The next morning Salem strolled into her office building in Pilsen just before noon. She was carrying two bags of tacos from one of the last remaining Mexican restaurants in the neighborhood, stalwart holdouts against the gastropubs and yoga studios that had started moving in a couple of decades earlier. In the elevator a pair of young professionals eyed her lunch with clear envy, looking despondently at the salads in their hands. She got off on the third floor, walked to suite 360, and opened the door.
“I hope to god some of that is for me,” a flat, sardonic voice greeted her. Her assistant was (describe an old Sam Spade.) William Club had been around the block in the private investigator game. He had his own outfit ages ago, but had gotten out after years took their toll on his knees and nerves. He’d overheard Salem talking in a bar and basically hired himself to work as her partner, convinced that, “Someone so young and pretty can’t handle this rough game alone.” Salem let him work the front desk.
“Good morning to you, too, Billy,” she said as she walked by, placing one of the bags on his desk.
“Everything work out last night?” he asked, not fully paying attention to her and tearing the paper bag to pieces.
“There was a little trouble, but we got paid.”
“Seems like everything worked out fine, then,” he said around a mouthful of chorizo.
She opened the inner door and stepped into her office. It was cluttered and shabby, just the way she’d left it. Scuffed wooden shelves lined the walls holding an assortment of charging cables, outdated handsets and glasses, and stacks of external hard drives. Salem was a stickler for record keeping, but didn’t trust the security of cloud storage at all, preferring to keep these, the only meticulously ordered and organized things in the room.
She sat down and powered on her desk and screen, transferring over last night’s recording. She rewatched, fast forwarding through some parts, watching others at real-time, seemingly at random, munching slowly on tacos al pastor. The scuffle in the alley was nearly invisible until she’d drawn her weapon, though the scoring on the underside of her jacket’s collar would probably corroborate her self-defense story.
As the video ended she leaned back, opened a drawer and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She realized she was on her last pack, and hoped her local connection would have some ready to sell. The local bootleg stuff was much better than the imports from Columbia. She lit her cigarette, took a drag, and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl up towards the ceiling. Salem only smoked when working, either when trying to work through a problem, or celebrating the end of a job.
A chat box popped up on her screen with a ping, Billy messaging that Detective O’Connor was here and wanted to see her. She stubbed the cigarette out in an ash tray in her drawer and closed it, then instructed Billy to let O’Connor in.
The door opened and an aggravated looking middle-aged man shuffled in, his dark grey suit hanging loosely on his slight frame, his face drawn and showing a steady, consistent lack of sleep. He scowled at Salem, and exhaled deeply as he dropped into the chair opposite her desk.
“Just one of these times I wish you’d stick around after you plug one of these chumps.”
“That’s a tough neighborhood Phil. You can’t expect a lady like me to just hang around in a place like that.”
He snorted. “The scumbags in that neighborhood are lucky you don’t spend more time there.” He pulled out a handset and a stylus. “So, who is this guy. I asked him at the hospital this morning, but he claimed selective amnesia and checked himself out as soon as the hospital cleared him. His prints are somehow not in our database.”
Salem raised an eyebrow at that. “You know, he never mentioned his name.”
The detective stared at her for a moment, waiting for her to continue. She met his gaze, letting the silence hang.
“And what were you doing there?” he said finally.
“I was tailing him. Cheating boyfriend. He made me and things got out of hand.”
“Cheating boyfriend?” O’Connor repeated incredulously. “You seem to get a lot of cases of cheating boyfriends here, Song. Are you some cheating boyfriend expert now?”
“Why, Phil? Trouble with Jim? I’ll give you a discount if you want, seeing as we have such a good working relationship.”
He exhaled in loud frustration. “Goddammit, that’s enough. You’ve given us good leads in the past, but not enough to keep masking all these weapon discharges. License or no, you’re popping up in the system too often, Song. Not to mention that, unless they’ve started growing strains of pot that smell like tobacco, I could probably run you in for whatever you were smoking before I walked in. And I could probably put you away for whatever you’re carrying in that shoulder holster right now. It’s sure as hell not hanging like any street legal weapon I know. I want the guy’s name, your client’s name, and your recording of last night.”
“You know I can’t give you any of that.”
“I have enough on you to pull your license right now. You owe me something more than bland non-answers.”
Salem sat in quiet surprise. “Why all this heat, Phil? Why now? This can’t just be over another nobody walking around with bad memories of me. Was this guy into something?” She was starting to reconsider her no questions asked business model.
Phil actually smiled, and leaned back. It was his turn to let the silence stretch on.
“Good nose, Song,” he said at last. And you’re going to need it. No, this isn’t about whatever business you got into last night. I don’t give a shit about that. The CPD has a case, and we need it to be investigated quietly, and unofficially. You’re going to take it.”
“Am I?” she said, her damned curiosity nudging her on.
“Yes. Because we have such a good working relationship, and because your continued ability to run your business is one big continual favor from me. And favors aren’t free.”
Part of her wanted to keep putting up a fight because it rankled her that O’Connor thought he could just waltz in and put the screws to her like this. But another part of her, the part that was tired of not getting answers, the part that couldn’t turn its back on a good puzzle, really wanted to know what the case was. As far as she knew the police were not in the habit of farming cases out to private investigators anymore, so it had to be something interesting. Besides, she didn’t seem to have a choice.
“OK, Phil. What’s the investigation?”
“You’ve heard of Ann Wind?”
“Of course. I’m conscious, after all.”
Everyone in the city had heard of Ann Wind. Her company, GaleWind Transportation, owned the midwest regional high-speed rail lines. She was always being spotted at this or that charity gala, restaurant opening, or high-profile community press event. The rail lines in the northeast, southeast, southwest, and west coast were all run by fairly faceless corporations, but Wind was always making sure her face was front and center. The latest buzz in the news was her company was working on a contract to run a line from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia, connecting those two train systems.
“She’s missing.”
Interesting indeed.
“Seems like something the police would want to devote all of their resources to. Why come to me?
“Her partner, Jon Gale, has some pull at city hall, and wants this handled as quietly as possible - and as quickly. She hasn’t been missing for very long yet, and he thinks a long, public investigation would have an effect on the deal they’ve been working on.”
“He’s all heart.”
Phil shrugged. “I’m not his shrink. It’s not my job to figure out his reasons. It’s just my job to find his partner. Well, I guess that’s your job now.” He put his handset and stylus away and pulled out a piece of paper, laying it on her desk. A physical piece of paper. Salem stared at it without making a move to pick it up. “This is my personal number. If you need anything, call that. Don’t call the department. If it’s something I can handle without kicking up too much fuss it’s yours. I’ll check on you in a few days for an update. Probably not here.”
He rose out of his chair and moved to the door, as Salem sat, staring at her desk, gears moving quickly in her head. As he reached to grab the handle a thought occurred to her.
“O’Connor. If I would have let the fat man go last night, and skipped the fireworks in the alley, where would you have been this morning.”
He shot her a grin. “You’re not the only P.I. in this city that owes me favors, and you’re not the only one of them that popped up in the system last night. You’re just the best of them. Take this as a lesson to keep off of my radar,” he said as he pulled the door open and left the room. He blew by Billy without comment and exited the office.
Billy rolled his chair to Salem door and popped his head in.
“How bad was it? Read you the riot act about caution and restraint and the public good?”
“Not bad at all, Billy,” Salem said, lighting another cigarette. “He gave us a job.”
Monday, November 10, 2014
NanoWriMo Chapter 1
Salem Song stopped quickly and tucked herself tight against a shadowed wall as a door ahead burst open, light and voices spilling into the dim street. A mass of three people stumbled out, boozy laughter rolling out from them, breaking the silence of the otherwise deserted street. Past them she saw her quarry look back as well, startled at the sudden noise and possible attention. The heavy man paused long enough to see them walk toward a car parked in front of the building, seemed, for a split second, to look past them, toward her in the darkness, then turned and continued on his way. Salem stood, stock still, until the group piled into their car and drove off, nearly invisible outside of the dim pools lit by the weakening street lamps. The heavy man was still in sight, walking slowly but breathing heavily, throwing clouds of steam into the cold night air. She waited a few breaths, until he was nearly out of site, before carefully resuming her slow, methodical chase.
She turned up the collar of her leather jacket against the evening’s chill, and her well-worn boots barely made a sound against the cement as she carefully worked her way around loose stones and stray bottles. She’d been tailing this mark for hours, from the moment he left his high-rise office building in the South Loop, and wound a path through a string of high-brow cocktail bars on his way down through to Hyde Park. Now, at two in the morning, he’d reached a neighborhood for which gentrification was still a far-off rumor, and into which the city had spent considerable effort and money funneling the remaining poor and homeless. The face of this Chicago had been unchanged for decades, not neglected as much as willfully ignored.
He’d started moving faster, already at the edge of Salem’s vision, forcing her to move recklessly faster in case she lose him in the gloom. She tried to keep her noise to a minimum, and match her footfalls to his, but he was clearly spooked by something and broke into a run. His heavy steps echoed down the street, masking her quiet curse, and she ran to catch up. She’d followed too long to lose him now, and if her cover was blown so be it. She’d get the information she needed somehow. She was closing the distance, but was still a block behind when he quickly ducked into an alley. She swore again and sped up to a sprint already knowing that once she reached the turn he’d be long gone. She slowed as she reached the corner, reaching out with her right hand as she sidled toward the edge, feeling the rough brick under her fingers. She listened closely for a moment before slowly craning her neck around. The alley was black, with windows either unlit or blocked on either side, and city lights long since burned out and never replaced. She reached her hand up to nudge the controls on her glasses to increase the sensitivity in hopes to see something in the darkness, but it barely made any difference.
She steadied her breathing, and with practiced ease slid around the corner and slipped quietly into the alley. She moved slowly, deliberately placing one foot silently in front of the other, scanning the ground for anything luckily dropped by the heavy set man. Seconds passed like minutes as her eyes and ears strained for any sign of him.
She jumped back and twisted left the instant she heard the crackle of wingtip on broken glass. The man was faster than she would have guessed, his knife grazing her upturned collar. He swore as he rushed by, off-balance and scrambling, and she quickly regained her footing, her hand hovering over the gun hanging at her waist.
“You’re quick, sweetheart, I’ll give you that,” a voice growled from the dark. “Should have turned by at that alley, though. Quick or not, you’re not getting out of here alive.”
Surrounded by deadly, armed blackness Salem made a mental note to upgrade to a pair of glasses equipped with infrared. “You’ll want to drop that pig sticker and answer some questions if you want to make it through tonight upright and breathing,” she said, her voice sugar over steel.
He laughed harshly and she heard the crunch of gravel as he lunged at her again. She dodged blindly, feeling his knife arm pierce the air to her left, and as she prepared her counter he, faster than she would have imagined, planted his feet and swung a knee into her stomach. She gasped, doubled over, and rolled, the weapon in her shoulder holster digging into her side. She heard steps coming closer and drew from her hip, thumbing her pistol’s light, revealing her attacker’s face in the small cone of light. A bent nose hung over a large-mouthed scowl. His jaw was wide-set, like his shoulders, and though he’d looked clumsy the entire night he now stood solidly and balanced in front of her. He was balding, his breath came now in pants, and despite his girth his grey suit hung loose around him. He grinned wide, the smile of a shark approaching a wounded diver, and slowly advanced. His face was predatory, his smile profane, and he wiped his mouth with his sleeve as he advanced.
“Like I said, doll, you should have went home. I don’t know who you are, and don’t care, but you’re lucky I don’t have more time to spend dealing with you.”
She slid away, clawing the ground with her left arm, willing air back into her lungs. Her back touched a building and she used it to get back to her feet, breathing in ragged gasps.
“One more step,” she rasped, gripping the weapon in two hands, “and you’re in for a world of hurt.”
He paused, smile fading slightly from deadly to patronizing, sizing her up.
“OK, darling, you win,” he said, tossing his knife off to her right. As her eyes followed it he charged with impossible agility, but without looking back she squeezed the trigger twice. He’d probably braced himself for the shock of standard civilian electrified non-lethal rounds, and maybe even hid some body armor under his ill-fitting suit. He certainly did not suspect that Salem was was carrying police-grade firepower with enough juice to short out a linebacker shooting designed drugs with rounds that would arc through anything short of a Faraday Cage. The sheer projectile force stopped his advance and the pain dropped him, convulsing, to the ground.
Salem moved away from the wall, keeping her weapon trained on him, and steadied her breathing just as he regained enough muscle control to scream in pain. She dropped another round into him and he vomited, the stench of stomach acid and cheap vodka filling the alley. She stood nonchalantly as he shouted and cursed, writhing on the concrete. He’d lured her to one of the only neighborhoods in the entire city that wouldn’t give a damn about his screams, and he knew it. Whatever happened from here on would be uninterrupted.
“The way I see it,” she said coldly,” you can answer my questions, or spend the rest of the night ruining your suit, and wishing I was holding something more deadly than this gun.”
He looked at her, coughed, growled something that might have been “Fuck you,” drew a shallow breath, and spit at her feet. She kicked him in the mouth, and then in the stomach, and he gasped and writhed. She kneeled on him - one knee in his back, the other on his head - and buried the barrel of her gun in his neck.
“You do not want to feel what this is like point blank on bare flesh,” she said.
He gurgled a response and weakly moved an arm.
“What?”
“…Pocket,” he managed.
“Slowly,” she said, easing her pressure on his back.
He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small piece of plastic. She recognized it as an old flash drive, the kind people used to use to transport files before the Cloud, and before wearables could carry large amounts of data.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she said, taking it from his shaking hand. “Where were you taking this? A museum?”
“There was a drop house around the old U of C campus,” he said through gritted teeth. “I saw you following me, but I was supposed to dump the drive up there. I swear that’s all I-“
“You know what? I don’t care,” Salem interrupted. She squeezed the trigger and got to her feet as the unnamed man convulsed below her. He passed out from the pain as she turned her back and made her way back into the dim light of the street. As she reached the alley mouth and turned left she heard a rustling behind her and guessed that when her unfortunate mark awoke he’d be missing anything valuable on him, including the terrible suit. Even automated taxis wouldn’t be cruising this neighborhood so she started walking north to the nearest L station, this time striding directly through the weakly illuminated circles in the street. She thumbed her glasses again, and clicked through to her contacts.
“O’Connor,” a voice growled, answering on the third ring.
“Detective,” she answered smoothly. “Salem Song. You’re probably going to see an alert soon for a weapon discharge. That was me. I’ve got another one for you. GPS tags of the slugs should be in the system by now.”
“Another completely unprovoked attack, I suppose?”
“You just can’t walk the streets safely these days,” she said, disconnecting the call.
On the way to the L she spotted a bar, and popped in. The Blarney Stone. It was one of a million nondescript “Irish” pubs that dotted the city, and one of several unrelated Blarney Stones. Bars whose only claim to Ireland was the Guinness on tap, with the only thing shorter than the whiskey list being the actual pours of liquor. The place was empty, the 4am liquor license wasted on a Tuesday night, and the bartender looked tiredly up from his tablet as she walked in. He wore the black t-shirt and black jeans that seemed to be the uniform behind bars like these, though the disheveled beard and sullen eyes were probably his own addition. She strode up to the him without taking a stool, pulled her credit chit out of the holster on her left wrist, and placed it in front of her. No tiredness in her movements, no shaky hands, no nerves. Just practiced precision and grace, even after the dust-up in the alley.
“Whiskey,” she said. “Neat. Keep the tab open.”
He produced a half empty bottle of Powers and a reasonably clean glass and poured in a finger and a half. She looked up and him and raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged and tipped the bottle again. She picked up her drink and chose a table near the wall, and sighed as she sat, feeling his eyes following her. After her first sip she reached up and thumbed off her glasses’ recording. Just a simple drink after a dicey encounter, nothing more. The dim, dinginess of the bar matched her mood, though the atmosphere was no doubt completely manufactured. Dank drinking holes made to order. She pulled out her handset and pinged her client that the job was complete, and included the bar’s address to make the exchange. She heard footsteps on the machine-scuffed floorboards and looked up to see the bartender approaching, bottle in hand. When he arrived at the table set the bottle down, and reached to pull out a chair. She hooked a booted foot around the leg, stopping him.
“You know,” she said carefully eyeing him up and down,” most nights I’d probably be all for this, and we’d have some fun, but tonight is all business and this seat’s taken. Maybe next time.”
He tried to hide the shocked look on his face, tried to maintain the air of bartender cool he’d no doubt been working on since his first night on the job. He feigned apathy and shrugged.
“No harm, darlin’,” he said in a passable, yet fabricated, Irish accent. “You let me know if you need anything else. You can call me Patrick.”
“Sure, Patrick. You can’t call me darlin’,” Salem responded with an insincere smile.
He raised his arms in a sign of defeat and retreated back behind the bar and lost himself back into his tablet.
Near the end of her drink the door opened. Salem looked up and saw a portly older man walk in, leaning heavily on his cane. His bright white hair was perfectly styled, as was his cirsp grey suit, and his cheeks were slightly red from the cold and wind outside. He walked to the bar, ordered a gin, and reached into his pocket to pay with $20 in real, hard currency. He waived away any change, which the bar probably couldn’t make anyway. Patrick raised an eyebrow, and then when the old man turned around pocketed the bill.
As the gentleman walked over to Salem’s table she lifted her foot and pushed out the chair across from her. He nodded his head and gingerly lowered himself into the seat, letting out a breath.
“Hello again, Ms. Song. I trust everything went smoothly?” he asked, with an old, gruff yet genteel sort of charm.
“Not at all, actually,” she responded to the man she only know by the fake name Mr. White. She could have found out the name behind the alias, but that wasn’t her style, and that style was what kept her in work. “It went pretty rough. He didn’t give up the data easily. Almost left me talking out of the side of my neck, and I had to put three rounds in him.”
“So the police are involved?” Mr. White said, slightly alarmed.
“It’s not a problem. I involved a detective I’ve worked with before, he’ll walk away from this. That fuss, though, does make me a bit curious about what could be on here,” she said pulling the flash drive out of her pocket, and studying it.
“Your curiosity, though, wasn’t part of our deal,” he replied softly, with a practiced pleasantness and patience. “I’ll have that, you’ll have your payment, and our business will be over.”
Salem continued to look at the drive for a moment and sighed. She’d made a choice that, in her business, she didn’t always get to know the answers to the million questions rattling around her brain. Despite the fight, and the inconvenience of dealing with the police, she had agreed to deliver no questions asked. Meeting Mr. White’s eyes she placed the drive in the middle of the table, keeping a single finger on it. He smiled, nodded, and tapped his wrist through his suit. Her handset vibrated in her pocket and a notice popped up on her glasses that payment had been made to her account. He’d tried to negotiate a cash payment, but she didn’t want the trouble and suspicion of bringing that much currency into a bank. She took her finger off of the drive, picked up her glass, drained the last of her whiskey, and without another word stood and walked to the bar to settle her bill. As she walked out the door she saw, out of the corner of her eye, Mr. White calmly nursing his drink. Outside she saw a black car with a study, square-shouldered, plain looking brown-haired man leaning against it. Inside, she saw a flesh-and-blood driver behind the wheel. The old man really liked rolling old school.
Salem turned up the street towards the L train and home.
She turned up the collar of her leather jacket against the evening’s chill, and her well-worn boots barely made a sound against the cement as she carefully worked her way around loose stones and stray bottles. She’d been tailing this mark for hours, from the moment he left his high-rise office building in the South Loop, and wound a path through a string of high-brow cocktail bars on his way down through to Hyde Park. Now, at two in the morning, he’d reached a neighborhood for which gentrification was still a far-off rumor, and into which the city had spent considerable effort and money funneling the remaining poor and homeless. The face of this Chicago had been unchanged for decades, not neglected as much as willfully ignored.
He’d started moving faster, already at the edge of Salem’s vision, forcing her to move recklessly faster in case she lose him in the gloom. She tried to keep her noise to a minimum, and match her footfalls to his, but he was clearly spooked by something and broke into a run. His heavy steps echoed down the street, masking her quiet curse, and she ran to catch up. She’d followed too long to lose him now, and if her cover was blown so be it. She’d get the information she needed somehow. She was closing the distance, but was still a block behind when he quickly ducked into an alley. She swore again and sped up to a sprint already knowing that once she reached the turn he’d be long gone. She slowed as she reached the corner, reaching out with her right hand as she sidled toward the edge, feeling the rough brick under her fingers. She listened closely for a moment before slowly craning her neck around. The alley was black, with windows either unlit or blocked on either side, and city lights long since burned out and never replaced. She reached her hand up to nudge the controls on her glasses to increase the sensitivity in hopes to see something in the darkness, but it barely made any difference.
She steadied her breathing, and with practiced ease slid around the corner and slipped quietly into the alley. She moved slowly, deliberately placing one foot silently in front of the other, scanning the ground for anything luckily dropped by the heavy set man. Seconds passed like minutes as her eyes and ears strained for any sign of him.
She jumped back and twisted left the instant she heard the crackle of wingtip on broken glass. The man was faster than she would have guessed, his knife grazing her upturned collar. He swore as he rushed by, off-balance and scrambling, and she quickly regained her footing, her hand hovering over the gun hanging at her waist.
“You’re quick, sweetheart, I’ll give you that,” a voice growled from the dark. “Should have turned by at that alley, though. Quick or not, you’re not getting out of here alive.”
Surrounded by deadly, armed blackness Salem made a mental note to upgrade to a pair of glasses equipped with infrared. “You’ll want to drop that pig sticker and answer some questions if you want to make it through tonight upright and breathing,” she said, her voice sugar over steel.
He laughed harshly and she heard the crunch of gravel as he lunged at her again. She dodged blindly, feeling his knife arm pierce the air to her left, and as she prepared her counter he, faster than she would have imagined, planted his feet and swung a knee into her stomach. She gasped, doubled over, and rolled, the weapon in her shoulder holster digging into her side. She heard steps coming closer and drew from her hip, thumbing her pistol’s light, revealing her attacker’s face in the small cone of light. A bent nose hung over a large-mouthed scowl. His jaw was wide-set, like his shoulders, and though he’d looked clumsy the entire night he now stood solidly and balanced in front of her. He was balding, his breath came now in pants, and despite his girth his grey suit hung loose around him. He grinned wide, the smile of a shark approaching a wounded diver, and slowly advanced. His face was predatory, his smile profane, and he wiped his mouth with his sleeve as he advanced.
“Like I said, doll, you should have went home. I don’t know who you are, and don’t care, but you’re lucky I don’t have more time to spend dealing with you.”
She slid away, clawing the ground with her left arm, willing air back into her lungs. Her back touched a building and she used it to get back to her feet, breathing in ragged gasps.
“One more step,” she rasped, gripping the weapon in two hands, “and you’re in for a world of hurt.”
He paused, smile fading slightly from deadly to patronizing, sizing her up.
“OK, darling, you win,” he said, tossing his knife off to her right. As her eyes followed it he charged with impossible agility, but without looking back she squeezed the trigger twice. He’d probably braced himself for the shock of standard civilian electrified non-lethal rounds, and maybe even hid some body armor under his ill-fitting suit. He certainly did not suspect that Salem was was carrying police-grade firepower with enough juice to short out a linebacker shooting designed drugs with rounds that would arc through anything short of a Faraday Cage. The sheer projectile force stopped his advance and the pain dropped him, convulsing, to the ground.
Salem moved away from the wall, keeping her weapon trained on him, and steadied her breathing just as he regained enough muscle control to scream in pain. She dropped another round into him and he vomited, the stench of stomach acid and cheap vodka filling the alley. She stood nonchalantly as he shouted and cursed, writhing on the concrete. He’d lured her to one of the only neighborhoods in the entire city that wouldn’t give a damn about his screams, and he knew it. Whatever happened from here on would be uninterrupted.
“The way I see it,” she said coldly,” you can answer my questions, or spend the rest of the night ruining your suit, and wishing I was holding something more deadly than this gun.”
He looked at her, coughed, growled something that might have been “Fuck you,” drew a shallow breath, and spit at her feet. She kicked him in the mouth, and then in the stomach, and he gasped and writhed. She kneeled on him - one knee in his back, the other on his head - and buried the barrel of her gun in his neck.
“You do not want to feel what this is like point blank on bare flesh,” she said.
He gurgled a response and weakly moved an arm.
“What?”
“…Pocket,” he managed.
“Slowly,” she said, easing her pressure on his back.
He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small piece of plastic. She recognized it as an old flash drive, the kind people used to use to transport files before the Cloud, and before wearables could carry large amounts of data.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she said, taking it from his shaking hand. “Where were you taking this? A museum?”
“There was a drop house around the old U of C campus,” he said through gritted teeth. “I saw you following me, but I was supposed to dump the drive up there. I swear that’s all I-“
“You know what? I don’t care,” Salem interrupted. She squeezed the trigger and got to her feet as the unnamed man convulsed below her. He passed out from the pain as she turned her back and made her way back into the dim light of the street. As she reached the alley mouth and turned left she heard a rustling behind her and guessed that when her unfortunate mark awoke he’d be missing anything valuable on him, including the terrible suit. Even automated taxis wouldn’t be cruising this neighborhood so she started walking north to the nearest L station, this time striding directly through the weakly illuminated circles in the street. She thumbed her glasses again, and clicked through to her contacts.
“O’Connor,” a voice growled, answering on the third ring.
“Detective,” she answered smoothly. “Salem Song. You’re probably going to see an alert soon for a weapon discharge. That was me. I’ve got another one for you. GPS tags of the slugs should be in the system by now.”
“Another completely unprovoked attack, I suppose?”
“You just can’t walk the streets safely these days,” she said, disconnecting the call.
On the way to the L she spotted a bar, and popped in. The Blarney Stone. It was one of a million nondescript “Irish” pubs that dotted the city, and one of several unrelated Blarney Stones. Bars whose only claim to Ireland was the Guinness on tap, with the only thing shorter than the whiskey list being the actual pours of liquor. The place was empty, the 4am liquor license wasted on a Tuesday night, and the bartender looked tiredly up from his tablet as she walked in. He wore the black t-shirt and black jeans that seemed to be the uniform behind bars like these, though the disheveled beard and sullen eyes were probably his own addition. She strode up to the him without taking a stool, pulled her credit chit out of the holster on her left wrist, and placed it in front of her. No tiredness in her movements, no shaky hands, no nerves. Just practiced precision and grace, even after the dust-up in the alley.
“Whiskey,” she said. “Neat. Keep the tab open.”
He produced a half empty bottle of Powers and a reasonably clean glass and poured in a finger and a half. She looked up and him and raised an eyebrow, and he shrugged and tipped the bottle again. She picked up her drink and chose a table near the wall, and sighed as she sat, feeling his eyes following her. After her first sip she reached up and thumbed off her glasses’ recording. Just a simple drink after a dicey encounter, nothing more. The dim, dinginess of the bar matched her mood, though the atmosphere was no doubt completely manufactured. Dank drinking holes made to order. She pulled out her handset and pinged her client that the job was complete, and included the bar’s address to make the exchange. She heard footsteps on the machine-scuffed floorboards and looked up to see the bartender approaching, bottle in hand. When he arrived at the table set the bottle down, and reached to pull out a chair. She hooked a booted foot around the leg, stopping him.
“You know,” she said carefully eyeing him up and down,” most nights I’d probably be all for this, and we’d have some fun, but tonight is all business and this seat’s taken. Maybe next time.”
He tried to hide the shocked look on his face, tried to maintain the air of bartender cool he’d no doubt been working on since his first night on the job. He feigned apathy and shrugged.
“No harm, darlin’,” he said in a passable, yet fabricated, Irish accent. “You let me know if you need anything else. You can call me Patrick.”
“Sure, Patrick. You can’t call me darlin’,” Salem responded with an insincere smile.
He raised his arms in a sign of defeat and retreated back behind the bar and lost himself back into his tablet.
Near the end of her drink the door opened. Salem looked up and saw a portly older man walk in, leaning heavily on his cane. His bright white hair was perfectly styled, as was his cirsp grey suit, and his cheeks were slightly red from the cold and wind outside. He walked to the bar, ordered a gin, and reached into his pocket to pay with $20 in real, hard currency. He waived away any change, which the bar probably couldn’t make anyway. Patrick raised an eyebrow, and then when the old man turned around pocketed the bill.
As the gentleman walked over to Salem’s table she lifted her foot and pushed out the chair across from her. He nodded his head and gingerly lowered himself into the seat, letting out a breath.
“Hello again, Ms. Song. I trust everything went smoothly?” he asked, with an old, gruff yet genteel sort of charm.
“Not at all, actually,” she responded to the man she only know by the fake name Mr. White. She could have found out the name behind the alias, but that wasn’t her style, and that style was what kept her in work. “It went pretty rough. He didn’t give up the data easily. Almost left me talking out of the side of my neck, and I had to put three rounds in him.”
“So the police are involved?” Mr. White said, slightly alarmed.
“It’s not a problem. I involved a detective I’ve worked with before, he’ll walk away from this. That fuss, though, does make me a bit curious about what could be on here,” she said pulling the flash drive out of her pocket, and studying it.
“Your curiosity, though, wasn’t part of our deal,” he replied softly, with a practiced pleasantness and patience. “I’ll have that, you’ll have your payment, and our business will be over.”
Salem continued to look at the drive for a moment and sighed. She’d made a choice that, in her business, she didn’t always get to know the answers to the million questions rattling around her brain. Despite the fight, and the inconvenience of dealing with the police, she had agreed to deliver no questions asked. Meeting Mr. White’s eyes she placed the drive in the middle of the table, keeping a single finger on it. He smiled, nodded, and tapped his wrist through his suit. Her handset vibrated in her pocket and a notice popped up on her glasses that payment had been made to her account. He’d tried to negotiate a cash payment, but she didn’t want the trouble and suspicion of bringing that much currency into a bank. She took her finger off of the drive, picked up her glass, drained the last of her whiskey, and without another word stood and walked to the bar to settle her bill. As she walked out the door she saw, out of the corner of her eye, Mr. White calmly nursing his drink. Outside she saw a black car with a study, square-shouldered, plain looking brown-haired man leaning against it. Inside, she saw a flesh-and-blood driver behind the wheel. The old man really liked rolling old school.
Salem turned up the street towards the L train and home.
Sunday, June 3, 2012
Listening Midwestward - The Lighthouse and the Whaler
Cleveland, Ohio is a city whose residents are generally described as, "hard working", "blue-collar", and as people who "bring their lunch pails to work." It's an old steel town that never lost the steel town reputation; a place that seems to fit fuzzy guitars, and heavy backbeats. In recent years the city has been trying to shake off the Rust Belt aura, and the sweet, ornate indie-pop of The Lighthouse and the Whaler is a sure step in that direction.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Racism, the Army, and Pvt Danny Chen
For kids that get bullied in high school the conventional wisdom is that once you graduate It Gets Better. Once you leave the regimented confines of school, once the forced interactions with would be tormenters ends you're allowed to explore the world, find other people like yourself, and really explore the better parts of being alive. That's what we tell children, harassed and hopeless, unable to see any way out. In my personal experience, and in the experience of the vast majority of others who have made it past bad situations, this is a truth.
For Danny Chen, however, reality was cruelly the opposite.
For Danny Chen, however, reality was cruelly the opposite.
Hollywood and Asian America a Century Later
Over the last few years the subject of Racebending has weighed heavier and heavier on my mind. I was well aware that in the early eras of film white actors routinely played Asian lead characters; the racism of the time relegating Asian actors to supporting and extra roles. I knew that, decades later, these norms had remained strong enough for David Carradine to supplant the iconic Bruce Lee in the television series Kung Fu. It wasn't until the recent debacle that was Avatar: The Last Airbender, however, that I truly began to see that Hollywood, more than lazily resisting change, was continually reinforcing these archaic norms onto the movie watching public.
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Favorite Five Albums of 2011
This past year was one in which, I have to admit, I kept up with new music less than is normal for me - and certainly far less than I wanted to. It was only a few years ago that I'd scour the interwebs every Monday night in search of some possible gems about to drop on the following Tuesday. Work and occasional other interests took up more of my time this year, however I was still able to find five albums that I couldn't put down.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
After Evictions Does Occupy Really Need to Occupy?
The first Occupy Wall Street encampment began September 17 with a few dozen protesters rolling out sleeping bags in Zuccotti Park in downtown Manhattan. Since then Occupy movements have sprung up in cities in every part of the United States, all securing encampments in public parks to serve as meeting places, staging grounds, and symbolic homes to this nascent, nonviolent revolution. Fast on the heels of the first tent on public space, however, was heightened police presence, posturing from myriad mayors' offices and eventually eviction of the peaceably assembled protesters.
In the national narrative Occupy survived eviction, re-occupation, and re-eviction in various cities from Seattle to Portland to San Francisco to Chicago to Boston to, famously, Oakland, et al, but through it all it seemed as though as long as the first encampment at Zuccotti Park - redubbed Liberty Park - stood then Occupy still had a space to thrive. Indeed, at first it seemed that the New York movement would have an easier time standing up to mayoral pressure since Liberty Park was one of New York City's many privately owned public spaces*. Eventually though, on November 16th, even this encampment proved vulnerable and in an early morning raid police cleared the park, leading to the arrest of several protesters, severe property damage - including the destruction of several laptops and several thousand books - and the arrests of many protesters and journalists.
In the national narrative Occupy survived eviction, re-occupation, and re-eviction in various cities from Seattle to Portland to San Francisco to Chicago to Boston to, famously, Oakland, et al, but through it all it seemed as though as long as the first encampment at Zuccotti Park - redubbed Liberty Park - stood then Occupy still had a space to thrive. Indeed, at first it seemed that the New York movement would have an easier time standing up to mayoral pressure since Liberty Park was one of New York City's many privately owned public spaces*. Eventually though, on November 16th, even this encampment proved vulnerable and in an early morning raid police cleared the park, leading to the arrest of several protesters, severe property damage - including the destruction of several laptops and several thousand books - and the arrests of many protesters and journalists.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Occupy Wall Street: Why Do They Occupy?
I've recently had several conversations regarding the Occupy Wall Street protests basically revolving around the question, "What are these things about?" Most people that are friends with me on Facebook or Google Plus, or who follow me on Twitter know that I've been following these goings on pretty closely (and have been plastering coverage all over all of my various social media personae.)
Full disclosure: I've never stayed overnight at the park, and I've never faced down police. I have marched with the movement several times, have brought food down to Zuccotti park on several occasions and have been an ardent supporter for quite some time. The vibe I've always gotten from marching with occupiers and hanging around the park during "off" times is very different than what gets out on a lot of broadcast news channels. There's a lot more age variation for one, and it's not just the stereotypical protester-type that shows up. Yes there are some overly idealistic college kids and there are some older lifetime protesters, but Occupy Wall Street is more complicated than these folks. Those are usually the people that give the most sensational soundbites, or tell the most familiar story which is why they tend to end up on the news. In truth, the vast majority of OWS supporters have jobs. Some have families. Some have never protested anything before. Some are even in the 1%. Their stories are varied and not easily related in a five minute montage on the evening news. If you really want to know the people in this movement just look around you. If the first person you see is not a supporter then chances are there's someone in the movement much like them.
Why do they occupy? Well, according to Twitter the reasons are more varied than their backgrounds. It's a common complaint that OWS has no singular purpose; no clear, concise list of demands. I respond by saying if the issues of the last couple decades had only resulted in a short, easy-to-read list of problems then Occupy Wall Street wouldn't have the support that it does, and wouldn't be as necessary as it is.
Full disclosure: I've never stayed overnight at the park, and I've never faced down police. I have marched with the movement several times, have brought food down to Zuccotti park on several occasions and have been an ardent supporter for quite some time. The vibe I've always gotten from marching with occupiers and hanging around the park during "off" times is very different than what gets out on a lot of broadcast news channels. There's a lot more age variation for one, and it's not just the stereotypical protester-type that shows up. Yes there are some overly idealistic college kids and there are some older lifetime protesters, but Occupy Wall Street is more complicated than these folks. Those are usually the people that give the most sensational soundbites, or tell the most familiar story which is why they tend to end up on the news. In truth, the vast majority of OWS supporters have jobs. Some have families. Some have never protested anything before. Some are even in the 1%. Their stories are varied and not easily related in a five minute montage on the evening news. If you really want to know the people in this movement just look around you. If the first person you see is not a supporter then chances are there's someone in the movement much like them.
Why do they occupy? Well, according to Twitter the reasons are more varied than their backgrounds. It's a common complaint that OWS has no singular purpose; no clear, concise list of demands. I respond by saying if the issues of the last couple decades had only resulted in a short, easy-to-read list of problems then Occupy Wall Street wouldn't have the support that it does, and wouldn't be as necessary as it is.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
How Verizon Became an Occupier for One Night
This was projected onto the Verizon building from an apartment across the street. Easily visible from the Brooklyn Bridge as occupiers crossed over. Video here
Sunday, November 13, 2011
30 Day Song Challenge Days 10-13: Weekend Catchup
So I'm behind. Time for one giant post catching me up.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
30 Day Song Challenge Day 9: Shake Shake Shake Shake Shake
Day 9: A Song That You Can Dance To
I’m going to slightly modify this one since it’s too broad as it is. There are pretty much infinity songs that I can dance to depending on what you mean by ‘dance.’ Slowdancing or slamdancing? Skanking or bootyshaking? Break? Interpretive? (OK, I can't do those last two.)
In the name of fun I’m going to assume this means bootyshaking. And not just a song that you CAN dance to. A song that you HAVE to dance to. A song whose beats conjure an irresistible urge to break-it-down. A song that, as if by magic, instantly forces feet to step and hips to shake, resulting in the inevitable busting of moves.
Now, before I get into the song I picked please feel free to peruse this Grooveshark playlist of songs that didn’t quite make the cut.
And now the main attraction:
I’m going to slightly modify this one since it’s too broad as it is. There are pretty much infinity songs that I can dance to depending on what you mean by ‘dance.’ Slowdancing or slamdancing? Skanking or bootyshaking? Break? Interpretive? (OK, I can't do those last two.)
In the name of fun I’m going to assume this means bootyshaking. And not just a song that you CAN dance to. A song that you HAVE to dance to. A song whose beats conjure an irresistible urge to break-it-down. A song that, as if by magic, instantly forces feet to step and hips to shake, resulting in the inevitable busting of moves.
Now, before I get into the song I picked please feel free to peruse this Grooveshark playlist of songs that didn’t quite make the cut.
And now the main attraction:
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
30 Day Song Challenge Day 8: Sing With Me, Sing for the Year
Day 8: A Song to Which You Know All the Words
Searching my head for a song that fit today’s prompt was a fun exercise if only to remind me of the songs I used to have memorize. These are the songs, after all, they were played incessantly out of tape-decks, CD players, car stereos, computers and portable MP3 players at various stages of my life. Going through these tunes was like flipping through a musical biography.
Monday, November 7, 2011
30 Day Song Challenge Day 7: Do You Remember When We Used to Sing?
Day 7: A Song That Reminds You of a Certain Event
The redundancy of these prompts is making these posts a lot less interesting. Most of the instances I noted from the last two days have not only involved a someone/somewhere, but a particular event involving that person or place. Now I’m stuck trying to find a song/moment I haven’t already addressed and then trying to find something new and interesting to say about how music works with memory. Let’s see how this goes.
Way back two days ago I mentioned a certain wedding involving a certain song about heights and a certain lifting into the air of a certain fri3nd. Well, since I was responsible for the playlist at this reception there were clearly several awesome songs played that night leading to multiple memorable moments. Not least of which (actually, most of which) being this song:
Sunday, November 6, 2011
30 Day Song Challenge Day 6: Somewhere Out There, Out Where Dreams Come True
Day 6: A Song That Reminds You of Somewhere
Initially this was kind of a difficult one for me in light of yesterday's challenge. Songs that remind me of people usually remind of specific times with those people which are also rooted in specific places. As such most songs that remind me of a somewhere also remind me of a someone. As I combed my memory/song library only two instances came up that brought to mind a place that wasn't also strongly attached to a person.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
30 Day Song Challenge Day 5: Remember, Remember on the 5th of November
Day 5: A Song That Reminds You of Someone
Easiest prompt yet. As soon as I saw this one I knew which song I'd pick. Of course, just diving right into that piece from the get-go wouldn't be fun, would it? No, first I need to blather on about a bunch of other songs in addition to today's selection.
Music can be a pretty powerful trigger for memory, but it can also be a pretty random one. Some associations come through significant personal events and some seem to just inexplicably happen. Whenever I encounter any song by Broken Social Scene I immediately think of a friend of mine who once randomly asked me on Facebook if I'd ever heard of them, and the only time I remember ever hearing Franz Ferdinand's "Do You Want To?" was when I was dancing with a girl I'd just met at Thursday's in Akron. I've danced with plenty of girls, so the reason I'd remember this so vividly escapes me. The Postal Service's "Such Great Heights", however, is a song I've heard countless times but now whenever I hear it I instantly think of a particular fri3nd and his wedding when we lifted him up into the air when this song came on. Whenever I hear "Baby Love by the Supremes I always think of my aunt who apparently used to sing it to me when I was a baby and who told me about this when I was a teenager by singing it to me again.
So which song has a connection so vivid for me that it immediately sprang to mind the instant I read "Song That Reminds You of Someone"? Well, let me start off by telling you a story.
Friday, November 4, 2011
30 Day Song Challenge Day 4: Sad Songs Say So Much
Day 4: A Song That Makes You Sad
After lamenting yesterday that I had too many sad songs in my music library you'd think today's prompt would be easy for me, but actually it's probably even harder. See, it's actually really rare for a song to bring down my mood. A really well done sad song tends to have either a tragic soulfulness (think anything Solomon Burke has ever done) or a raw, visceral power (see: Rites of Spring) and I tend to get caught up in its purity of declaration; lost in the poetry of the lyrics. I love being moved by music and when an artist or group makes me feel something through song I can't help but fall in love with the beauty of their expression. In these cases I feel inspiration more than anything else.
When my mood is down to begin with I'll even use sad songs to bring me up as hearing someone else deal with pain brings a sense of comforting camaraderie. Perhaps this really is the reason it's so hard for me to find music that makes me sad - I use so often use my favorite sad songs therapeutically. Sometimes, in the throws of anxiety and heartache, the only proper medication is pouring two fingers of whiskey while Morrissey pleads for something he wants.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
30 Day Song Challenge Day 3 - Happy Happy Joy Joy
Day 3: A song that makes you happy
Today’s prompt is a bit serendipitous since last weekend I began picking through my mp3 collection to make a playlist of upbeat songs – much like Barney’s get psyched mix.
That project taught me one thing about my happy songs: they are incredibly outnumbered by sad/angry songs. I have days upon days of music at this point and out of all that I’ll probably come up with a handful of hours of happy tunes. Though I’d wager that sort of distribution is the norm among music in general. Those negative emotions always seem to be the easiest to credibly relate to other people. Positive emotions are harder to channel without being cliché.
So, how do the happy songs do it? How are they able to elevate/change a mood?
Some do it by being deep and soulful. A warm blanket you can just wrap around your shoulders and lose yourself inside. Some do it by being cute and sweet, channeling sunshine and rainbows and puppy dogs and whatnot. Other songs bring the smile with a few anthemic, major power chords and sweet solos while others just make you want to dance forever.
Though they work in different ways these songs share the ability to make those bad times seem good and good times seem great.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
30 Day Song Challenge Day 2: A Bad Idea Wrapped in a Bad Song
Day 2: Your Least Favorite Song
Ugh, another category based on picking one song out of many equally deserving candidates. There are a few difficulties particular to choosing a song for least favorite song. First and foremost it’s a choice that, by definition, should be hard to think of. Most songs that I find to be truly bad are songs that I won’t listen to enough times to stick in my memory. And what does “bad” mean, anyway? Terrible execution? Horrible song writing? Overuse of cliché? General douchitude?
When I was regularly reviewing music I believed that it was better to be spectacularly incompetent than forgettably boring. Practice can make you a better player, but true creativity can’t be learned. By this definition all of the worst songs I’ve ever heard are buried in the waste bin of music history, forgotten and unrecoverable.
But we’re not necessarily talking about “bad” songs when we talk about least favorite, are we? Something can be a least favorite without necessarily being the worst. Like a completely mediocre song that becomes mystifyingly popular to the point where it’s overplayed everywhere. Such force-feeding of an otherwise inoffensive song could certainly drive it into the realm of least-favoritism.
But what about a song that's boring, cliche, overplayed, douchey AND sports a general ideology that's completely irresponsible bordering on dangerous? What about a song that epitomizes a mindset that's as poisonous as it is cathartic and has led to ten years of disastrous decisions? Is that worth least-favorite status?
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
30 Day Song Challenge Day 1 - One Song to Rule Them All
So it’s November, and that means National Novel Writing Month. Instead of writing a novel I’ve decided to blog the 30-Day Song Challenge. I’ll not likely approach 50,000 words, so it’s not a direct replacement, but this is a little more interesting to me, and is more along the lines of the kind of writing I want to practice right now.
So, without further ado…
So, without further ado…
Day 1: Your Favorite Song
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Marching on Wall Street
So for several weeks I've been on the fence regarding the Occupy Wall Street movement. I hadn't heard much about it at the beginning and as time went on it just seemed to be a haphazard gathering of various idealists of the kind that happen all the time in New York. The mass arrests and pepper-spraying of peaceful marchers made me sit up and take notice, but information about the group itself was still sketchy. The so-called statement of purpose they sent out a week or so ago seemed to confirm all of my fears that the movement didn't have the focus to go anywhere and was doomed to burn itself out sooner rather than later.
In the last week, however, my opinion has changed. As I've read more and more about the group and how it has spread to cities across the country, and as I've seen videos of the occupiers (some - gasp - in button-up shirts! with kids!) speaking clearly about their grievances I've come to realize that it doesn't matter that they lack focus. It's their drive that is key. As their message spreads and is picked up by activists in cities around America, and as labor unions and professional organizers like MoveOn.org begin to coordinate efforts with them, I started to believe that Occupy Wall Street could become a true engine for positive change.
In the last week, however, my opinion has changed. As I've read more and more about the group and how it has spread to cities across the country, and as I've seen videos of the occupiers (some - gasp - in button-up shirts! with kids!) speaking clearly about their grievances I've come to realize that it doesn't matter that they lack focus. It's their drive that is key. As their message spreads and is picked up by activists in cities around America, and as labor unions and professional organizers like MoveOn.org begin to coordinate efforts with them, I started to believe that Occupy Wall Street could become a true engine for positive change.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)