Last of chapter one...

I've written up to the point where Simon is arrested but I don't like how it went. Still...it's just a first pass and the rewrite is to come. Here's the rest of the beginning:

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Olivier actually harumphed. “I’d no idea you were so judgmental.” 

Only on things of importance, Simon thought to himself. “I...I don’t know that I’ll be right for this.” 

“Nonsense, you’ve done this so many times before...” 

“Off a list you provided, not one I had to make up. Which is time-consuming and...” 

“Simon...Simon, it will be fine. I promise. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two. Wait, you do have a laptop?” 

“You know I do.” He had used it on the two previous jobs for Olivier, but so like him to forget that. 

“Right, right. And Excel?” 

Oh, for god's sake... “Yes...but...” 

“That’s how I want the list. Four columns. Quite simple.” 

“You only say that because you’re not doing it.” 

“Simon, please. I would, but I’m four-thousand miles away and the Chelsea Book Fair is happening, next weekend. Tanner wants this done, now, or he’ll have someone just take the books away.” 

Which definitely would not do. “But I haven’t heard anything about a collection being up for sale...” 

At least, not on the message boards, nor on the ABA's Facebook page regarding her passing, but those could take weeks to catch up. 

“Told you, I got in before anyone knew about it. She has some nice editions of Brontë and Austen, a lovely Rubaiyat bound by Sangorsky-Sutcliffe.” 

Which Simon had heard about through the bookseller grapevine but had never seen. “Well...there was also that nice set of Amelia she bought from Veriman’s.”

“I didn’t know about that one. So it’s a hundred-and-one books.” 

“You mean titles. That one’s four volumes in a slip-case.” 

“There! There! You know exactly what to expect.” 

Simon was still unsure, but Olivier was being his usual cajoling self, reminding him of the two previous jobs done, one of which included air travel. And how he was always quick to reimburse for expenses. 

So Simon sighed and said, “I’ll head down Sunday.” 

“Can’t you go, tomorrow?” he asked. “Start Thursday? Finish Friday?” 

“I have to make plans and...” 

“Simon, you could head out tonight, if you wanted.” 

“That...is an absolute no. Why are you in such a rush?” 

“Told you, it’s Tanner. He’s pushing to have it gone ASAP. I'll pay you for your drive time.” 

“You will, anyway. But all right. I’ll drive down, tomorrow. That way I can start nine a-m, Thursday.” 

“I’ll let Tanner know. You’re a life-saver.” 

“I’ll need his information...” 

“Check your emails.” Then he disconnected. 

And that was that. But something within Simon began to tell him, Refuse the job. Do not do it. Stay home and deal with the myriad other things you have to do. So many...things. List of things. To do. Make a list to...to prove you have a list of things to do. On top of that, do not forget that every time you’ve ignored this feeling, you’ve regretted it. So call Olivier back and tell him you forgot about something and do not go. 

But reality has this cold manner of bringing one back to a simple understanding...the need of money. Commissions for his art were few and far between, and when one reaches an age where you’re considered elderly, general employment is not easy to come by. Payment for this job would provide enough to cover that brake job and ease his concerns. And...perhaps even let him look into the cost of that worldwide library crawl. 

So by the time he realized he should have listened to that voice, it was too late.

MQM coming together...

More of chapter one...

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Olivier was London born and bred. Short, stocky, always impeccably dressed in bespoke clothing, he’d been born into money. He also had the face of a wicked elf and spoke very fast in a West End accent another British dealer had referred to as about as faux as you can be. 

They had met when he came into Veriman’s some years before to purchase a nice East of the Sun, West of the Moon illustrated by Kay Nielson as well as a Grimm’s Fairy Tales done by Arthur Rackham. He had also come close to purchasing a framed leaf from Rackham’s Das Rheingold but didn’t want to pay the five percent VAT for import into the UK. 

Tomas and Harold had known him for years but usually had dealt with him at book fairs. Then he had opened an outlet in New York City so began showing up when he was stateside. On the occasions where Simon had dealt with him, he had never caused problems and had actually paid to have him pack a couple of small private libraries he’d bought. He would have been one of those Simon visited en route to the Bodleian. In fact, that was the only reason he accepted the call. 

“I’ve bought a collection,” he said, “not so very far from you. Can you help me with it?” Not even a word of Hello or How are you doing? So like him. 

“Where is it?”

“Barrington.”

“Um, Olivier,” Simon replied, “that’s nearly four-hundred miles. Not, not so very far.”

“Closer than I am, and I won’t be in the States for another three weeks, but this has to be done now, now, now. I’ll need an itemized list. You know the drill. Title, author, date, where published, no need for individual values. We’ll pop it to the NY shop, easy peasey.” 

“Is it of high value?” 

“Only about six-fifty...” 

That made Simon blink. “Six-hundred and fifty thousand dollars!?” 

“Pounds. They belonged to Tannen Northridge’s wife.” Spoken as if he were shocked Simon didn’t already know. 

Simon had already suspected that was to whom Olivier was referring. He’d had to deal with the woman on a few occasions, at Veriman’s. The first time being when she had loudly complained that the books he’d shipped to her were not packed well-enough. She’d wanted them wrapped in tissue, then in Kraft paper, with bubble wrap around each one and put in a box with biodegradable peanuts. 

All of which Simon had done. But on top of that, the box should have gone into another box and, since the value was exceptionally high, that box should have been in another. Like a Russian Doll. 

He had packed her orders that way ever since, when she had ordered online, and no further complaint had been given. Of course, no compliment, either. Instead, her snarling turned to how incomplete the description was. 

The last time she had set foot in the shop...all ninety-eight pounds of her, in very high-priced couture with silver hair that was short and stiff enough to cut you...she'd complained the air conditioning was too cold, the lighting was too dark, the Perrier she was given was lemon instead of lime...and so on and so on... 

She also took her time paying, usually ninety days instead of the normal thirty, and then only after Tomas had given her two reminder calls. She was not someone Simon wanted to deal with. 

Olivier must have sensed it, because he quickly said, “There are only around a hundred titles.”

As if the number mattered.

“Mrs. Northridge is selling her books to you?” Simon asked. Veriman’s was still going strong so by all rights that should have been the first place she'd contact about selling. 

Olivier sighed and said, “She’s passed away.” 

Simon was surprised. He'd thought her impervious to the laws of existence. “I hadn’t heard.” 

“Her husband wants it kept low-key. I knew them both well-enough to be informed of her passing, so got the jump on the collection. I’d also like a condition report on the books, with photos...” 

“Oh, Olivier, that is so time-consuming...”

“Nothing seriously detailed. Just be certain she took care of them. They haven’t been trashed. Some of the books have fine illustrations in them, which you know how to handle. Especially verify they’re still in them.” 

Just a minute! “She broke books to remove illustrations?!” 

“Don’t know. But I’d not put it past her.” 

“Then it’s good she’s gone.” Which burst from Simon before he could even think to stop it. He hated people who destroyed books just for the pretty pictures.

Straight line...

I've started at the beginning of MQM and reworked the mealy sort of opening chapter I'd written. It's still on the bland side, but doing better...

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Had Simon Halloran known he would be dead in nine months, he would never had gone to Barrington, Ohio. Granted, it was to catalogue a private collection of books, something which he very much enjoyed doing. But he could also have just taken his meagre savings and traveled to as many of the world’s great libraries as possible before the money ran out and possibly avoided his fate. 

He could have seen Trinity College, for example, with its ancient Book of Kells, followed by the Long Room, which was filled with row after row of antiquarian volumes no longer seen in public. Just to walk past the lines of busts of great authors would have filled his soul and kept him enthralled for hours.

After that? What about hopping a ferry to catch a train to London and wandering through the British Library? Then visiting with dealers he knew in the antiquarian book trade, in the city. Men and women he’d only met via letters, phone calls or emails. 

That could have led to grabbing a bus or train to Oxford to take in the Radcliffe Camera and, maybe, even a week in the Old Bodleian, where they kept a copy of the Magna Carta as well as Shakespeare’s First Folio and the Jane Austen manuscripts. He knew someone who worked there and they had promised a tour should he ever make it over. 

Another possibility was a week at The French National Library (BNF) Richelieu, in Paris, and their collection of nine-thousand comic books. No, graphic novels. He’d heard a couple of the ones he’d designed covers for were contained in the Oval Room, and he would love to have seen them. Felt his pride swell at having finally done something that was recognized as worthwhile. 

After that? What about the Strahov Monastery Library in Prague? Not only for its beauty of it but also to peruse some of the old volumes on natural sciences. Or hop down to the library of St. Catherine’s Monastery in Egypt and, hopefully, be allowed to hold one of its ancient manuscripts? 

He could even have journeyed to Rio de Janeiro to the Real Gabinete Português de Leitura, despite speaking no language but English. He had packed a private law library in Portugal for transport there, a couple years earlier, and simply wanted to see where they’d wound up. 

But Simon was not one to simply jaunt off on a trip to foreign lands. He was the kind of person whom everyone would refer to as careful. A mellow kind of guy. His height was average and he was still rather thin. What hair he had left was shifting from blond to white thanks to being well into his seventies. His features were on the accommodating side, even when he was wearing his readers. His clothing plain and simple, though every shirt had to have a pocket for a pen or pencil, and he would wear nothing but slacks.

On top of it, he did have that vaguely dusty, almost ethereal air about him that came from working in bookstores his entire life, added to by the last twenty-five years of it being with Veriman’s Rare Books and Manuscripts. The owners were the ones who had convinced him to travel to Lisbon to help a very good client with his donation. Meaning pack it well-enough for shipment and handle the paperwork.

Which had necessitated an emergency application for a passport, since Simon had never needed or wanted one, before.

Oh, he was glad he had gone, once he was there and safely ensconced in a hotel in the old city. But it was still a very tense buildup to the journey and he was glad once everything had finally been picked up. Especially since the donor and the transportation company had disagreed about something or other and argued viciously beforehand. All in that language he did not understand. He had been relieved to get home. 

Veriman’s was in a rambling old storefront in Afton Springs, New York, on the town’s gentrified Main Street. It was owned by Tomas Viersç and Harold Harman, both of whom were well into their eighties, more round than not, always in trousers held up by suspenders, and wearing cardigans, even in warm weather. They also had minimal hair on their heads. They looked so much alike people thought they were brothers, but one was from Oregon and the other from Shkodër, Albania.

Though they did enjoy bickering like an old married couple. 

The Portugal trip had convinced Simon it was time to retire so there would be no chance of that happening, again. He had an apartment in subsidized senior housing on the north end of town, where he happily lived alone. What family he had left was mainly in Texas, and he preferred it. He had been in one relationship with a man named Doyle, and that had been one too many. Now he maintained only friends and acquaintances. Nor was there a pet of any kind; too demanding. 

Therefore, he would have had more than time to make his library tour if he’d just allowed himself to do so. What held him back was the bane of us all: money. 

He survived well-enough on Social Security and Medicare, and had been able to maintain his savings at a decent level for the last couple years. He was also healthy enough to not need constant medical attention.

But then his two decades old CRV had demanded its brake system be rebuilt, and that had put quite a dent into his safety net. So when he received a call from Olivier Deskin, one of the book dealers in the UK he knew fairly well, asking him to catalogue a collection in Barrington...while he was reticent about making the journey, the fee he was promised quickly overcame his hesitation.

July is open...

I have no jobs set up for July into the second week of August. I do have some medical crap scheduled for the last 3 days of the month, but that's it. So my goal is to have a working first draft of The Murder of a Quiet Man by my birthday. That way I can start my non-stop rewriting process and maybe bring it out before the end of the year.

Maybe. 

I don't want to push this story into publication till I'm sure I'm done with it. Which may entail letting it sit for a couple months to give myself some distance from it.

My reason for that is mistakes I made in other books. Like Porno Manifesto. When I reworked it into a screenplay, I found I'd missed so many ways to make it better...and clearer. Hell, just changing one character from a while tag-along dude to a black lesbian gave it a lot more life.

And in The Beast in the Nothing Room, I didn't set the final couple up well enough to make complete sense. They just...got together because I wrote it that way. Not good.

So I was careful with A Place of Safety. I listened to it and let it build the way it wanted...and bitched about it the whole time...but I cannot think of anything I would change in it, now. Brendan's story is complete, in my mind.

Of course, How to Rape a Straight Guy is complete, too...even though I finally gave in and retitled it Curt. Which didn't do a damn thing to help it. But enough about that.

Starting tomorrow, my focus is on MQM, and all of the angst that will entail.

I now know the ending...

ReShawn is, effectively, going to give a light eulogy for Simon. Came to me as I was driving home from New Jersey in a Toyota 4-Runner that was one of the easiest vehicles I've ever driven. Looks mean on the outside. Cradles you on the inside.

And gives you space to think. Let your mind drift as you travel down highways that make the journey simple and calm, with places to stop and walk around to keep from getting so cozy you want to doze at the wheel.

So I was going through the Delaware Water Gap, I started thinking about how Simon spent the last forty years of his life just wanting to be left alone. And succeeding. Family is thousands of miles away. Friends are few...just people he worked with and other book dealers. 

He had his apartment with his books and DVDs. A chair he liked to sit and read in. Any food he wanted was available. We used to call that cocooning; now it's referred to as rotting. Not my favorite term...but appropriate.

It developed into ReShawn taking a quiet moment after an afternoon of little league and his chate with Dillon's father about one of life's truths...that justice is for the living, and the guilty are rarely held accountable. He sits on his back porch after his sons are asleep, beer in hand, and contemplates it all.

He has a wife he loves, and who loves him. He has two boys he would die to protect. He has plenty of food, shelter, a career he enjoys, and a life of comfort he has been taking for granted...which may have lulled him into a false sense of security.

His wife joins him and they talk in that quiet way parents have, to keep their children from hearing. He tells her Simon had spent decades doing all he could to keep from bringing any real focus on himself. And he'd succeeded...until he came to Barrington. And collided with Frank Paley, a man who had never grown out of being a bully in eighth grade. 

All his willingness to keep from making waves...and he still wound up killed by someone who hated him for what he was. And will get away with it because if he is brought to justice, it might reflect poorly on those who gave him tacit permission to hurt people...so long as it was the right people he'd hurt.

Or something like that. Still working it out.

Elissa...

I just wrote a thousand words for MQM, about Elissa Manville being given a heads up by a friend that she's possibly being set up as the fall guy for Simon's murder. Or the events that led to it.

I haven't worked out how that could happen, yet, but the warning comes before it's been revealed Simon has been killed, and she's no dummy. She's got responsibilities and cannot wind up unemployed, unemployable and/or in prison.

So...she calls a friend of hers in the State Bar and he gets her talking to a judge. Where she lays the groundwork for how she opposed pushing the trial through to verdict and mentions District Attorney Bush wasn't happy about her reticence. Same for Dillon.

Now she's on record as being concerned about their treatment of Simon before the story breaks. The State's Attorney General and State Police had been keeping a tight lid on the discovery while Dillon's been hinting around that Simon jumped bail and that's why no one knows where he is.

She even drops a hint about gossip going around regarding the relationship between Dillon and Judge Falwell. An added bit of don't fuck with me.

It helps to have a slight outline worked up. And I have an idea where this section will lead...which will glide into the gentle ending that shows no one will overtly pay for killing Simon. Just a bit of karma to one or two.

Which is a rather bleak way to finish the story...but I think it's honest. Look at Alex Pretti and Renee Good. Both murdered by ICE agents, on video, with tons of evidence to back up charges of at least 2nd degree murder...and neither killer has been even so much as indicted. In fact, Renee's killer's got nearly $800K in funding from the MAGAt Cult.

The system is doing all it can to protect them.

How do you scream if you're being silent?

MQM is retreating into being as quiet as possible while still screaming about the injustice committed against Simon and how it's just business as usual. And I don't know if I can write in that style. In that manner. In any way.

I think the story wants to say No matter how low key you live your life, there are people out there who will hate you and hurt you just for being who you are.

Thing is, there's nothing new about that idea. But it seems to be making its way into Simon's life. He's always lived quietly, even when being involved with Doyle. He took everything silently...until he quietly got up and left.

Then when Doyle is dying from an illness brought on by AIDs, he quietly makes certain the man is dead. There are other ways he stays quiet but still comes across as hard or mean or just plain unmovable. It's how he survived into his seventies.

So now he runs up against someone willing to kill him...because Simon refuses to back down and let him lie.

Jesus Christ, what kind of story am I writing?

Drive to New Jersey...

(Kelly Boesch)

It's a long drive from Buffalo to New York City's New Jersey suburbs...nearly 400 miles. I've done it several times...and I'm finally realizing this stretch of road gets ideas to bloom in my brain, when it comes to writing. Maybe it's the familiarity of it...

First I travel along the 90 to Syracuse, then go south on the 81 to the 380, by Scranton, and cut over to the 80 to get down to wherever I need to get off. Sounds quick, putting it this way, but invariably there is some slowdown on the road, adding an hour to the journey. Like today's was a nasty wreck just before I got to the Delaware Water Gap. 

Still, it was relatively quick -- 7 hours instead of 8 or 9 on a journey that ought to take about 6.5 hours.

Anyway, as I was going along, Simon brought ReShawn into the conversation...and we came to the conclusion that he will have his law firm post bail so Simon can be released from jail. The trashy food and his inability to sleep in the noise of the cells is wearing him down, on top of which he's already elderly.

He's also being vaguly accused of molestating a little boy, even though the description of the perpetrator in that case only barely lines up with Simon's appearance. Dillon is using it to pressure Simon into backing down from appealing the verdict. Having his apartment searched and files seized.

Which angers ReShawn. Dillon's treating him taking over Simon's defense as just an afterthought. So ReShawn talks with the senior partner at his firm about Dillon's actions. He thought the guy was a bit single-minded, but honest. Then he remembers another case from a few years earlier where Dillon bent over backwards to help exonerate a man who exposed himself next to a schoolyard, despite actual evidence.

I dunno...maybe not that obvious a parallel, but along those lines. And it leads to other issues and a vicious legal back and forth between ReShawn and Dillon, with some veiled threats. It's just an outline, right now.

But the structure is beginning to come together.

Simon's obstinacy...

Simon got a bit snotty with me over whether or not I was truly open to being honest about MQM. He thinks I'm too reticent to actually write what the story demands. So we went over a bit where the District Attorney tries his hand at convincing Simon to make a deal...and tells him a couple of points of reality.

I can probably make it even hasher with a couple rewrites...

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Simon was seated on the bench across from the courtroom doors, reading notes on his laptop. His earbuds were plugged in via a small cord and he was listening to a New Age compilation of music, so he was oblivious when a middle-aged man in a sleek suit approached him. 

“Mr. Halloran,” the man said, “May I have a word with you?” 

Simon jolted and looked at him, confused. He had no idea who this man was, nor did he have any interest in talking to him. He took out an earbud and gave a nice, generic, “I’m busy.” His voice as calm as ever. 

“This’ll just take a moment.” Then the man sat on the bench, next to him, his eyes sharp on him. “I’m Raymond Bush, the district attorney.” 

Simon huffed out a breath of exasperation. The man was polished to the point he looked like a TV version of a DA, with a dash of white at his temples and a crusp shirt under suit that had been carefully pressed, so he was obviously aware enough to know that sitting down beside someone despite specifically being asked not to was really quite rude.

But Simon kept his voice calm as he murmured, “Why did you ask me if you may have a word with me then ignore my wishes?” 

The man did not blink. “It’s important that we speak.” 

“If you are not here to withdraw the charges, you have nothing to say to me.” 

The man seemed vaguely amused. “We have no need to do that.” 

“Then I want nothing to do with you.” 

Bush almost sighed. “Listen, Halloran, I know you...” 

“Mister Halloran.” 

Bush’s face betrayed no emotion as he leaned forward. “I’m here to speak with you honestly, Mr. Halloran, regarding the charges against you.” 

Simon just looked at him, bland and unemotional...on the surface. Underneath, he was fuming. Another arrogant asshole refusing to accept any reality that did not suit himself. 

Bush continued with, “It strikes me you are aiming for a verdict of not guilty through reasonable doubt. That would be a mistake.”

Which did pique Simon's curiosity. “It's a perfectly valid defense.”

“Judge Falwell believes reasonable doubt is nothing more than a legal maneuver to avoid taking responsibility for one’s actions. So you cannot expect such a finding from him. In fact, I can guarantee it.” 

“Which would give me grounds for appeal.” 

“You’re charged with a misdemeanor. The only path to making an appeal is if you can show misconduct. Refusal to render a finding of reasonable doubt does not rise to that level.” 

“Even under a Class A charge?” 

Bush leaned back a little and said, “I understand you have challenged that accusation, and rather effectively. Boxed yourself into a corner, doing that.” 

“We’ll see.” 

“Don’t rely too much on fairness and understanding in a courtroom, Mr. Halloran. Your only chance to avoid jail time is to accept a deal. Find a compromise.” 

“Compromise means I have to agree with you that I’ve done something wrong or illegal, which I have not.” 

“The arresting officer says otherwise, as do two other officers. Their testimony carries a great deal of weight.” 

“Where are they? I don’t see them.” 

That made Bush tense, a little, but he did not take his eyes off Simon. “They will be here...” 

“Good. Now I asked you to you leave.” 

Bush drew in a deep breath. “You know, I was led to believe you were an intelligent man, if a bit stubborn. Your obstinacy was underestimated.” 

Simon had to close his eyes to keep from rolling them in disgust. “My obstinacy? Two weeks ago, I gave your associates the opportunity to end this and minimize the damage it’ll cause. Instead, they ignored me and sent you over to spit on me.” 

That made Bush tighten, irritated. “Not so. I came of my own volition.” 

“Then you can leave by it.”

“There's no need for rudeness...”

“I didn't ask you to sit here. Quite the opposite.”

That made Bush lean back more, contemplating Simon with care.

Lesson learned?

Any time i assume a job I'm going on will be simple and straightforward, it turns into a monster of problem. The one I just finished? Two very important items were in frames too big for what I had to pack them in.

So I had to build a box then figure out how to add that box to the pallet in such a way that it stayed flat. Shit...wound up weighing 80-90 lbs on top of the trunks used, but it works. I hope.

That on top of being an old fart, and having to drive 100 miles each way to the site along two-lane blacktops...I am exhausted.  And there is NOTHING out in Northern Maine. I was smart enough to buy some meals and drinks to take with me. At least the flights were good and on time...and Maine is pretty.

I wound up doing zero thinking about MQM...except for Simon responding to any queries I made with a snippy, "You know what to write. Just do it."

Well, I can't do anything till after next week's job. I'm driving 400 miles down Sunday, packing Monday and Tuesday, helping with the pickup on Wednesday then driving home.

I will say...since Simon is driving nearly 400 miles to Barrington over the accusations against him, this is helping me keep aware of how one's mind can drift into moments he'd sooner forget.

I'm one of those people who can name every stupid or wrong-headed thing they've done over their entire life, but struggles to find anything positive in his actions. Ridiculous...I think...