by Patrick Baggatta
I’d struck a nerve bringing Lynch’s wife Violet into play. Violet, the name felt sticky somehow. It was more exotic than she deserved, based on the photos I’d seen anyway.
Lynch admitted his two women knew each other, but downplayed their relationship. I’ve never been married, but I’ve come close enough to know the woman at home doesn’t sit easy with her man holed-up in a studio with a better looking woman. I needed to talk to the one who was still breathing, but the day was getting old by the time we left the scene and I needed to let it sit. Hammond had other ideas.
“Where to now? The wife? The cleaning crew?”
“No,” I said, taking a sharp left. “Now, we get a drink.”
I took Hammond to a shitty little bar I knew in the Mission, not one of the usual cop hang-outs. On-duty drinking was different, you had to at least make an effort to lay low. The old Mexi guys at the bar gave us the evil eye until they felt sure we meant no harm. I ordered a scotch and the same for Hammond.
“To the dead,” I said, toasting our new case, partnership, whatever else Hammond wanted to read into it. I could tell he didn’t like wasting time at the bar when there were leads to chase. I waited for him to make it an issue.
“What are we doing here, Pachwolynzki?”
“Call me Patches.” I was in that kind of mood.
“What are we doing?”
“We’re ruminating.”
“Ruminating what?”
“Close your eyes,” I said, motioning to the bartender for another round. Hammond hesitated. “Close ‘em, goddamnit.” He finally did. “Ashley Brown. What do you see?”
“A dead girl in white. Our case.”
“Her face? What do you see?”
“I don’t know.” He was getting impatient. “Pretty, I guess. Dead.”
“Ashley Brown,” I repeated, stressing the name. “What does Ashley Brown look like?” He opened his eyes and stared at me, trying to decipher if that itch he was starting to feel was real or not, if I was real or not. I was glad to see him thinking like a detective already.
“You don’t think that was Ashley Brown we found back there?”
“I don’t know. I never met Ashley Brown. I’m just ruminating.” I downed my second scotch and ordered us another round. We drank for the next two hours without talking much.
Hammond kept throwing anxious glances at the door. It was for effect, for my benefit, but it came from something honest. Finally, he played his card. “I keep expecting her to walk in here and ask what we’re doing to find the bastard who killed her.”
At least I knew who I was partnered with now. I didn’t tell him that nothing would have made me happier.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
BECOMING — Chapter Five
by Patrick Baggatta
Warner Lynch dressed like a modern day beatnik, striped shirt, shag haircut, black jeans, the works. It was probably a bold move in Topeka or wherever he denied being from, but in San Francisco it was just another uniform. I was embarrassed for him.
We talked in his office. The space was tight, and I’d angled him to sit with his back to the door. I wanted him facing me while he listened to the boys taking Ashley out. Hammond took up a position behind me.
“When did you see her last? Breathing, I mean.” Hammond’s eager breathing behind me spawned the jab. Lynch didn’t appreciate my manner. That was good. I wanted him agitated.
“Yesterday.”
“Here?” He nodded. Trying to listen to the action in the other room.
“Personal or business?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I showed him my shittiest grin. No one plays innocent with me.
“Business. A shoot. We finished at eight last night and she left.”
“Commit that time to memory, did you?” Hammond jumped in. His timing surprisingly good.
“I had dinner reservations, with my wife.”
I took a shot. “The pretty girl on the wall, right? Behind the sheets? Pretty girl.”
“Yes. She is...pretty.”
“So, you and Ashley met back here late night? After putting the wife to bed?”
“Her name is Violet, my wife. And it wasn’t like that with Ashley.”
“How was it then?”
“We worked together. She was important to my career, admittedly, but that’s all.” I pretended to write something in my notebook. He was getting anxious. “How did you find her, anyway? Ashley.”
I saw her face again, that look. I suddenly wanted to hand the whole mess over to Hammond and get the fuck out of there. I needed a drink.
“We’ll ask the questions,” shot back Hammond, covering my silence. I shook it off and got back to business.
“Your cleaning service called,” I replied calmly. “Said some messes were too big for six dollars an hour.” I’d expected that to get him riled, but he only got confused.
“Lupa? She comes Thursdays. It’s only Wednesday.”
“What are you trying to pull? It is Thursday.” I could see this was more troubling than the dead girl on his floor.
“Are we done?” he asked after a telling silence. “This is all a little much for me.”
“We’re done when we say we’re done,” Hammond piped-up again.
I turned to Hammond. It was time to see what kind of instincts he had. “How about we give Mr. Lynch time to collect his thoughts?” Hammond nodded dutifully, sharp enough to stay out of my way. “You’ll come to the station tomorrow to give a full statement?” Lynch nodded gratefully. He had questions of his own, and I wanted to see where he went for answers.
“One more thing, though. Did Violet know the deceased?” Lynch took a moment to blank his expression. “It is Violet, isn’t it?”
Warner Lynch dressed like a modern day beatnik, striped shirt, shag haircut, black jeans, the works. It was probably a bold move in Topeka or wherever he denied being from, but in San Francisco it was just another uniform. I was embarrassed for him.
We talked in his office. The space was tight, and I’d angled him to sit with his back to the door. I wanted him facing me while he listened to the boys taking Ashley out. Hammond took up a position behind me.
“When did you see her last? Breathing, I mean.” Hammond’s eager breathing behind me spawned the jab. Lynch didn’t appreciate my manner. That was good. I wanted him agitated.
“Yesterday.”
“Here?” He nodded. Trying to listen to the action in the other room.
“Personal or business?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I showed him my shittiest grin. No one plays innocent with me.
“Business. A shoot. We finished at eight last night and she left.”
“Commit that time to memory, did you?” Hammond jumped in. His timing surprisingly good.
“I had dinner reservations, with my wife.”
I took a shot. “The pretty girl on the wall, right? Behind the sheets? Pretty girl.”
“Yes. She is...pretty.”
“So, you and Ashley met back here late night? After putting the wife to bed?”
“Her name is Violet, my wife. And it wasn’t like that with Ashley.”
“How was it then?”
“We worked together. She was important to my career, admittedly, but that’s all.” I pretended to write something in my notebook. He was getting anxious. “How did you find her, anyway? Ashley.”
I saw her face again, that look. I suddenly wanted to hand the whole mess over to Hammond and get the fuck out of there. I needed a drink.
“We’ll ask the questions,” shot back Hammond, covering my silence. I shook it off and got back to business.
“Your cleaning service called,” I replied calmly. “Said some messes were too big for six dollars an hour.” I’d expected that to get him riled, but he only got confused.
“Lupa? She comes Thursdays. It’s only Wednesday.”
“What are you trying to pull? It is Thursday.” I could see this was more troubling than the dead girl on his floor.
“Are we done?” he asked after a telling silence. “This is all a little much for me.”
“We’re done when we say we’re done,” Hammond piped-up again.
I turned to Hammond. It was time to see what kind of instincts he had. “How about we give Mr. Lynch time to collect his thoughts?” Hammond nodded dutifully, sharp enough to stay out of my way. “You’ll come to the station tomorrow to give a full statement?” Lynch nodded gratefully. He had questions of his own, and I wanted to see where he went for answers.
“One more thing, though. Did Violet know the deceased?” Lynch took a moment to blank his expression. “It is Violet, isn’t it?”
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Welcome to HBC
Now that we have a little momentum going, it seemed like a good time to officially welcome our new readers and invite you to check out some of our first original fiction. If you like what you read, come back often for frequent updates to our crime, mystery, detective, noir, and hard boiled series from emerging authors in the genre.
If you're an author who'd like to contribute to the site, email a sample chapter. We can't promise to publish every submission or pay for your trouble, but if we do publish your work, we're happy to offer an author link so your fans can start pestering you for the next chapter in the series.
If you're an author who'd like to contribute to the site, email a sample chapter. We can't promise to publish every submission or pay for your trouble, but if we do publish your work, we're happy to offer an author link so your fans can start pestering you for the next chapter in the series.
Friday, May 11, 2007
BECOMING — Chapter Four
by Patrick Baggatta
I found a wooden stool at the far end of the room and watched the lab geeks seal up invisible fibers, trying to let my head relax into the case. I could hear Hammond asking TV cop questions in the background. I muttered shut the fuck up about a hundred times, but it was my own shortcoming to care that he was wasting his time.
I’d already committed Ashley Brown to memory. It wasn’t easy going. I had the feeling she didn’t like being admired so closely, a by-product of being a product model, maybe. I’d found her picture several times in the portfolio books stored in the attached office. She was hard-wired to be there and not be there at the same time. She was a lifestyle, a prop, a feeling you were supposed to get when you purchased the right detergent. She was not to be studied too closely. She was not real. Reality puts us out of the buying mood. But she was real now.
I was trying to soft focus the room one last time before making my first move. “What’s behind the sheets?” A passing tech, assumed the question was for him.
“Nothing. Some photos.”
I went to look for myself, taking a wide berth around Ashley who was still there under my orders. I peeled back the first curtain. It was soft, expensive shit. The wall was bare. I caught a whiff of fresh paint. I worked my way around the perimeter, the same all the way around except for one wall that contained a neatly lined column of portraits, all of the same woman. They were technically good, professional, but they didn’t exactly send me. The girl struck me as forgettably pretty and I got the impression that this was what you got when an advertising photographer tried to recapture his verve for the art he’d long since sold down the river.
“Warner’s here,” Hammond called to me from the door. “The uniforms are keeping him downstairs.” It was time to meet the photographer. “Tell them to let him come up.” I wanted to see how he entered the room.
Lynch Warner, a bullshit name if ever I heard one, turned the corner a moment later and ran straight for the body. It told me he probably loved her. A mad dash like that was an instinct to save. Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t in on her death, it just meant he didn’t feel good about it. He’d have to be rattled.
“Get away from the body,” I demanded from my stool. He stopped and looked at me as if I’d just pissed on the Pope. I leaned back on the stool, letting him know I had the support of the room. I didn’t need to act personally to get my way. He stood and approached me because he knew he was supposed to.
“You can take the body now,” I told the coroner.
I found a wooden stool at the far end of the room and watched the lab geeks seal up invisible fibers, trying to let my head relax into the case. I could hear Hammond asking TV cop questions in the background. I muttered shut the fuck up about a hundred times, but it was my own shortcoming to care that he was wasting his time.
I’d already committed Ashley Brown to memory. It wasn’t easy going. I had the feeling she didn’t like being admired so closely, a by-product of being a product model, maybe. I’d found her picture several times in the portfolio books stored in the attached office. She was hard-wired to be there and not be there at the same time. She was a lifestyle, a prop, a feeling you were supposed to get when you purchased the right detergent. She was not to be studied too closely. She was not real. Reality puts us out of the buying mood. But she was real now.
I was trying to soft focus the room one last time before making my first move. “What’s behind the sheets?” A passing tech, assumed the question was for him.
“Nothing. Some photos.”
I went to look for myself, taking a wide berth around Ashley who was still there under my orders. I peeled back the first curtain. It was soft, expensive shit. The wall was bare. I caught a whiff of fresh paint. I worked my way around the perimeter, the same all the way around except for one wall that contained a neatly lined column of portraits, all of the same woman. They were technically good, professional, but they didn’t exactly send me. The girl struck me as forgettably pretty and I got the impression that this was what you got when an advertising photographer tried to recapture his verve for the art he’d long since sold down the river.
“Warner’s here,” Hammond called to me from the door. “The uniforms are keeping him downstairs.” It was time to meet the photographer. “Tell them to let him come up.” I wanted to see how he entered the room.
Lynch Warner, a bullshit name if ever I heard one, turned the corner a moment later and ran straight for the body. It told me he probably loved her. A mad dash like that was an instinct to save. Of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t in on her death, it just meant he didn’t feel good about it. He’d have to be rattled.
“Get away from the body,” I demanded from my stool. He stopped and looked at me as if I’d just pissed on the Pope. I leaned back on the stool, letting him know I had the support of the room. I didn’t need to act personally to get my way. He stood and approached me because he knew he was supposed to.
“You can take the body now,” I told the coroner.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
LEFTY — Chapter Three
by Mary Thomas
The smoke was starting to come out of the basement. The couple would notice soon. Fire alarms would go off soon. Yes! I would go up to a higher floor and run out with everyone when the fire alarm went off. If I came from upstairs, with a crowd of hysterical people I wouldn’t be noticed.
Flawed plan. Projects go up like a match box, and poor people don’t have working fire alarms. Within two minutes smoke was reaching the 3rd floor and I heard a siren in the distance. I had to act quickly. I start yelling fire and banging on doors. That worked. I swear there were ten Mexicans to every apartment running out like the tamale lady had shown up. They were great cover. I was happy it was a predominantly Mexican slum. I didn’t stand out as much as if it had been all black. When I saw this, I made an attempt to yell fire in an accent, drawing from Speedy Gonzalez and the valets from the country club.
I had my escape. I just couldn’t be the first one out, and had to resist knocking over the women and children. Those things would draw attention. I could see the door. I was almost there when my foot went through the stair. I couldn’t get it out and everyone was rushing past me. I was feverishly pulling on my leg with my one and only hand. I heard a cracking noise over my head, and then everything went black.
Next thing I knew I woke up in the hospital a hero. I had saved a building full of impoverished, illegal aliens and lost my hand while doing it. I was a celebrity. I got an offer from the largest law firm in the city to handle all of there pro bono cases. It was a great PR stunt for them to cover up all of the shady shit they did. I got a high paying job and wasn’t really expected to do anything except occasionally wave the nub at cameras for photo ops.
My life was set, until Esmeralda Garcia came into my office.
The smoke was starting to come out of the basement. The couple would notice soon. Fire alarms would go off soon. Yes! I would go up to a higher floor and run out with everyone when the fire alarm went off. If I came from upstairs, with a crowd of hysterical people I wouldn’t be noticed.
Flawed plan. Projects go up like a match box, and poor people don’t have working fire alarms. Within two minutes smoke was reaching the 3rd floor and I heard a siren in the distance. I had to act quickly. I start yelling fire and banging on doors. That worked. I swear there were ten Mexicans to every apartment running out like the tamale lady had shown up. They were great cover. I was happy it was a predominantly Mexican slum. I didn’t stand out as much as if it had been all black. When I saw this, I made an attempt to yell fire in an accent, drawing from Speedy Gonzalez and the valets from the country club.
I had my escape. I just couldn’t be the first one out, and had to resist knocking over the women and children. Those things would draw attention. I could see the door. I was almost there when my foot went through the stair. I couldn’t get it out and everyone was rushing past me. I was feverishly pulling on my leg with my one and only hand. I heard a cracking noise over my head, and then everything went black.
Next thing I knew I woke up in the hospital a hero. I had saved a building full of impoverished, illegal aliens and lost my hand while doing it. I was a celebrity. I got an offer from the largest law firm in the city to handle all of there pro bono cases. It was a great PR stunt for them to cover up all of the shady shit they did. I got a high paying job and wasn’t really expected to do anything except occasionally wave the nub at cameras for photo ops.
My life was set, until Esmeralda Garcia came into my office.
LEFTY — Chapter Two
by Mary Thomas
All you need to know I was pushed out of a moving car in the middle of the night, in South Chicago with no fucking hand. I had no wallet, no cell phone and only a stump. I had the good fortune of taking a hand full of vicodin earlier in the evening. This was partially in anticipation of getting my ass kicked and partially because it was a Saturday night.
My first thought was wishing I had been dumped in a nicer neighborhood. I was in the projects and needed to get cleaned up. I was worried I was going to get my ass kicked, but no one is going to fuck with a guy with a bleeding stump, plus, there was no one around. I tried to get into a few apartment buildings until I found one that had the door propped open with some cardboard. I went downstairs into the basement, and found some clean rags. The water in the sink ran brown with rust at first, but then cleared up. For the first time I looked down at the mess of Egyptian cotton, blood and bone.. I needed a cigarette.
I wake up coughing. Smoke. Smoke is everywhere and it’s hotter than hell. The rags were on fire, and in the light of the fire, I could see the can of paint thinner beside them. I had to get out. I climb the stairs, but there is a car pulled up front with a couple talking. Not good. I could get charged for arson, manslaughter and quite possibly a hate crime. I knew in most circumstances a good lawyer could throw reasonable doubt on an ID, or have it thrown out, but a white guy bleeding with one hand?
The whole: Fugitive, one armed man, Chicago thing occurred to me later. I had more pressing things on my mind.
All you need to know I was pushed out of a moving car in the middle of the night, in South Chicago with no fucking hand. I had no wallet, no cell phone and only a stump. I had the good fortune of taking a hand full of vicodin earlier in the evening. This was partially in anticipation of getting my ass kicked and partially because it was a Saturday night.
My first thought was wishing I had been dumped in a nicer neighborhood. I was in the projects and needed to get cleaned up. I was worried I was going to get my ass kicked, but no one is going to fuck with a guy with a bleeding stump, plus, there was no one around. I tried to get into a few apartment buildings until I found one that had the door propped open with some cardboard. I went downstairs into the basement, and found some clean rags. The water in the sink ran brown with rust at first, but then cleared up. For the first time I looked down at the mess of Egyptian cotton, blood and bone.. I needed a cigarette.
I wake up coughing. Smoke. Smoke is everywhere and it’s hotter than hell. The rags were on fire, and in the light of the fire, I could see the can of paint thinner beside them. I had to get out. I climb the stairs, but there is a car pulled up front with a couple talking. Not good. I could get charged for arson, manslaughter and quite possibly a hate crime. I knew in most circumstances a good lawyer could throw reasonable doubt on an ID, or have it thrown out, but a white guy bleeding with one hand?
The whole: Fugitive, one armed man, Chicago thing occurred to me later. I had more pressing things on my mind.
LEFTY — Chapter One
by Mary Thomas
When people think of the best day of their life it is usually some sappy emotional thing, like “when I met my wife” or “when I fist laid eyes on my newborn child.” I call bullshit on that. It is more likely to be when you won the super bowl pool or fucked the virgin prom queen.
My mother would say the happiest day of her life was when I graduated from law school. Bullshit. The happiest day of my mom’s life was the day after my father left her. It’s great when they sneak up on you. Mom went to bed thinking her life was over. But the next morning she didn’t have to get up to iron shirts or make breakfast. She slept until 10:00am, which was unheard of. When she got up, she didn’t put on make up, or a nice outfit. She sat on the couch in sweats watching the Home and Garden Network. That evening she made what she wanted for dinner, and made it for one. She didn’t have to try to think of dinner conversation that was bland enough not to send my father into a rage, but interesting enough not to be completely ignored by him. All the neighbors gossiped about how overwhelmed with grief she was. How she was letting herself go. The truth was my mom got to stop pretending to be happy. Ironically, this made her happy.
I was indifferent when my dad left. I was almost done with law school and I knew he would keep paying until I was done just so he could say his son was a lawyer too. We also had in common the fact that we were both total bastards. I may be giving myself too much credit by saying I was a total bastard, but I haven’t been acting like one since the best day of my life, and that counts for something.
The best day of my life was when I lost my hand. You know how in the Middle East they cut off your hand if you steal? A Middle Eastern bookie in Chicago will also cut off your hand if you can’t pay your debt. I was out of law school and was waiting to take the bar. The checks weren’t coming quite as frequently since I gradated from Kellogg, so I was doing some small bets to enhance my income. I’m not going to tell you the rest, because it is a fucking cliché that you have heard a million times. It would be a story full of “I never thought it could happen to me,” “before I knew it I was in over my head,” and of course the “I will get you the money next week.” Fucking pathetic.
When people think of the best day of their life it is usually some sappy emotional thing, like “when I met my wife” or “when I fist laid eyes on my newborn child.” I call bullshit on that. It is more likely to be when you won the super bowl pool or fucked the virgin prom queen.
My mother would say the happiest day of her life was when I graduated from law school. Bullshit. The happiest day of my mom’s life was the day after my father left her. It’s great when they sneak up on you. Mom went to bed thinking her life was over. But the next morning she didn’t have to get up to iron shirts or make breakfast. She slept until 10:00am, which was unheard of. When she got up, she didn’t put on make up, or a nice outfit. She sat on the couch in sweats watching the Home and Garden Network. That evening she made what she wanted for dinner, and made it for one. She didn’t have to try to think of dinner conversation that was bland enough not to send my father into a rage, but interesting enough not to be completely ignored by him. All the neighbors gossiped about how overwhelmed with grief she was. How she was letting herself go. The truth was my mom got to stop pretending to be happy. Ironically, this made her happy.
I was indifferent when my dad left. I was almost done with law school and I knew he would keep paying until I was done just so he could say his son was a lawyer too. We also had in common the fact that we were both total bastards. I may be giving myself too much credit by saying I was a total bastard, but I haven’t been acting like one since the best day of my life, and that counts for something.
The best day of my life was when I lost my hand. You know how in the Middle East they cut off your hand if you steal? A Middle Eastern bookie in Chicago will also cut off your hand if you can’t pay your debt. I was out of law school and was waiting to take the bar. The checks weren’t coming quite as frequently since I gradated from Kellogg, so I was doing some small bets to enhance my income. I’m not going to tell you the rest, because it is a fucking cliché that you have heard a million times. It would be a story full of “I never thought it could happen to me,” “before I knew it I was in over my head,” and of course the “I will get you the money next week.” Fucking pathetic.
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