Franchot Inspired

This first chapter and scene sets the stage of the main plot of this relatively short story. Jonas tries to warn Charlene about the true intentions of her friend and mentor Miss Claire, but Charlene does not agree, feeling that Jonas is envious of her closeness with the woman. The scene ends with them basically agreeing to disagree with Charlene proceeding on to meet her mentor for a nice afternoon ladies’ lunch in the city.

“You need to stay away from those old ladies,” Jonas said, throwing the covers halfway over his nude body. He and Charlene had had relations early that morning, like always, and then lay there and talk afterwards. It was how they knew they were destined to be together. It was 9:37am. Charlene threw the covers over her face quickly and giggled. Jonas looked at her and laughed too, but then Charlene heard the tone of his voice become serious.

“Really,” he said. “Leave them old hags alone Charlene.”

He watched her until her face came out from where she hid it. Her dark brown face was beautiful without make-up. He never knew why she wore so much, especially the kind that made her complexion appear lighter than it was. But he did notice she was wearing less make-up as their time together expanded. They had been together almost two years, 22 months exactly. It was a rough patch at first, but they found their groove.

Jonas sat up further in bed and so did she. She made sure the covers wouldn’t reveal her small breasts.

“Are you serious?” she said.

“I sure am.”

“You don’t like her?”

“You know that,” Jonas said. “I never liked her….and she don’t like me, though she pretends to. I don’t trust her, she’s phony.”

He saw a disappointed look take over Charlene’s face and he felt bad, but he loved her and couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Look,” he said. “I tried, you know I did, but I just don’t like that lady. I don’t think she means you any good.”

They were silent. He continued to watch her. He knew she was taking it all in. She stared straight ahead at their worn dresser, the one they brought into his apartment that someone had thrown out in the alley.

“I don’t understand your hatred for her. I really don’t.”

“I wouldn’t call it hatred.”

“Well what do you call it?”

Jonas rose up even further in bed, resting his back against the headboard. She knew he was thinking, trying to get his thoughts together so she rose up as well, resting her back against the headboard too, folding her arms across her chest and covers. If there was one thing she knew about Jonas Evans, it was his intelligence; he wasn’t formally educated, but he was in tune with the human condition. He had never told her anything that didn’t make sense except this. She listened to his opinion because she loved him and respected him, but this time she disagreed with him wholly. He didn’t understand her relationship with Miss Claire, and maybe was little jealous. Miss Claire warned her once that he might be jealous.

She saw him still trying to get his thoughts together; she also knew the subject of Miss Claire exhausted him. He was so good looking to her, but not in the pretty sense. Jonas was a broad shouldered, burly man with kinky hair and milky brown skin. The scar that ran from his left cheekbone to the corner of his lips never bothered her, though he was slightly insecure about it. He got it fighting in a bar in 2002, blamed for hitting on a woman he didn’t even see. Jonas got cut, but the other man was beaten to a near pulp. Jonas did time. The scar made him tough to her, but scar or no scar, Jonas was tough, but he could also be very gentle.

“How many ways can I say she means you no real good?”

“Jonas, I told you about Miss Claire…how she helped me, gave me a place to stay when I was on my ass. It was her place or a shelter. She helped me during the worst times of my life. She fed me, had patience with me until I found a job…until I found you. I can’t just forget that.”

“How about thanks and just move on?” Jonas said.

She turned to him, raised her hand to his face and touched it softly, tracing his scar tenderly with her index finger. He smiled, it tickled a little.

“Baby, it’s just a ladies lunch. Me, Miss Claire and Miss Dottie. I’m coming back home to you.”

Jonas grabbed her, pulling her into him. “I don’t want that old lady to hurt you. She’s not your mother.”

“No she’s not,” Charlene said. “Maybe not by blood, but she’s been more like a mother to me than that woman in Missouri.”

“Are you ever going to speak to her again?” Jonas said.

“Never Jonas.”

They were silent for about a minute.

“So?” Charlene said.

“What?”

“Where does this leave us?”

“Right where we were,” Jonas said. “Miss Claire can’t fuck with this!”

Charlene laughed. “You okay with me telling her?”

“About the baby?”

“Yes.”

“She’s going to get all religious on you.”

“Jonas it’s all good. Miss Claire is just a product of her time.”

Jonas kissed her on the forehead. “Have a nice lunch baby. I’ll be here for you when you get back.”

As a writer, I try not to make it all about me in every blog post, but I’m so busy creating stories, revising, editing and releasing new work, and I still have my day job too, thankfully. I’m actually writing this at a bus stop on North Broadway while I wait for the bus.

I have no time to engage on social media, but I do have this blog and want to keep it active. Right now I’m too busy to come up with engaging blog posts so I’ve decided to continue posting Scenes; for the whole month of July, if I can keep to schedule. I posted a scene awhile back, one of my favorites from Girl’s Night: Spoon Fed2 which I’m hopeful will be released very soon. Here’s another scene that I favor from there and I hope you enjoy it too.

Girl’s Night: Spoon Fed2

Saturday morning, 10:13am. Tatum had run errands early, the hospital, Warren’s office and the bank. She wanted to put him in the ground as quickly as possible to begin her life as a well positioned widow. She was all smiles thinking about it, until she walked back into the apartment and saw that Corey was still asleep, lying on the sofa, snoring loudly with all of his clothes on, only his red All Stars were on the floor beside him. The TV was on, loud, volume all the way up. Some incredibly loud cartoon was on.

“Corey, Corey get the hell up!”

He barely moved. She walked closer to him, behind the sofa and raised her voice, “Shit Corey wake up and turn the fucking TV down!”

He made a moaning sound and changed positions. Fuck! She came around the sofa to the coffee table in front of him. The table was littered with beer cans, a half bottle of Jim Beam, a half eaten meatball sandwich from Subway, donut holes, a bottle of pills and a half rolled joint. Tatum started looking for the TV remote, finding it on the floor by his All Stars. Shit! She picked it up immediately and turned the volume all the way down. She slapped his legs hard, knocking them halfway off the couch. It woke him up. She sat down.

“What the fuck?!” he said, raising his head from the plush sofa pillow that was stained with his slobber.

“You asshole!” Tatum said.

“Hey, what?” he said, lowering his head back down, but turning to lay on his back while throwing his legs in her lap.

“You trashed this place….I hate you!”

“This place is soon to be yours,” he said.

“Corey you’re not taking this seriously I have a lot to do, funeral arrangements….I want him buried quickly and it’s not easy.”

“Cream his ass!” Corey said, removing his legs from her lap and sitting up. He leaned forward, over the coffee table, grabbed the half rolled joint and a lighter.

“You’re not smoking in here!”

“Fuck you!” he said, with the joint already between his lips, lighter in hand ready to light up. “Stop treating me like a kid…you need to take a puff, a pill and a swig of JB.”

“Fuck you!” Tatum said. “You’re no help…you never were!”

“Bitch all I been doing to help you?! I helped you kill his ass remember?! You fucking whore!”

She stared at him coldly, and then her expression softened. “Yes, you did help me Corey.”

“Exactly bitch! Check yourself,” he said, lit up and took a slow drag.

“I’m nervous Corey.”

“Tate it’s all in the bag! All you got to do is go through the motions and get paid!”

“It’s not that easy Corey.”

“You making this shit harder than it is.”

“I’m not comfortable with that bitch Melissa out there!”

“What can she do? She’s just some old whore he was banging…he was an ass, got what he deserved.”

“Corey I don’t know what she knows.”

“What does it matter?”

“Warren could’ve told her something that makes me look suspicious.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“We need her out of the way!”

“You really want to kill her?!”

“That bitch could be standing in the way of almost a million…and all his fucking assets!”

“Tate I’m not comfortable killing two people, well actually you killed him.”

“Don’t you dare!” Tatum said. “You are just as much involved as me!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t give it to him,” Corey said.

“Please,” she said. “If I go down, you go down!”

“You’d give me up?!”

“I’d kill her before I have to give you up Corey.”

“Aw, well that makes me feel a whole lot better,” he said. “I don’t want to kill nobody else….and you shouldn’t either.”

“If I had my way I wouldn’t, but if this bitch ruins things….,”

“You keep saying that,” Corey said. “What could she know?”

“You never know what a cheating man would tell his whore.”

“You’ll never find out.”

“Yes I will.”

“How?”

“I know who she is now…and thanks to you, I know where she lives.”

“You think she’s gonna be friends with you?”

Tatum stared at her brother coldly, “Corey, with our without your help I’m going to find out what that bitch knows. If she knows nothing, good for her, but if she does….,”

“You’ll kill her,” Corey said.

Tatum smiled.

“I’m not helping you kill another person,” he said.

She kept smiling. “My dear brother, since I’m handling my late husband’s arrangements, let me go over his financials with you. I have them now.”

“What are you talking about? You never wanted to go over anything with me before….I’ve been helping you on your word.”

“Warren wasn’t dead then Corey….he is now.”

“And so?”

“Before you say you don’t want to kill anybody else, wait until I show you all he has, and what we’ll get.”

I’ll keep this one short because I’m so busy trying to revise, edit and release more short stories, and don’t forget, I have a day job and it’s a pandemic. 9:20 is released now, the first of my planned short fiction that will revolve around characters at Chicago’s Union Station. These stories will be relatively short. With 9:20, I wanted something off the wall and wacky, a story that could stand alone from the series. It’s my most sexual, erotic work which is not really my area. I’m not entirely sure what inspired me to write it, nor am I sure what really goes on in Union Station, other than commuting, but give me time, my imagination is going to take us there. 9:20 is now available on Apple Books, but soon to be released at the Amazon Kindle Store and most major ebook retailers. 

https://books.apple.com/us/book/nine-twenty/id1513245551?mt=11&app=itunes

I’m always trying to come up with more blog posts; of quality, not just quantity. As I am currently putting the finishing touches on Girl’s Night: Spoon Fed 2, there’s a particular scene that I discovered I’m quite fond of. I’m not always happy with my scenes, but for some reason I love this one. It worked out so well. I was able to achieve exactly what I wanted. Like a proud director of a movie or TV show: “We nailed it!”

In the following scene, my character Tamara is seeking help from a detective friend of hers, but to her surprise she has to speak with another detective, the handsome Detective Kenyon Tyler. I wanted there to be some obvious sexual tension between them, but I also wanted to show that solving a murder isn’t as easy as an amateur sleuth may think. Anyway I loved it! Here it is:

Tamara took the el, got off at the Addison station, Wrigley Field. Baseball season was over, but the area was bustling as always. The Cubs World Championship fever was still alive. All the bars, restaurants and shops were all full of tourists. District 19 of the CPD was right there near the el stop. A new glass, low rise building stood next to the smaller Neo Classical structure that used to house the district. Tamara had been there before, a little over a year ago when Lisa was dating Kevin and Tamara was dating Jermaine. They were double dating one night; Lisa, Tamara and Jermaine were there waiting for Kevin to get off, all watching the action at the district on a Friday night. Now, as Tamara walked into the building with her heels striking and echoing off the shiny tiled floor, all she was thinking about was Kevin and getting help for Melissa and Warren. What a mess! Could Tatum really have killed him? Poisoned him to death? We have to find out!

Tamara approached the large, circular white desk. The hefty man behind it was in uniform, slightly different from a beat cop, a crispy white shirt with fancy looking stripes and black pants. She couldn’t help but notice his gun holstered around his large waist and a plaque on his desk that read: Sergeant Weiss. He was older, but handsome to her. He smiled at her.

“May I help you young lady?”

Tamara smiled. “I’m here to see Kevin….Detective Abruzzo.”

“He ain’t here,” the sergeant said.

“Oh?” Tamara said, surprised. “I thought he would be.”

“Me too, but he ain’t. What’s the matter?”

“I’m actually a friend,” Tamara said. “More friend of a friend. I need his advice about something.”

“Well his partner is up there. You can talk to him.”

Tamara thought about it. “Well, I guess since I’m here.”

“Detective Tyler,” the sergeant said. “I’ll call him….go on up.”

“Thank you,” Tamara said, and then turned toward the staircase leading upstairs. She remembered Lisa telling her Kevin’s desk was right at the top of the stairs. She went up and when she got to the top she saw a broad shouldered man with smooth, light-brown skin sitting at the desk. His hair was buzzed very low, almost bald. He looked up at her and smiled. He had deep dimples, including one in his chin and large, deep set brown eyes with thick eyebrows and long lashes. Um girl! Tamara walked closer to his desk. He stood up. He was taller than he looked sitting down and quite muscular. His tight shirt and pleated slacks displayed his physique very well. A toothpick was circling between his lips and Tamara noticed his gun, along with a half eaten sandwich wrapped in foil on his desk. He’s got a wife?

“A friend of Abruzzo’s huh?” he said, in a deep, jovial sounding voice.

Tamara smiled, finding herself a little tongue tied, but got it together.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m a friend of Lisa’s.”

“Ah,” he said. “Kevin’s girlfriend.”

“Not quite,” Tamara said.

“Huh?”

“Never mind it’s complicated,” Tamara said.

“Love is isn’t it?” he said, and then extended his hand. “Detective Tyler, Kenyon Tyler…call me Kenyon.”

Tamara shook his soft, but strong hand. “Tamara Collins, I go by Tam.”

He motioned to a chair in front of his desk, “Have a seat. What brings a woman like you here?”

Tamara sat down. “A woman like me?”

He smiled. “Sorry, cop talk. We’re not politically correct.”

“Of course not,” she said.

“We don’t see many women that look like you around here.”

She laughed. “I’m not sure how to take that.”

“You’re beautiful,” Kenyon said. “You know that.”

“Now I can take that,” she said.

He laughed.

“Where is Kevin?”

“You didn’t hear?” Kenyon said. “I guess not….his mom had a heart attack.”

“What?!” Tamara said.

“I hope I didn’t say too much,” he said. “But she’s alright, happened last night. Kevin and I were having pizza, thought Lisa would join us. He got the call around eight, but again, she’s alright….mother Abruzzo’s strong as an ox. Kevin is with her.”

“Oh my God….she in the hospital?”

“Far as I know,” Kenyon said. “I’ll check on him in a bit.”

“I wonder if Lisa knows?”

“She’s his girlfriend,” Kenyon said. “She should know.”

“She’s not his girlfriend,” Tamara said.

“Whatever, now what brings you here?”

“Kenyon, I need some advice about something.”

“What?”

“A friend of ours, me and Lisa’s, her name is Melissa…her boyfriend died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kenyon said.

“Thanks. We think he was murdered.”

“What?!” Kenyon said.

“Yes!” Tamara said.

“Why?”

“Because he told Melissa just last night that his wife murdered him.”

“Wait,” Kenyon said. “When did this guy die?”

“Last night,” Tamara said. “He told her right before he died.”

“Whoa!” Kenyon said.

“He saw his wife putting something in his tea…he was a healthy man, never sick, all of a sudden he gets sick and dies.”

“Um, he told your friend he saw his wife put something in his tea?”

“Yes!” Tamara said.

“Whew! This sounds pretty complicated,” Kenyon said. “Obviously your friend was seeing a married man.”

“This is about a murder, not a moral judgement,” Tamara said. “And it was more complicated than you can imagine.”

Kenyon raised his hands. “Hey I’m not judging. It sounds like you and your friends have your minds made up about this.”

“You don’t believe it can be murder?”

“Look, Tam, a dying man cheating on his wife would say just about anything at the end.”

“Are you saying he lied?”

“I’m saying he must’ve been very ill.”

“Yes because she poisoned him.”

“How do you know that?”

“I told you he saw her putting something in his tea!”

“Where is he to say that?”

Tamara sighed, “He’s dead!”

“I’m gonna tell you as a cop, you gotta prove this….you gotta have evidence.”

“How?!”

“There’s gotta be proof that his wife poisoned him….I guess you could start by finding the motive, the poison and any evidence that could back up your claim. Do you have any of that?”

“No,” Tamara said, defeated.

“Just the words of a dying man,” Kenyon said.

“Don’t rub it in man,” Tamara said.

Kenyon laughed. Tamara wasn’t sure how she felt about his laugh, but she could tell he had a sense of humor.

“Sorry,” Kenyon said. “Killing someone with poison is old school, something from Sherlock Holmes times. People don’t kill like that anymore….times are much more violent, direct. Killing with poison is almost impossible to prove.”

“What about an autopsy?” Tamara said.

“If one is done,” Kenyon said. “If his wife really did poison him, I doubt she’d ask for one to be done.”

“True that,” Tamara said.

“Sorry Tam.”

“This is so discouraging,” she said.

“What did you want me to tell you?” Kenyon said. “That she killed him?”

“Yes! And arrest the bitch!”

“It don’t work like that Tam.”

“Kenyon is there anything we can do to prove she killed him?”

He shook his head, “Other than a confession by the suspect, no, like I said, it’s almost impossible.”

Tamara looked away from him, down at the floor. She looked back up with a sparkle in her eyes. She smiled, causing Kenyon to smile too, all of his dimples showing.

“What?” he said.

Tamara stood up, tapping her phone against her left, leather hip. Kenyon took notice of her shape in the jumpsuit.

“I’m going to find out,” she said.

“I almost believe you,” Kenyon said.

“You should,” she said. “I’m a very determined woman.”

Kenyon rose from his chair, grabbing his business card from a holder on his desk.

“I don’t know what you’re planning to do, but be careful. Call me if you need help.”

He held his card out to her. Tamara looked at it.

“Why do men always think women need their help?”

“Why do some women make it about male, female?” Kenyon said, pushing the card closer to her. She grabbed it, and then turned around, walking toward the stairs.

“Nice to meet you,” Kenyon said.

“You too,” Tamara said, without turning back around.

He raised a brow.

She knew he was watching her as she started down the stairs.

Nothing inspires me more than the fabulous architecture of my beloved hometown Chicago, and though almost 100% of my fiction is set here, I have yet to create a scene in one of the city’s architectural treasures, the iconic Union Station. It’s my favorite train station; its Great Hall has been used as the backdrop for many movies and television shows.

Call me a weirdo, but I hang out at Union Station. Now to be clear, I’ve traveled on Amtrak enough to justify it. I prefer train travel over air. Having mostly a calm demeanor, I’ve never balked about the time it takes to travel by train vs plane, many times purposely choosing the lower maintenance travel of the rail. Often I’ve taken the notoriously delayed Lakeshore Limited between Chicago and New York City, or the more reliable Capitol Limited from Chicago to Washington D.C. Other routes I’m familiar with are: Hiawatha service between Chicago and Milwaukee and the Illinois Service route that travels downstate to Gateway Station in St. Louis.

The slower pace of train travel is perfect for social beings that love to mingle with traveling strangers. I vividly recall a train trip, traveling from Chicago to New York and meeting the adventurous Matias. He had been visiting Chicago from Santiago Chile. I met him at the gate and we had great conversation. The train was filled to capacity and when we boarded, he’d either sit with me or a woman that easily took up two seats. Luckily, Matias led us quickly to one other empty seat where we sat together and bonded easily for our 22 hour, delayed journey to Manhattan. A few weeks later, having settled back in my Queens apartment I received a beautiful postcard of Santiago from Matias. He is someone I never forgot traveling by train.

I miss the bar and cafeteria style restaurant that was right off the Great Hall. Unfortunately it closed. I can’t remember the name, but enjoyed having a beer and shot there and talking to passengers from all over and commuters traveling on Chicago’s massive commuter line, The Metra. I now hang out upstairs at the Junction Bar. Rumor has it that a fancier food hall is coming to Union Station. I’ll keep you posted.

The Untouchables Stairs:

Brian DePalma’s epic Chicago shot movie, The Untouchables in 1987 made the long stairs in the Great Hall iconic and a tourist attraction in its own right. Filmed in slow motion, an innocent woman was making her way through the station with her small baby in a carriage. Somehow she lost her grip on it and the carriage started to roll down the stairs, dangerously on its own and a violent shootout amongst gangsters started in the midst. When I first saw this scene my eyes were glued on the big screen. Oh my God! What’s going to happen to the baby?! I was thinking it would surely lose its life as the carriage would topple over down the stairs or the baby would take a bullet from the shootout occurring around it. Watching it was so upsetting, but I couldn’t take my eyes off which is what good movie making and storytelling is all about. Fortunately, Kevin Kostner’s Elliott Ness was able to save the moment. Not only did he take down the bad guys, but he was also able to grab the carriage before it crashed down the stairs, saving the baby. Loved it!

Just now, at the close of this post, I’m feeling inspired to come up with a story I can set in Union Station. Whatever the story, I doubt it will have the amount of action as The Untouchables, well, maybe LOL.

I wrote in a earlier post that Girl’s Night was not intended to be a series after the first short story. It hit me a few years later that it would be perfect for a series. Once decided, I had to get to work and come up with more stories to keep the girls in crime and martinis. The follow up: Disco Night was a total departure from what I thought a follow up should be to the original short story, but it liked the idea and it seemed to work. Then it was time for a third. Ideas are always floating around in my head, but I can never really pinpoint when I decide to go with an idea, but somehow I do.

The great thing about writing a series is the fact that storylines don’t have to conclude. Like real life, stories can linger, at times never get resolved and you can pile on as many complications as possible. Although Girl’s Night isn’t a hard soap opera, where every ending is a cliffhanger, I was able to carry over situations from the previous stories right over into Spoon Fed while also building a new crime for the girls to get wrapped up in.

Disco Night ended with Tamara and Melissa in the ladies room of a late night dive bar; Melissa crying her eyes out over Warren, her boyfriend that she believes is cheating on her with another woman. It felt easy to build a full story around Melissa and her growing desperation to uncover the truth, so desperate that she confesses to Tamara that she’s close to hiring Alvin Bailey, an obscure ex-cop turned PI to help her learn the truth about Warren. As you would expect, Tamara isn’t going for that. She pulls in Lisa and Rita. They’ll instead be the detectives to help Melissa prove her fears. But something else seems to be happening to Warren. He hasn’t been himself lately, not feeling well and getting more tired and weak as the days progress. Melissa is torn between her mistrust of him as her lover and her concern for his health. She stakes out in front of his condo one afternoon and discovers a beautiful young blonde leaving the building with something in her hand that Melissa recognizes. Melissa is immediately devastated, feeling deep inside that she’s found the woman Warren has been cheating with. Reluctantly she confides in Tamara what she believes. Tamara is skeptical, but convinces Melissa to let her and the girls help uncover the truth.

I’m not a locked room, Sherlock Holmes or Agatha Christie, whodunnit type mystery writer, never was, and I’m okay with that. In Spoon Fed I dabble in Lt. Columbo style territory where we learn of the perpetrators early on and watch their actions unfold simultaneously as the girls get closer to the shocking truth about Warren and the mysterious young blonde.

In a juxtaposition effort, Rita is in therapy, trying to get a feel for her new therapist, Ms. Kelly Anne Harper (not Conway). This is where the most references of the other two short stories come in when Rita confides in Kelly Anne, telling her about the time she was shot in the shoulder (Pilot) and when a woman killed herself on top of her, shoved a gun in her mouth at a 70’s bachelorette party (Disco Night). I wanted Rita to become more transparent to readers as to why she is the way she is, especially with men. I touch lightly into Rita’s early life with a mention of her dad Juan, now deceased and his opinion on race which is something worth exploring a bit later.

This Girl’s Night was a big effort for me, pushing past Novella length, collectively, but definitely a labor of love. I consider it a part of my growth as an author and I’m so excited to have you along for the ride.

https://books2read.com/Girls-Night-Spoon-Fed

Available Now

I suppose if movies can have trailers, books and short stories can too. I’m always trying to come up with something to fill the gaps between releases and this just might be it. Man, it’s tough balancing by dream job with my day job, but I won’t complain. I’ll refer to my own past post: The Day Job: Respect it. And of course I do, but that’s not to say my day job doesn’t have its challenging moments. I could complete more work quickly if I could write full-time, but I can’t right now. Whether or not I have one fan or one million, I feel it’s only fair to keep you updated with what I’m working on, and maybe provide a preview or two (Trailer): Now, In the early days of 2020, I have projects either near completion, in production, stalled or proposed. 

I am currently putting the finishing touches on the next, Girl’s Night: Spoon Fed. Though I don’t have a definitive release date ( I shy away from premature release dates). I’ve finished the book cover which I’m surprisingly quite proud of. And I’m in the depths of editing the story. Editing is no joke and the most vital part of completing a book. This is the largest Girl’s Night to date, creeping up on novella length. Pray for me; the editing process is grueling!

I’m posting a preview of Girl’s Night: Spoon Fed, hoping that you’ll like it enough to get your own copy of the finished product when it’s released. If I were to throw out a release date, my guess is by Valentine’s Day, LOL. As with all my previews, please understand that due to many factors, particularly time constraints, the following preview may not be the final edited version. But it will be close.

Next: Girl’s Night: Spoon Fed: The Preview.

“Hey lady, thanks for the nice tip, but how long we gonna be here? I could be making more money now.”

“I’m sorry Rick,” Melissa said. “Just a few more minutes…and I can pay you more.”

“How much longer?” Rick said.

“Ten minutes, I promise,” Melissa said.

Lyft driver Rick’s black Ford Explorer had been illegally parked outside Warren’s condo building on West Washington Street for almost a half hour. Melissa had been on her phone trying to reach him, but it kept going to his voicemail. Rick took the fifty dollar bill she had given him, stuffed it in his shirt pocket, and then put on his headphones. He seemed a little more patient with the fifty while Melissa stared at the building from the car.

On a whim she decided to go there after she’d been trying to reach him. He wouldn’t answer his phone or return her texts. It wasn’t like him. She called his office and they confirmed that he hadn’t come in. Melissa was worried about him. It was late afternoon, Wednesday, 4:41pm. Daylights savings hadn’t occurred yet, but the sun was obviously setting and it had stormed and been a cloudy day. Very few people had gone in or come out of Warren’s building, but they would soon as the work day was starting to end.

Rick took off his headphones. “This is taking too long ma’am.”

Melissa scrambled through her purse, took out a twenty and held it out to him. He wouldn’t take it.

“Forget it lady,” he said. “I’ve got to get going. I can’t miss rush hour money…you gonna pay me that much?”

“I just need to be here a little bit longer,” Melissa said. “How much?”

He looked at her closer through the mirror. “Lady, is everything alright?”

“I’m just worried about someone.”

“Why don’t you just go up there?”

“I don’t have keys,” Melissa said, still holding the twenty out to him.

“I can’t take it. I really need to leave.”

Melissa lowered the twenty in her hand down to the seat, defeated.

“Look lady, if somebody up there is in trouble you need to call the police or something.”

“I don’t know if he’s in trouble.”

“He?”

Melissa nodded.

“Your boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have keys?”

She nodded again.

“Is he sick or something?”

“He didn’t feel well earlier. He was at my apartment until late this morning, then left, said he wasn’t going to work. It’s not like him not to answer his phone or text me back.”

“Then something could be up,” Rick said, and then looked at the building too. “That’s a fancy building. Wouldn’t the desk person let you up?”

Melissa looked down at the seat where she put the twenty.

“Hey I’m sure the desk person must know you,” Rick said. “They’d let you up.”

“They don’t know me,” Melissa said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I haven’t been here much.”

“What?!”

Melissa remained silent.

“Hey is he…..,”

“Please don’t,” Melissa said. “You don’t know me.”

He raised his hands, “Sorry. What are you gonna do? I need to go.”

“Can you take me back home please?”

“Alright,” he said, and then started the engine.

Just then, Melissa saw a young woman come out of the building. She was a very attractive, shapely blonde with a short haircut. She was wearing a tight denim outfit, jeans and jacket, walking confidently in high heels on the sidewalk in their direction. She had a set of keys swinging in her hand on a large, noticeable keychain. The woman got so close to the car that Melissa was able to see the keychain as the woman passed. It was one of those novelty keychains, shaped in the words: Las Vegas. Melissa swallowed deeply.

“Man,” Rick said. “She was quite a looker!”

He looked at Melissa through the mirror again, waiting for a response. He didn’t get one. She was staring into space. He backed the car up and drove off.

Another chapter below

Deep down Melissa knew that Tamara was right; it was crazy, but that wouldn’t stop her. That Thursday afternoon, 1:41pm, Melissa excused herself from her downtown office to meet with private detective Alvin Bailey. She finally called him back right after Tamara left her apartment last night. Alvin’s office was somewhere in the South Loop, under a mile from Melissa’s office tower. She jumped in a yellow cab, thinking hard along the way. Am I wasting money on a feeling? But it’s a feeling I know is true. I just need proof. Warren has another woman. Maybe it’s the pretty woman with the Las Vegas keychain or any other woman.

The cab pulled up in front of a line of old, nondescript, low-rise buildings on South Clark Street.

“This is it?” Melissa said, looking from the window.

“Yeah,” the driver said. “You told me four-hundred south Clark, this is it.”

“Oh,” Melissa said, looking out at a pawn shop, payday loan office and a storefront with dirty glass doors and faded lettering. She barely made out: 40 s Cl rk

“Where you going lady?” the driver said.

“I guess here,” she said, and then passed him a twenty. “Keep it.”

“Thanks!” he said.

She got out, walking the sidewalk carefully. She wasn’t unfamiliar with the South Loop, just not that particular end. It was a chilly afternoon. She hadn’t taken her London Fog, was only dressed in her blue rayon, tailored suit. The wind picked up, swirling around her, blowing through her blonde locks and whistling at her skirt, blowing it upwards. She tried to hold it down, but instead grabbed the handle to the front door of the building. She walked in slowly, looking around while straightening out her hair and skirt. She wasn’t sure what she was looking at, but saw a narrow hallway with warped uneven tile floors and an elevator on the left. What have I gotten myself into? She walked toward the elevator and pressed the button. She heard the car screeching from inside the wall. She grimaced, and then saw the elevator doors part open, slowly, almost like they wouldn’t fully open, but finally did. She stepped on reluctantly. When the doors closed she found herself getting nervous, afraid she’d get stuck in there. She felt for her phone within her jacket pocket and was relieved to feel it there. She pressed the button for the fourth floor and the elevator jolted, causing her heart to accelerate. Soon the car moved slowly, but smoothly. I’m taking the stairs back down.

When the elevator doors opened on 4, Melissa ran out for her life. She looked around both ways in the dimly lit hall and saw a few doors. A restroom, utility door and an open office door. By that time she was seconds from turning back around, but right then, a man appeared in the doorway of the open office. A tall, older man. She had already figured him to be older. He was very thin, wearing a black and white checkered blazer over a white shirt with a flared open collar, tan khakis that were wrinkled and obviously too big for him. His black and white hair was surprisingly long, slicked back with gel and tied into a ponytail. He stood in the doorway squinting like he couldn’t see.

“Hey, you Melissa Shue?”

His voice sounded just like he looked, deep, hoarse and cracking.

She stood there frozen in her tracks by the elevators.  “Y…yes, I am.”

He looked down at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “Two pm, right?”

She smoothed out her blonde bangs from her face, “Listen sir, I’m sorry. I have to get back to work.”

“Don’t let all this fool you lady,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m a good detective. I can find anybody, but I’m not rich…it ain’t like the movies and TV. I’m old, got tired of doing this from my south side apartment. I’m doing well now that I’m downtown. Got forty years with CPD. You look fancy, Google me or whatever yous do.”

“I did,” Melissa said. “Google you.”

“Then you know.”

“I suppose,” she said. “Why are you calling me so much?”

“You called me,” he said.

She looked over at the elevator.

“We can talk here in the hall if you’re scared. But I do have an office here. It’s small, cramped and hot. Rochelle didn’t come in today.”

“Rochelle?”

“My secretary cleaning lady.”

Melissa remained silent.

“Come talk to me,” he said. “Five minutes. I’m giving you a free consultation, remember?”

She stood there unable to move, thinking at that point she’d just be polite. It wasn’t really him, Alvin Bailey, the obscure ex-cop detective; it was her, feeling desperate for what she’d been reduced to do, catch Warren cheating. A man that wasn’t even her husband.

“No, no I can’t,” she said, turned around and saw the stairwell exit in the hall. She sprinted for it without looking back.

Girl’s Night: Spoon Fed, Coming Soon!

This was really fun to write. If you read my inspiration for Girl’s Night, you recall that I had never intended on making it a series past the first short story “Girl’s Night”, but after thinking about it, the idea for a series was perfect. My love of Charle’s Angels, including my interest in writing about the contemporary lives of four former high high school friends, the idea seemed perfect. When I was thinking of ideas to the follow up to the follow up, I had a slight bit of writer’s block. I was torn on how to connect the second writing to the “Pilot”. I wasn’t coming up with anything. Finally, I ended up taking a total departure. Though I definitely made references to the first, especially the story of Rita’s drama with D, but that was basically it. Girl’s Night: Disco Night was born. It was my direct homage to Charlie’s Angels and one of the most distinctive decades of our times: The 1970s.

I vividly remember being in awe of all of the decade’s icons, like Farrah Fawcett and John Travolta and in Disco Nights I made several references to them as well as other icons like Wonder Woman’s Lynda Carter, Loni Anderson, Wolf Man Jack, Erik Estrada, and Jimmie “JJ” Walker’s famous, “Dynomite!” And of course the decade’s musical icons: Bernard Edwards of Chic, Donna Summer, Van McCoy, Vicki Sue Robinson and the Bee Gees. I enjoyed writing the scene of Rita’s generational clash with a young Uber driver who seemed confused when Rita told him she was going to a 70’s party. See below:

The Uber driver was a young man, maybe in his twenties. He had long, curly brown hair. He was smiling at her through the mirror.

“Those outfits,” he said. “What’s going on in there?”

“A seventies bachelorette party,” Rita said, while touching up her lip color.

“Seventies?” he said.

Rita capped her lipstick, closed her compact, put it back in her purse and returned his stare through the mirror. “It was a decade, you know.”

The young man looked genuinely puzzled.

“When were you born young man?”

“Ninety-five.”

“Uggh, depressing,” Rita said.

“Huh?”

“Never mind young man. Thank you.”

Bell bottoms and platform shoes aside, Girl’s Night is primarily a crime drama and Disco Night’s focus is about a heartbroken, unstable woman running around with a rifle seeking revenge on the man that devastated her. Over the top? Yes, but what I hope is that it’s intriguing enough for you to stay until the last page. The unfortunate realism is, there’s a serious gun problem in this country that has to be dealt with. But this isn’t about politics. Girl’s Night: Disco Night is now available.

Through the years as a struggling writer, I looked for validation by going the traditional route, submitting my work to publishers and agents. As the common story goes, I got rejected left, right, top and bottom. Seeking to earn money, but also desperate to break into print, I became aware of all the magazines that publish short fiction which is my specialty. Woman’s World Magazine paid quite well; at the time, $1000 for very short, 1000 word romances. My interest was peaked so I started reading the stories, eager to submit. As I suspected, the stories in Woman’s World were not my style, however I was somewhat familiar with he romantic formula. I found the stories corny, on the brink of ridiculous, totally against what I consider my style of realistic, edgy fiction (hang around enough you’ll see what I mean). Regardless, I was still desperate to break into mainstream fiction and earn a nice buck. I learned Woman’s World style and began to submit.

Woman’s World rejected me. Had the nerve to! They rejected several submissions. I no longer have the rejection letters, but wish I did, I’d post them here. I followed their style to the letter (no pun). I’m willing to admit that my writer’s ego was bruised, however their rejections didn’t make sense. Not once did the editor say my stories were crap or not suited for their magazine which I could better accept, put my head between my legs and move on, but her rejections were vague. My partner at the time told me my stories were too good for them. That could’ve been his emotional response, having shared my disappointment, but it did make me think. What was really behind the rejections? Here we go, my fiction writer’s imagination: Conspiracies? Maybe. Could it be that I was the only male writer (didn’t use a female pen name) submitting to a woman’s magazine? Possibly. As a person that appreciates transparency, the editor could’ve just told me that, unless it went against some EOE policy.

I recall the Woman’s World submission guidelines clearly. It stated they didn’t want fly away, fluffy type romances, but having read them, that’s exactly what they were. I strictly followed their guidelines and still got rejected. I was so hurt and frustrated, vowing to go back to my writing style and come up with the most vile, x-rated work ever. LOL; I eventually calmed down and continued with my normal work. The whole experience is what inspired me to develop “Romance Imperfect”, a one man anthology series that I hope displays some realism in contemporary relationships.

One night I stumbled across the four stories that Woman’s World had rejected. They were just there on my computer. After reading them again, I actually liked them for what they were and decided to publish them as a collection under the header: SSOL: Short Stories Of Love. One of them is posted here entitled, “Flying High”. I also added a fifth story, “Snapped” that wasn’t a part of the Woman’s World submissions. Snapped was an independent, very short romantic themed story I wrote for something else. It has my true signature style. You’ll clearly see that it differs from the other four. Like everything I write, I hope you enjoy them.

The End

Next: Girl’s Night: Disco Night

This very short story I’m happy to offer for free, posted in its entirety. It’s from my forthcoming collection: “SSOL: Short Stories of Love”. I’ll go into the origins of the collection once it’s ready for publication. What I will say is that I wrote it during a period when I was trying to conform to the commercial, sappy kind of romance writing that isn’t me, however I actually ended up liking it (for some reason) Lol. I hope you like it too.

Goodbyes at airports were always tearful for us, ending our annual visits, for me and my best friend from college, Jessica Wilkes. We took turns vacationing in each other’s city once a year. This time it was my turn to visit Jessica in Baltimore. I had cried already; however Jessica was a little more dramatic. She was crying like we’d never see each other again, hugging me tightly with tears running down her eyes in streams, curbside as I was about to get my bag and go through the double glass doors and enter the terminal at BWI.

“Mari take care of yourself,” Jessica said in her crying voice. “Please call me the second you get home.”

“Jess come on,” I said. “Stop or I’ll start crying again. Did you forget I’ll be back in three months for the wedding?”

She laughed, wiping her eyes with overused tissue I had given her before we got out of the car. She practically started crying before we left the house.

“Oh that’s right,” she said. “Are you sure you don’t mind coming back so soon?”

“Of course not,” I said. “You’re getting married.”

She smiled at me with glassy eyes. Her fiancé Jarrod had gotten my luggage from the trunk of the SUV. He wheeled it over and stood next to Jessica. Polite as ever he smiled at me, but had a slight look of urgency in his eyes which told me he had been parked curbside for a little too long. Before I could say another word Jessica hugged me again, mumbling something over my shoulder.

“Jess I better go. My flight boards soon.”

“Oh, right,” she said and let go of me. I gave her more tissue, walked over to Jarrod and hugged him too.

“It was good seeing you Mari,” he said.

I could see the genuine fondness in his eyes for me. I really came to like Jarrod too. He’s such a nice man. I met him last year when Jessica brought him to Chicago.

“Thanks for everything Jarrod,” I said and grabbed my bag, wheeling it toward the terminal. I looked back at them one last time, waved and then walked through the double doors.

***

I was surprised at how many people were at the airport on a Wednesday evening. At the last minute I decided to stop at the ticket counter and check my bag. A nice ticket agent named Steven took my bag, gave me a boarding pass and advised me that my flight was slightly delayed due to a mechanical problem.

“It’s not serious,” Steven reassured me. “It probably won’t be more than a twenty, thirty minute delay.”

“Thank you Steven,” I said, and then headed toward the gate.

Gate 17 was busy. I didn’t realize how full my flight was. I sat down and felt relieved to be going home. I had a great time and was truly happy for Jessica and Jarrod, but maybe a little envious. She reminded me several times that I was single, terminally single in my mind, and I sort of felt like a third wheel tagging along with them all over Baltimore.

I heard the gate agent over the PA announcing that we had switched aircrafts and would begin boarding soon. Just then a man entered the gate and sat down in the seat directly across from me. I did take extra notice. He had dark hair, dreamy eyes and was very well dressed in a navy blue suit and shiny black shoes. He caught my gaze and smiled at me. I was embarrassed but smiled back, awkwardly.

“Thought I missed it,” he said.

I found myself staring at him and had to snap out of it. “Oh, yes,” I said.

“I ran through the terminal like a maniac,” he said.

I kept smiling and noticed he seemed a little out of breath. He loosened his tie.

“Vacationing?” he asked, with his eyes scanning over my touristy Baltimore t-shirt with the big red crab on the front of it. I had on my old faded jeans, feeling like I looked awful, but his eyes said the contrary.

“Yes,” I said.

“Business for me,” he said. “But I love Baltimore, spent time here as a kid in Glen Burnie, but didn’t appreciate it then. It’s a great town.”

“It really is,” I said.

We continued to talk and quickly I found him to be an engaging man. Our conversation about things flowed on its own like we had known each other for years. He told be about his own business as a consultant and how he travels around the country and I told him about Jessica, Jarrod and our annual visits. Later he slipped in that he wasn’t married, but I had already checked his attractive hands for a ring. He also told me that he wasn’t seeing anybody and was discouraged with the dating scene. I had to concur and we both laughed.

The gate agent announced our flight and we both stood up. The kind gentleman moved closer to me respectfully with his hand extended. “Forgive me,” he said. “I’m Nigel Crawford.”

“Oh forgive me too,” I said. “Mari Haynes.”

“You don’t look like a Mary,” he said.

“It’s actually Maribel,” I said with a laugh.

“Now that makes sense,” he said.

Nigel and I moved toward the jet bridge as the gate agent began calling out rows to board the aircraft. A flood of impatient people bombarded the line. It was so many people that Nigel and I got separated and lost each other. I was so irritated. On the plane I looked around for him, but was trying not to appear so obvious. I didn’t see him. I sat down and fastened my seatbelt thinking it was just as well, the way my social life had been going lately.

***

Standing at the carousel at O’Hare I found myself still looking for Nigel, but it was to no avail. It was like he completely disappeared. I picked up my bag and turned to walk away. Not paying attention and feeling a little sad I collided with someone. When I looked up it was Nigel. I was stunned.

“Maribel!” he said smiling. “I thought I lost you forever.”

“Me too,” I said.

“I wanted to sit with you and continue our conversation, but that crowd….,”

“I know,” I said. “I wanted to sit with you too.”

He smiled bashfully. “Where do you live?”

“In Wicker Park.”

“No way!” he said. “I live in Bucktown…would you like to share a cab?”

“Yes,” I said.

We left the terminal together and though my feet were planted firmly on the ground, my heart was still somewhere in flight.

The End