Finishing a Novel?
I’m participating in NaNoWriMo 2020. I’m not quite following the rules since I’m taking back up my story about Jared, psychopomp and assassin in the employ of Management. I’ve started out with some revising and editing of what I’d already written.
Here’s part of chapter 1.
Tony opened The Supply Room at oh-seven-hundred every day except Sunday. By oh-seven-thirty, people sat on at least half the stools at the bar. That early, they were all regulars, and all men. Guys getting off a graveyard shift, looking for a beer before heading home to sleep the morning away. Guys heading to work, hoping a morning beer or a couple of shots will help get them through the day.
I pulled into the parking lot, maneuvering around the worst of the potholes to park in the spot marked Reserved for Auction Winner. There’d never been an auction. I hadn’t won anything. As I walked through the front door, Tony gave me a nod. A moment later, he set two fingers of Scotch and a manila envelope on the table in front of me.
“Morning,” he said.
“Yeah, it’s morning, alright.”
Tony gave me another nod and returned to the bar. I downed the Scotch with a swallow per finger, and then bent up the metal fastener on the envelope, lettings its contents slide onto the table. There was a letter-size envelope, a Ziploc baggie, and a manila folder. I peaked in the envelope. Cash, like always. The baggie held a gold chain with a heart-shaped charm on it. A bit of glass mounted in the center of the heart. Costume jewelry. Maybe gold-plated at most. I put the cash and the baggie back in the envelope. I didn’t need to count the money, and I’d touch the necklace back home.
I opened the folder. Two photographs were paper-clipped to the inside front. One showed a pretty young lady. Medium length blond hair, green eyes, a confident smile. A slight tilt to her head, and the shine of laughter in her eyes. I unclipped the photo, flipped it over. An adhesive file label on the back. On the label, a typed name and date of birth: English, Priscilla. She’d celebrated her birthday for the last time about a month ago. She’d been eighteen.
The other photo showed a man in a dark suit, red tie, white shirt with cuff links. Certainly not gold-plated. His watch was the real thing as well. He looked in his mid-30s. Gym membership to be sure, but the thickness under his clean shaven chin told me he wasn’t too zealous about working out. Treadmill, maybe a little racquetball with the bosses, who’d he let win. Professional haircut. Dark brown hair with a little gray. Light brown eyes. The label told me his name, work address, and home address. Prestigious law firm and a high-end neighborhood. He didn’t earn that neighborhood with his salary. Probably born into money.
Paper-clipped to the inside back of the folder was a neatly typed dossier on the girl and her killer. I put the photos back in the folder, closed it, returned it the envelope. I’d read through the dossier when I got home before I touched the necklace. I’d need to know how to explain things. Explain what had happened, and what was going to happen as a result.
“Yo,” Tony said from behind the bar closest to me. “You want another?”
I nodded, and Tony took the bottle from the shelf. One of the regulars commented on how it wasn’t fair some people got special treatment. I ignored him, and Tony asked who the hell ever said life was fair.
Tony slid onto the bench across the table from me, setting the bottle between us. I’d known Tony for the better part of a two decades. We’d met as privates at Bragg, full of piss and vinegar and ready to make the world safer for democracy. Tony hadn’t changed much. Sure, his face sported a few more wrinkles, especially when he laughed, which he didn’t do too often, and his hair, what there was of it, was grayer. Still sported a high-and-tight, still wore combat boots and his dog tags. I was about four inches taller, not that I’m that tall, but Tony’s shoulders and chest were wider than mine. So was his gut. He tapped the bottle with his prosthetic hand.
“You expect me to pour it?”
I shrugged. “You’re the bartender. I’m the customer.”
“Customer my ass,” he said, pouring two more fingers in my glass. “You haven’t paid for a drink since I opened this place.”
Two more swallows emptied the glass. I set it down, and put my hand over it when Tony reached for the bottle again.
“What you got planned for the day?” he said.
“Usual. Go see the Sergeant. Go home and do some work. Talk to the client.”
Tony frowned. He never said it out loud, but what I do scared him. He’d left the life behind after catching bullets in the elbow and bicep. Opened The Supply Room, got married to his high school sweetheart, had two beautiful kids before cancer took his wife. I’m sure Management paid Tony well when he mustered out. I never asked Tony, and I hadn’t spoken directly with Management since they’d hired me.
“How’s the Sergeant doing?”
“Shitty most days, but he’s been like that as long as I’ve known him.”
The next part of the conversation went unspoken. Tony knew my father was a sore spot, and he didn’t poke it. I slid out of the booth, putting the manila envelope under my arm.
“Catch you later.”
“Roger that,” Tony said, policing the table before returning to the bar.
