Bolt
boogie woogie feng shui
I've been working on a film noir screenplay with one of my scriptwriter friends, and he's been urging me to write a short story of the same type, something Hammett-like, and since I've never really tried my writing hand at fiction before I decided it would be a fun and interesting challenge. This is purely experimental so I don't know how long it will turn out to be but I have a very brief opening written at this point and I'll add bits and pieces in my spare time. If you're a fan of film/crime/neo noir or detective fiction maybe you'll get a kick out of it. Enjoy!
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I barely heard the door click open behind me, groaning slightly to a stop once it stood fully ajar. I didn't bother to turn around; the heels of my crossed feet remained propped up heavily on a lopsided table adjacent to the cluttered desk that my chair was tipped back on. Remnants of restless sleep blurred my vision, making the pale rays of moonlight that pierced the window blinds a silvery-blue splash of murky light, like running watercolors. I unlaced and stretched my fingers as two pairs of footsteps entered the small private office and halted, awaiting the recognition of arrival that I had not yet shown them. I didn't turn around.
A loud throat cleared, alive with a kind of resigned chagrin that scorned my inattentive demeanor but was not completely surprised by it. This was coupled by a nervous shuffling which I accredited to the other party in tow, suggesting that it was most likely a woman interrupting my impromptu dozing. I was blinking the last of my weariness violently from my eyes when the first voice spoke.
"You have a visitor, Al. A client."
The last word was moist with sarcasm. I tried to scoff. I couldn't. Business hadn't exactly been booming lately. It was a wonder my faithful underpaid secretary had stayed with me as long as she had.
"It's late, doll. I'm off the clock." My eyes shut themselves again but one immediately sprang back open to peek at my down-turned watch. It was well past ten.
"Why are you still here, Addie?" I asked, taking my feet down and leaning forward with a stiff sigh. "You've been officially off for an hour."
She gestured playfully to the small corner television in the reception room behind her. Some sappy romance drama was on, the kind where long-haired bleeding-heart Jacks pawed and fought over lush blonde Jills with sickly figures and too much color on their cheeks. "I figured I'd take the opportunity to catch up on my paperwork."
I made a face at her.
By this point my visitor had taken a seat in one of the stout leather chairs facing my desk, apparently not in the mood for small talk. I pushed my hat up out of my eyes and turned to face her.
She was a well-built young woman in her mid-twenties, I guessed, with a sweeping head of brilliant chestnut hair that dropped in organized little curls off either side of her shoulder. Her face was picturesque and pleasantly tan. Her absence of makeup worked in her favor, showing off her slim jaw line and smooth red lips and working meticulously upward to her wet hazel eyes, contorted with worry. The rosey pallor of her cheeks was not brushed on. It might have been a beautiful face at any other place or time, but at fifteen 'till on a drizzling October night it was a mosaic of fright and anxiety.
I waited for her to speak but her mouth was a tight line stretching the corners of her face, her eyes fixed steadily on the unloaded Beretta teetering on the edge of my desk. I stuffed it in a drawer and drew upwards with the movement of her face.
"Is there something I can do for you?" I inquired, trying to make my voice soothing but knowing my expression betrayed me. I feigned patience while she collected and repositioned herself, the slick leather of the chair doing more talking than she had in I assumed her whole life. When she finally quit squirming her eyes met mine as a gloved hand dipped into her purse and came out with a glossy eight-by-five of a young couple, all smiles. The girl in the snap looked about the same age as my client, but infinitely more cheerful and maybe a bit mischievous in the process. My client half-handed, half-slid the photo to me and assumed her previous uneasiness.
"That is my… my sister," she stammered. "Kayla Franco." Her hand fluttered nervously to her mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry, my name is Elizabeth Franco. My father is Albert Franco, the owner of Baron Industries."
I'd heard the name. In the papers, Baron Industries was played up as a rather selfless corporation, having a hand in raising and donating funds to charities widespread and varied. Its other hand might have been in a racket or two, from what I'd heard. I didn't mention that. The brunette wreck continued.
"Kayla is my sister…"
"So you've said," I cut in, still gazing at the photo while I fanned it back and forth across my face. "I assume she has something to do with whatever you're taking your time not telling me."
She recoiled at that with a small abrupt motion, like I had made a pass at her. For a moment, anger pulsed in her teary orbs, dissolving quickly into hurt and embarrassment. I scolded myself for being harsh and urged her to continue, assuring her she could depend on me for this and that and that my grumpy exterior was due to my unflinching work ethic and so on. Addie stifled a chuckle. My client softened and pressed on with her tale while I poured out half a pot of limp coffee and put on a full fresh one.
"This man in the picture… Kayla's been seeing him for about half a year now. His name is Rick Tillman. He says he works in real estate, but I suspect he's lying. I think he's a criminal. I've seen him with drugs before." She looked up as though for approval. I told her I believed her and to keep going.
A sob caught in her chest, her hard eyes falling again to some curious point below my desk. Don't worry, I told her, and it'll be okay, and whatever it is she could trust me with it, and to take her time because we had all night. I looked at my watch.
"I don't trust him," were her next words. She struggled with them, choosing them carefully. "I think he might… that he might hurt her. Maybe he has already—nobody has seen or heard from her in almost two months. I don't think he would kill her… but sometimes he hit her. When he was drunk but sometimes when he just got mad too, or when his friends were around, he'd just hit her like that, like it didn't bother him. And she would come to me and cry and one time she almost called the cops on him but she never did, even when I urged her to, begged her, but she wouldn't and she didn't want me to either. That's why I didn't go to the cops… that and because I've seen her use those drugs too, and I don't want her to get in trouble over it. I think if… if maybe she could get away from him then she would stop, and I don't want her to get in trouble over something like that."
Finally the wheels of her story had been set in motion, picking up speed with each tear-soaked detail she let out between bouts of sobbing and nervous silence. I picked up a notepad and flipped around until I found a blank page, clicked a pen into use, and started writing down names and descriptions, details and questions I had already come up with. A mixed up little girl was missing, daddy's little girl. Albert Franco's little girl. Her abusive, lying, junkie boyfriend was the first obvious lead. Not a good start. Not for him.
I dropped the pen and pressed her a little.
"Is there anything you can think of that might help out in finding her? Maybe something she said, like if she was going anywhere, anything like that?"
The frowned as she thought, then shook her head decisively.
"What about family, close friends, anybody she could be staying with?"
She shook her head again and pouted her red lips.
"No," she insisted. "She wouldn't have gone to any family on account of daddy might find out. He wouldn't like that. He's always been sore at her for hanging around those types, the 'bad crowd,' you know. He had a row with Rick once or twice, even threatened him one time, that was right after Kayla moved out and she was always held that against daddy. Hadn't seen him in a long time after that. I don't know about her friends, I didn't know many of them, but a lot of them have families so I don't think she would've gone to them. She had a lot of other friends that I never met, people like Rick. She talked about them a few times, how they always went to parties and stuff as one big group. The only one I remember is a girl named Stacie. I—I can't remember her last name. I'm sorry. Do you think you can find my sister? I mean—I mean I know haven't told you much but I'm really worried about her… I just want to know she's alright, and daddy wants to know. He really hates Rick… he thinks they went to get hitched in Miami, or something like that. He doesn't… he doesn't know that she's missing and haven't heard from her. He really hates Rick… I'm sorry, that's all I can really tell you."
"That's okay," I assured her. Stacie went down in my little clue book. So did Albert Franco.
Very suddenly she shot up straight.
"I can pay you," she said, reaching into her purse and reemerging with a small pink checkbook. "I didn't know what you usually charge but I can write a check…"
"We can discuss payment later, after we get some things ironed out. I need to run checks on a few of these names and see if I can't get a jump on a starting point." I had no doubt that the kind of money she scraped off her father would be more than enough to cover expenses. The lavish arrangement of jewelry on her trembling hands confirmed my thoughts.
I looked at my watch again more urgently. "I'll tell you what, Miss Franco. It's getting late and I'm sure as hell no help when I'm sleepy. You get me a number I can contact you at and we'll call it a night. I'll set out tomorrow morning to see what I can dig up."
She scribbled her cell phone number on the back of a piece of receipt unearthed from her handbag, handed it to me, thanked me profusely, and excused herself from my office. A few moments later Addie had shown her out of the receiving room and came stamping back in with her hands on her hips.
"That poor girl looks like she has enough to worry about without you being short," she reprimanded me. Curiosity tugged accusingly at one of her eyebrows. "She's quite a looker though. I hope you were on your best behavior with her."
"I was a perfect gentleman," I shot back, still staring at the photo of the bright-eyed young girl and her violent beau. "So far as that goes. How about a movie or something Addie? I doubt I'll be able to get back to sleep now."
"Oh, I can't miss my soaps," she exclaimed wildly. "Why don't you watch them with me? See, in this season Brenda is getting married to Ron, but Ron is having an affair with Brenda's mother, who is actually the wife of—"
"Nevermind," I said, tugging my hat down over my eyes. "I'll give it another shot."
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I barely heard the door click open behind me, groaning slightly to a stop once it stood fully ajar. I didn't bother to turn around; the heels of my crossed feet remained propped up heavily on a lopsided table adjacent to the cluttered desk that my chair was tipped back on. Remnants of restless sleep blurred my vision, making the pale rays of moonlight that pierced the window blinds a silvery-blue splash of murky light, like running watercolors. I unlaced and stretched my fingers as two pairs of footsteps entered the small private office and halted, awaiting the recognition of arrival that I had not yet shown them. I didn't turn around.
A loud throat cleared, alive with a kind of resigned chagrin that scorned my inattentive demeanor but was not completely surprised by it. This was coupled by a nervous shuffling which I accredited to the other party in tow, suggesting that it was most likely a woman interrupting my impromptu dozing. I was blinking the last of my weariness violently from my eyes when the first voice spoke.
"You have a visitor, Al. A client."
The last word was moist with sarcasm. I tried to scoff. I couldn't. Business hadn't exactly been booming lately. It was a wonder my faithful underpaid secretary had stayed with me as long as she had.
"It's late, doll. I'm off the clock." My eyes shut themselves again but one immediately sprang back open to peek at my down-turned watch. It was well past ten.
"Why are you still here, Addie?" I asked, taking my feet down and leaning forward with a stiff sigh. "You've been officially off for an hour."
She gestured playfully to the small corner television in the reception room behind her. Some sappy romance drama was on, the kind where long-haired bleeding-heart Jacks pawed and fought over lush blonde Jills with sickly figures and too much color on their cheeks. "I figured I'd take the opportunity to catch up on my paperwork."
I made a face at her.
By this point my visitor had taken a seat in one of the stout leather chairs facing my desk, apparently not in the mood for small talk. I pushed my hat up out of my eyes and turned to face her.
She was a well-built young woman in her mid-twenties, I guessed, with a sweeping head of brilliant chestnut hair that dropped in organized little curls off either side of her shoulder. Her face was picturesque and pleasantly tan. Her absence of makeup worked in her favor, showing off her slim jaw line and smooth red lips and working meticulously upward to her wet hazel eyes, contorted with worry. The rosey pallor of her cheeks was not brushed on. It might have been a beautiful face at any other place or time, but at fifteen 'till on a drizzling October night it was a mosaic of fright and anxiety.
I waited for her to speak but her mouth was a tight line stretching the corners of her face, her eyes fixed steadily on the unloaded Beretta teetering on the edge of my desk. I stuffed it in a drawer and drew upwards with the movement of her face.
"Is there something I can do for you?" I inquired, trying to make my voice soothing but knowing my expression betrayed me. I feigned patience while she collected and repositioned herself, the slick leather of the chair doing more talking than she had in I assumed her whole life. When she finally quit squirming her eyes met mine as a gloved hand dipped into her purse and came out with a glossy eight-by-five of a young couple, all smiles. The girl in the snap looked about the same age as my client, but infinitely more cheerful and maybe a bit mischievous in the process. My client half-handed, half-slid the photo to me and assumed her previous uneasiness.
"That is my… my sister," she stammered. "Kayla Franco." Her hand fluttered nervously to her mouth. "Oh, I'm so sorry, my name is Elizabeth Franco. My father is Albert Franco, the owner of Baron Industries."
I'd heard the name. In the papers, Baron Industries was played up as a rather selfless corporation, having a hand in raising and donating funds to charities widespread and varied. Its other hand might have been in a racket or two, from what I'd heard. I didn't mention that. The brunette wreck continued.
"Kayla is my sister…"
"So you've said," I cut in, still gazing at the photo while I fanned it back and forth across my face. "I assume she has something to do with whatever you're taking your time not telling me."
She recoiled at that with a small abrupt motion, like I had made a pass at her. For a moment, anger pulsed in her teary orbs, dissolving quickly into hurt and embarrassment. I scolded myself for being harsh and urged her to continue, assuring her she could depend on me for this and that and that my grumpy exterior was due to my unflinching work ethic and so on. Addie stifled a chuckle. My client softened and pressed on with her tale while I poured out half a pot of limp coffee and put on a full fresh one.
"This man in the picture… Kayla's been seeing him for about half a year now. His name is Rick Tillman. He says he works in real estate, but I suspect he's lying. I think he's a criminal. I've seen him with drugs before." She looked up as though for approval. I told her I believed her and to keep going.
A sob caught in her chest, her hard eyes falling again to some curious point below my desk. Don't worry, I told her, and it'll be okay, and whatever it is she could trust me with it, and to take her time because we had all night. I looked at my watch.
"I don't trust him," were her next words. She struggled with them, choosing them carefully. "I think he might… that he might hurt her. Maybe he has already—nobody has seen or heard from her in almost two months. I don't think he would kill her… but sometimes he hit her. When he was drunk but sometimes when he just got mad too, or when his friends were around, he'd just hit her like that, like it didn't bother him. And she would come to me and cry and one time she almost called the cops on him but she never did, even when I urged her to, begged her, but she wouldn't and she didn't want me to either. That's why I didn't go to the cops… that and because I've seen her use those drugs too, and I don't want her to get in trouble over it. I think if… if maybe she could get away from him then she would stop, and I don't want her to get in trouble over something like that."
Finally the wheels of her story had been set in motion, picking up speed with each tear-soaked detail she let out between bouts of sobbing and nervous silence. I picked up a notepad and flipped around until I found a blank page, clicked a pen into use, and started writing down names and descriptions, details and questions I had already come up with. A mixed up little girl was missing, daddy's little girl. Albert Franco's little girl. Her abusive, lying, junkie boyfriend was the first obvious lead. Not a good start. Not for him.
I dropped the pen and pressed her a little.
"Is there anything you can think of that might help out in finding her? Maybe something she said, like if she was going anywhere, anything like that?"
The frowned as she thought, then shook her head decisively.
"What about family, close friends, anybody she could be staying with?"
She shook her head again and pouted her red lips.
"No," she insisted. "She wouldn't have gone to any family on account of daddy might find out. He wouldn't like that. He's always been sore at her for hanging around those types, the 'bad crowd,' you know. He had a row with Rick once or twice, even threatened him one time, that was right after Kayla moved out and she was always held that against daddy. Hadn't seen him in a long time after that. I don't know about her friends, I didn't know many of them, but a lot of them have families so I don't think she would've gone to them. She had a lot of other friends that I never met, people like Rick. She talked about them a few times, how they always went to parties and stuff as one big group. The only one I remember is a girl named Stacie. I—I can't remember her last name. I'm sorry. Do you think you can find my sister? I mean—I mean I know haven't told you much but I'm really worried about her… I just want to know she's alright, and daddy wants to know. He really hates Rick… he thinks they went to get hitched in Miami, or something like that. He doesn't… he doesn't know that she's missing and haven't heard from her. He really hates Rick… I'm sorry, that's all I can really tell you."
"That's okay," I assured her. Stacie went down in my little clue book. So did Albert Franco.
Very suddenly she shot up straight.
"I can pay you," she said, reaching into her purse and reemerging with a small pink checkbook. "I didn't know what you usually charge but I can write a check…"
"We can discuss payment later, after we get some things ironed out. I need to run checks on a few of these names and see if I can't get a jump on a starting point." I had no doubt that the kind of money she scraped off her father would be more than enough to cover expenses. The lavish arrangement of jewelry on her trembling hands confirmed my thoughts.
I looked at my watch again more urgently. "I'll tell you what, Miss Franco. It's getting late and I'm sure as hell no help when I'm sleepy. You get me a number I can contact you at and we'll call it a night. I'll set out tomorrow morning to see what I can dig up."
She scribbled her cell phone number on the back of a piece of receipt unearthed from her handbag, handed it to me, thanked me profusely, and excused herself from my office. A few moments later Addie had shown her out of the receiving room and came stamping back in with her hands on her hips.
"That poor girl looks like she has enough to worry about without you being short," she reprimanded me. Curiosity tugged accusingly at one of her eyebrows. "She's quite a looker though. I hope you were on your best behavior with her."
"I was a perfect gentleman," I shot back, still staring at the photo of the bright-eyed young girl and her violent beau. "So far as that goes. How about a movie or something Addie? I doubt I'll be able to get back to sleep now."
"Oh, I can't miss my soaps," she exclaimed wildly. "Why don't you watch them with me? See, in this season Brenda is getting married to Ron, but Ron is having an affair with Brenda's mother, who is actually the wife of—"
"Nevermind," I said, tugging my hat down over my eyes. "I'll give it another shot."