Added 2,300 words, today, having Simon talk with Dillon and Elissa about the case. They are surprised he won't take a deal and have to meet with the judge to arrange a trial date. They really thought they would not need to worry about that.
It then connected with Simon's situation in 8th grade, when two classmates tried to blackmail him over erotic drawings he'd made and sold. They wound up discovering he didn't back down when he feels like he's being fucked over.
I'm just wondering if this is too early for that to come up. I may want to move it to after the first hearing, where he raises enough questions about the case the prosecution gets a continuance. It makes no sense to him, because they keep saying this is just a misdemeanor, but the prosecution also refuses to back away. Which forces him to make a third trip down to Barrington.
Question is, why? Is there any specific reason for Dillon to keep pushing forward? I need something better than just he hates to lose. Or his buddy, Officer Paley, is pushing for it because he's pissed at Simon for not being attracted to him. Or something. I don't know. It just needs to make a sort of sense.
I have a feeling this is going to be a serious stumbling block. Cops and prosecutors hate the idea of being forced to justify their actions in cases that have no actual stakes or meaning. They're lazy and prone to go for the easiest solution, which is just to walk away, most of the time. Look at how casual they are about rape cases...even when it's the assault of a child or a woman who's incapacitated.
So I have a new aspect of this to worry about. Lovely.
I went through all the bits I've written and added up the number of words for each, and it's nearly 55,000. I know there's some repetition in them, and other parts that will probably be set aside unless something happens to fit them in...but still, that's a short novel, already.
I'll need to connect most of them with more chapters. Probably about 30K in wordage. I know pretty much what needs to go where and it's going to take some work to make them fit. The fun will be in getting me to do it.
I'm finding myself too easily distracted by nonsense. And not just on social media, though that has turned into a cesspool thanks to the MAGAt Cult. I never knew such a large portion of America is populated with such vile, deliberately stupid creatures.
But it's not just in the US. It's around the world. Monsters cheering on Russia's slaughter of people in Ukraine as if it's just an online game. Others from God knows where using ChatGPT to write fictional stories about people facing down adversity in their families but presenting them as real. Others supposedly telling histories or biographies with information left out to skew it to suit their agendas.
I actually saw a post on FB that gave a brief outline about Itzhak Perlman's story...without once mentioning his name. Another was pure gossip. They show up on my timeline because the algorithm works out I like being told about people and history.
I'm not an historian, but I know enough to tell when I'm being bullshitted. Like the story of Constantinople being sacked by the Christian Crusaders...and leaving out that it was a Christian city. Just the wrong kind of Christian. Instead, it was strongly hinted that it was Muslim.
What did I read somewhere? We used to think stupidity was caused by a lack of information. And now we know that was never the case.
Officially. Up to the point where Simon will be heading in to talk with Dillon and Elissa about the case. He hopes his information will cause them to back down, but he's learned they tend to give favoritism to people with connections so he's not under any illusions.
I also worked in another occasion where his stubborn streak kicked in and nearly got him arrested. And that's partially because he was gay-bashed and tried to report it. Which was similar to something that actually happened to me.
I joined a gym on Fredericksburg Road when I was at Trinity University, wanting to get into shape before I graduated. A powerbuilder who was a regular pulled a stupid stunt against a woman who was there and I called him out for it. I wasn't the only one who yelled at him, but he focused on skinny-assed me.
Came over, all huffy and expecting me to back down as other guys tried to calm the situation. But he had been a dumbass and I refused to take it back, so he sucker-punched me. Knocked me into a barbell and I was out cold. Had a concussion. Was taken to the ER. I later heard he was afraid I knew karate because I wasn't afraid of him.
While there, a cop came in to ask me about it. In uniform. I'd seen him in the gym a couple times. He quietly talked me out of filing a report because the guy was saying I came onto him. And no one was going to contradict him. He pointed out the anti-sodomy laws in Texas...which at that time applied to everyone, not just gay men...and said I could easily wind up in prison.
I stupidly backed down. I managed to get the dumbass to pay the deductible on my insurance, but that was it. No acknowledgement he was wrong. No apology. Nothing but a check through his attorney.
I used a version of it for Everett in APoS, so pumped it up a bit for MQM. Made it nastier, overall, and Simon is not as innocent. But unlike Everett and myself, Simon doesn't back down. Oh, he doesn't file charges; he just gets even in a way that ends the problem.
Today was research time, making certain I'm setting up the legal aspects of the story correctly. First note to come up? Since this is set in Ohio, the DA is actually referred to as a Prosecutor. There's an office for the city, one for the county, and sometimes a Misdemeanor office in the middle. Sometimes.
Simon's charge is a 4th degree misdemeanor since he has no criminal history, though it could be the cop who arrested him is trying to bump it up as a 1st degree misdemeanor by claiming it happened within a school's safety zone. And never mind it was at night, long after school was out.
Simon had evidence to show his arrest happened outside the school's safety zone, but the law is written in such a way as to offer flexibility in that for the prosecutors. So that's coming up as a point of contention.
Thing is, if he gets the enhancement removed, then he could lose the right to a trial by jury. It's all so fucking complicated. But I sort of work around this by keeping it at his pov so he's just as confused as anyone about the possibilities.
This also gave me a place to bring out some of Dillon's and Elissa's backgrounds. And lay the groundwork for another case where a young man is accused of the same thing that segues into potential CSA charges but is dropped because his daddy is friends with all the top judicial people in not only that town but the state. This will be something for ReShawn to refer to, later.
So...it's moving forward.
On another note, there's lots of flooding in the Hill Country north and west of San Antonio, but so far none of my family or anyone I know has been directly affected. And in a typical Texas-side step...they're starting to crow that Lake Travis is back up to its proper depth.
Simon remembers the first time his stubborn streak kicked in...when he was four. It comes after he finishes the cataloguing and packing and drops the boxes off to UPS. He's also met with an attorney who told him to just take a deal...which he refused.
--------
He drove back to his hotel, emailed Amir and Olivier the tracking information for the shipment...as well as a copy of the XLS list...then sat staring at his laptop.
His now blank laptop.
Devoid of any folders except Olivier’s and one titled Ditties.
He opened the latter one.
Up popped more than two dozen Word documents and three more folders noted as being from the last three years. Little poems he's written about men. Most of them quite brutal.
He sat there, looking at the files. Unmoving. His mind drifting.
Eberhardt was probably correct, when it came to the normal actions and attitudes of most people. Just bad luck. Get it taken care of. Over and done. And then he'd never have to come back to this goddamned town, again.
But Simon was unable to work like that.
There was some sort of glitch in his makeup. Or DNA. Or mentality. He didn’t know which. And it was not a consistent thing...not, at least, on the surface.
It was just that sometimes, when he believed someone was trying to take advantage of him and he did not want it to happen, he would turn to stone. His inner self would erect a brick wall and he would not let the perpetrator past it. Could not. Period. No matter what the threat.
He would simply say no. And mean it.
He wasn’t sure how it came about but the first time it definitely showed itself was when he was four and his father had wanted him to eat a bowl of split pea soup.
His parents loved that soup. It was from Schilo’s, a deli down by the Riverwalk and considered the best in the state. His grandmother had brought a tub of it in after work, one day, and everyone had gathered around the table to feast on it. Chattering happily.
Everyone but Simon.
He hated that soup. To him, it looked like vomit. The smell made him ill. So when a small bowl of it was put before him, he had pushed it away and shook his head.
His father had pushed it right back in front of him, saying, “This is dinner. Eat it.”
Simon had pushed it away, again.
That is when his brothers and sisters had begun giggling and mocking him, making both his father and mother angry.
Norman had sneered, “Simon thinks he’s special.” As if being the oldest and getting away with all sorts of nonsense wasn’t.
Thomas had added, “Hims wants hims anudder cheese sammitch.” Already snotty at nine years old, he soon proved to be a chore to deal with. Mainly because he would use truth to make his snotty comments. He knew Simon actually had liked Kraft Deluxe Processed Slices of cheese on white bread, so using that line of attack only added to Simon's stubbornness.
Arrabelle had laughed, “With lots and lots of mustard.” Which she always hated and once swore he only liked the stuff to be mean to her. Looking back, he had to admit she might have been partially right.
He had simply glared at them...and pushed the bowl of soup even farther away.
His father had plopped the bowl back in front of him, again with a growling, “That’s your dinner. You ain’t leavin’ this table till you finish it.”
The others had heard the anger in his voice and grown silent.
His mother had said, “Just try a taste of it, Simon. You may find out you really like it. It has ham...”
Then Coralynne had pushed a jar of French’s to him in her too-sweet way, saying, “Put this on it. You’ll like it, then.” A year older than him and he already didn’t like to be around her because she treated him like one of her dolls.
He hadn’t looked at her. Just curled his hands around each other and gazed upon them, unmoving. His brain must have locked down because he could not recall a single thought at that time. All he could remember is that he did not budge.
His father had sat there. Huffing.
Read the Evening News, then the Light. Huffing and growling, "It's cold, now. Ain't reheatin' it."
No reaction from Simon.
Then had played himself in tic-tac-toe, over and over. Glancing. Huffing. Growling.
Until nearly midnight before he finally gave in.
“Put him to bed,” he had snapped then got up to get ready, himself.
So his mother had.
He didn’t actually remember being hungry, at all. As if he’d entered some state of Zen before he even knew anything about that. Good thing was, they had never tried to make him eat that filth, again. Even on the rare occasions where they dined at Schilo’s. He’d get his cheese sandwich. Put on the yellow mustard, not the brown. Have a root beer and be happy.
That wall had built itself a few other times, in his life. Usually one brick after another until it was solid. But he hadn’t really understood how intense this stubbornness could be until eighth grade, when he almost wound up being arrested for assault.
That brought a smile to his face.
If that didn't make me back down, he thought, nothing will.
And for sixty years that was how it had played out. And was going that way, again. And he could not change his course.
So this evening I wrote what I am 99% sure will be the ending of The Murder of a Quiet Man. As mentioned, I set it as a conversation between ReShawn and Dillon's father during the last inning of a Little League game. ReShawn's son is third base; Dillon's son is a pitcher. Both are 7 years-old, on opposing teams, and focused solely on the game.
That's when Arlon Walstead, Dillon's father, joins ReShawn on the bleachers and they talk about the boys' form and focus, noting how good sports is in preparing kids for life...
Without ever exchanging names, they know who each other is, and ReShawn understands this forced casualness was deliberate. It comes out, very obliquely at first, like in mere conversation, that Dillon is quitting the DA's office and going to work for his father's law firm.
Arlon thinks Dillon's stubbornness will serve him better in corporate law than in the system of justice. Because as ADA, he had lost sight of the fact that sometimes a case is better withdrawn than being forcibly taken to the end.
The DA is going to run for the state legislature, so he's gone. The judge who oversaw Simon's case is retiring. Nothing will officially be done about the cops who killed him except the case will remain open. And Arlon says that's how things have always been.
The universe will correct itself, a little, Arlon believes...but ReShawn is not so sure. They have reached the point where everything is out in the open, albeit still low-key...and that is when ReShawn says, "You're saying there's nothing left to be done..."
Arlon's reply? "Not true. Take care of yourself and your family. That's the best you can do. And accept that sometimes it takes a dead man to bring about more change than a live one."
"How did we let things get to this point?"
"We didn't. It's how the world has always been."
Then the game is over. They part ways. ReShawn takes his son to get an ice cream cone and they take a cup of it home to mom, with sprinkles...and that's how it ends.
I felt it clear to the center of my very being. Now I just need to write the rest of the story leading up to it.
Just one of those days where I had to fight myself to keep from just standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, and letting my brain shut down. I managed to make myself go to the bank, get some DPZ and dryer sheets, and a refill of a medication before returning home to go blank, again.
This is why I have cut the Democrats out of my life. The stumbling over themselves to wax on and on about the death of a monstrous man. Even Kamala got in on it.
I will never, ever vote for a Republican, but Democrats should not think that means they automatically have support from me. If I don't like a candidate they present, I'll write a name in. They will not get my vote.
This isn't about political purity. It's about facing reality. Aside from a couple of members, Democrats have shot us the middle finger as much as the GOPedophiles have, just not as overtly, and I'm sick of it.
We need another party, and I don't mean The Greens; they aren't serious. The Progressive Party. Made up of people who will put the well-being of Americans above the wealth of billionaires and money from AIPAC.
And we need to cut out anyone who thinks playing games with people's live is just how politics works.
He nodded. “Thanks for letting me know. Want me to make you a plate?”
She eyed him. Noticed the fingers of his right hand were caressing his phone and grinned. “No, you never put enough sauce on. I’ll make my own.”
She rose, kissed his forehead, then she looked deep into his eyes. They were wary; hers were worried.
“Re...” she began then hesitated and stroked her fingers over his eyebrow. “Are you going to be okay?”
He grinned and nodded. “We will be.”
She hesitated then rose and went inside.
He waited a moment before calling Winslow.
The man picked up on the second ring. “ReShawn...”
“Win. You know anyone at the State Bar?”
The man chuckled. “Is that a serious question?”
“There’s gossip running around...that Eissa Manville’s in contact with them. My bet is, she’s laying the groundwork for a cover your ass claim of I never really thought we should have prosecuted Simon Halloran. Which would be absolute bullshit.”
“I thought we had a tight lid on the investigation.”
“Come on. We’re in the woods. We found a body. It doesn’t take much for the people who put him there to work it out. Add in that I’m involved in the crime scene. My guess is the cops know, too.”
“So you think she’s part of it?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t think she’s being honest?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“All right. Fancy a trip to Columbus, tomorrow? I’m calling a press conference.”
“I have court. Two pm.”
“I’ll make it for noon; bring you in on Zoom. There’ll be questions only you can answer.”
“Okay. I’ll be at the courthouse, ready and waiting.”
“That’s a nice-looking building. Put your phone on a tripod and use the outside as a background. I’ll have Hester set it up.”
“Will do.” Then he ended the call and put one through to George Kaplan.
“Hello, ReShawn. Which case is it?”
“Halloran,” ReShawn sighed. “Ellison’s holding a press conference, tomorrow noon. I’m patching in via Zoom.”
“All right...”
“Also, I’ve heard Manville is already talking to the State Bar, and Bush is in deep discussions with Walstead. And his father.”
“His father?”
“That’s the word.”
Kaplan was quiet for a moment than asked, “Are you getting a continuance for tomorrow’s case?”
“No, I don’t want to. She’s already been through four.”
“Still aiming for self-defense?”
“Absolutely.”
“Let’s see what tomorrow brings.”
“What do you mean?”
“Between you and me? My bet is, Ellison will have his people hit Bush’s offices and take any and all documents in regards to Halloran’s cases. He’ll want those in hand before he faces the media. After that, Bush will be so preoccupied with how his office is now under suspicion, he may be open to dropping all charges. Not because he thinks your client is innocent, but because it will look good for him in the papers.”
“That would be nice.”
“Come into the office, first. We’ll go to the courthouse, together. Moral support. Besides, I helped you find the body so there may be questions for me, as well.”
“I’ll want to be there and set up by noon.”
“Sounds good. Tomorrow, then.”
ReShawn felt a lot lighter now. Having George as backup might help mitigate the expected wave of racism and hate sent his way. At least a little.
His next call went to Benny the Snack.
“Benny, get ready. All hell’s going to tear loose, tomorrow.”
“Roller coaster, huh?” asked Benny, as cheerful as ever.
“That body we found in the woods...”
He heard the joy whisper out of Benny’s voice. “Simon’s...”
“You already heard the gossip?”
“Shit, Re, when I add two and two it ain’t twenty-two. That air-tag. It wasn’t broke, was it?”
“Nope.”
“It...it fuckin’ led you to him.”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. FUCK! I was hopin’...”
“Me, too.”
“You know who did it?”
“Maybe...but no proof.”
“Talk to Viona ‘bout upping your security. Phones. Online. House. Cars.”
“She already has.”
“Yeah, she would. Fuck, Re. He was just a quiet little guy.”
“Sometimes even that’s too loud.”
“You need any help on anything, just lemme know.”
“Thanks. I will. Same to you.”
“Aw, cut it out. Any motherfucker wants to mess with me, he’s gonna get served a shitburger.” Then Benny ended the call with a soft, whispery, “Fuck.”
Okay...I now see that MQM is aiming to do a shift that I almost ignored as it was being set up. When Simon dies, the focus turns to ReShawn's POV.
Still third person, but nothing happens that he is not an immediate part of. And there will be a couple of occasions before Simon's murder that will focus on him, to make the segue palatable.
I'm also trying to maintain a quiet acknowledgement of how the world works, not an overt, dramatic one. ReShawn and Viona, his wife, talk on their front port, in a swing. He's still reeling from having found Simon's body...
--------
Monday night, ReShawn was seated in the swinging porch chair, legal briefs spread across it and his lap. It was a case where his client, a black woman in her forties, had shot her husband as he was beating her.
Fortunately, the gun had fired when she was raising it so he had only lost his spleen and a lot of blood. Which made the charge attempted murder, though Bush was hinting he’d accept a plea to assault. ReShawn had refused, going for self-defense. A lot would depend on the jury they selected, tomorrow.
But he could not focus on the briefs. He was too distracted by the weight of knowing what had happened to Simon. A quiet little guy who had done nothing more than say, No, to the legal system’s attempt to portray him in a negative light. And it was all over a damned misdemeanor.
Over nothing.
Just ego.
Some on Simon’s part, sure, but mainly thanks to Dillon’s and Paley’s unwillingness to just let it go. It was so wrong, and it hurt him in ways he could not even begin to fathom because of how little sense it made.
There was no doubt in his mind those two had something to do with Simon’s murder. The timing of it. The place it happened. The way he was buried so as not to be found. The stories leaked to the media about the search warrant and suspicions of CSA. The hints he may have jumped bail to avoid trial for it. Every word, every suggestion sounded too well-planned not to have been.
But how can you prove something without proof? The pistol used to kill him was untraceable and too common of a make to narrow down. No fingerprints. DNA ruined by an alcohol wipe, or something. The only link might be the two supposed cops who had stopped Simon en route to the bus station and taken him. Their descriptions sounded a bit like Garisov and Corelli, but Winston had interviewed them and they had proof they were on duty at the other end of the city.
Maybe. That might still bear some looking into.
But it would have to be quick. Now the little bastards knew the AG and State Troopers were looking into the murder and...
Viona drove up, breaking his descent into anger. She parked in the driveway and took a moment to exit the car. She had been at the hospital all day, dealing with...how did she put it? Neanderthals who think pounding something will make it work better.
Mostly male but also female. Stupidity has never been misogynistic.
He picked up the briefs and nodded for her to sit next to him.
She all but flopped onto the seat, weary.
“I swear to God,” she murmured, “if I have to explain one more time that F-one will black their monitor out while F-two will renew it, I may smash them over the head with a mainframe.”
ReShawn chuckled.
She continued with, “Orran home?”
He nodded. “On some game with his buddies. Spaghetti’s hot on the stove, with my sauce.”
A hum of pleasure whispered from her. “I do love a man who can cook.” She set the swing to rocking, a little. “Want to hear some gossip, first?”
“What about?”
“That...um, Friday situation.”
When he’d found Simon’s body...dumped in a hole in the wet dirt and now crawling with...with...
He took in a deep breath. “Okay.”
“You’ve had dealings with Elissa Manville. Right?”
He nodded. “Couple times. Dillon Walstead’s second chair.”
“Including that old man’s case?”
He nodded. “Simon Halloran.”
She continued with, “What do you think of her?”
He thought for a moment. “Sharp. Capable. Ambitious. More open to listening to the defense than Dillon is.”
“Do you trust her?”
That made him frown. “Why’re you asking me this?”
“I think she met with the State Bar, today.”
He smiled. “And just how did you this find out?”
“Ah, lawyer comes to the fore. I overheard it in the break room. Couple of interns in a corner giggling over it. One’s brother was seeing her and she had canceled a picnic, yesterday, because she had to be in Columbus, this morning. That was the excuse she gave him. The intern was hoping he’d break up with her, because she thought that woman was a backstabbing bitch. Her exact words.”
He hesitated before asking, “Was that it?”
She smiled, slow and easy. “You remember Una Dockler? From the Christmas Party?”
“Um...older woman? Was German?”
She nodded. “Works in the DA’s office. She's in my cooking group. Does a mean creme brulee.”
“...Okay...”
“I called her. Asked her and her husband over to a barbecue. We’re set for Saturday. Orran’s team is playing in the morning so afternoon and evening feasting. And we chatted a bit. She asked how you were.” Then she hesitated. “And she knew by Friday evening that you were helping with the situation in Barrington Woods. After word started coming in about the body. Dillon didn’t seem to pay any attention to the information, but Elissa did. She was very, very quiet from the first bit of news. Stayed after everyone else left.”
“So...” said ReShawn. “She, um...you think she drove over to Columbus, yesterday?”
Viona nodded. “It’s not an easy drive in the mornings, not if you want to be there the moment their office opens.”
“You think that's why she stayed the night?”
Viona nodded. “She called in sick, today. And your buddy, Dillon, was in a meeting with Bush for hours. A meeting his father joined.”
ReShawn let out a long, deep breath and leaned back. So word was out. The AG's attempt to keep a lid of secrecy was ended. The DA’s office knew the body found in the woods was Simon’s, Bush and Dillon were preparing their stories, and Elissa was already well into her defense mode.
As I said, I'm really very bad to have written this. I know it. Mentally. But emotionally, these two...and that other POS in the White House...are the types who make the world a better place by leaving it.
To be clear, I don't believe in hell. But people like them make me wish, sometimes, that I did.
Meanwhile, MQM is coming along. I wrote a bit where ReShawn finds out from his wife, Viona, the gossip in the hospital she does tech for is...Elissa Manville (who was helping Dillon Walstead prosecute Simon) is talking to the bar association about concerns she had regarding the case.
In short, covering her ass. Which tells ReShawn the veil of secrecy the AG had put over the investigation is cracking, word is getting out...and the rats are deserting the sinking ship.
Which will lead to a quiet talk between ReShawn and Dillon's father, Arlon, as they watch son and grandson, respectively, during a high school baseball match. Which will wrap the story up as Arlon quietly says, "Sometimes a dead man is more effective at causing change than a live one."
I managed to work around an inclination to just scroll through Facebook, Xitter, Instagram and Tumblr for distractions. Mainly pretty men. Or people I follow whom I agree with.
But did myself back onto MQM and moved it a bit forward. Not a lot, just 300 words. More rewriting than anything, but at least it was something.
It's a fight to not fall into one of my depressions. To keep myself focused on this story instead of the chaos being perpetrated by the political class' assholes and those who support either one side or the other. Both are so obnoxious, right now, I can't stand it.
I'm trying to use all of this in building Simon's story. He's spoken with an attorney who doesn't like him and gets the first hint that he'll have to build his own case against his arrest. I'm also including moments showing his love of books and cataloguing them and even how he packs them.
I almost want to make Simon younger, but he's resisting that. And he's right to. Him being elderly with his history and work available to use against him in the trial adds to the story. If I make him younger, it will seem more like he could win against the prosecution. But a quiet old man? He seems more like an easy target.
That's what shocks everyone. How strongly he is able to fight back. Not by brilliance or physical presence, but by simply refusing to give in and raising nonstop questions about what is being done to him.
This would sit better if we didn't already have lecturing from Democrats on how if you don't back them you're backing the GOP. If you choose to stand aside, you're backing the GOPedophiles.
My own arguments, in the past. The only difference being I aimed mine at people who refused to vote. These assholes aim it at progressives for being too demanding.
It's a reverse form of purity politics. Wanting leaders who will do right by you and not those who funded their campaigns is asking for too much, now. If we don't fall in line with the corporate dems chosen by the DNC and those supported by AIPAC and other PACs, we're helping the other side.
Fuck.
That.
Shit.
I'll still vote in November. I'm not so pissed off that I'll do anything stupid like not going to a polling place and casting a ballot. But I'm not doing a damned thing to help, anymore.
But it's been a rough day. Nothing added to MQM but some smoothing over. It's like I'm in mourning. For the second time this year. I should not hope for things to get better, anymore. Seems when I do the reverse happens.
I'm blocking all politicians and a few people who help push them. Because I used to give to AOC and Talarico and Ossoff, I got put on lists of other Democrats running for office, 99% of whom I've never heard of, asking me for $5. $3. $1. All that shit. If I don't give, we'll lose the Senate! Or the House!
I don't fucking care. I'm done with the whole lot of them. Even if they do retake Congress, they won't do a fucking thing except what their corporate masters want. I'm returning my sole focus to me and my characters' needs.
For example, Simon is now staying in Barrington over the weekend because he will need to meet with the Assistant District Attorney, on Monday. Before that, he'll need to get a lawyer to represent him. So driving all the way home and back would not just be more expensive than keeping the hotel room but take too much time.
I actually got a fair bit done on MQM today. Up to 10,200 words and 6 chapters. It's pulling together, and I may make my deadline early. Maybe. We'll see.
I'm also going to work up some of Simon's artwork, though on heavy paper, not canvas. I'm leaning towards making this a partially illustrated book. Have some sections where his poems are counterpointed by paintings and sketches, once it comes out. Like novels used to be in the late 19th Century.
I want it to be something special. Not just the story of a quiet man caught in a hideous situation but a near celebration of his life. Build him up as much as I can, while being as honest as possible about him.
No telling how that will go. It's been years since I really did anything truly artistic.
Yesterday was not a good day. I spent hours dealing with the understanding that Graham Platner...a man I'd supported with monthly donations, hoping he would kick that lying bitch, Susan Collins, out of the Senate...was being destroyed. Not by the GOPedophiles, but by corporate Democrats. Leaders supposedly on our side.
He's accused of having raped a woman 5 years ago. I'm told there's evidence of it, but I've seen none. And the timing of this revelation is just too suspect for me to fall into an automatic believe women mode. Which drives me nuts. I know the statistics. I know the reality of it. But now? Now I wonder...
I don't know Graham Platner. And just to be clear, nor do I have a crush on him; he's not my type and reminds me too much of cousins of mine whom I prefer to stay apart from. He may well have raped that woman while drunk or something. That would not be an excuse.
But he's been running for Senator in Maine for nearly a year. And his momentum picked up just under six months ago, so any of this could have been dealt with any time before the primary for Democratic nominee.
Instead...it's not till weeks after he wins the nod that this is slamming against him. It stinks of manipulation by Susan Collins and her pack. But it's Democrats who are demanding he withdraw. All without seeing the actual evidence, from what I can gather. No such thing as innocent until proven guilty, apparently, not with either party.
I didn't give him a lot of money. Maybe not even a total of a hundred bucks over ten months. But I believed in him. Agreed with his plans. Thought he had the best chance of unseating that backstabbing cunt. And just like Eric Swalwell when he was the front runner for governor of California, he's being attacked by fellow Democrats without a trial or anything. Just the accusation.
I think of what happened to Joe Biden, when he was finally shoved aside from the race for a second term as president. I think of Al Franken being driven out of office by Democrats for a bad taste photo that the woman who was the subject of it knew about and was fine with...until she wasn't.
Then I think of Bill Clinton still being a Democratic leader despite similar accusations against him and having had an affair with an intern half his age. I think of how Democrats are letting an adjudicated rapist and pedophile criminal remain in the White House with minimal pushback. I think of how AIPAC, a vicious pro-zionist organization that excuses Israel's slaughters in Gaza, Lebanon and the West Bank was against Platner.
I just plain do not believe the accusations. And I no longer trust any of the Democrats. Even Mamdani has called for him to withdraw. I'm livid at how our leaders pretend to have the moral high ground when they're really nothing but cowards and craven fools whimpering before the GOPedophiles. And it sickens me.
I think what's happened the last two days is I've given up on America. Even if there is a blue wave in November, it won't make any difference in anything. The rich will still run us all and we will get fucked. And I'm in mourning for the hopes I had.
I love my country...but goddamn, I hate most of the people in it.
I'm up over 8700 words on the first draft, and it will be more once I go through it, again, tomorrow. I connected the bit I'd written...of Simon starting work at Tanner Northridge's home...with him being arrested and going through a bail hearing.
I sort of skimmed through Simon's arrest and overnight stay in jail, so should have a nice expansion for tomorrow. Give his impression of a night in jail. The food. The attitude of the guards. How little he sleeps.
I had already changed the job from the books being packed for transport to London and made it a domestic shipment to NYC, in the first couple chapters. So I just needed to update the Tanner section. That makes 5 chapters.
It works a lot better. Initially I'd had Simon blindsided by Olivier's expectation that he would pack them without mentioning it when they spoke. That made Simon seem weak and easily manipulated, when he is not.
So now he's doing it all, and will have it set to be picked up on Monday...or maybe he'll take the boxes to a UPS store to ship. He's got a small SUV and the books should fit into four boxes. Still a lot to do, but I've adjusted it all in the Tanner section.
I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow and need to consult with the pharmacist about how much Ozempic will cost me. I can't get a clear answer from Atena except I need to pay 20% until my $2100 deductible is met. I'd signed up for Epic so they might cover some of that deductible, but I'm nervous it would be $550 a month for that stuff. Which I ain't gonna do.
I'm just beginning to get back on my feet, financially, and I don't like the idea of a weekly shot into my stomach, anyway. When I was four, a neighbor's dog bit me. Back then, the only way to test for rabies was kill the animal and check its brain, and the neighbor refused to tun her dogs over.
Since we lived outside San Antonio's city limits, at the time, they couldn't force her to. So I got the preventative rabies shots. Several of them. In my stomach. I still remember it. I thought I'd dome something wrong and was being punished. That's damned hard to shake.
Just the thought of repeating that makes me queasy.
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:
-------
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.
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.
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...
-------
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.
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.
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.
Writer and self-involved artist out to change the world until it changes me...as has already happened in far too many ways. This blog is to talk about my writing projects and travels...
