First draft of "Underground Guy" is done

I don't know if what I did was right...or sneaky...or weary...or lazy...but I finished the last page of the book at a point where it really felt like it wanted to end. By adding three lines to one character's dialogue, I was able to drop the last chapter I was planning to write. Completely. I fought over it with myself and the characters for half an hour, trying to make myself gear up for it...but finally I agreed it was the right thing to do.

I did add in Devlin's idea of what happened, in contrast to the official line, so there was no confusion. I made it a bit snarky to keep it from being too simplistic and drab...and may go deeper into it on the rewrite...but I do think most of it comes across as the story progresses, so is easily wrapped up.

Something else I did was leave the relationships a bit open-ended. Let the reader decide for themself what happens next. I indicate what I think does, but it felt right not to say anything specific. But I do like how Devlin and Reg and Tawfi wind up...and since they're not bitchin' at me for doing it, they must like it, too.

Right now, the book is 418 double-space 8 1/2 by 11 pages in 12 point Courier, and 95,500 words. I have no idea what that translates into when shifted to an 8x5.5 format with 10 point Palatino and 1.25 spacing...nor do I want to know, yet. There will be many rewrites to take out repetitions and remove details that are no longer valid and arrange details that need to be in there and shift some bits forward and trim and add and on and on...so that issue would be moot, at the moment. But that all said -- I met my goal to have a first draft done by the end of the month.

I feel very good.

Last chapter left to do...

Looks like UG will be about 420 pages and just over 100K in words. I know who the killer is and why it was done, now have only to complete the revelation and denouement. Of course it's going to need a number of rewrites to make it consistent and sensible, but this is the first step. It's so much easier to rewrite than to write.

I did my usual thing of alluding to the whys and wherefores of the murders without having the villain tell you what it's all about, but since the Metropolitan Police are the main investigators in this I was also able to build a better sense of what's going on. I think I've got a pretty good mystery going, here, but you never really know. The main thing I'm concerned with is the development of Devlin's character from that of an animal to a caring human being. If I succeed at that, nothing else matters.

I know some people will look at this book and assign it to pornography because of the sex, and that's fine. If they can't see beyond the surface, they aren't worthy of the book or the characters. I grant that sounds arrogant, but I've got 3-D people in here, I know it. Not just Devlin but Tawfi and Reg and Colin and Diana and the rest, each with their own story and meaning.

I never really got this sort of satisfaction from writing screenplays. They are too dependent on others' interpretations of what was going on with the characters...and while that could be thrilling, at times, it could also be soul-destroying. Writing a book means I'm in control of what fills the page and the reader's mind, and when my characters trust me, I know it's right, no matter what.

It's hard to keep that sensibility. We argue and fight and don't talk to each other and play games on each other, but that's part of what makes it so much better than working up what is basically the outline of a story that's dependent on others to make it work. I hate the process even as I love it, get depressed by it even as I gain new highs. I can't imagine going back to writing scripts.

So I've broken with that past. I donated my collection of Hitchcock DVDs and books to the local library to do with as they wish. This was a big step for me. He was the reason I started down the path to film; it's fitting I remove him now that I've carved a new path. It was hard to do, but I feel lighter for it.

Decades lighter....

Closing in...

If all goes well, I will have a first draft of UG by this weekend. I've just headed down the last dive of the roller coaster, where Devlin find himself face to face with the murderer and is threatened with death. I had to stop because I now have two directions I can go with this...and each one takes me to a different killer. So comes the time to figure out who did what, where , how and when.

I know it's in the story...hell, three possible killers are hinted at in what I've written, so far. I know who I want it to be...but I have to go by what the story demands. I just hope we're in sync.

Something that came up today was a new reason for the story to be told. Devlin is coming to terms with not only the brutality of his father and the fact that his mother was killed by the man...but that the man was a beast who offered him nothing in the way of love or support. He brutalizes men to take out his anger...but also uses sex to become one with them, if that makes any sense. In the deepest part of his brain, his rapes are a way of him making love.

Shit, that sounds weird...and maybe too convoluted. Maybe I'm digging a hole that can't be filled. It's possible. I've written other stories where I think I know what I'm aiming for and find out I missed the mark by not focusing on the right aspect of it.

The Lyons' Den falls under this category. I halfway think I went too far in making Tad an asshole, because that hurt Daniel's character for wanting to get back with him. I believe I sensed it so threw in a memory of when Tad treated Daniel like a king, and he was holding onto that...but that made Tad so three-dimensional, it was hard to portray him as a selfish prick in the end.

Of course, there's also Bobby Carapisi...where I thought I was finished when I completed the first two books, but something was missing so I finally had Eric get Alan to tell his side of things, and that is what made the story complete. If I'd been listening to it better, I'd have seen that and gone with it at the same time as the first two. Still, it's complete, now, and is my #2 seller...even though it is long.

So UG is getting the opportunity to let me know who it wants to be what, and what it's all about...and that is as it should be...

Interesting new discussion with my characters...

Having Devlin suddenly identify with one of the murder victims in UG has cause a massive shift in the story. I'm not sure what direction it's taking, and I like that. I like how parts of it keep hiding in shadows and won't come out till they're damn good and ready while other parts twist themselves into having new meanings and want to nudge me in wild directions.

Like the chewing gum -- it's going to be found in the car Hanlon was taken in, indicating he knew they were going to murder him and put it there in hopes the cops would at least find his killer. Devlin nearly has a psychotic break when he learns of it, because he knows Reg was putting him in that sort of harm's way to try and catch the monster doing this, and he thought Dev was that monster, for a while.

The tension this brings about is exhausting as I try to keep up with it and use it properly...and fight with myself to keep from shutting it down. I portray Devlin as a beast satisfying both his need for revenge and his carnal needs, at times. As Reg point, he thinks he's King of the jungle, take his pick and choice. And it's added layers to the story that are shaking me up as much as when I wrote HTRASG...11 years ago.

Brendan's watching and smiling, telling me, We're gonna go through this, too, you and me...and it's gonna be way more fun --

Oh, shit...I just had another idea...

Long day...

I drove to Rochester to be part of an anti-Kavanaugh rally in downtown. Not quite a hundred people showed, as did about 20 anti-abortion protesters. Speeches were made, including one from a Rabbi who said, per Jewish law, if a mother's life is endangered by a pregnancy then she has to abort, because her life is more important. I think he referenced Deuteronomy but I'll have to double-check on that.

Anyway, I was driving home when I realized I'd left my phone at the Planned Parenthood table, called about it, the organizer had it so I turned around and went back. It's irritating that I'm at the age where everything has to be attached to you so you don't lose it.

I wound up having dinner at Sticky Lips, in Rochester, which is okay BBQ but not really even as good as Bill Miller's or Rudy's, in Texas. Then en route home had some ideas for UG...including one on how to kick Devlin in the gut over what he's done...maybe make his change of heart about his actions believable.

He's done some digging, found some odd links between Griffin Faure's company and the murders and is called in to explain himself to Sir Monte, the man running the murder investigation. Dev has seen bad broadcast editions of the CCTV images of the killer but still noticed the legs on two of them don't seem to match -- one set is stocky, the other looks thin, though it could be from the angle of the camera.

They show him clean CCTV videos from all four murders, including one where the victim was known to be getting onto the underground but never got off and wasn't seen, again, till his body was found. Devlin notices another man who was only slightly connected to the murders following the victim.

This opens up a new avenue for the police to investigate. They hadn't checked to see if the victim came back out of the underground station instead of taking the train because his Oyster pass card wasn't scanned for exit. So they check CCTV...and find him exiting the station, putting a piece of gum in his mouth and crossing the street...and Devlin goes into shock.

He's remembering all the times he did the exact same thing -- came out of the subway in NYC, popped some gum and headed off to a meeting. Now he's seeing this man who he knows will be brutally killed within the hour doing it...a simple little action and it brings the horror home to him...so hard, he nearly crashes into madness.

Once I arrived I input them...and now have over 93K in wordage...and am on the downhill sloe to the end -- woohoo!

Coming along...

UG s now over 91K in wordage and shifting and twisting as I go. I feel like I'm closing in on the ending, and still think I know what it will be...but new directions keep popping up and ideas work their way in on how best to handle the information Devlin is getting about the murders. He's just opened up a new line of inquiry for the police to follow simply because he had a meeting with a man who wasn't supposed to have been involved in the mess. Now the guy's being brought in for questioning.

Devlin's also still being a devil because he's working at seducing Reg by telling him he's not trying to seduce him...and it's beginning to work. Despite what happened only a week earlier. I don't know how I feel about that, but I'm not refusing to let it happen. It's like he's out to illustrate Aesop's fable about the farmer and the viper:

One winter a Farmer found a Viper frozen and numb with cold, and out of pity picked it up and placed it in his bosom. The Viper was no sooner revived by the warmth than it turned upon its benefactor and inflicted a fatal bite upon him; and as the poor man lay dying, he cried, "I have only got what I deserved, for taking compassion on so villainous a creature."

It's thought this story eventually became about a frog and a scorpion. From Wikipedia --

A scorpion asks a frog to carry it across a river. The frog hesitates, afraid of being stung, but the scorpion argues that if it did so, they would both drown. Considering this, the frog agrees, but midway across the river the scorpion does indeed sting the frog, dooming them both. When the frog asks the scorpion why, the scorpion replies that it was in its nature to do so.

So am I going to suggest that Devlin will not change his ways? Is that what this is about? Or will it take more than mere guilt for him to see that what he's done in the past is wrong, not only legally and morally but humanly, despite his justifications? I honestly do not know.

I guess I won't till the book is done.

Slowly moving forward...

Only 5 pages added to UG, today. I reworked some of what I wrote yesterday to plug in more questions about Tawfi's connections to the murders...and some of Devlin's conniving. He's just spent hours working with a techie at Tawfi's embassy then had dinner (and some fun) with the man and is now heading back to his hotel...

-------------------

I walked away, remembering to go left then right, and found myself on Sloane Street. A look around showed me a building I knew was across from the station, so towards it I went. This area was made up of really high-end shops that closed by seven, so next to no cars on the street. Nor foot traffic. The fog was getting thicker, but that actually lightened my mood, because I started thinking of The Wax Museum, with big bad Vincent Price. ...

I was closing in on Brompton Road so jaunted onto the street to pass some scaffolding and --

I got grabbed around the neck and yanked back to behind it like I weighed nothing, but I twisted and rolled and slammed the guy against a store window, shattering it as he held onto me and swung me against the wall, so I dug in my pocket for my nail clippers and we crashed across the pavement as I pulled them out and he was choking me and something flashed and I used my sample case to deflect it and shifted the file around and jabbed him in the wrist and arm around my neck and he jolted and grunted but still held on and --

“Hey!” was screamed at us.

The guy bolted to his feet and kicked me into the gutter and ran.

A moment later Reg appeared. “You okay, Pope?”

I looked at him, confused, but managed to grunt, “Yeah!”

He raced after the bastard.

I staggered to my feet and could just make out that Reg had reached Brompton and stopped and was looking both ways. He threw his arms up, in anger, then jogged back to me. I heard the whine of a siren approaching. Reg and the squad car reached me at the same time.

Two cops piled out, one barking, “What’s happened?”

Reg showed them his ID and said, “This man was attacked. Looked like a mugging.”

“You all right, sir?”

I checked myself. Saw no blood. A few scratches. But a nice slice through my coat. “Shit,” popped out of me. “Motherfucker ruined my suit.” And there was a hole in my case.

More cops came, Reg gave them a description in more detail than I could have -- taller than me, dressed in gym pants, jacket with a hoodie, weighing about 100 kilos. They roared off, but I didn’t expect them to find anything; the fog was getting thicker by the minute.

I was taken to a nearby police station, made a statement along the lines of, I got no idea what happened, then Reg popped me into an unmarked car and drove me back to the hotel.

It took my brain fifteen minutes to catch up to me and realize we were alone before I finally said, “What the fuck?”

Reg glanced at me. “Yeah, what was that?”

“You think it was the same guy as jumped me, the other night?”

“Could be.”

“You don’t think it was a mugging?”

“The lads do.”

“Why were you there, anyway? I thought you were on leave.”

“I am. Officially.”

Oh, shit... “Sir Monte’s got you workin’, on the sly. Tailin' me.”

He glared at me. “Boss...has me keeping an eye on you.”

“He doesn’t trust me.”

“Why should he?” he shot back. After a moment, he added, “You were in that embassy for twelve hours.”

“Prince Tafiq didn’t show up till nearly five, and you know where he was.”

“So what were you doing?”

“Buildin' trust. Gettin' info. Findin' out what I could.”

“And...?”

“I don’t think Prince Tafiq's your man.”

“Boss says you said that.”

“He was involved with Perriman for months, but all of a sudden he’s killin' men who look like him? And not just any guys, but guys who can be linked back to the embassy? Plus Tawfi’s dumb enough to leave behind DNA?”

“Toffee? He’s your sweets, is he?”

I huffed a laugh and spelled the name for him, adding, “I think he’s being set up.”

Reg glanced at me and said nothing more till we were at the hotel and he’d seen me up to my room. As I was opening my door, he said. “I dunno if I should tell you this, but...we think he was being blackmailed, your Toffee. By Perriman.”

“Why do you think that?”

“A couple big deposits were made to his checking, over the last six weeks. Routed through a dummy company owned by Kahyr."

"Prince Tafiq's company..."

"Yeah. We’re wondering if the first three men were killed just to mix up Perriman’s murder. Like Agatha Christie does.”

“Jesus,” popped out of me. I actually felt ill. “But there’s some business deal goin’ on between him and The Faure Group, so this timin’ seems all off. Unless they’re the ones pullin’ something...”

“Oh, bloody hell, are you some conspiracy freak?”

I laughed. “No, I don’t think 9-11 was inside job, or that there was a second gunman at Kennedy’s assassination. But I’ve had dealings with The Faure Group and I wouldn’t put anything past them.”

“So you said. Yesterday’s conference was between them, Kahyr, and three other companies -- Seluruh Dunia, Quan Shijie and Ves’ Mir. So far just seems to be a normal partnering of people working on oil and gas exploration. Spread the costs.”

“But not the profits. Right.”

“All nice and normal.”

I shrugged and started to enter the room, then stopped. “Seluruh Dunia -- that sounds familiar.”

“Based in Singapore.”

“Griff’s wife’s from Singapore.”

“Second one, yeah. But a British expat. Her Da’s high up in the company.”

“You boys have been diggin'.”

“Same as you have. Gotta cover every corner.”

I nodded. “Come on in; let’s discuss this some more.”

Reg stayed in the hall. “After what happened last time?”

I looked at him. “I’m not gonna try anything with you.”

He shook his head, his eyes locked on me. “No.”

I stepped back out of the room and closed the door. He took a wary stance.

“Reg,” I whispered, “are there cameras in my room?”

He hesitated then said, “Just mikes.”

“Then come on in; make your report from here.”

“Why?”

“I...I just like bein' around you.”

“Why!?”

“I don’t know! But...but ridin’ with you in the car, I felt...I felt safe.”

“Well, you’re back here, now; I’d not leave, again, were I you.”

He started away, but I grabbed his jacket sleeve. “Y’know, you liked the kiss.”

He pulled away but didn’t look at me. “You got me by surprise.”

“Reg...you liked the kiss. I could feel it.”

His breathing grew faster. “What'er you up to?”

“Come back in. Let me show you...”

“What -- your candy boy wasn’t enough for you, tonight?”

“You have his apartment bugged!?”

“No! But it don’t take much to figure.”

“Well that’s not what I want, right now. I just want to be with you.”

“You wanna turn me queer, like you.”

“No!”

He shook his head, fighting himself, then backed away, whispering, “You are a devil.” Then he spun and stormed away.

I watched him get on the elevator. Watched it close. Heard it whisper away.

And I chuckled, thinking, I’ve got him.

Slowed down a bit on UG...

I'm at 333 pages and just under 90,000 words...and Devlin, being a little devil, is playing with Reg's confusion about what was done to him. That sort of came out of nowhere and is really not nice...but damn, it fit. I guess naming him Robert Devlin Pope was more deliberate on my part than I thought.

Tawfi's also done something I wasn't expecting. He's taken more than a sexual liking to Dev and is trying to get him to agree to be...not his slave so much as...hell, his pet. Like the beginning of a male harem? Maybe? I dunno.

I have no idea where it came from or what game Tawfi's playing, yet. But an associate revealed Tawfi knows he's under police surveillance and is acting accordingly. Is he working himself up to be the killer? Is he setting Dev up to take the fall? Damned if I can figure out what he's up to.

But that's the way it works...at least, it should work for a murder mystery. I remember seeing an Al Pacino film -- Sea of Love? -- where he's a cop investigating a serial killer murdering men who answered a personal ad in the paper. This was back way before Craigslist or Grindr. The main suspect was Ellen Barkin...who does everything she can to keep suspicion on herself. Of course, she's not the real killer...but the only clue to say otherwise was so tossed aside and flat out ignored, it infuriated me when it came up. Ruined the movie for me.

Of course, so did the inconsistency in the ending. All of the dead men were found nude and in bed, but Al's cop winds up being attacked by the killer in the same way...and he stays fully dressed. Can't have your star showing off his ass, I guess.

Anyway, I want lots of clues but lots of red herrings, too. Maybe too many, if one review of OT is to be believed...but his complaint stems from a deliberate choice I made. I wanted Jake to have to face down issue after issue after issue at the end, because that's how it works in reality. When homophobes are beaten back from hitting from one direction, they come at you from another and another.

And Jake had to show he was ready for them all...and he did...

Feeling good about my space

My apartment actually has more room, now. Just by rearranging a couple of pieces, adding some new shelving units, and switching my art table with my card table, I freed up enough space so I'm no longer bumping into anything when I move. Of course, I also threw out a lot of crap I'd been hanging onto since forever. I could do a lot more, still -- my old bookshelves are not in the best order -- but it's still a lot better than it was.

I'm sorting through the ending of UG as I work, wondering if I have it right. I was going to have it where Tawfi is being set up for the murders by his sister-in-law in order to remove him as heir to his country's throne. He has diplomatic immunity so could easily walk on murder charges unless his government withdrew the protection, something not certain. He's Muslim and some might refuse to do anything that would help the UK, considering their meddling in the Middle East. So best to discredit him in the eyes of his father, the king.

But that started seeming too...I dunno...obvious and easily found out. So I've been having quiet conferences with the three main guys in this, trying to find another way they can live with. One idea was to let Tawfi actually be the killer, but Devlin didn't like that and Reg wasn't keen because it would have led to his death.

Then there was having Devlin actually be the killer, as he's suspected of being, but that didn't work unless he would up killing Reg at the beginning, cancelling out all his angst and self-reflection. Which would have made for a shorter book, but he didn't like that at all...the drama queen.

I suggested Reg be in on the murders, and all three laughed at me over that. So I got to wondering...there's a point at the end where Devlin returns to Tawfi's embassy, thinking he's meeting one person but winds up being attacked by someone he did NOT expect...and that's where things come out...and part of the reason for the brutality of the murders is due to Devlin's actions, years earlier. Adds a lot of guilt to him. It would take some reworking of the rest of the story, but...

They all enjoyed the idea of Devlin feeling like scum at the end. It even makes the final denouement palatable...where he stays in the UK, a de facto exile from his home.

I have to say, that appeals to the poet in me... 

A good day...

Paul Manafort is guilty!

Michael Cohen is guilty!

Duncan Hunter is indicted!

Chris Collins is arrested!

The list of GOP scumbags caught by their criminality just keeps growing. Just like in Ulysses S Grant's administration -- those people are rotten to the core. He was the first Republican in the White House, and since then, they've had one goal -- to turn the keys to the US Treasury over to the rich, and nothing has changed in the last 150 years. My hope is this means the end of the GOP...so if things keep going as planned, this may be a very merry Christmas...

Click on the links to enjoy the stories...

Chaos abounds...

I'm trying to rework my apartment so it's more spacious...well, less cluttered...so everything is in a mess, right now. How I had it worked but was getting to be junky. Now I just want space...but any idea on how to achieve that is taking its time in coming to me...

I also want a new laptop. I hate this fucking thing I've got. The keys are so flush against the frame, I'm finding myself ten times more prone to hit two at once...and I can't seem to get the hang of how to avoid that. Also, some of the keys are so sensitive, if you brush against them they input a letter, while others you have to pound to get them to take. I have enough trouble with typos to have to deal with that crap, as well.

There's also the issue of when I'm online and link to a site...like my blog. A blank page comes up...and nothing happens. I have to hit refresh and then it's like it realizes I really did want to go to that page and brings it up. Other times, it just locks up and I have to power down and reboot to get it to go. It's like a little diva and there ain't room for two divas in my life; I'm enough of one.

I may shift everything I'm doing on UG into a plain DOC file and return to working on my old MacBook, then ship this fucker back to MAC to have it looked at before I throw it out my 4th floor window.

I miss my MacBook. It was bulky and old, but it worked good. If there was some way for me to update it enough to keep using, I would...but the fuckers at MAC say no way. And that pisses me off.

When I spend $2300 on a fucking laptop, I want it to work right and forever.

I meander...

Something I realized about my writing, today, is that I meander a lot. It's just...I like chit-chat between characters, as if I'm listening in on a conversation in a restaurant or airport terminal. Things like this, when Dev is meeting with Mahjub about inserting nano-chips into lapel pins for security purposes --

-------

He held up the crossed flags pin and said, “Here, I’ve worked up a preliminary idea of how this might work, but it may entail something more intensive than just setting up the pins; it would need to be monitored. That may prove to be unfeasible...”

I let him chatter in a language called computer-speak that I didn’t even begin to understand, but he told me he’d send me a couple of links and PDFs to help explain his ideas. We kept this up for hours, ordering in lunch from a nearby falafel shop. By the time Tawfi appeared in the doorway, I was so loaded down with techno-info I felt like a cyborg.

“I thought I might find you here,” he murmured. “Is all going well?”

I’m sure my eyes were spinning when I looked at him and said, “I now know the secret of the universe. Number Nine.”

He chuckled. “And I thought it was Forty-two.” He shifted to Mahjub. “Burn a DVD of yesterday’s meeting and send it here.” He handed Mahjub a card; the logo on it was for Griff’s hotel. “There is disagreement on what was agreed to.”

“I put a link on your site, sir,” Mahjub said.

“Which I showed them, but they wish to study it. Send a copy to our attorneys, as well, on both sides of The Pond. This may prove interesting.”

“I’ll get it straight over.”

“Tomorrow will be plenty of time. They don’t depart until Saturday. And once they have it, I will not be surprised if another meeting is demanded...despite my insistence it is not necessary.”

Mahjub nodded. “Sometimes the recording process is very slow, sir. One has to make certain there are no glitches or missed moments. I may not be able to get the copy to them till early afternoon.”

Tawfi smiled. “What a pity. Has my father accessed the video?” Mahjub nodded. “Then tomorrow should be interesting. Are you finished with Mr. Pope?”

Mahjub looked at me, and I nodded. “One more detail and I’ll turn into C-3PO, but without the manners.”

“Consider yourself fortunate,” said Tawfi. “You have been schooled by a master. This young man is the future of our country, and her best defense against those who would abuse her. We are very proud of him.”

Mahjub stood straighter and blushed. “Thank you, sir.”

“Do you know where my brother is?”

Mahjub turned to his laptop, did three clicks of input and up sprang a map of London, with a red flashing dot on it. “At his gym, sir.”

Tawfi rolled his eyes. “Which means his wife will be at Harrod’s, and my nephews are with their nurse. Mahjub, you may wish to retire before they return. And warn Abdel, as well. Let their driver bring the packages in.”

The boy hid a smile. “As you wish.”

Tawfi turned to me. “If you’ll join me...” Then he led me away from Mahjub’s room.

“Buying spree, huh?” I asked as we reached the elevator.

“My beloved sister-in-law believes money is a tool meant to bring her happiness. I fear for us all if it ever runs out.”

“So you’re joining forces with The Faure Group. They don’t have a very good reputation in the States.”

“Is that so?”

The elevator door opened and we steeped inside.

“But you already know that.”

Tawfi cast me a sly look. “I do hope you will join me in my flat. After spending the day in discussions, I would rather dine in than out. The embassy has a cook who is quite good; he could work something up. Not high-end, but not eggs on toast, either.”

“Sounds great. Are we being served? Or do we greet the delivery guy at the door and tip him with a blowjob?”

“You are delightfully vulgar,” Tawfi chuckled. “My maid and butler are off, tonight. We shall have to serve ourselves.”

“Can I have dinner with you, tonight?”

“I can think of nothing that would please me more.”

Then he hit the button for the elevator to go up.

-----------

The reason I call this meandering is, I've been reading Agatha Christie's Cards on the Table and it has a long section where Poirot and 7 other characters are playing bridge during a party while their host dozes in a chair before a fireplace...and it goes on and on about who passes, who bids, who's got spades and who's got clubs...and it bored me. I skimmed it.

Even after it turns out the host was murdered during the card game by one of the participants, it still has long bits of information handed out that troubled me...like who kept score, who was the dummy (are those the same person?). It might be her dry style of writing, I'm not sure, but I don't want people reading my books to get bored.

So I need to minimize the meandering...

Keeping on...

I love to write because it lets me build a world I want to be part of, even when it's hard and  cruel. I don't write sweet simple stories...even The Alice '65 has some serious darkness in it, as does David Martin...but I grow to love my characters as much as if they were real. Hell, sometimes they're more real to me than not. Even UG is one I wouldn't mind being part of, and it's pitch black, in spots.

I set it in London because I love the city and would be happy to live there or close by. England's been my second home for as long as I can remember. It's half the reason I made Adam English, in A65, and have Reg as the epitome of beauty and desire to Dev, in UG. I even set a couple of scripts in London.

I don't know where I'm going with this train of thought except England is where I'd like to move if I was to leave the States. Canada's cool and I could live there, but I don't think I could afford it on just Social Security, and I'm not making anywhere near enough money from my writing to supplement it, enough. Plus, they've already turned me down when I asked about emigrating there.

Of course, Ireland's another possibility. Live outside Dublin, somewhere. Hop an occasional bus up to Derry to continue working on APoS. Letterkenny isn't far from there. It's isolated, but I'm isolated in fucking Buffalo, so no change there.

It's just...I feel like things are not going to get better in November. I can see the GOP remaining in power in both the House and Senate, even if only by one member, and that'll be the end of this country. That motherfucker in the White House will have destroyed us as a Democracy and given Putin his fondest desire -- the end of America as a rival. China will also celebrate. And Czar Snowflake's family will reap the goods and live in places near and far and not give a damn about the misery they've sown.

And I don't want to be here as it happens...

The Queen is dead...

...Long live the Queen...I have nothing more to say.

Some of UG...

This is after Devlin's been released, connected with Tawfi and been attacked in his hotel room. The police halfway suspect he set the supposed mugging up, but he wound up with a gash in his arm that suggests otherwise. It's now Saturday morning and the front desk woke him to let him know a Mrs. Colin Pope wanted to come up...

-----------------

I opened it to find my brother's wife looking at me with an expression that could be amusement or bemusement or a need to use the toilet, for all I could tell. She was in her casual chic mode and looked like she'd just finished prepping for a ladies' lunch, not spent all night on a crowded plane. I let her in with a growl of, "You got here fast."

"I was invited to a baby shower, Dev," she said. "I wasn't sure I could make it, but my mother changed her plans to watch the boys and Marci said, even though she's really busy, she'll handle Colin for Monday and Tuesday. So, here I am."

"Good ol’ Marci. No bags?"

"Downstairs. I’m staying with friends."

"You talk to Colin?"

"When do I not?"

Oh, shit, this was gonna be rough. "I'll order coffee."

"Tea, please." She looked at my arm. "Rough night?"

"My room got broke into," I said. "Not even worth Channel Four taking note."

She just nodded. Obviously did not believe a word I said.

I put in an order for a full English breakfast and the hell with the cost, then sat on the bed as she eased into a chair, her eyes locked on me. I'd seen that look before when I'd done something she didn't approve of, like a mother disappointed in her child. I took a deep breath, grabbed a pillow, and shifted to lie back, my eyes watching her eyes watch me. "Okay, let's have it."

"Glass always half-empty with you, isn't it?"

"Diana, I ache all over. I didn't sleep well. And I'm still freaked out at getting attacked, last night, so cut the crap and get down to -- "

"Some of our dealers have been interrogated by FBI agents,” she said. “About you. Two in Los Angeles. One in Chicago. Three in New York."

Shit. "Why?"

"The FBI’s questions were regarding an extortion racket, and FYI -- Griffin Faure is behind the complaint."

I laughed. "You’re not gonna tell me he came back to the States to admit what happened?"

"He’s been back a while,” she said, causing me to sit up. “And yes -- he’s telling his version, with the suggestion there may be others who've been, oh, caught in the same trap."

"Griffin Faure, bullshit; Papa's pushing this, and he’s just pissed 'cause golden boy and I had some fun,” I snarled, then added for good measure, “and I recorded it."

"I know. I know all about that.”

“How?”

“I know Rio, too.”

“He told you!?”

“He trusts me and he’s worried. Federal agents are trying to find out more about you and the Faure Group, and they are pushing hard. Hitting informants. Questioning how certain people got repaid for losses cause by that criminal family. They’ve even been to West Nyack. Lots of huffing and puffing, but no arrests. So far. But Rio wanted to talk to you...and when he couldn’t find you, he contacted me.”

That made me blink. “You haven’t seen the videos, have you?"

"You can be sure the FBI has. What's more -- I also hear a certain Congressman is helping the Faures push this.”

“Aw, fuck,” shot out of me, followed by, “Sorry.”

“Don’t be, Dev. It’s just you and me. Now...what you did with that shit, Faure -- I really don’t care. He stole from us and nearly drove Colin to suicide. He got off light. What I want to know is why this shit is coming down on us, now, and what you did to cause it."

That made me look closer. She had her mommy eyes on; I'd seen them when one of the kids was trying to pull a fast one. "How’d you find all this out, so fast?"

"I used to be a party girl in the city that never sleeps and could teach Vegas a thing or two about keeping it there. Once I make friends, they're friends for life. You never know who'll come in handy when you need some help."

"You think you can offer any?"

"Depends on how you answer a question."

"Oh, jeez, that crap, again?” I sighed and leaned forward. “Okay, hit me."

Her smile widened. "I just need to know -- did you ever know someone named Kenneth Tavelscha?"

Oh, son-of-a-bitch, it was worse than I thought. I just nodded.

She nodded back. "Have you kept up with him?"

"Not since college."

"He's that Congressman. Republican. Bought and paid for by the Faure Group, and they’ve been cross-referencing. Apparently, for a while, because less than an hour after you'd been arrested by the Metropolitan Police -- “ I shot a look at her. “Yes, I do know about that, too.”

“Christ,” shot out of me. “You didn’t tell Colin?”

“Devlin! And freak him out?”

“Right. Sorry. Guess I’m the one freaking out.”

“You should be, because Tavelscha had the TSA add your name to the no-fly list, and an hour after that, the FBI opened up that investigation into your blackmail racket."

"Oh, fuck! Papa Faure’s attack dogs’re barkin’, loud and clear.”

Fortunately, room service arrived and I was able to shift focus away from my inner chaos. I let them set everything up, signed the bill and tipped them and got them out, the whole time trying to figure out what I should and shouldn't say to her. Didn't do any good; she had her mommy eyes on me the whole time.

She calmly poured out tea for herself and coffee for me, then set up a chair beside the tray, took a slice of toast and piece of bacon, and sat back in her own chair.

I kept standing by the door, unable to move, my brain spinning.

After another minute of watching me and sipping her tea and nibbling at her food, she said, "Devlin -- you know how Colin and I met, right?"

I had to nod. "He...he got lost and you...uh, you found him. Brought him home."

"You know where I found him?" I shrugged a yes. She smiled. "I always thought it interesting you never said anything."

I sighed and glanced at her, my mind beginning to focus. "I didn't need to."

Her smile widened. "Y'know, the only reason I approached him was, Rio'd heard my usual connection got busted, and that I should assume the new guy's a cop. So when I saw Colin, no way did he belong in that neighborhood. Fuckin’ rookie, was my first thought, so I went over to play with him. Be a real bitch. But he looked at me with those lost, dark, lovely eyes, and the first words he said were, Oh my god, you're so beautiful.” She sighed. “I wasn't. I was at the tail of a party weekend. But his attitude...his whole manner...it was so simple and straight and honest and sweet, I fell apart. Sobbed. He said he was sorry and gave me a handkerchief. Cheap white cotton. Buy 'em by the half-dozen. I still have it. Wouldn't part with it for anything."

I turned to her. "You're good for him. For both of us."

"Thank you for that." She smiled and pulled out a tissue to dab her eyes. "It took me ten minutes to find out he'd met with a client and parked his car in a cheap lot to save a few bucks, but couldn't remember which one and was close to falling apart. I offered to call someone but he panicked and said you were at school and your father off on business and no one could know how he'd screwed up. So we went to every lot I knew -- and found it at the fifth one. By that point he was shaking so badly, he couldn't drive, so I got behind the wheel. And I stayed. And we have three beautiful perfect sons." Then she looked straight at me to add with a near growl, "And I will never, never, never let anyone -- anyone at all -- hurt him or them. So if you don't give me the complete and absolute truth, I'm here to have fun at a baby shower for an old friend, and then back to New York.”

Where they would build walls to protect the business, and I'd be fucked.

Ping-pong in my head...

I'm bouncing back and forth about the idea of changing who the killer is, in Underground Guy. I had it involved with political intrigue...but now it seems to want to be about revenge inflicted for revenge taken...and that still feels too obvious. The question is, would the people involved in either scenario go so far as to commit 4 murders and attempt a fifth to achieve their goals? Not sure about that.

The political intrigue angle involves Tawfi being next in line to the throne of his Middle Eastern country. He's been bred to become a leader, in control, while his younger brother is pushed aside...so the man's ambitious wife takes it upon herself to make him the next king in place of Tawfi. How she does it is a mixture of lies, conspiracy, cold-blooded murder and double-dealing that nearly gets Dev and Reg killed.

The other possibility is that Griffin Faure arranges with Tawfi's sister-in-law to not only make him seem unfit for the crown but to also get even with Devlin for what he did...and never mind he started it by defrauding Devlin's family of nearly $300K. He wants to take down Tawfi because he's being a pain about a business venture their two companies are joining up for and thinks the brother will be easier to manipulate...which is true; Tawfi's too hard to negotiate with.

Other possibilities are Kenneth Tavelscha, a Congressman Dev took on in college, and Ryan Orriaggio, a Chicago cop who manhandled his wife (Dev hates cops, already, so it doesn't take much to set him off)...but those don't feel right. Too arbitrary. I'm still leaning towards the political one, but won't know till the book's done. I couldn't decide on who killed Owen Taylor till the fourth draft of the book and Jake showed me how it happened and how he found out. Then it became as solid as concrete.

I'm hoping the same will happen, here...just sooner...

Aiming for 450 pages, or so...

I think that's how many typed, double-spaced pages the book will be once I'm done with it...which should translate to 340 or so pages in paperback form. I still have a fair amount to do, but it's getting there. Once everything's in order, I can go through and remove repetitions and explicit explanations. I'm trying to keep away from those.

A new possibility opened up, today...a different killer. Not sure how I feel about it, yet, because everything fits so neatly the way I have it...but it's not beyond the realm of possibilities to rework the ending to fit it and might make more sense. My one fear is, it might make so much sense people figure it out before it's revealed in the book.

I've been told the revelation of who committed the murders in OT is a surprise, but makes sense once they read it. I want that for this one, too. So far, the story takes place in a week, in real time in the book, but Devlin jumps around a lot when talking about things that have happened to him and his brother, Colin...and his revenges. He's getting to realize his father's abuse may have damaged him in ways unlike it damaged Colin, and he might need help to get past it.

If he doesn't wind up in jail, thanks to his illegal activities. And I'm not sugar-coating what he does. While he has his good reasons for every one of them, the effects of his actions is now coming back to crush him and he can see revenge damages not only the guilty but the innocent...and that's the part he cannot handle.

I've begun reading The ABC Murders and Agatha Christie's style is not nearly as irritating in this one. She's almost introspective. It's about a series of murders committed by some unknown person who is deliberately doing them to taunt Hercule Poirot. I've just finished the one beginning with C, and find her use of occasional third person sections is interesting. I know it's a device meant to confuse, but it's still off-beat, for her.

I wonder how far I can go to shake things up in UG?

298 pages done on UG

Devlin is fighting back, now, down and dirty. He's blackmailed a Congressman into ending his support of the sanctions against him and investigation into his family's business. He's also investigating the murders on his own, because he thinks the Metropolitan Police are focused on the wrong man. Of course, when he mentions this to Sir Monte, the head of the investigation, he's accused of trying to cover for the killer.

I got a lot more information into the story by having the Met force Devlin to assist, and he's smart enough to give them some of it. But now he suspects Tawfi's brother of having something to do with the killings, not because his gaydar went off (it didn't), but because the man reminds him of someone he almost became involved with. A man who Dev thought about joining for the night but backed away, and later learned the guy beat a man to death for calling him a fag.

I'm also adding in that Tawifi's DNA matches that on the dead men, pushing this into crisis zone for Dev. He can't figure out how that happened...but will.

There's a lot of sex in this book, deliberately so. It's how Dev operates...lets off steam...gets through life since he can't handle the fact that his father killed his mother and he's slowly becoming the man, himself. Dev attacks men who the police think look like his father but, in reality, Devlin brutalizes men who look like himself. Not sure where that came from or why...but it's interesting. I just need to dig into it, more.

And in case anyone thinks this is auto-biographical -- it's not. I've never assaulted anyone, though I've had the chance on a few occasions, with drunk buddies. And my preferred man is the opposite to me -- dark, fit, hair on his chest and solid, hence the picture of Chris Evans grinning like a goof...

But I did know a man who beat a convenience store clerk to death in San Antonio, years ago, and was convicted. He made me uncomfortable every time I was around him, so I stopped being in the same places as him. He may still be in prison, for all I know.

Instinct counts for a lot more than we think...

Mystery writers...

I've been rereading Agatha Christie before going to sleep, each night. Helps settle my brain a bit. I've finished 13 at Dinner and The Murder on the Orient Express, and something I have to say is, she sucks as a writer. She's brilliant at plotting and fantastic at setting up the mystery, but her writing is so mechanical and basic (and her grammar somewhat questionable) that the books are nearly boring...which may be why they help me go to sleep...

Of course, part of that might also be I already knew who the killers were in these two. I read them while I was still in high school and have seen movie adaptations of both. But I don't think that would make a real difference. I'll test it out with The ABC Murders; I doubt I've read that one...at least, I don't recall reading any of hers that involved serial killers playing with Poirot. A modern idea written in 1936...can't say she wasn't forward-thinking.

But an example of the sort of thing that bugged me throughout both books was this sort of exchange, from Murder... --

He paused, then said:

"Did you know that M. Ratchett had applied for help to me?" (it's Poirot speaking.)

"To you?" (it's Hector MacQueen speaking.)

MacQueen's astonished tone told Poirot quite certainly that the young man had known nothing of it. He nodded.

"Yes. He was alarmed. Tell me, how did he act when he received the first letter?"

MacQueen hesitated.

To me, it's not instantly clear Poirot is the one speaking after the narrative bit about MacQueen. It's not an easy transition and interrupts the flow of the story. It's not a killer, but it does irritate and is something I work hard to avoid, in my own writing.

I already have read And Then There Were None more than once; it was my favorite Christie book because it didn't involve brilliant detectives doing their supercool thing; it was ten people being killed off, one by one, while trapped on an island off the English coast. Despite Christie's drab style and emotional reticence, it still built up a nice bit of hysteria, thanks to the situation. I didn't like any of the film adaptations (including a ludicrous one set in the Persian desert, in 1974) until the Acorn version from 2 years back. I may need to reread it and see if I still feel her prose is problematic.

What made me surprisingly happy was...the typos I'm finding in this collection. Quotation marks where they shouldn't be. A couple of words misspelled. Seems you can't get away from the pesky little things, no matter how hard you try.

Nice to know a fairly major publisher has that problem, too.

I think I need new glasses...

I'm getting nasty headaches from being at this laptop for long periods...and have one now. Makes it hard to focus and get any writing done. I think I'll change things up, tomorrow and use my art table, which is a bit higher; see if that helps any. If not, it's to the ophthalmologist.

Good thing is, my knee is not damage or worn out; I'm just getting arthritis. Great.

I am not going to whine any more about my aches and pains, like some old fart. Here's some of what I've been working on, today, in UG. Dev thinks he's going to jail for assaulting Reg but instead...

----------------

I was released on bail, meaning they kept my passport so I couldn’t leave the country, and I had to check in with Sir Monte’s shadow once a day, or else. But with as much efficiency as when I’d been brought in everything else was returned to me. In a complete mess but there. Except for my phone. When I asked that and about my passport, a clerk said, “The Boss has them.” Then he handed me a receipt, adding, "If anyone asks to see your documents, give 'em this." Then the great Boss, Sir Monte, himself, drove me away, with Four-buttons beside me in the back seat.

My plan was to ride in silence and let my brain settle down, but my seat-mate opened a folder and a surveillance photo was shoved in front of me; it was of Savile Row in another snazzy suit, goatee, hair wind-blown as he got into the back of a car. Even from a distance he radiated wealth and calm. A man the size of a tank and built just as strong was holding the door open for him.

“He is what you normally talk into your bed, correct?” Four-buttons asked in a way that needed no answer.

I sighed and nodded. “That’s the guy I saw on the train. Almost went for him instead of Reg.”

“How unfortunate you didn’t. His name is Tafiq al Qasimi. He’s an Arab Muslim, and has a connection to all four dead men.”

I shrugged. “Then bring him in.”

“We can’t. The evidence is, at best, circumstantial and he has...diplomatic protection.”

“He’s young to be an ambassador.”

“That’s not what he is.”

“Okay...so why’re you tellin’ me this?”

“Pope,” Sir Monte snarled, “stop being so damn thick.”

Four-buttons took the photo back. “We have discussed some rather...incredible claims you made, whilst being interrogated. Claims which, if we read the prior accusations against you, carefully, do not...actually...sound improbable.”

I nearly laughed. “So what -- you want me to be Mata Hari? Take him to bed, whether he wants it or not? See if he has a diary on his nightstand that details his fun time? Sneak it off in the dead of night?”

Sir Monte took in a deep breath and muttered, “We want you to do whatever you can to get information we cannot.”

“C’mon, don’t you have a gay cop who can do that?”

“We tried.”

“He was the same physical type as the victims,” said Four-buttons, “but al Qasimi proved...uninterested.”

“Like he did with Reg.” I took the photo back and looked at it. “Do you have other pictures?”

He showed me a couple dozen more. All surveillance. They’d been shadowing him for a while.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “If you were watchin’ this guy so close, how was able to kill anybody?”

“We began our surveillance after the third victim,” said Sir Monte, “and realized the one other consistency between them. He‘s the only male in the embassy whose whereabouts cannot be accounted for on the nights of the murders.”

“Oh, come on, you guys watch this country so tight, you even know when somebody doesn’t wipe his ass. So how could he get to Perriman and you not stop it?”

“When Thornton vanished, that put the entire Met on alert. The two additional men we had on your train were met at Hatton Cross and brought straight back as al Qasimi transversed the A30 and continued on towards Perriman's office. They wanted to follow him, still, but they had seen you so could help search for you while we scoured CCTV. We thought we were mistaken about whom to suspect. Obviously, we were wrong.”

I let a breath escape me. “I dunno about that. This guy’s awful damn neat to be plannin’ to kill anybody. Tell me -- your gay cop, is he out and proud?”

“...Yes,” said Four-buttons.

“Then this guy wouldn’t want him. He’s deep in the closet. He wouldn’t want anybody who might talk about him.” Four-buttons was nodding, his eyes locked on me. “You already know that.” I got a half-smile, in answer. “You sure the victims weren’t hidin’ their interest, too?”

“We have found nothing in their backgrounds to indicate they enjoyed homosexual encounters.”

“But hasn’t this guy been with other guys -- ?”

“There is only such much investigation we can do,” said Sir Monte, “without arousing problems with the Home Office. And MI5. They’ve already raised questions regarding the surveillance focused on this embassy. They don’t know who we’re keeping an eye on, yet, but they will find out. Sooner than later. Once that happens, who knows what obstructions will arise?”

“But if he has a connection to four murdered men...”

“A tenuous one...”

“How tenuous?”

Sir Monte and Four-buttons exchanged a glance in the rearview mirror, then Sir Monte nodded and my seat-mate pulled more sheets from the folder, including good photos of the victims.

“The restaurant Etan Conescieu worked for catered an affair at the Embassy,” he said. “He helped move everything in, but he was not one of the servers. Liam Hanlon worked for a broker who was handling a business matter for a corporation al Qasimi’s connected with, however he was not part of the team controlling it. The livery company Stuart Goughan drove for often collects visitors and diplomats, for the embassy, from the airport or wherever, but al Qasimi, himself, does not use them; he has his own car and a bodyguard who drives him.” I pointed to the guy holding the car door in the photo and Four-buttons nodded. “Abdel Naifeh. He’s a third generation bodyguard to the family.”

“Nonstop money,” I snarled. “That’s the world, for some. But if Tafiq’s got his own car, why take the train? Especially at rush hour?”

“It is faster, though not as convenient.”

“But it’s not like he’s drivin’. Sit in the back. Have some Dom Perignon. Contemplate ways of screwing more people out of more money. Think about how good life is.” Then I kicked myself. “Except he doesn’t want even his bodyguard to know what he’s up to, with guys. Get a grip, Dev.”

“Yes, that would make for a potential witness,” Sir Monte snapped. “One who might not agree with his...peculiarities...”

Four-buttons continued with, “Last night’s victim, Martin Perriman, owned a courier service used by the embassy. Normally it was one of his drivers who transported the diplomatic pouch, but on two occasions he brought the pouch, personally, when a driver was unavailable. There may have been other deliveries he made; we are still researching his records.”

“Yet none of them had direct contact with this guy.”

Four-buttons nodded. “Which makes it damn near impossible to anticipate his actions...without him telling us.”

I hesitated. Four-buttons was watching me like I was something under a microscope, while Sir Monte kept his eyes on the road. It had started to rain, not hard but steady, and the windshield wipers ticked to the same rhythm as my heart. I looked out the window, barely able to breathe. I could now picture their whole sordid operation.

They’d followed al Qasimi till it looked like he was sneaking away from his bodyguard, then had offered Reg up, to see if he’d jump. But he was focused on someone else. That was obvious, now. Martin Perriman. Didn’t matter how lovely Reg was, this guy was locked and loaded and not willing to deviate. They wanted me to find out if he was focused on anyone else he had a tenuous connection to. Maybe prevent another death.

The hell with Mata Hari; they wanted me to be fucking James Bond, pun not intended.

I noticed we were stopping in front of the same hotel I’d checked out of, just hours before, the rain still pouring. Sir Monte had me check back in and then he made sure he knew what room I was in by escorting me up to it. I had nothing to say because my mind was still bouncing against every corner of my head at how fucking crazy the whole idea was. Then Sir Monte made it worse.

“I dislike asking this of you, Pope,” he said as I opened my door, “but Herries-White thinks it’s our best chance to -- “

“Herries-White?”

“The gentleman in the rear seat with you,” he snapped. “He pointed out that when dealing with evil, you cannot always play by the rules of the good. Sometimes evil must be used to defeat evil.”

I smirked. “And you think I’ll be your evil slut.”

Sir Monte’s glare would have sliced through steel. “You’re a gamble I’m willing to take, within limits, in order to try and save another man’s life. I’m realistic, Pope. Serial killers tend to get away with their crimes for years, even decades, before they make enough of a mistake to end their slaughter. I don’t want to wait for luck to play a hand, and have to face God knows how many more dead men’s families, in the meantime.”

“But...can’t you just keep him under surveillance?”

“That will not be possible for much longer, not without tipping our hand. Were he anyone else, he’d have been in that room, instead of you, long ago. Now? I would like to have something more than mere supposition to counter any objections raised by the Home Office.”

“Who else knows about you pimping me out?”

“You, me, and Herries-White. And that is how it remains.”

“And if I get killed?”

He almost smiled. “If your death helps us stop a killer, you will be given a hero’s burial.”

“What if I tell you to fuck off?”

“I suggest you find a solicitor and barrister, and Crown’s Counsel will be in contact with them.” Then a cold, cruel gleam entered his eyes. “And...we will send Thornton back out to try and decoy him, again. Find some excuse for him to have business at the embassy. He is what this killer likes -- straight, good-looking, fair-haired. It wouldn’t be much trouble to provide al Qasimi with a tenuous connection to him. This time, since you won’t be around to interrupt, we might be successful.”

Ice shot through my veins and I clenched my jaw to keep from shivering, but the bastard still noticed.

I let out a long, deep breath and murmured, “You’re right; I should never have fucked with you...because you really are one mean-assed, cold-blooded, motherfucking son-of-a-bitch.”

This time, the smile filled his face. “Nice to have that understood. We’ll be in touch.” He handed me my phone. “We have your number.”

Then he left...and I was stuck trying to figure out what the hell kind of shit I’d just got myself into.

-->

Ah, the joys of libraries...

I just saved myself $15 and having to deal with waiting for a DVD to come in because I checked the branch of the library that's behind my apartment building, and they have a copy of the show I wanted to see. God knows what condition it's in, but if it's free to watch, why not check it out? So I am, tomorrow. I put it on hold and will pick it up after I finish with the doctor.

I'm at that age where my warrantee has expired, so I'm getting my knee checked by an orthopedic surgeon in hopes it's nothing serious...just water on the knee. Which is handled by sticking a needle into me and siphoning it out. Not what I'm looking forward to. But it needs doing. My right knee just feels all wrong, at the moment.

Anyway, I just cut 50 pages out of what I'd written for Underground Guy, and I made the veiled threat against Devlin more blunt -- help us get to this man or we put you in jail forever. Which will make things more complex between Devlin and Tawfi, when they do connect.

What's nice about this is, by pushing to be harsher and speak the truth of things more deliberately, without softening the words, I'm seeing how to make APoS a more honest book, as well. Brendan is surrounded by people who lie to themselves and others, albeit not deliberately. And he is damaged by it in many ways, because he only wants to be left alone to live his life.

I'm pushing a simpler, more direct style in UG as practice for Brendan's...not so much for his own manner of speaking but that of Colm and Eamonn and Father Jack and even his Uncle Sean and cousin, Scott. I'm trying to find all the spots where I use artifice instead of honesty to tell my stories, and it's hard because I'm prone to using what I call qualifiers in my sentences...plus I like to use easy words to enter into sentences, when being told in first person. That has to stop, as well.

Maybe I should reread For Whom the Bell Tolls, by Hemingway; he used an artificial style to speak truth...

New direction for UG...

Instead of Devlin slowly coming to figure out what's going on with the serial killings he's accused of, he offered up the idea that his interrogation after assaulting Reg is used to soften him up to see if he will help the police get close to man they have under surveillance for the crimes. They can't touch him due to diplomatic immunity...but that don't mean they can't play dirty...

I'd say this is about 1/3 of the way into the story, now. Sir Monte is the Chief of the investigation and Four-buttons is probably a psychiatrist, but he never admits it. Savile Row is the man Dev saw on the Piccadilly Line, before he focused on Reg.

----------

First, I was set free...well, not completely free. They kept my passport so I couldn’t leave the country, and I had to check in with Sir Monte’s shadow once a day, or else. But with as much efficiency as when I’d been brought in everything was returned to me. In a complete mess but all there. When I asked about my passport, a clerk handed me a receipt and said, "If anyone asks to see it, give 'em this." Then Sir Monte put me in a car and we drove away, with Four-buttons beside me in the back seat.

He opened a folder and showed me a surveillance photo; it was of Savile Row.

“This is what you normally talk into your bed, isn’t it?” he asked in a way that needed no answer.

I nodded. “I saw him on the train. Almost went for him instead of Reg.”

“His name is Tafiq al Qasimi. He’s an Arab Muslim and has more than a slight connection to all four dead men.”

“Then bring him in.”

“We can’t. The evidence is, at best, circumstantial and he has diplomatic protection.”

“So why’re you tellin’ me this?”

“Pope,” Sir Monte snarled, “stop being so damn thick.”

Four-buttons took the photo back. “You made some rather incredible claims, during our interrogation. Claims which, if we read prior accusations against you, carefully, do not sound improbable.”

“You want me to seduce him? Fuck him? See if he keeps a diary to steal?”

Sir Monte took in a deep breath and muttered, “We want you to do whatever it takes to get to him and see if you can gather some evidence we can’t get.”

“Haven’t you got a gay cop who can do that?”

“We tried. He was unsuccessful.”

“He was the same physical type as the others,” said Four-button, “but al Qasimi proved uninterested.”

I took the photo back and looked at it. “Do you have other pictures?”

He showed me a couple dozen more. All surveillance. They’d been shadowing this guy for a while.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “If you were watchin’ this guy so close, how was able to kill Perriman?”

“We had two other officers on that train. When Thornton vanished an alert went out. They followed al Qasimi off at Hatton Cross but were met by a car and were brought straight back. They’d seen you and could help find you while we scoured the CCTV. We thought, for a moment, we had the wrong man under surveillance. We were proven wrong.”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “This guy’s too damn neat to be out to kill anyone. And I think he made your cop out to be gay, and he’s not into gay men. At least...not if they’re out and proud. Was he? Your cop?”

“...Yes,” said Four-buttons.

“He’s deep in the closet.” Four-buttons was nodding, his eyes locked on me. “But you already know that.” I got a half-smile, in answer. “You sure the victims weren’t hidin' their interest, too?”

“We have found nothing in their backgrounds to indicate they enjoyed homosexual encounters.”

“But hasn’t he been with other guys -- ?”

“There is only such much investigation we can do,” said Sir Monte, “without arousing problems with the Foreign Office. Once that happens...who knows what obstructions will arise?”

“But he had a connection to these four guys.”

“Only a tenuous one, but...”

I finally got it. They wanted me to find out if he was focused on anyone else he had a tenuous connection to. Maybe prevent another death.

We stopped in front of the same hotel I’d checked out of, just hours before; Sir Monte insisted, and he made sure he knew what room I was in by escorting me up to it.

“I don’t like this idea, Pope,” he said as I unlocked my door, “but when dealing with evil, you cannot always play by the rules of the good. Sometimes evil must be used to defeat evil.”

“And I’m your kind of evil.”

“You’re a gamble we’re taking. What few people seem to understand about serial killers is, they appear to be good, normal people so get away with their crimes for years before making a mistake bad enough to bring them down. I don’t want to wait and have any more dead men’s families to face.”

“What if I get killed?”

“You will be given a hero’s burial.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I suggest you find a solicitor and barrister, and Queen’s Counsel will be in contact with them.” Then a cold, cruel gleam entered his eyes. “And we will send Thornton back out to try and decoy him, again. He wants to go. Who knows? This time, we might be successful.”

Ice shot through my veins and I clenched my jaw to keep from shivering, but the bastard still noticed. He had me and he damn well knew it.

I let out a long, deep breath and murmured, “You’re right; I should never have fucked with you.”

“Nice to have that understood.” Then he left, and I was stuck with paying the equivalent of nearly $150 a night till this was settled. Shit.

SHIT!

Banging head on wall can sometimes work...

I just found a way to make everything work better in Underground Guy. The police, now that they know what Devlin is all about, ask him to help them get the man they think is connected to the killing -- Tawfi. That's why they release him. They know Dev usually goes for men who are dark-haired and good-looking, that him attacking Reg was an anomaly, and he's all but bragged on how he can get any man he wants...so they say, Help us stop this, and we will ignore your past transgressions.

Quid pro quo, to misuse a saying made famous by Silence of the Lambs.

So now I have a lot of reworking to do in my outline, but it makes for a better, tighter story. What's even more fun is, Dev now thinks that by attacking Reg he may have saved his life. He now claims ownership of the guy and that will make for some bizarre situations, since Reg is married and has 4 kids.

Of course, that doesn't mean anything, really. I've been with married men. One of my first was a Marine with 5 daughters. It's amazing the depths people will go to in hopes of hiding who they are. Especially in the Republican Party. There are men and women who will support destroying the rights of the GBLT community because they think that will keep anyone from knowing who and what they are. And they keep getting found out...and yet, they keep lying about it.

And then there's the Log Cabin Republicans, who are open about themselves but are so self-loathing, they accept the abuse heaped on them by the GOP because they support part of the party's platform...usually on taxes...but lately I think their latent racism is coming into play, too.

But none of that with Dev; he's open and honest with himself about what he does and how he uses his anger to get revenge against those who've wronged him or his family. He's an animal, at times, and cruel...but he knows it and accepts it...

Until he connects with Reg and realizes how destructive it really is.

Slug-head still so some of UG

This is what I've been working on, this weekend: Chapter 3 of Underground Guy. More than 40 pages about this, but important to understanding Devlin.

He's the one telling the story and has been arrested by the Metropolitan Police. He's stuck in an interrogation room, and has just had his first back-and-forth with the head of the Met, who've already been in contact with the US Department of Justice to look into his background...and learned things about him that will be very problematic. His interrogators have just left.
-----
I peed, drank the whole bottle of water, and forced myself to sit back at the table. Finally, I had something to focus on besides my situation.

Griffin Faure.

Griffin fucking Faure. An Upper East Side, self-indulgent asshole who figured, Hey, life’s easy for me, so it must be for everybody. And daddy being worth billions, thanks to his sleazy real estate work, and having installed Griffin, his brother and his sister behind fine desks in a private office in his eighty-story headquarters in uptown Manhattan was beside the point. He honestly thought that was normal. Same for wearing ten-thousand dollar suits, working out with a personal trainer before he hit the office, going to all the right clubs and restaurants, and being lusted after by every avaricious bimbo there was -- half because he was divorced and they thought he was richer than Solomon, and...well, half because he wasn't really bad-looking. Dark hair, sharp eyes and kissable lips, but atop a weak chin. Still, if I'd run into him at some super-chic club, I might have tried my song-and-dance, maybe even done a roofie on him, just to get his ass.

Except I hated that fucking ass. Despised it. Loathed it. You name it.

He’d set up a huge conference in Dubai to trumpet daddy's move into oil; one of those Spare No Expense things meant to impress rich idiots into investing. Part of the package was a lapel pin of the company logo, two-hundred-and fifty of them, 18 karat gold (not plated) with a sapphire stone in a curling part of the F and each with its own silk-lined jewel box. Meaning, NOT cheap to make.

Dad had checked with Mr. Mihn to see if it was feasible -- he owns the factory in Thailand that we use to make the pins -- and he'd said, Yes. Dad also discussed it with Ghadir, who'd filled him in on the kind of jewelry people in the Middle East would go for, hence the sapphire stone. Our cost would be just over three-hundred thousand bucks, so our bid was five-hundred-thousand, with Dad making it clear we'd require fifty percent of the estimate up front. We got the order.

But Dad died before the deposit was arranged.

A couple of big dealers who were his buddies stopped using us, when that happened, so this job became make it or break it for the company. Then ten days after Dad was in the ground and a week after his Will had entered into probate, Griffin Faure met with Colin and said he'd pull the order if we insisted on the full deposit. The pins were already in the process of being made, in order to meet the deadline, so Colin caved and let him put up ten percent.

He didn't tell anyone, not even his wife, Diana; he figured once the pins came in, we'd hold onto them until the invoice was paid. He didn’t expect Faure to bribe our shipping manager to ship them soon as they arrived, before we'd even been able to do a quality check. By the time we realized what happened, Faure was saying they were bad quality but offered no proof of defect and ignored the contract he'd signed.

We sic’d Hamilton on him, and learned this was part of Faure's negotiation process -- Don't pay till they sue you, then make a settlement offer in exchange for not letting this drag on through the court system. The implication being, it would take years. Faure's offer? An additional fifty-thousand.

Mr. Mihn was holding back on our other orders because he needed to be paid, and US Customs wanted the duty due on the shipment or they were going to kill our bond, so Colin suggested we agree to the settlement, thinking it would tide us over till dad’s insurance paid up. But I was pissed as hell at what Faure had pulled, so even though I was still in college, I was also now half-owner of the business and I flat out refused.

Hamilton arranged for a meeting between him, me, Faure, and the little prick's five attorneys -- four male, one female. We met in their cheesy gold-plated conference room, and the second introductions were done -- and they’d stopped snickering at how some kid was there to negotiate with them -- I looked Faure straight in his black, condescending eyes, dove into my harshest Brooklyn and said, "Pay the contract in full, right now, or we go after you in court, plus damages."

The little bitch didn't even have the balls to respond to me. The attack dog to his left did, saying, "That could take years to settle and -- "

"Fine," I shot back. "Choice is yours."

"Hamilton," said the smirky attack dog on Faure's right, "shouldn't you be handling these negotiations? Young Mr. Pope doesn't seem to understand the delicacy involved in this."

"Fuck you, bitch," shot out of me before Hamilton could even let a smile cross his face...and did that send a ripple around the room. Even the female attack dog got her back up. "I told you what your choices were -- you pay what you agreed to, or we go to court, and once that happens, no more negotiation. It'll be all or nothin’ at all, plus damages."

The female popped in with, "For substandard quality?"

"Fine, send 'em back. I can melt 'em down, sell the sapphire stones, and recoup some of our costs."

"But your company is not in a position to make a demand of that nature, Mr. -- "

I turned to Hamilton and asked, "When does that conference start?"

He smiled as he said, "Two weeks."

"Is it true the pins’re already couriered to all the participants?"

"That's my understanding."

I shifted my eyes straight to Faure's. "Then you really wanna use that tactic? We provided you with substandard items, but you sent them to potential partners, anyway? Really?"

I finally saw some human emotion in those soulless black pupils, and it wasn't love. "We had a real jeweler correct the issues."

I shook my head. "Those pins have our seven-fifty stamp on 'em, so no matter what, they're ours. You tell people we crapped it up, we go after you for libel."

"I think I may let your company shut down."

I shrugged in answer. "That'll help us, in court."

The dog to his left leaned in to whisper something. Faure nodded, in response. Then the mongrel straightened up and said, "Seventy-five thousand -- in your bank by tomorrow morning."

I shook my head. "You owe us four-hundred-and-fifty-thousand."

"Which we will not pay." And I could tell he meant it. They all did.

Hamilton leaned in at that point and said, "Make it two-fifty, so my client can at least recoup their costs."

The woman piped in with, "It's not our fault you spent too much to make the pins."

“Specs agreed to, lady,” I snapped back at her.

And the mongrel growled, "One-twenty-five."

"One-seventy-five," Hamilton shot back, and the look on his face screamed, Don’t push it.

Faure gave the slightest of nods and the mongrel said, "Deal."

That's when I jumped in with, "But if it's not in our bank account by 4:55 today, deal's off. Okay for that, Hamilton?"

He nodded. "Someone will be at the courthouse ready to file the papers."

They paid at 4:56, just as Hamilton was calling his clerk to tell him to go ahead.

But the bank wouldn't extend us credit for the remaining seventy-five thousand we needed, so we still would have done a crash and burn if I hadn't postponed grad school for a couple years and let the company use my half of dad's insurance to keep the cash-flowing. Money that was would’ve paid for grad school. It gave us space to work our way back up to solvency, and I made damn sure not only did some of our extra cash from then on go into Treasuries -- no return but good collateral on a loan -- we never took another job without enough of a deposit to cover our costs. I also shifted us out of that fucking bank and into a credit union.

Of course, Colin felt responsible, but I did not blame him for this. He'd enjoyed dad's slaps and fists two years longer than me, and they'd left their mark. Not just in emotional scars but physiological ones. He would get blinding headaches that put him on the floor and had trouble remembering things clients told him or appointments that had to be kept. On top of that his mood could do a one-eighty like you would not believe, sometimes even in mid-sentence. After a dozen doctors told him he was just overworked or too stressed out or eating the wrong food or just imagining it, Diana forced through an MRI. That showed lesions on part of his brain. Which gave them a clue as to how to treat it -- which was basically to leave it alone and suggest he see a therapist on how to control the symptoms better. Diana hooked him up with a guy who worked with people suffering from PTSD, and he was on the road to actually seeming recovered.

No, it was Griffin Faure I held responsible, because he either knew about Colin's issues or sensed it and used it to his advantage. Apparently, destroying my brother meant nothing to him. For years after the debacle, it took a lot of work by Diana and me to keep Colin from doing a dive off the GW Bridge, and I loathed every ounce of Faure's being for it.

But it didn't come to a head till about two years after. I'd just reworked one of Colin's pin orders for the factory when he came in and sat on the floor behind my desk, his back against the wall. He was weaving and breathing hard and his hands were clenching each other. I stopped work and let him take his time to speak.

"You'll need to call Ghadir," he said, his voice thin as tissue paper.

I nodded. "Okay."

"I -- I called him a fuckin' raghead. I can't believe I did that."

"Considering he's a Persian Jew..."

"Yeah. Yeah." He finally sighed and said, "I'm never gonna be whole, am I? I'll never be complete. I keep screwing things up. Like that thing with Faure -- I nearly killed us."

I took in a deep breath and said, "Colin, considering what you've been through, you're doing great," as I hit a button on the intercom -- my warning signal to Marci, our receptionist, to get hold of Diana. Then I sat on the floor with him. "We got robbed by a thief. Not your fault. Dad's the one who set us up with that prick, not you. Faure would've pulled the same shit with him."

"Don't bet on it. Remember what dad always said?"

"I try not to."

He almost smiled. "He said not to put your eggs into one basket, all your eggs in one basket, but that's what I did -- "

"Um, I don't think that's the right saying for this."

"Doesn't matter. I killed your school fund -- "

"Colin, I got four more years to finish my masters and no idea what I'm gonna do my thesis on, yet. Working here gives me real-world experience and a chance to think about it and -- "

"You sound like a fuckin' college brochure!" he snapped.

I put an arm across his shoulders. "Y'know, I wouldn't sound like anything if it wasn't for you."

"...You...you were always gonna do fine..."

"No, I'd probably be dead or in jail or a junkie. You got between me and Dad a few too many times for your own good, but it protected me, and I love you for it, bro’. Now look at what we know. Dad...he damaged you like...like a car's damaged when it's broadsided or a boat'll sink if it's got a hole that isn't fixed. Griffin fucking Faure used that against us. He belongs in jail, like any thief. Once you’re fixed up, you'll see that."

He didn't move for a few moments then he whispered, "What if we can't fix me? What if I'm always a drain on you?"

"You think Diana’ll let that happen?"

He looked at me, almost smiling, again. "I got lucky with her, didn't I?"

"No shit. If I wasn't all about dicks, I'd take her away from you."

"Shit, you gotta talk about that?!"

"I am what I am."

He nodded, fighting himself. "More'n I ever will be."

"Diana won't let that happen."

He looked at me, near tears. "Why does she put up with me?"

"I hear she loves you."

He rested his head against his knees and choked out, "God, I want be right for her. I want to be a man for her -- "

I pulled him tight to me and said, "Colin, you got another kid on the way. I think you've been a man with her."

He just started to sob. We sat like that till Diana arrived and guided him back to his feet and into his office.

I didn't get up. If I had, I'd have stormed out, tracked that motherfucker down and broken his fucking neck.

Worked on UG, today

Got a rough section of the story worked out and written and fitted into the rest of things. Devlin's turning into a real devil, not that I mind. This part dealt with a rich asshole who defrauded his company and nearly drove his brother to suicide, so while what he does is hateful...it's justified. Somewhat.

So I'm really not up for writing on my blog. My brain is spinning in the story, still. Here's something to make it simmer down, a bit...a lovely reimagining of Despacito --

These two light up the stage when they perform, Luka Šulić and Stjepan Hauser, with their drummer...whose name I don't know.

2Cellos
2Cellos in 2017.
Background information
Origin	Zagreb, Croatia
Genres	Cello rock, classical, chamber music, instrumental rock
Years active	2011–present
Labels	Sony Masterworks
Website	2cellos.com
Members	Luka Šulić Stjepan Hauser
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Channel	2CELLOSlive
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