoat from the rack, he reached for the door; his telephone rang before he could grip the wear-shined brass. Shaking his head, he lifted the receiver. “Woodstock. Who’s this?”
A familiar whiskey-burned voice came over the wires. “Mikey, we need to talk.”
“Ah, Detective Billings. What gives? I was just headin’ out.” Woodstock heard the faint sound of Billings’ Zippo snapping open. “Like I said, we gotta talk. Don’t be goin’ home, come over to the precinct.” Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Woodstock sighed. “Dammit, Joe, You can at least let me know what the hell you’re dragging me in for.”
“I can’t do that. Don’t make me send the boys ‘round, Mikey.” Billings paused to take a drag from his just-lit stogie; Woodstock winced at the memory of his former partner’s preferred brand. “Just come ‘round. You ain’t bein’ arrested. I’d have sent ‘em out for you for that. Just be here.” The receiver clicked, and Woodstock set it on its cradle.
Making his way out onto the street, rain spattered on the ground; the smell of hot, wet summer rain filling the air, promising unbearable humidity for the next day. Cars rattled down the street, mostly cabs, and a few pedestrians hurrying from the shelter of awnings rounded out the current nightlife. Nobody approached him, and the smoke of yet another cigarette roiled out behind him as he strode along the sidewalk. ten blocks later he approached the precinct house, brightly lit in the midst of the steamy night.
A few of the cops nodded to his presence, but most ignored him; so-called ‘private’ detectives weren’t all that popular, and an ex-cop private eye especially not. However, Woodstock’s reputation preceded him- often low on cash, but always able to finish the job. He tapped his hat to those he knew, taking it off when he went inside.
Somehow, the wet weather seemed to stop at the door, perhaps the stale scent of smoke formed a barrier. A quick word with the desk sergeant and Woodstock made his way to Billings office. He pushed the door open without knocking, which earned him a glare from the Detective. “Ever heard of knocking? ‘s what polite people do.” Woodstock smirked and replied. “I ain’t never been polite people, Joe. You know that.” He closed the door, then snagged the bottle from the desk, pouring himself two fingers of the golden fluid. “Stuff’s illegal, Joe. Y’know that?”
Billings snatched the bottle back. “Sit. You have a client tonight?” Woodstock sipped the whiskey before answering, taking his time. “Naah. I did, but they stiffed me. I was waiting at the office for hours, and I’d just decided to go home when you called... Why?” Billings didn’t meet his eye, slamming back two swallows straight from the bottle. “Mind tellin’ me their name?” He watched Woodstock close, as if dreading the answer. Woodstock pulled out a small notebook, and flipped about halfwat through. “Uh... Janette Carlyle. Dancer at the Sandwall Lounge. Somethin’ about some jewelry bein’ missing. I don’t know more’n that.”
“Damn. I was hopin’ that she just had your card for nothin’. We’re goin’ for a ride, Mikey.” Billings didn’t make any move to cuff him, so Woodstock figured it wasn’t to County. “Where to?” He asked, finishing the whiskey. Billings took a drag from his cigar before answering. “Sandwall Lounge, Mikey. Hope you ain’t had a big meal tonight.”
The Sandstone Lounge was in a better part of town; not the best, but catering to the middle class rather than the rich or poor. It was a former warehouse, but despite that plebian origin it possessed an elegance not commonly seen. Within, red sandstone had been used to line the bar, and the decor was spit-and-polish with brass and velvet. This opulent setting made the scene within its doors all the more hideous.
Spread-eagled against the stone of the bar face was a body... Or at least the most of a body. At first glance it was impossible to tell whether it had been male or female, but the blood-soaked high-heels lent evidence of the latter. Her skin was gone, stripped completely off her form. Blood was sprayed in arcs from the scene, as if to display the terrible violence of the death.
Her arms were broken, not once but several times. It looked to Woodstock that they were defensive breaks, but he was having trouble parsing the thought- he closed his eyes and turned away from the scene. Billings put a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry. Should have warned you. It was called in about 5, the guys got here about five minutes after. This your client?” Woodstock swallowed hard, saying, “Christ, y’think I know? I think it was a girl. Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah. Pretty sure it was, Mikey. We found a purse near the body, your card was in it. ‘s why I dragged you in.” Billings wiped his forehead with a stained handkerchief. “This is your alley, pal. You want the job? Woodstock blinked. “What? Joe, this is cop business- Christ, it’s a murder! You guys don’t just throw your cases to guys like me- what’s the story? And hell... I don’t think I wanna be part of this.”
Billings snorted. “Mikey, you know why. We ain’t set up to deal with this. This weren’t no human that did this. Not a chance. That means you get a shot at it. Rather you than the Feds.” Woodstock shook his head, then went over to the bar, carefully avoiding the blood. He poked about til he found what he was looking for, and flipped the switch that revealed the concealed booze. He pulled out a bottle and poured a shot, tossing it down with a wince. “Nice job stoppin’ the rum-runners, fellas.” The jab got a few nervous laughs.
Fortified, he came back around to look at the scene more closely. It was impossible to tell what her expression was, or much of anything else about her- every inch of skin was gone, leaving bloodied muscle and bare bones. The stink of copper made him blink, but he kept looking, trying to see anything the police might have missed. “Any physical evidence of something weird other than the obvious?” he asked.
Billings voice came from behind the bar, obviously taking advantage of Woodstock’s find. “Claw marks on the stone of the barfront; looks like whatever it was it missed hitting her a few times.” Woodstock nodded, measuring the scoring on the stone with a finger before forcing himself to look at the body. “Why aren’t there clawmarks on her?”
Billings coughed and spit, the booze having traveled down the wrong passage. “She’s been skinned! What the hell d’you mean?” Waiting til Billings came around to his position, Woodstock pointed. “Look. These claws are wide, and they’ve dug into the stone. She’s got busted arms, probably defensive, but aside from her skin being gone, there’s no cuts or slices. No wounds deeper than the skin. If you or me was hit by claws like those, we’d be damn near in two pieces. She’s whole.”
“So?” Billings asked. Woodstock looked at him, glad to look anywhere than at the corpse. “She’s got blunt trauma, not clawmarks on her. Did you check the registry for her?” Billings ground his teeth. “No. Damn.” He shouted to one of the officers on-site. “Malone! Go to the station and check Records to see if she’s on the registry. And bring her purse here.” The singled-out officer brought the small bag over, then hurried out the door.
“What else, Mikey?” Billings started taking things out of the purse, laying them out on a nearby table. “Well, it gets harder if she’s registered,” Woodstock said. “If she is, then... It makes it a lot worse. Monsters versus monsters is not something to be in the middle of.” Billings grunted in agreement. “You think she was a freak, then?” Woodstock nodded. “Yeah, probably. Likely someone of the body-hair problem kind.”
“Nothin’ in the purse other than girl stuff, a wallet with thirty bucks, a driver’s license and a pair of dice. You know what skinned her?” Billings started loading the contents back into the purse; Woodstock didn’t stop him- he knew Billings was as observant as he was. “You kiddin’? Not a chance. But I’m gonna find out. You guys paying?” Billings stopped and rounded on Woodstock, but stopped when he looked at the PI. “... Yeah. I guess someone has to. She sure as hell can’t.”
“No, don’t think she can.”
The cigarette smoldered in the ashtray, lain amongst the corpses of so many others. The smoke from it rose in a single thread to join the fading cloud from its fellows at the ceiling. Michael glanced up at the clock; nearly 7 PM. No sign of his supposed client. Taking the last drag from his smoke, he stubbed it out and sighed. He’d suspected that the business would fall through, but hope sprang eternal. And once again, nothing.
He rose from his desk, the worn-yet-comfortable chair yielding his weight with a creak. Fetching his hat and trenchcoat from the rack, he reached for the door; his telephone rang before he could grip the wear-shined brass. Shaking his head, he lifted the receiver. “Woodstock. Who’s this?”
A familiar whiskey-burned voice came over the wires. “Mikey, we need to talk.”
“Ah, Detective Billings. What gives? I was just headin’ out.” Woodstock heard the faint sound of Billings’ Zippo snapping open. “Like I said, we gotta talk. Don’t be goin’ home, come over to the precinct.” Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Woodstock sighed. “Dammit, Joe, You can at least let me know what the hell you’re dragging me in for.”
“I can’t do that. Don’t make me send the boys ‘round, Mikey.” Billings paused to take a drag from his just-lit stogie; Woodstock winced at the memory of his former partner’s preferred brand. “Just come ‘round. You ain’t bein’ arrested. I’d have sent ‘em out for you for that. Just be here.” The receiver clicked, and Woodstock set it on its cradle.
Making his way out onto the street, rain spattered on the ground; the smell of hot, wet summer rain filling the air, promising unbearable humidity for the next day. Cars rattled down the street, mostly cabs, and a few pedestrians hurrying from the shelter of awnings rounded out the current nightlife. Nobody approached him, and the smoke of yet another cigarette roiled out behind him as he strode along the sidewalk. ten blocks later he approached the precinct house, brightly lit in the midst of the steamy night.
A few of the cops nodded to his presence, but most ignored him; so-called ‘private’ detectives weren’t all that popular, and an ex-cop private eye especially not. However, Woodstock’s reputation preceded him- often low on cash, but always able to finish the job. He tapped his hat to those he knew, taking it off when he went inside.
Somehow, the wet weather seemed to stop at the door, perhaps the stale scent of smoke formed a barrier. A quick word with the desk sergeant and Woodstock made his way to Billings office. He pushed the door open without knocking, which earned him a glare from the Detective. “Ever heard of knocking? ‘s what polite people do.” Woodstock smirked and replied. “I ain’t never been polite people, Joe. You know that.” He closed the door, then snagged the bottle from the desk, pouring himself two fingers of the golden fluid. “Stuff’s illegal, Joe. Y’know that?”
Billings snatched the bottle back. “Sit. You have a client tonight?” Woodstock sipped the whiskey before answering, taking his time. “Naah. I did, but they stiffed me. I was waiting at the office for hours, and I’d just decided to go home when you called... Why?” Billings didn’t meet his eye, slamming back two swallows straight from the bottle. “Mind tellin’ me their name?” He watched Woodstock close, as if dreading the answer. Woodstock pulled out a small notebook, and flipped about halfwat through. “Uh... Janette Carlyle. Dancer at the Sandwall Lounge. Somethin’ about some jewelry bein’ missing. I don’t know more’n that.”
“Damn. I was hopin’ that she just had your card for nothin’. We’re goin’ for a ride, Mikey.” Billings didn’t make any move to cuff him, so Woodstock figured it wasn’t to County. “Where to?” He asked, finishing the whiskey. Billings took a drag from his cigar before answering. “Sandwall Lounge, Mikey. Hope you ain’t had a big meal tonight.”
The Sandstone Lounge was in a better part of town; not the best, but catering to the middle class rather than the rich or poor. It was a former warehouse, but despite that plebian origin it possessed an elegance not commonly seen. Within, red sandstone had been used to line the bar, and the decor was spit-and-polish with brass and velvet. This opulent setting made the scene within its doors all the more hideous.
Spread-eagled against the stone of the bar face was a body... Or at least the most of a body. At first glance it was impossible to tell whether it had been male or female, but the blood-soaked high-heels lent evidence of the latter. Her skin was gone, stripped completely off her form. Blood was sprayed in arcs from the scene, as if to display the terrible violence of the death.
Her arms were broken, not once but several times. It looked to Woodstock that they were defensive breaks, but he was having trouble parsing the thought- he closed his eyes and turned away from the scene. Billings put a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry. Should have warned you. It was called in about 5, the guys got here about five minutes after. This your client?” Woodstock swallowed hard, saying, “Christ, y’think I know? I think it was a girl. Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah. Pretty sure it was, Mikey. We found a purse near the body, your card was in it. ‘s why I dragged you in.” Billings wiped his forehead with a stained handkerchief. “This is your alley, pal. You want the job? Woodstock blinked. “What? Joe, this is cop business- Christ, it’s a murder! You guys don’t just throw your cases to guys like me- what’s the story? And hell... I don’t think I wanna be part of this.”
Billings snorted. “Mikey, you know why. We ain’t set up to deal with this. This weren’t no human that did this. Not a chance. That means you get a shot at it. Rather you than the Feds.” Woodstock shook his head, then went over to the bar, carefully avoiding the blood. He poked about til he found what he was looking for, and flipped the switch that revealed the concealed booze. He pulled out a bottle and poured a shot, tossing it down with a wince. “Nice job stoppin’ the rum-runners, fellas.” The jab got a few nervous laughs.
Fortified, he came back around to look at the scene more closely. It was impossible to tell what her expression was, or much of anything else about her- every inch of skin was gone, leaving bloodied muscle and bare bones. The stink of copper made him blink, but he kept looking, trying to see anything the police might have missed. “Any physical evidence of something weird other than the obvious?” he asked.
Billings voice came from behind the bar, obviously taking advantage of Woodstock’s find. “Claw marks on the stone of the barfront; looks like whatever it was it missed hitting her a few times.” Woodstock nodded, measuring the scoring on the stone with a finger before forcing himself to look at the body. “Why aren’t there clawmarks on her?”
Billings coughed and spit, the booze having traveled down the wrong passage. “She’s been skinned! What the hell d’you mean?” Waiting til Billings came around to his position, Woodstock pointed. “Look. These claws are wide, and they’ve dug into the stone. She’s got busted arms, probably defensive, but aside from her skin being gone, there’s no cuts or slices. No wounds deeper than the skin. If you or me was hit by claws like those, we’d be damn near in two pieces. She’s whole.”
“So?” Billings asked. Woodstock looked at him, glad to look anywhere than at the corpse. “She’s got blunt trauma, not clawmarks on her. Did you check the registry for her?” Billings ground his teeth. “No. Damn.” He shouted to one of the officers on-site. “Malone! Go to the station and check Records to see if she’s on the registry. And bring her purse here.” The singled-out officer brought the small bag over, then hurried out the door.
“What else, Mikey?” Billings started taking things out of the purse, laying them out on a nearby table. “Well, it gets harder if she’s registered,” Woodstock said. “If she is, then... It makes it a lot worse. Monsters versus monsters is not something to be in the middle of.” Billings grunted in agreement. “You think she was a freak, then?” Woodstock nodded. “Yeah, probably. Likely someone of the body-hair problem kind.”
“Nothin’ in the purse other than girl stuff, a wallet with thirty bucks, a driver’s license and a pair of dice. You know what skinned her?” Billings started loading the contents back into the purse; Woodstock didn’t stop him- he knew Billings was as observant as he was. “You kiddin’? Not a chance. But I’m gonna find out. You guys paying?” Billings stopped and rounded on Woodstock, but stopped when he looked at the PI. “... Yeah. I guess someone has to. She sure as hell can’t.”
“No, don’t think she can.”
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2011-11-04 10:48 am (UTC)