I finished writing a “crime thriller” novel a few days ago and am currently searching for agents. I thought I’d throw the first chapter up here and see what everyone thought.
Chapter 1
Coughing and sputtering like a jalopy in dire need of a tuneup, I frantically attempted to replace the filthy water invading my lungs with life-giving air but met with only marginal success before the rough hand on the back of my neck tightened its grip and once more plunged my face into the piss-filled porcelain toilet bowl. With my feet out from underneath me and almost the entirety of both my own and my assailant's weight supported on my collar bones against the toilet seat, I was in no position to make an adequate defense but I lashed out nonetheless, kicking my feet wildly against the walls of the stall and throwing thoroughly useless elbows at the implacable figure behind me. Though my actions no doubt made quite a racket, they were not directly helping my predicament.
My whole body screaming in agony and my throat convulsing in protest, I was certain I was done for just before the hand pulled me back out. Wheezing and drinking deep of the sweet, sweet oxygen while I still had the chance, I never thought I'd so greatly appreciate the foul-smelling and dingy air of a well-used bar bathroom. “You gonna stop spyin' on da boss, or do I gotta put you back undawata?” The thick, deep voice boomed in my ear, sincere in its threat.
“S-st-” I hacked up a mouthful of liquid whose makeup I tried to force from my mind, “Stop spying on the boss. I got it.” My own voice was weak and downtrodden; unfortunately accurate for my current state of being.
“Good. You do it again, you gonna stay unda.”
And with that, he didn't let me go, but instead dug his fingers in at the base of my skull, lifted my head a few inches, and then slammed my temple down on the seat, hard. Already weakened, my ears rung at the blow and my vision began to swim as things went gray around the edges. I hadn't entirely lost it though, as through the fog I felt the grip release and then another crunch as my face slammed into the wet tile floor. Behind me, I heard the thug stomp off and waited until his footsteps had faded before picking myself up out of the pee puddle.
After taking a moment to vomit up the nauseating contents of my stomach which I'd only moments ago imbibed under less than willing conditions, I pulled myself up to the sink and washed my face and hands several times with scalding water and enough soap to empty the wall-mounted dispenser. Drying off with a paper towel, I took a look in the scratched and sullied mirror bolted to the crudely graffitied wall and wasn't overly pleased with what I saw.
Starting at the top and working my way down, my hair was a soaking mess, but at least now it was water that drenched it nearly black rather than a stranger's idly unflushed urine. With a boiled raw (clean) hand, I styled a rough part to one side and deemed it acceptable. I may still have been wearing a pissy shirt and jacket, but a guy's gotta draw the line somewhere. Below that, my thick eyebrows furrowed in displeasure above a pair of darting and bloodshot, but alert dark eyes. Pulling down one eyelid, I confirmed that I had indeed popped a blood vessel some time during the struggle. Shrugging it off, I gave myself a small smile in order to try and lift my spirits, but there was no sincerity in it.
Taking a step back, I took in my full view. Wearing a light jacket under which sat a short-sleeved white button up shirt stained yellow about the neck and shoulders and a pair of similarly wet slacks with a brand new hole in the knee, I looked like a train wreck in which the cars had, for some reason, been carrying a load of exhumed septic tanks. It wasn't a pretty sight, but it was an occupational hazard of which I was acutely aware, now more so than ever.
Cracking my neck while holding my still aching head in my hands, I stood up to my full height. Standing over six feet tall and weighing in at a naturally lean and muscular 190 or so, I wasn't usually one to be pushed around, but Gelione's man had not only gotten the drop on me but had outweighed me by at least 50 pounds to boot. A flash of remembrance striking me, I reached up under my jacket and found the shoulder holster empty. The son of a bitch had taken my revolver. Once again chalking it up to known occupational hazards, I said, “Fuck it,” and turned to leave. Getting shitfaced and forgetting about the whole event sounded appealing for a moment, but I decided I'd had enough waste interact with my face for one night and set out for my car instead.
With the bar and the questioning glances of the concerned, amused, or indifferent patrons behind me, I trudged along the sidewalk and welcomed the pouring rain with open arms as it soaked away the filth sullying my clothing. Shivering under the chill of the mid Autumn night, I reached my car only a couple of minutes later, a sleek silver BMW M3 I'd bought a couple years back when the chips were up. Paid straight cash for it too. As it was, the sedan was two levels above my pay grade but I enjoyed the luxury and the speed. It definitely didn't hurt that chicks seemed to dig it too.
Tossing my dripping jacket onto the floor of the passenger side, I crashed into the leather bucket seat and cringed at the thought of what I was doing to the upholstery. Assuring myself that I was glad to merely be breathing, and not swilling restroom lemonade, I quickly put the concern into perspective and cranked the powerful engine to life. A quick check of my mirrors later, I pulled out into the street and got on my way home.
Though the incident with the hired muscle would probably be considered outstanding by most, in my life it was just another, ridiculously humiliating and uncomfortable, event to throw on the colossal pile I'd been building for years. In my line of work, such 'unique' happenings were a dime a dozen and I wouldn't have it any other way, even when the odd day did involve choking down toilet water at the hands of a very powerful man's very powerful goon.
What job could possibly have such disgusting consequences and such high highs to be able to counteract the low lows you ask? Putting it simply, I'm a jack of all trades, a handyman. If someone needed someone else watched, something picked up, or a menial task taken care of, they'd call me. If the fee was right, I'd go out there and do my thing, though I did try and stay clear of the particularly violent and illegal assignments.
For this case in particular, I'd been contacted by a wealthy woman to spy on her husband and gather evidence that he was cheating on her. Pretty standard fare. I knew her husband by reputation and had initially been reluctant to take the case, but slapping another zero onto the offer had caused me to flip-flop faster than a politician pandering for votes. With the prospect of a few months of financial security dangling in front of me like a juicy worm in front of a hungry fish, I bit. But like the fish who found himself in a similar situation, the seemingly savory meal had shown its true colors as the barb sunk into my lip.
An influential man within the local organized crime scene, 54 year old Joseph Gelione had indeed been cheating on his 20-something wife, with minors. A bit of shadowing and a mess of prying had turned up the fact that old Joe liked his ladies a little younger than was legal. Not little kids or anything too sick, but 16 and 17 year old girls. Still too young for what he was doing with them, but not horribly offensive. Playing the role of sugar daddy, he'd get at them through whatever contacts it was a man like him had and would buy their affection with Ipods, Prada bags, and anything else their little gold digging hearts desired. In return for their high priced goods, they'd reciprocate with goods of their own.
The old guy was smart though and getting pictures of him in action was harder than usual. Unlike most other men in his situation, his little head hadn't siphoned off all of the blood from his big head, meaning he was still thinking clearly enough to cover his ass while getting at the girls'. Earlier that evening I'd been tailing him yet again and as with every previous time, I'd come up empty handed. From the looks of things though, I wasn't the only one who'd been digging, as Gelione had apparently somehow found out about me.
Looking at it in retrospect, it wasn't much of a surprise. Word travels fast through the right circles, but at the time it had caught me off guard and I'd paid the price, one which was more than acceptable when compared with losing one's life. In my business, the leading cause of death was work related complications and I had no delusions of invincibility. I knew that this was one of those times when it was better to abandon a fat paycheck than to lose one's neck. Greed had drug down many men in this town, and after that night I was determined not to join their ranks.
Pulling up to the five-story brownstone building where I lived and worked, one of many littering the aging town's streets, I slid my car into the garage around back, giving the night security guard a nod which he returned while viewing my still-drenched form quizzically. Entering the building and ascending the scuffed hardwood stairs, the floor creaked and groaned under my weight. It had annoyed me to no end when I'd first moved in, but I'd since become accustomed to the noises and now regarded them as bits of the old structure's character. With the squeaks following me up 3 floors and then all the way down the hall, I stopped at the door to my place. Made from heavy wood, it bore a frosted glass window with my name and profession spelled out in neat black letters:
Jack Harris
Jack of All Trades Extraordinaire
The “Extraordinaire” sounded a bit hokey, but when I’d had the letters put up I’d needed all the publicity I could get. They say you can’t polish a turd, but I figured it couldn’t hurt to try anyways.
Keys still in hand after getting out of my car, I picked out the right key and let myself in, the soft squeaks following me inside where the hardwood continued to pervade. Hitting the lights as I locked three deadbolts behind myself, one could never be too careful, I turned around and surveyed my office. About 15 feet by 15 feet in dimension, the room was sparsely furnished. A large oak desk sat near the far wall, one high backed leather chair behind it and two smaller chairs in front of it. On the desk sat the basics: a phone, a closed laptop, and an old-fashioned lamp with a green glass shade. All four walls were a weathered, though clean beige and the one behind the desk held a picture window concealed by heavy evergreen curtains. A motionless fan hung from the ceiling and had been steadily gathering dust ever since the Summer had died away some weeks ago. Off to the right was a single door, beyond which were my living quarters.
Like my office, my living space wasn't anything fancy. Comprised of a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen, it wasn't much bigger than my office, but I'd lived there for going on a few years, which was a couple years longer than I'd ever lived any place else, so it felt like home.
Stripping off my clothes, I momentarily contemplated burning them before I opted to toss them in the hamper instead. Like I said, I wasn't exactly raking in the dough, so it would be a while before I could, in good conscience, burn a perfectly good outfit.
As I'd done back in the bar but on a much grander scale, I hopped in the shower and scalded myself clean, scrubbing at my face and shoulders until my skin was practically raw. Afterwards, I still felt dirty, but only on the inside. I'd already purged up a majority of the stuff I'd swallowed, but the urge to do it again was overpowering. Telling myself how foolish throwing up once more would be, I chose instead to brush my teeth, thrice. Spitting the last of the filth into the sink, I decided things were as good as they were going to get and called it a day.
It wasn't late, no more than 11:00, but I was tired and it felt like someone was ringing a gong between my ears. There was a nice bruise forming on the side of my face in a hue that an eggplant would envy and the mild burns I'd inflicted all over my body while showering were starting to feel like a suit of aggravated fire ants. If ever there was a time to turn in early, this was it.
Plopping down into my bed, I grabbed the remote and turned on Leno. Setting the volume on low, I curled up under my blankets and tried to let the harsh tensions of the day melt away. I don't know when, but sleep soon claimed me, taking away the pain at least for the few hours I'd be out. Tomorrow was an opportunity for a whole new adventure, hopefully one which did not involve me choking down someone else's piss.