Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Excerpts from draft novel’ Category

 

Meg stood next to her patrol car in a turn out on Highway near Half Moon Bay Harbor looking out over the vast, grey and brooding Pacific Ocean. Meg was in an unusually contemplative mood. She liked men. She also liked women. She liked Ray. He was all man. He also was all woman. She liked that about him. She didn’t understand why. That’s why she was standing here looking at the boring ocean and trying to sort out her emotions. She soon gave up. Contemplation was not Meg’s strength. She was a woman of action. And the action she craved now was to get her iron pumped and steroid enhanced hands around the neck of whoever killed Stephanie. She now was convinced Stephanie was murdered. So was Ray.

She got back into her automobile and drove to the coffee shop in the harbor. As she sat at one of the tables stirring her coffee Paul Grossmacher, the director of the Harbor District entered the place. Grossmacher was a kindly older gentleman who ran the District for as long as she remembered. She liked him. He had a dry sense of humor that she enjoyed, always listened sympathetically when she talked even when she just rambled on and he flirted outrageously with her.

He sat at her table ordered a cafe-latte and a poppy-seed bagel and inquired, “Meg, why so pensive, trying to solve some great mystery or are you just recalling some special pleasure you enjoyed last night?”

She laughed, “A little bit of both.”

“Ah, and is the mystery professional or personal?”

“A little bit of both.”

“Maybe I could help. I read a lot of mysteries.”

She laughed again. “No, I do not think so.”

“Why don’t you get everyone in the room and sweat them? Isn’t that what the detectives do?”

“Well, no,” she responded. “I have no witnesses and only one person who could know something, but I spoke with him and he doesn’t seem to. There is no family.”

“Why not try him again? Maybe he remembered something he forgot when you grilled him.”

“We don’t grill people. Besides, I really don’t think he knows anything.”

They talked for a while more. She finished her coffee, got up and went out the door back to her cruiser. As she stood by the car door she thought that maybe there was something to Paul’s suggestion. Maybe I will go up to San Francisco and interview him in his office. It couldn’t hurt. I might even see Ray again.

So she took out Ray’s business card, called the office and asked to speak to Vincent Biondi.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

Meg was naked, her steroid enhanced, chiseled body poised kneeling above him on the bed.

Outside the room the surf at Half Mood Bay rumbled, drowning out the sounds of automobiles on Highway One located about a hundred yards behind her home.

She lowered her head and with her tongue, gently explored Jack’s one eye. Ray moaned slightly and drew in his breath, She slowly licked the head and then Jack’s eye again. Then, placing her lips lightly on the tip of his penis, she gradually drew it into her mouth until her lips slid over the corona and lingered in the sulcus while she flicked her tongue again over the glans, then she proceeded down the shaft of his cock. He moaned again, his muscles going rigid as he entwined his fingers in her hair pulling it violently out and down while he thrust up forcing his cock deep into her mouth.

She loved the silky smoothness of the skin of his member, soft like velvet with the iron-hard prick beneath. She liked the pain as he pulled on her hair. She liked the ache in her sphincter where an hour or so before he brutalized it, thrusting deep within her. For the entire night they had gone without break from bed to shower to floor in an unending symphony of brutality and passion.

His moans grew louder as he drew her faster and deeper on him until with a sudden thrust the hot, bitter, salty brew sprayed into her mouth as he spasmed and then relaxed, his fingers falling from her hair.

As his breathing slowed and his erection wilted, she moved up and across his body bestowing light kisses on his body as she passed until she lay alongside him, her head nestled in the crook of his arm with her lips pressed against his neck.

She lay there a few moments, thinking first of Ray and the languid ache in her that he brought on, then drifting off to confront the disturbing specter of Stephanie. Stephanie, her beautiful porcelain white skinned Stephanie. The night she died she had called Meg. Told her she couldn’t spend the night alone in that house and she was coming over the hill to spend it in Meg’s arms. She sounded upset, as she should be, not because of her asshole husband Sam’s death but because of its violence. But she never arrived. Then Meg got the call about the crash at Devil’s Slide.

When she arrived at the site, she found out it was Steph. The idiot medical examiner claimed it was an accident or suicide. Meg knew that it could not be. Devil’s slide was not on the route from Steph’s home to Meg’s place. Ray also expressed doubts about the official reported cause of Stephanie’s death.

She felt his breathing slow. He was drifting off into sleep.

“Not yet,” she whispered. “Once more for me.”

He smiled and with his eyes still closed he pulled her up towards him. She straddled his head with her knees. Her hands she pressed against the wall behind the bed. He gently ran his tongue along the sides of her clitoris and labia. She could feel her wetness. Her muscles tightened. He held her cheeks tightly. A finger fluttered around her aching asshole, prying it open and slipping the tip in and out. Suddenly he withdrew his tongue and sucked her steroid swollen clit into his mouth hard while plunging his finger deep into her ass. She felt the rush of blood and warmth spread throughout her body. Her muscles tightened until she became as rigid as a granite statue. As the flood of ecstasy swept from the fringes her body and plunged toward her cunt, she raised her face up toward the ceiling and let out a deep guttural scream.

Read Full Post »

North of the Tehachapi Mountains in California’s coastal range resembles a washboard dipped into the Pacific Ocean washtub. The western face of first ridge dip’s down on to a narrow strip of land before falling away into the ocean. Except for foraging for fish and mollusks during certain periods of the years, native Americans tended to avoid settling here. The Spanish and later Mexican settlers as well as the early Anglos avoided it also except for a few fishing communities and lumber ports. Not so the modern Californians, they huddle together on this slight, cold and foggy strip of land in numbers far greater than the land can support ostensibly for the perceived benefits of the view of the somber grey Pacific Ocean and the bracing weather.

From Humboldt County on the north through to the mountains of the Big Sur, a large valley lies just inland of the first ridge, a semi arid paradise, cool in the summers from the brisk breezes off the ocean flooding into the valley through the gaps in the ridges, and warm in the winter due to the moderating waters of the ocean and the blocking, by the valley’s western ridges, of the frigid winter winds sweeping down from the Sierras and across the great Central Valley. Here lies the Bay of San Francisco, eastern Marin, Sonoma and Mendocino Counties to the North and to the South eastern San Mateo County, Santa Clara County and Silicon Valley and San Jose and it continues south until it disappears into the Salinas River Valley watershed.

In prehistoric times gigantic mammals roamed the area we call California and this happy valley until driven into extinction by the immigrant homo-sapiens from the North-eastern Asia. These immigrants, later referred to as indigenous Americans or Indians, then settled down into a relatively low impact semi-paradiasical existence until the Spanish arrived with their Missions, horses and cattle. The Missions, through overwork and disease, quickly cleansed the valley of the earlier settlers, while the huge herds of free range horses and cattle irrevocably altered the fauna. Here modern Californians chose to live in great numbers even though the valley lacked the resources to support them.

Following the denuding of the hills and valleys of this part of the coastal range by the imported ruminants, great hoards of a practically useless shiny yellow metal called gold was discovered in the Sierra foothills. This useless metal was highly desired by the light-skinned people living east of the Sierra, far more valuable to them then glass beads and seashells were to the native Peoples. So valuable in fact that unlike the native people’s pursuit of valuable feathers and baubles they were willing to kill who ever stood in their way to posses it. As a result vast numbers of these pale skinned immigrants flooded into California across the seemingly almost impassable mountains and by boat across the infinite sea. They came from the boondocks, farms and slums of East Coast America and Europe with greed on their minds and mayhem in their hearts. In quick succession these newcomers tore down the hills to get at the gold, eliminated the remainder of the indians and took the land from the Mexican successors to the Spanish settlers.

Many of them settled in Yerba Buena (later San Francisco) where they disembarked and the surrounding area of this coastal valley. As a result of the depredations by the miners in the foothills the great bay and delta turned brown and changed from deep clear waters, tule and salt marshes to vast mud flats.

In order to provide homes, buildings and energy for these new immigrants and even more wealth for those most advantaged by the mines, the great coastal redwood forests were cut down. Also, to provide water, transportation and supplies to these new immigrants water was brought in great pipelines from the Sierra’s where it was plentiful to the coastal valley where it was not and ribbons of roads and rails spread out along the bay and the valley.

Eventually development of these most recent immigrants covered the land and crowded the shores of the greatly diminished bay, leaving less room for the new wealthy and fortunate to live as they believed their good fortune entitled them.

The next valley in the coastal range to the East of the San Francisco Bay valley remained largely the preserve large ranchos and the tiny towns servicing them except for in the passes that provided transportation corridors from the Bay to the Central Valley and beyond.

About 30 years ago real-estate developers realized that there was a market for large so-called planned unit developments surrounding golf courses instead of natural open space, and decided these large ranchos in this until then rural valley would work just fine. So one day, on the eastern ridge or this valley an exclusive community centered on a golf course was built made up mostly of homes built to 3 or 4 standard designs except for on the highest points on the ridge. Here huge custom-built villas were built for the very wealthy.

In one of these custom-built homes located along the 17th fairway of the golf course, three men knelt, praying.

If one of the golfers playing along the 17th fairway looked up at the house above them they would be able to see through the sliding french doors that looked over the fairway the three kneeling men.

The oldest of the three men, bony and balding with liver spots showing through his wispy grey hair was outfitted in the garish clashing colors of the golfer, in this case a bright red polo shirt and violent yellow short pants. The tallest of the men looked to be in his mid thirties. He was quite tall and slender looking with the taut wiry muscles of a professional athlete. He was dressed in a deep blue Brioni jacket, white silk tee-shirt and dark pants. The third a man in his late forties or early fifties was dressed as though he had just returned to camp from hiking through the woods, canvas jacket, red and black checked Pendleton shirt and tan canvas pants tucked into a pair of hiking boots.

The old man was speaking his prayer:

“It is dominion that we are after. Not just a voice. It is dominion we are after. Not just influence. It is dominion we are after. Not just equal time. It is dominion we are after. World conquest. That’s what Christ has commissioned us to accomplish. We must use strength to win the world with the power of the Gospel. And we must never settle for anything less. Jesus give us the strength of your power to achieve your kingdom on earth at this time so that we the elect can bring forth the end of times and share in your sovereignty forever. Amen.”

“Amen,” the other two mumbled. Then they all rose up off their knees and sat down. The oldster on an overstuffed arm-chair with a brown and yellow floral pattern. The other two sat on opposite ends of the large dark brown sofa situated at right angles to the chair.

After a few moments of silence, the wife of the older man quietly entered the room as though she were entering a church. The woman was quite thin, had greying brown hair and wore a relatively shapeless grey dress. She came in with a tray holding three tall glasses filled with ice and lemonade and set it on the low table in front of the men.

“Thank you my dear,” said the oldster.

“Yes, thank you Mrs Boone,” said the Brioni dressed man rising as she entered.

“Oh, please don’t get up for me. I know you all have important things to discuss. I thought you could use some refreshment.”

The third man neither rose nor said anything.

After Mrs. Boone left the room the older man said, “Charles, thank you for flying all this way to meet with us.”

“No problem Reverend Michael,” the outdoorsman responded. “I believe this meeting is now necessary. Anyway, thank you for the use of your jet. I will be returning to Alaska right after this meeting. I think it’s time I reappear from out of the wilderness.”

“What’s your story for the press,” asked the younger man?

“I will tell them I slipped and fell and struck my head and had a touch of amnesia and that I luckily found that cabin with enough provisions for me to nurse myself back to health and recover my wits.”

“Do you think that will work?”

“Yes, my disappearance I am afraid was not of much interest to the press so I think they will be satisfied with that especially when I also thank God for bestowing his divine providence on me.”

“Gods providence moves all things,” intoned Reverend Michael.

“I’d also like thank you Harry for taking time out from your duties as a Guardians of the Disciples to join us today. Your work is essential to rooting our the cancer of liberals and progressives that is killing our nation. Their lethal ideological radiation is poisoning us and our children and must be stopped.”

He glanced from one to the other then looked down for a moment then raised his head and continued, “This demonic which hunt by the liberals in congress and the administration must not interfere with our plans to pave the way for the second coming. We must stop them and even resort to violence if necessary. I know that you understand that and know what needs to be done.”

“Yes we do,” said Harry. “I and the other Guardians have worked hard to prepare ourselves for the struggle.”

“I know you have,” Reverend Michael responded.

He then shook his head slowly and continued, “God is displeased with America for its pride and arrogance, for killing 40 million unborn babies, for the universality of profanity and for other forms of immorality. We need to accept the truth that this nation will suffer in many ways for departing from the principles of righteousness. ‘The wages of sin is death,’ as it says in Romans 6, both for individuals and for entire cultures.”

He then slowly rose from his chair and said to them, “You both know what needs to be done. I will leave you to you planning.”

He stopped and smiled and said, “Congressman Reffo and Congressman Cantor are waiting for me at the first tee. Sadly one is member of the Catholic Church, ‘The Great Whore,’ ‘apostate church,’ and the other a Jew, one of those no longer spiritually alive whom God sent Hitler to hunt down in preparation for the second coming. But, they support much of our mission. Perhaps some-day God will see fit for them to see his light and leave their cult systems and join us.”

He then walked toward the door and when he reached it he turned and said with a serious expression on his face, “You know, of course, that golf is the devils own game.”

They all chuckled as he turned, opened the door, hesitated a moment and looking back over his shoulder said to the two men, “I also think it is time we rid ourselves of that abomination.” He then went out and closed the door.

Read Full Post »

Yarggggghhhh!” screamed the Isabella character as she ran into the characters dressing room. “That’s it! That’s fucking it! That’s his idea of adding female characters, one bull dyke in a shrink-wrapped police uniform?…”

“Sheriff.”

“Police, sheriff whatever. …And, one frozen popsicle French tart?”

“Belgian.“

“What?”

“Belgian, she’s a Belgian. Walloon actually , French-speaking Belgians.”

“Who gives a shit, Belgian or loony, who cares? Is that the best he can do to add woman characters to the story? And he keeps adding fat men”

“Actually,” said the Vince character, “Big Flo is better described as husky, not fat.”

She looked at him and wrinkled up her nose as though something smelled bad, then grinned and asked, “Well, how was she?”

“Who?”

“The frozen French popsicle.”

“How should I know? First we were in bed. Then I wake up in her hotel room. Fiction authors do that you know, avoid describing the specific mechanics of the sex act itself… except for porn authors. Just once in my career in fiction, I would like my author to recount the simple give and take, so to speak, so that I can get to experience it. Maybe when you and I get to do it, he’ll do that.”

“Fat chance of that. I doubt if he knows himself. Besides, I am now your damned bodyguard not your bed mate.”

“Well, it could be like that movie where Costner plays the bodyguard to the singer and gets it on with her. Anyway, whats up? You seem out of sorts. Are you having your period?”

“Ohhh! that is such a man thing, always bringing that up to explain a woman’s moods.”

“Well,” he said grinning?

“How should I know? Most authors don’t write about that either, at least what the women really feels…only the jokes. …But something doesn’t add up” she continued.

“What do you mean?”

“Who are we,” the Isabella character exclaimed? “Or more accurately, why are we?”

“Huh,” the Vince character responded. “What are you talking about?”

“What are we doing in this story? It’s not about us at all.”

“Of course it is about us. We are the main protagonists.”

“Look at it this way. The story is about a business deal gone bad, not your or my emotional or physical reaction to it or even our involvement. We appear to be minor characters observing and not a party to whatever is going on.“

“You mean like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in Hamlet?”

Sort of…and you know what happened to them?”

“They died.”

“That’s just it. I have the feeling we are being set up by the author, to be… well, removed.”

“What do you mean,” said the Vince character in response to Isabella’s expression of concern?

“Well, the way I see it, it is like your character said when we met at Ike’s house, what we have here is simply a third-rate business screw up, so what’s the big deal?”

“Go on,” Vince encouraged. “I still don’t see what you’re so concerned about.”

“These type of business failures and frauds happen every day, but people don’t go running around committing suicide, killing people or setting up fall guys.”

“Well, maybe the Brethren are publicity shy.”

“Maybe,” she continued. “But their involvement is easily dismissed publicly as only another case of some abused and defrauded investors. No, it is something more, something bigger that if it came out would threaten everything,”

So, I still don’t see what you’re so upset about. This is a thriller. The author, if he knows what he is doing, would want a conspiracy, the bigger the better.”

“No, no that’s not it,” she exclaimed, her voice rising. “What’s our role, your role?”

“I’m the reluctant but courageous hero who after many harrowing adventures prevails over the forces of darkness,” he responds smugly. “And you, why you’re my doxy,” he adds with a smile and leans forward to peer more closely at his face in the makeup mirror.

“That would work,” she responds derisively, “if you knew something that threatens them, whoever they are, which you don’t. Or they think you know something, which you don’t . Or you could stumble over something which you won’t because everyone knows the only reason you were brought into this novel was to die.”

Vince stared into Isabella’s eyes reflected in the make-up mirror.

“So,” he said slowly, “even if I were to agree with your dramatic conclusion, which I don’t, what could we do about it? It is the authors story after all.”

“We can try to change it,” she responded.

Vince broke out laughing with a laugh that was somewhere between mirth and nervousness.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said after finishing his show of feigned amusement. “It is the author’s story. The characters can do nothing about it. They only can play their part.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” she replied seriously. “Characters often make the story and the author respond to where the logic of his character leads. Even this author said that he was disappointed in his character Ike. He expected more of him.”

“I do not think that he ment quite what you think he ment, but,” he added thoughtfully, “I admit that I am intrigued somewhat by your suggestion. How do you propose we do this probably impossible thing.”

“Well, I do not really know for sure,” she said, “but we can start by after each scene you and I going over it to try to figure out what the hell is really is going on or what’s actually in the author’s mind, or even if he doesn’t know himself we can try to understand what could happen. We would be sort of like helping the Author along if you will…for our own benefit of course.”

Read Full Post »

He sat in a small booth with a tiny table in the darkened dinning room of the outrageously expensive restaurant waiting for the Great One, Arrogant Bella LaGrande to arrive. He wondered if any of the other diners or any of the wait staff was one of the “agents” that Russel promised would provide him protection.

“What a joke,” he thought. He still could not believe Russel’s warning. He wondered is Isabella was on the job too, lurking somewhere outside or in the shadows. It was all so grotesquely absurd he though and began to chuckle to himself when he became aware of Arabella La Grande’s entrance into the restaurant and purposeful stride toward his table. Tall and slender with a gallic nose and short mannish hair just beginning to become dusted with grey, she wore a dark business suit with a skirt and a white ruffled blouse. He began to rise, but she curtly motioned him to remain seating.

“It is good to see you again Vincent,” she said while in one single move she slid into the booth opposite him, smartly snapped open the napkin and placed it on her lap.

“I’m as well as can be expected under the circumstances,” he responded. “How are you, and how is Alec?” Alec being Arabella’s husband.

She looked at him for what seemed like a long time with those expressionless grey eyes of hers and finally said, “I’m fine. He is fine. Everyone is fine. But I am not here to talk about domestic bliss.”

“I expected as much. So why are you here?” Vince said through clenched teeth.

“Ah, good,” she said. “Let’s order first and then get down to it shall we. I am famished.”

“Good idea,” he said, “but if you’re hungry, this is not the place, the portions are too small for even a mouse to feel full. I always have to go searching for a hamberger joint to get some real food after leaving here.

She smiled frostily and examined the menu.

After ordering and the arrival of the first glass of wine, he leaned back in his booth and said to her, “So?”

She leaned forward her eyes boring into his. “How are you doing, Vince?”

He cocked an eyebrow.

“No,” she responded to his expression. “I am not interested in you emotional well-being,” she continued with an almost girlish giggle. “How, and more to the point what are you doing with the firm? You know I was the logical choice to succeed Sam.”

She hesitated awaiting his response, but Vince knew this game and remained silent. She continued, “You’re a bright guy Vince, we all know that , but you are neither a manager or leader. Why you? No, one on the management committee is talking. They refer me to David. All David tells me is that, under the circumstances they thought you would do a good job. That’s Bullshit.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Vince interjected.

“Ha,” she laughed. “You know what I mean. Something is going on and I need to know what it is. I have my own career to think of.”

“Conjecture,” Vince opined. “It is all conjecture. I do not know if I was asked to return because of any perceived abilities I may have or some more nefarious reasons. I have heard both theories. And, while I admit the latter is probably more reasonable, I haven’t the slights idea what the nefarious plot could be — although there have been several bizarre alternatives seriously suggested. For example, does this all have something to do with the reason Sam took his life and his wife died in what to some is a suspicious accident? Or, does it have something to do with “Red Star” or a shadowy group referred to as “The Brethren?”

“Red Star,“ interjected The Great One. “That’s the little fraud Sam and the management committee pulled on the rest of the partners, that I and others were furious about and why I tried to get the lot of them thrown out and a new committee elected, but then you came along and simply dispensed with the existing committee. A lot of us believe that you were brought aboard simply to stifle our little rebellion.”

“Do you?”

“Well, to some extent. Not in so many words or even consciously. Let’s face it Vince, you may see yourself as spokesmen for the downtrodden and talk a good game, but no one knows if you have any administrative skills whatsoever. You remind me a bit of Hamlet. You cannot act unless you are sure beyond a doubt.”

“Thanks for another vote of confidence. But even Hamlet once he was sure, acted decisively.”

“Yes, and everyone died. That’s what worries me.” She hesitated a moment then continued, “But, Red Star, is there more there than just stealing some profits from the other partners? There’s a rumor that the Federal Government is investigating.”

“I doubt whether the firm is of great interest to the Feds. Oh, they may want some of the involved partners to testify, but I think they are after different game. Our attorney affectionately referred to as “The First” agrees. Oh, there may be some PR fallout but our PR firm, Cantor Associates should be able to handle it. My bigger problem is the impact of the cost of all this on the firm’s finances…that and the fact that I have been informed that I am in some sort of physical danger.”

“What sort of physical danger,” said Arabella leaning closer across the table?

“Oh, are you concerned about my personal welfare?”

“We can discuss my personal interests later, right now I want to know everything you can tell me.”

__________________________________

The following morning Vince awoke with Arabella standing by the bed fully dressed and gripping the handle of her roll-aboad suitcase.

“I have to run to catch my flight,” she said. “You can sleep in until check out time. The room is paid for.”

Rising on one elbow he said, “ah, I enjoyed last night and did…”

“Yes, I enjoyed it too. And if you are wondering how you were,” she said with a smile. “Well, not as good as our pool boy in Nice, but relative to some of your partners, their ego’s are bigger than their penises.”

“Well, thanks. I guess you were pretty good yourself.”

“Yes,” she said with a wink. “Your ego is much smaller than theirs” she added as she strode out the door followed by the pillow Vince flung after her.

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts

%d bloggers like this: