09.13.07
Posted in Writing, Mallory at 2:34 pm by Bryan
So here’s my conundrum: everybody likes Mallory. People think Mallory should get more of my attention. Apparently, Mallory needs a book of his own.
Why is this an issue? Well, because Mallory wasn’t intended to be a story. He was invented so that Ian wouldn’t pick his nose. If Mallory is to get a real story, it means I need to actually sit down and figure out where I’m going with this. To this point in the tale, there are several unknowns. Is Tab being truthful about her parents? Will Mallory listen to his head, or will his hormones win out and get him involved with a much younger woman? If his hormones win, who will it be; Tab or Chloe? Or both? Is his heart involved in the decision at all? How is Danny involved in this and what risk is Chloe in now? What the hell is going on in the larger story?
See, the benefit of not really taking him seriously is that I can let the story write itself, and not worry about things like does a Cessna 172 have enough fuel to fly from Miami to St. Vincent or did he need to stop somewhere else along the way? and How expensive would it have been to fly Chloe there, and who paid for it? You know, little things like that.
Oh, and the big drawback, if I write this as a book, you all realize that Mallory won’t be featured here anymore unless it’s a scene I cut, right?
Plus, it would mean I have five active manuscripts. That’s 25% more than I have now!
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09.06.07
Posted in Writing, Samples, Mallory at 6:45 pm by Bryan
Yeah, yeah. It’s way past time. I know.
First of all, all that stuff in the comments? Didn’t happen.
Second of all, I very nearly sat down to write this while I was in Dayton but I figured awing you all with my ability to compose it on the fly would have been far outweighed by the sight of me bashing my skull against the keyboard, not to mention the anti-social message that would have sent at breakfast. Besides, I think DDD was wanting to update her MySpace page.
Edit ~ for the latecomers to the Mallory tale, if you click on Mallory under Categories in the sidebar, or click on the Mallory tag at the top of this post, you will see a page with only Mallory posts. They are in reverse order, so read from the bottom up.
So, I’m standing there, at the end of the dock, trying to ignore all the little problems that seem to be creeping up during this case. You know, like Chloe thinking I got the hots for Tab even though she knows I never get involved with clients. The little digs she offers… just examples of how imperfect Tab really is. I feel like I’m back in friggin’ gradeschool. Jeez.
Nah, that’s a minor problem. Doesn’t even compare to the fact that Tab’s all but seized up on me and ain’t worth a nickel for information anymore. Killing that punk has really done a number on her. I got half a mind to drop the case right now. And I would, except for the kinda big problem I’m facing at the moment: I know the guy sittin’ on Tab’s parents’ boat. None other than Danny Martinez, Chloe’s boss at the strip joint. Yep, I’m fucked.
Worse than that, Chloe’s gotta get outta here too, ’cause if this hombre is responsible for whatever happened to Tab’s parents, he wouldn’t think twice about makin’ a nosey stripper disappear.
Which means, of course, I gotta think of something right quick because I can see Chloe walking down the dock toward me and there ain’t no way I’m gonna be able to head her off before Danny sees her. I do get a little distracted for a moment, but you can’t really blame me. She’s got one hot, tight body, and that little black bikini really shows it off well. And even just walking it’s like she’s dancing. As I start back toward her, I try to time it so’s we wind up at the transom of Midas’ Touch at the same time.
Danny’s on deck watching me as we approach. Chloe’s watching me, too, a curious look on her face. I’m blowin’ it here. I break into a big grin and open my arms wide. She’s confused for about half a second and then plays along and rushes to me.
“Chloe?”
We break off a kiss that I hadn’t realized we’d started and Chloe turns to the boat.
“Danny! What are you doing here?”
God, I love this kid.
“On vacation. What are you doing here?” Danny looked me up and down, recognizing me but unable to place me.
“I took a week off.” Turning to me, she said, “You remember Mal? He used to come into the club now and then.”
“Right. The bounty hunter, right?”
“No, P.I. Bounty hunting is a bit more dangerous than I’m looking for. It’s worse than being in repo. I handle divorce cases, mostly.”
“Whatcha doing here with my Chloe?”
His possessiveness irritated me. Chloe sensed it and gently squeezed my arm.
“We figured to rent a sailboat for a while.” Danny glared at me. “Look, I know you got a policy, but I ain’t a customer no more, and I haven’t been for a good while now. Chloe and me ran into each other a couple months back. We’re just friends.”
He didn’t look convinced, but I don’t think he was looking to start an argument either.
“Yeah, well, we’ll talk about it when I get back, Chloe. Don’t get in any trouble while your down here.”
“I won’t,” she said with a smile. And then she tugged on my arm and we headed back to shore.
It was when we were walking back arm in arm, with the feeling of her swaying beside me, that I realized Chloe’d slipped me her tongue. Shit, shit, shit. I’m so screwed.
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04.28.07
Posted in Writing, Samples, Mallory at 2:47 pm by Bryan
First, the ado.
Um… I got nuthin’. Okay, on with the show.
Pirates! Unbestinkinlievable. We’re looking for pirates. And I’m pretty sure they’re not out there on the high seas flying the ol’ skull and bones, wearing eye patches, and sayin’ ”Argh” to the parrots sittin’ on their shoulders.
I shoulda told this girl to get outta my office when I had the chance.
To top it all off, any minute now the cops are going to be looking into the mysterious death of a local thug, trying to figure out how he managed to stab himself with his own knife. For a criminal mastermind, this guy wasn’t too bright. First he tells me everything I want to know, then he tries to take the gun away from me. Did he think I was just a tourist?
“Have you ever killed anyone before?” Tab asked from the bed.
“Yeah.” I didn’t look at her. Just kept my head down studying the map. I really hoped Tab had something under that t-shirt she was wearing.
I rubbed my brow in an effort to kickstart my brain. Hell, maybe it was just to block the glare from the desk lamp. Whatever. I was getting a headache. Truth be told, I think I was actually trying to erase the vision seared into my mind’s eye. The blood was almost black. Goober’d bled out in less than ten minutes.
There were four marinas on the the island. With any luck, these guys had put into one of them recently and I’d be able to find somebody who wasn’t currently dead to talk about it. I needed to get Chloe here. I needed someone with experience to help with this case. And I needed to get my mind off the fact that Tab was definitely not wearing a bra under that t-shirt. Jeez, my head hurt.
“Do you ever get over it?”
“No. You get used to it, but you never get over it.”
I decided to call Chloe in the morning. She’d be pissed off that I woke her, but she’d be happy to get out of town for a while. Then I’d take a look around the first marina, alone. No more risks with Tab.
She was quiet.
I turned to see if she was okay, and what I saw nearly broke my heart. She was sitting up on the bed, arms wrapped around her knees, just shivering. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, but she didn’t cry, not really. Just shook. I couldn’t help it. I went to her.
Thank God she’s wearing panties, I thought.
“I was so scared,” she said.
“I know.”
“When he went at you like that…”
“I know,” I said again.
I held her tight, whispering that everything would be all right. I hated lying to her, but she’d realize soon enough that her life would never be the same. It’s not every day a girl stabs a guy in the liver.
Didn’t expect that, did you? Yeah, me neither. Can’t wait to find out what happens next.
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01.28.07
Posted in Writing, Samples, Mallory at 12:00 pm by Bryan
Before we begin, let me clarify a few things. First, Mallory is not taking time away from Sea of Dreams. Gabby is still working on that. One minor change of setting is required, since the potential hotspot (Mogadishu) that I was going to send Ian to has already flared up, and apparently been resolved. I’ll keep the original text in a file just in case the “resolution” is only temporary. Second, if you are waiting on a critique, I’m finally back into some semblance of a normal writing schedule and I should have those to you shortly. I don’t know what happened to me in December and January, but I was definitely a slacker for two months.
So, with no further ado, I present you with Mallory:
This is wrong on so many levels. Rule number one in the Private Investigations for Dummies manual says never, ever, under any circumstances use your client as the decoy, yet here I was sitting in a quiet corner of a smokey tavern in the Caribbean as my client sits down at the bar. I wrote the friggin’ manual. I can’t believe I let her talk me into this.
What I wanted to do was fly in my regular girl. Chloe would have enjoyed a few days out of the dive she worked in. She’s a good kid and I get her legit work as often as I can. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a stripper, but that line of work doesn’t offer you much other than the cash you need to pay your way through law school. At least working with me on investigations gives her some practical experience.
And Chloe was good at the work.
But now I’m watching this dame put herself in danger for the case. Tabitha Renny. At twenty-four, she’s actually older than Chloe, but she’s naive. Tab doesn’t understand that there’s a big chunk of the world that ain’t all nice like the bit she lives in. And that’s why we’re here.
I see her wiggle two fingers at the bartender as she tips her head in invitation.
I’m looking for a boat, she says. Not that I can hear her. But doing what I do, you get pretty proficient at reading lips.
What kind of boat?
It’s a sailboat. It belongs to my parents. It’s called…. Damnit girl, don’t turn away from me when you’re talking. I know you already told me the name of the boat, but I might miss something else.
Never heard of it, says the bartender.
Well, if you do, I’m staying at the Marriot, room 211. She’s slides the bartender a hundred dollar bill. She got his attention alright. And the lie looked believable. She’s registered at the Marriot true enough, but she’s staying with me at a bed and breakfast on the other side of the island. Which brings us to the other level of wrongness here.
I’ve worked with beautiful women before. I’ve worked for beautiful women. But this girl, I can’t get it outta my head. She’s distracting. And worse, she’s young enough to be my daughter and she’s still distracting. So distracting in fact that I almost missed seeing the bartender having a conversation with an unsavory sort at the end of the bar.
When the two of them looked at her, I wanted to step in set things right, but I held my ground. Tab tensed a bit then looked the other direction. She had good instincts. She saw it going down and knew that I had her back so she looked away. Good, kid. You’re doin’ fine.
When the barman came back, she said he could keep the change. She didn’t give him any more money. But if you hear of anything, I’ll come back and buy a few more drinks, she added.
The muscle at the end of the bar stood to leave, so I went out in front of him. I stepped into the shadows as he lingered outside the door and checked around. I saw the knife he held by his thigh and drew my semi-automatic. Tab was through the door, the muscle was moving toward her, and without even thinking about options I was in motion. Tab just caught sight of his knife, her mouth a perfect ‘O’, as I pressed the muzzle of the gun hard into his right temple even as my left arm came around in a choke hold.
He dropped the knife and pissed his pants.
“We need to have a talk,” I whispered in his ear.
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01.05.07
Posted in Writing, Samples, Mallory at 9:00 am by Bryan
I had to get up in the middle of the night because Mallory wouldn’t shut up. What follows was finished at 3:37 this morning. I’m not going to edit any mistakes or clean up any plot issues (this isn’t even one of my WIPs for crying out loud) so you get to see what things are like in a raw state.
So, you’re probably wondering what the hell I’m doing four miles out at fifteen-hundred feet on final approach to St. Vincent. Yeah, me too. Believe me, the idea of crabbin’ my Cessna 172 into this nasty crosswind was not the first thing I wanted to do on a Sunday afternoon.
“Shit.” I said it out loud. I didn’t mean to, so I said it again just to be sure.
“What?” she asked. Like she didn’t realize that landing sideways on a runway was going to make things a little awkward.
I glanced over, then, quick as I could, I looked away again. Who the hell wears a mini-skirt in the cockpit. There’s a reason dames on ships and planes is bad luck. It’s ‘cause dumbasses like me don’t think so good with bare thighs hangin’ out right next to your vertical velocity indicator.
I swear to God, I was gonna tell this dame to get lost in my office. Probably ninety-seven other times before we actually got on the plane, my plane; the one half-way decent thing I’ve ever had in my life that my ex-wife didn’t take from me. Get lost. Yeah, right. I actually had the words on the way out at one point when she started cryin’. God, I hate that.
You know they do that on purpose. They got like this sixth-sense or something, and they just know. I got as far as “You know, I been thinking,” when the tears start. She was good, too. I knew exactly what she was doing. And what’s worse is that she knew I knew. And it still worked.
I bet if I started crying right now she wouldn’t be asking what she could do to make it all better. Hell no. She’d be thinking we’re gonna die.
Five-hundred feet. Too shallow. Too far right. Shit. Who the hell hired a landscaper to plant palm trees out here. Anybody who sees ‘em up close ain’t gonna like it. One mile now. Just gotta slide left a little and then straighten her out.
“This might feel a little weird,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“Um, you notice we’re not pointing down the runway?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, that’s because it’s a strong wind and it’s blowing us off course.”
“And?”
“And as we touch down I gotta get us lined up or we’re gonna be harvesting coconuts.” I risked a quick glance at her face. God, I was nervous. And not just about this landing. She gave a quick nod and I focused on the threshold as it passed under us. Fifty feet. Twenty. I pushed the rudder right to straighten us out, keeping the ailerons left. There’s a brief instant where my stomach says hello to my spleen, then I feel three distinct thumps as the wheels touched down.
That’s the worst flying gets. And the most exhilarating. It feels so good when it’s done. Kinda like I hope this job feels. When it’s done. It sure as hell ain’t gonna be boring.
So, there you go. And don’t ask. I have no idea what he’s doing in the Caribbean.
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12.08.06
Posted in Writing, Samples, Mallory at 8:00 am by Bryan
So, I’m sitting there the other night trying to think of a habit for Ian that didn’t involve running his hand through his hair or rubbing his temples or something else I’ve probably over done. Then I thought, what if…
What follows examines this, but since it’s something Ian would never do, I had to create Mallory.
Finished. I slipped the typed report into a manila envelope and tossed it onto the chair next to my desk. I lit one up and reached into the bottom drawer for the bottle I kept there. You gotta love cheating spouses. They’ll never make you rich, but they pay the bills.
I dug out a particularly irritating booger and rolled ‘im up between my thumb and forefinger while I took a long, satisfying drag off the cigarette. Three days. Seven-hundred and fifty bucks. Not bad. I started doing the math, dreaming about what might be if only there were more cheaters out there.
About the time I flicked my gooey buddy at the wall was when she walked in. The dame was easy on the eyes, with legs that went on forever and a face like fine china. I shoulda known right then, when she looked at my twenty-three and a half years of performance art plastered on the wall and didn’t yak up her lunch, this case wasn’t going to be no cheating spouse. I shoulda told her to leave. But I’m a shallow son of a bitch, and like I said, the dame was fun to look at.
“Is this Mallory and Mallory?” Her voice dripped honey all over the floor.
“Yep.”
I saw her glance at the wall again and for a moment I thought she was gonna bolt. But she simply swallowed and asked, “Which one are you?”
“I’m the one that’s not dead yet.”
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile. I shoulda kicked her out right then, but I kept thinking about eighteen year-old scotch and Camels instead of Lucky Strikes and Rock Gut. That, and those legs. I shoulda known better.
Oh, well. At least I wrote something. Right?
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