Welcome to the block.
Craft a scene, story, chapter that includes the following elements
A laptop computer
A frozen turkey
The ace of diamonds
Happy writing.
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Welcome to the block.
Craft a scene, story, chapter that includes the following elements
A laptop computer
A frozen turkey
The ace of diamonds
Happy writing.
Dick Malone and The Night of the Frozen Turkey
I. An assignment and a wrong card
“RICHARD H. MALONE, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS” was painted in black capital letters onto the door’s frosted glass. Rita Sullivan knocked once, then opened the door to the only room used on the third storey of this old and exceptionally ugly house. The December snow was still glistering in her platinum blonde hair and on the expensive materials of her hat and coat when she stepped into the smoky small office. No ante-room, no secretary, just some ancient filing cabinets and piles of yellowed documents. A worn wooden desk stood in front of the only window, and behind this desk a rather short man with receding hairline was sitting and smoking. Leaned back in his chair, feet resting on the table’s edge, he was shuffling a deck of filthy playing cards.
“Are you Dick Malone?”, Rita said with ice in her voice. It wasn’t a question but more a statement.
The man looked up composedly and scrutinised her with his dark, piercing eyes, not neglecting his cards.
“How can I help you, Lady?”, Malone snarled past his roll-up cigarette.
“My name is Rita Sullivan; Misses Sullivan. I will not beat around the bush, Mister Malone: two weeks ago my husband died - he had been murdered. I talked to the police, and there I was told it had been an accident. But I know it hadn’t.”
“And you’re sure the police, too, won’t finally come to the conclusion that it had been homicide after all?”
Her voice went down another ten degrees: “If I suppose that the police can help me, I certainly wouldn’t see a ... person like you. It is said that you are the best in your profession...”
She grabbed into her handbag, pulled out a bundle of notes and threw it onto the desk.
“This would be more than enough as deposit for your service.”
“Of this I’m convinced, Lady. Here...”, he leaned forwards to seize the money with his left while he was holding the deck in his other hand, “ take a card.”
She sized him with still the same coldness in her beautiful face, but her red lips were trembling slightly with a mixture of aversion and insecurity. Finally her white-gloved hand pulled out the next best card with a quick move.
“Don’t tell me, Lady!”, he smirked. “It’s the nine of spades!”
She flipped the card onto the scratched tabletop, right to the spot where not half a minute before the money had landed.
“I hope that wasn’t a sample of your investigative skills, Mister Malone.”
The card was lying on his desk, facing up. The ace of diamonds.
II. Six pictures and a reason to choose chicken
The Sullivans, or at least the living half, were inhabiting a freehold flat in the better part of Chicago, somewhere between Lakeview and Lincoln Park.
Rita wasn’t actually amused to have the scruffy PI visiting, but accepted the necessity. His fedora still pulled down over one eye, both his hands buried in the crumpled trench coat’s pockets, Malone was snooping around in David Sullivan’s study. His gentrified client was leaning in the door way, smoking a menthol cigarette while critically observing his every move.
“This is Dave?”
Malone inspected the photograph in its heavy silver frame on the bookshelf. It showed Rita and an academic looking man in his late thirties.
“David. Yes.”
“I’ll need a picture of him to show it around.”
“I get you one.”
She vanished into the next room, and Malone focused his attention on the antique writing desk. An anthracite high-end laptop was residing on the green desk pad.
“Is this the only one here...?”, Malone shouted.
Rita appeared in the doorway: “Excuse me?”
“The computer. Do you have another one?”
“No, just the laptop. This is David’s. I am not into computers.”
She stepped to the desk and handed Malone a passport picture of her husband. As he shoved it into his pocket he noticed the strange lack of emotions by Misses Sullivan. Earlier in his office he had rated this as a protecting mask. But the casual way she gave him a photo of her dead husband made him suspicious.
“You don’t seem to be the classic tear-drowned widow, Lady.”
“Davis and I weren’t very close to each other. But, Mister Malone, I can assure you that I have esteemed and respected my husband.”
“Sure, him and his money”, Malone thought by himself.
“I would like to check the files on this laptop – maybe there’s a trace.”
“It’s password protected.” Rita flipped up the monitor and switched on the computer. After some seconds a prompt appeared on the screen.
“I had tried it several times: his birthday; my birthday; our wedding day...”
She fished for another cigarette, and Malone gave her a light, then granted himself one of his hand-rolled. Putting his hat on the table he sat down in David’s comfortable leather chair. His fingertips touched the keyboard but hesitated. Malone hated computers. Life had been easier without them. Of course there were millions of people out there thinking these machines were God’s gift to mankind, and of course they were all wrong. Once again it seemed that he was the only one knowing the score.
Malone half-heartily checked some combinations of names and dates, but without success. He leaned back and dragged at his cigarette.
“You are a very orderly man, Dave”, Malone thought.
“Sitting here with your new laptop, and now you need a password. A real problem for a guy without fantasy. You’re looking around...looking up and down your new toy...”
The PI once again reached for the keyboard and typed in seven letters.
“TOSHIBA”
The screen changed, and some moments later the computer was ready to reveal its secrets.
For half an hour Malone and Rita had clicked through files of bank accounts and economical stuff before they stumble across a folder named LH. It housed a batch of six photos, and Rita Sullivan was far more shocked about them than Malone. All pictures were taken five days before David’s death and all were showing the same scenery:
The location was a rather large garage. Not a standardised model for one or two cars but a custom-built one, maybe five by ten metres. In the background a Porsche of grey or silvery colour was visible. The car stood with the rear towards the camera, but a big tool box on wheels was covering almost everything of its number plate.
Nevertheless, all pictures’ main attraction was the naked man in the middle of the dim room. Well, he wasn’t completely naked; two body parts were nicely covered. A tight hood made of black leather enclosed his head. The item met all stereotyped ideas of a S&M-mask, up to the closed silver zipper across the mouth. Nowadays something like that wasn’t actually shocking. No, the true highlight was the object that was cooling Leatherface’s most likely erect penis: a huge frozen turkey, fresh from the shop and ready for the kitchen. Considering his different postures in all six pictures, it became obvious that the guy was fucking his plucked partner with considerable vigour.
“Is one of the both your husband, Lady?”, Malone asked laconically.
Rita stood stiffly behind the chair, one hand covering her mouth in silent horror. It took her some minutes to utter a response.
“That’s him! I...I recognise him, that’s David. Oh, No!”
“Listen, Lady, I think it’s time for a drink; and grant yourself a double shot.”
III. A car and a guy without underpants
Malone had made some calls after leaving Rita Sullivan. For the PI the pictures were harbouring a valuable trace, but they had really hurt the blonde woman. Grief had been visible on her face when she had discovered that her deceased husband was into necro-zoophilia. So Malone had decided not to tell her that Dave had been cheating on her not only with his tasty bird but with a human female, too. The person who had operated the camera. On some of the pictures blurred red strands could be noticed – a woman’s hairs directly in front of the lens. He had checked both Dave’s Nikon and his mobile phone, but found no more pictures. So he had asked Rita to print out a copy of the best shot and was now on his way to a very good friend of him. Actually, he hated Slick, but every time the long-haired guy could help him during an investigation, he became closer to Malone than his own mother.
Slick hadn’t answered Malone’s call, so the next one of his phone list was his contact at the morgue. According to her, Deadly Danielle, as she was called, Mister D. Sullivan had died from a hit to his head. The basal skull fracture could be either resulted from a blow with a blunt object or from a unlucky fall onto hard ground. Since no suitable weapon had been found, number two was the favourite of the police inspector in charge.
Malone had thanked Danielle with one of his rather ambiguous compliments. Always be nice to that woman - sooner or later we all have a date with Deadly Danielle...
The quarter Slick was living in lied in the southern part of the town and wasn’t famous for its cultured inhabitants. Malone and Slick had a few things in common – he was “a ...person like him”, how Rita would formulate it so ladylikely; with an extra long pause before “person”. Both knew the street, the environment of the small-time and not so small-time criminals. Slick run a small garage, sometimes dealing with stolen parts, and he was the man when it came to cars.
Malone climbed up the narrow stairway to Slick’s flat above the workroom. The door was ajar, and as the PI stepped in he was welcomed by the unmistakable sounds of a woman. Single pieces of garments, scattered on the floor, showed him the way into the living room.
On the old brown leather couch the young woman with her eyes closed in lust was on her straight way to the Big O. Her handy naked breasts were rocking in the rhythm of her moaning, and under the woollen blanket that covered her legs and abdomen was obviously action taking place.
Being a gentleman Malone waited for her to finish while he lightened another cigarette. It took her some more minutes of moaning, groaning and finally screaming to see the chequered flag. Glistening with fresh sweat, she let herself fall back into the worn leather and slowly opened her eyes. A squeal escaped her luscious lips when she saw Malone standing in the doorway.
“Easy, sweetie. I’m an old friend of Slick – by the way: is he somewhere between your legs by chance?”
Slick’s long-haired head appeared from under the blanket.
“Damn it, Malone! Piss off!”
“Sure, and on my way back trough your workroom I can check the VIN of that brand new Escalade down there...”
With a sigh Slick stood up and wrapped the blanket around his girlfriend. He was nude, too, so he waddled past Malone into the corridor to fish for his jeans.
“What do you want, Dick?”
“Your help, Slicky-Boy.” He pulled out the proof of Dave Sullivan’s amorous adventure. “Do you know what that is?”
“Yeah. It’s called a picture”, Slick sneered.
“You have a loose mouth for a guy without underwear.”
Slick buckled his belt, then grabbed the photo Malone was holding out to him.
“Woo-hoo! Is that you?! Dude, that’s really sick!”
“The car, Slick. I have to find this place and I think the car belongs to the owner.”
“Porsche 993.” He hold the picture out to Malone, but the PI just took a deep drag on his cigarette. There was far more to say about it, and Slicky-Boy better got cracking.
The half-naked man sighed again and stepped into the nearby kitchen where the girl was rattling around, still wrapped into the blanket.
“Are you making coffee, honey?”, he asked. “Make one for Mister Malone, too. Black. I think he isn’t going to leave us anytime soon.”
Slick turned around, and Malone followed him back into the living room.
“See this, Dick?” The gaunt mechanic pointed at a certain detail in the picture. Malone grunted impatiently.
“This tool box in front of the number plate also covers the badge, but you can still see the grate in the bonnet. Painted in the car’s colour, with a vertical strut in the middle. This was originally fitted only to the 993 Carrera S.”
He took a handbook from its creaking shelf.
“As far as I know this car was only built from model year...’97 to...”, he flipped some pages, ”...’98, I think...yes, ’98.”
He closed his book with a snap.
“You are searching for a silvery 993 Carrera S, built between autumn 1996 and autumn 1998. Model years start in late summer or autumn.”
“That’s how I like it, Slicky-Boy.”
The girl came back with the coffee and Slick took his cup.
“Thanks, honey.”
She gave the second cup to the PI: “Here, Mister Malone. Be careful, it’s hot...”, she smiled provocatively.
“Surely not the only hot thing around here, darling”, Malone smirked back.
IV. A redhead and no proves
Five 993 Carrera S were registered in Chicago, and only two of them were of silvery colour. Connie, the petite brunette from the Department of Motor Vehicles, had been once again a great, tasty looking help.
The first candidate was owned by a guy who looked as queer as Elton John and Boy George rolled into one.
The other car was driven by Doctor Stephen Harlow, happily married to Lauren Harlow - LH.
A rather large property near the Lake Michigan belonged to the Harlow house, including a nice garage with its own pitched roof.
Malone was a little bit curious about why Dave had risked his wiener getting a cold or the bird flue. Not only that Rita was a very attractive person; the redheaded woman that opened the front door was a real looker, too.
But obviously Dave had his very own preferences. In all his years Malone had seen so many perversions – he could write a whole book about them. And if every pervert out there bought one copy, he would be millionaire.
“Yes...?” the fire-haired female sized him with evident disdain.
The short man in the trench coat tipped his hat: “Misses Harlow? I’m Dick Malone, Private Investigations. Do you have a minute, Lady?”
“What is it about?.”
As an answer Malone showed her the picture of David Sullivan – that one without the turkey.
“Should I know this man?.” Lauren possessed the same icy expression as Rita, but her eyes were betraying her.
“Lady...”, Malone pinned a cigarette between his lips, “we can talk now, or we can wait until your husband comes back from his practice...”
The Porsche was still standing on the same spot like in the pictures - obviously a second or third car.
Malone was again shuffling his cards to speed up his thinking process as he strolled through the garage. It had needed a look to the second, more explicit photo for Lauren to grant the taciturn PI access to that building.
“Do you own a digital camera, Lady?”
“You are asking whether I have taken this picture. Yes. All of them.”
Malone was somewhat amazed about this plain statement, but followed up immediately: “What did your husband say to this?”
“My husband?!” She nearly spat out the words. “All my husband is interested in are his fucking cars! Since years I have to take second place behind wheels here and engines there!”
She tried to shock Malone with an explicit description.
“If only he knew! His docile wife being taken from behind on his beloved Porsche! Bent over the front wing with her head in the boot while his long-time tennis partner banging her silly!”
Malone was checking the large freezer standing in the far corner: “But then you got jealous when he started with the turkey. Typical problem of a ménage a trios. You felt taking second place again and...got rid of him. At least that’s my very own theory. Maybe you have another one, Lady.”
“You mean whether I killed that bastard because he had broken up with me to go back to his frigid bitch?”
Lauren Harlow was obviously in a fury.
“David was high with coke when he was fucking the turkey that night. And?!. My husband would fuck his cars if only he gets his prick hard again!”
Lighting another cigarette, the PI feigned understanding: “Yeah, Dave certainly had his kinky fun with you. But back in his proper little life, married and with ‘No Drugs’ on his bumper, he was just another version of your husband. You’ve done the world a favour. I think the police will agree with us. Here, take one; I think we’re finished with the official part...”
He hold his well-shuffled deck out to her.
“Your cheap tricks and mind games are not impressing me, Mister Malone.” She took a card, just for seeing how he would try to baffle her.
“You’ve drawn the seven of heart and you have murdered David Sullivan, Lady.”
“You are a smutty little voyeur, not a serious investigator.” Lauren gave him back the card. “You are not even a good entertainer.”
The ace of diamonds.
“But I’m never wrong two times in a row...”
“You are pathetic. This could be anyone’s hair in the picture, and no one could definitely recognise the guy with the hood. Not with David’s body being dead since two weeks!” She smiled wickedly. “You have no proofs, Mister Malone!”
“May I ask where the turkey is now, Lady? You know, DNA and those stuffs...”
Lauren Harlow’s smile seemed to become even more evil: “My husband’s family was visiting us for Thanksgiving. Well, I’m personally a vegetarian...”
Malone uttered a husky laugh and bent down the brim of his hat over the furrowed face: “So, with all proves are eaten, we’ll never know?”
“I would say so.”
The PI again laughed dryly and stepped to the door, but turned around one last time.
“By the way: How heavy had the turkey been?”
“Around twenty pounds, I would say.”
“Twenty pounds. That’s heavy. I bet you could kill someone with such a proud bird.”
“Maybe. But, like you said, Mister Malone: We’ll never know...”
~~~~~
After a single knock the door to the smoky small office on the third storey was opened and a classy looking brunette stepped in.
“Are you Dick Malone?”, the woman said with ice in her voice. It wasn’t a question but more a statement.
Malone looked up composedly and scrutinised her with his dark, piercing eyes, not neglecting his cards.
“How can I help you, Lady?”, he snarled past his roll-up cigarette.
END
Venom,
Your patience is greatly appreciated. i promise to get to this tomorrow morning.
rose
No Problemo!
A few thoughts, when you use spell check, see that the word used is the correct one. A good technique to editing your work is to read it out loud when you think it is finished.
I couldn't go through the rest of it because some of the corrections were distracting, but, I like where you are going with the story.
Quote:
Originally Posted by Venom
Thank you for your help, nikita! Of course it has to be "glistening" and "leant".
The thing with Misses is a weak point: I found all kinds of versions, from "Misses" to "Missis" and "Mississ"(?). Your "Missus" is new to me. To end this: she's a Mrs, a married woman. I let her "say" the whole word instead of the abridgement to underline her status.
"I know it wasn't" sounds better than "...it hadn't (been)", but using the first I would loose the ateriority.
But I don't understand what's wrong with "storey" and "scrutinised" ( "story" and "scrutinized" in American English).
Without the abbreviation, I'm pretty sure that "Misses" would be the most common accepted spelling. Others are, I'm sure, used, but nowhere near as frequently. Use with the abbreviation, Mrs., is also considered proper even in the middle of a sentence, i.e., "I suggest that it was Mrs. White in the study with the lead pipe." (Yes, Clue is one of my favorite board games.)Quote:
Originally Posted by Venom
This is personal preference, or more likely a specific editor's preference. Both are certainly acceptable. I have certain specific ideosyncracies I speak and write with, one of which was flagged in a previous assignment by Rose as being a bit too "Victorian" sounding. The funny thing is that I speak in almost the same way I write, and people have often commented to me about my wide use of language and distinct ways of expressing myself. Sometimes, though, it really does come down to pleasing the editor. The editor, after all, typically will hopefully have a bit broader understanding of your intended audience than you will. The editor isn't always right, though, so a healthy debate on semantics of a particular passage can sometimes lead to an interesting discussion of grammar or clarity which may, in itself, prove useful.Quote:
Originally Posted by Venom
Probably nothing is "wrong" with them if you are writing for a "Queen's English" audience. An American, however, will look at these two examples and, especially if they are good spellers, will cringe at the perception of a spelling mistake. Often, misspellings and grammatical errors can detract from a reader's ability to read and enjoy a story for the story content. (You can tell I am an American with how I spelled "story" in that sentence.") If you are looking for an international audience, stick with whatever spellings you are most familiar with, and if you get REALLY wide circulation of your writing, many publishing houses have editors working on both sides of the pond to correct for their respective locale.Quote:
Originally Posted by Venom
This, of course, leads to an interesting question: As a writer on an international site like this one, how do you handle the potential for such misperceptions? (Probably want to break off that question into a separate thread if anybody wants to address it as it will likely detract from the purpose of this thread which is, of course, to evaluate the original piece by Venom.)
Thank you very much for these clear words, underwhere.
I have chosen British English because that's what I had learned/learnt :) in school. Of course I know that an US-American writes color instead of colour, hood instead of bonnet and ass instead of arse.
But the funny guys from the island were first! :icon176:
I really hope that this won't become a problem during the editing process.
It still looks funny. :icon176:Quote:
Originally Posted by Venom
only by a few hundred years or so.....what difference does that make? :icon176:Quote:
Originally Posted by Venom
It shouldn't, but like I said, this is where you need to pay careful attention to the editor. Your editor, including Rose here, is going to be aware that you are writing from a particular geographical location, but you also need to be aware that you are reading editing suggestions from somebody with a slightly difference sense of grammar and spelling. The really important thing, though, is to be consistent with grammar and spelling. If you are writing in the Queen's English, don't accidentally switch out of that into American English, or vice versa.Quote:
Originally Posted by "Venom
By the way, I happen to like some Victorian grammatical constructs. Its a simple enough thing for me to ignore accepted alternate spellings. I think most readers will be forgiving if you are consistent in their usage, and as I said, editors will correct for their audience so generally, as an author, you need not be concerned with such spelling and grammar preferences so long as your editor is good.
That being said, Rose is your editor here, so you're just going to have to get used to those corrections here. :) Don't take them personally though.
Right you are, and use to double-check this affair in my work.Quote:
Originally Posted by underwhere
By the way: someone has attested me a "flowery style". Maybe it was the same who has discovered your "Victorian" tendencies...:)
I guess I should also add, based upon something I read recently, that "missus" is also an accepted spelling, as already suggested, i.e., "I do only what the missus tells me to do." I don't think that would be acceptable to use as an official title though. In that case, you'd still have to say "Mrs. Smith". I couldn't locate a reference for "Misses Smith" though I'm pretty sure I've seen that before. Maybe its been "Missus Smith" but I've never read that either. I'd probably stick with "Mrs. Smith".
I searched some more (what I should have done BEFORE I posted the story...) and discovered that Mrs is mostly written out as "Missis". I rely on:
http://dict.leo.org/ende?lp=ende&lan...ssis&relink=on
"Misses" is the (probably old-fashioned) plural form of "Miss".
I hope this will do it:
"My name is Rita Sullivan; Missis Sullivan."
This is a clear case where the abbreviation, which is the most common form used, is clearer than the actual spelling. Most writers will use Mrs. for Misses or Missis (I can not find a definitive answer on which is correct) . Missus is a southern (US) pronunciation.Quote:
Originally Posted by Venom
Miss in context is quite clear, but also serves as an abbreviation for Mississippi, and a failure to connect. miss an appointment, or a pitch.
Ms, is very PC but the spelling it out would be strictly phonetic (ie a crap shoot)
Miz might work in a pinch.
English, you gotta love it.
Rule of thumbs... Mrs. if married, Miss if single, Ms. if you're not sure. See life can be simple(ish).
Yours
Mad Lews
And just to add one more twist to the discussion, 'Miz' is an old southern (US) form of address for an elderly or widowed woman.Quote:
Originally Posted by Mad Lews
Colloquialisms--ya gotta love 'em. :)
OK I better do this before mean Dean smells blood in the water.
I. An assignment and a wrong card
“RICHARD H. MALONE, PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS” was painted( this is a past tense verb, not a real problem but a poor choice for opening the story, use a more active sentence to generate intrest. She squinted at the Block letters spelling out Richard H Malone P.I. )in black capital letters onto the door’s frosted glass. Rita Sullivan knocked once, then opened the door to the only room used on the third storey of this old and exceptionally ugly house. The December snow was still glistering in her platinum blonde hair and on the expensive materials of her hat and coat when she stepped into the smoky small office. No ante-room, no secretary, just some ancient filing cabinets and piles of yellowed documents. A worn wooden desk stood in front of the only window, and behind this desk a rather short man with receding hairline was sitting and smoking. Leaned back in his chair, feet resting on the table’s edge, he was shuffling a deck of filthy playing cards.
“Are you Dick Malone?”, (no comma after quotes)Rita said with ice in her voice. It wasn’t a question but more a statement.
The man looked up composedly (admit it, you made that word up, calmly would work better) and scrutinised her with his dark, piercing eyes, not neglecting his cards.
“How can I help you, Lady?”, Malone snarled past his roll-up cigarette.
“My name is Rita Sullivan; Misses Sullivan. I will not beat around the bush, Mister Malone: two weeks ago my husband died - he had been(was) murdered. I talked to the police, and there I (drop) was told it had been (was) an accident. But I know it hadn’t(wasn’t).”
“And you’re sure the police, too, won’t finally come to the conclusion that it had been homicide after all?”
Her voice went down another ten degrees: “If I suppose that the police can help me, I certainly wouldn’t see a ... person like you. It is said that you are the best in your profession...”
She grabbed into her handbag, pulled out a bundle of notes and threw it onto the desk.
“This would (should)be more than enough as deposit for your service.”
“Of this I’m convinced, Lady. Here...”, he leaned forwards to seize the money with his left while he was holding the deck in his other hand, “ take a card.”
She sized him with still the same coldness in her beautiful face, but her red lips were trembling slightly with a mixture of aversion and insecurity. Finally, her white-gloved hand pulled out the next best card with a quick move.
“Don’t tell me, Lady!”, he smirked. “It’s the nine of spades!”
She flipped the card onto the scratched tabletop, right to the spot where not half a minute before the money had landed.
“I hope that wasn’t a sample of your investigative skills, Mister Malone.”
The card was lying on his desk, facing up. The ace of diamonds.
II. Six pictures and a reason to choose chicken
The Sullivan’s, or at least the living half, were inhabiting a freehold flat in the better part of Chicago, somewhere between Lakeview and Lincoln Park.
Rita wasn’t actually amused to have the scruffy PI visiting, but accepted the necessity. His fedora still pulled down over one eye, both his hands buried in the crumpled trench coat’s pockets, Malone was snooping (snooped) around in David Sullivan’s study. His gentrified client was leaning in the door way, smoking a menthol cigarette while critically observing his every move.
“This is Dave?”
Malone inspected the photograph in its heavy silver frame on the bookshelf. It showed Rita and an academic looking man in his late thirties.
“David. Yes.”
“I’ll need a picture of him to show it around.”
“I get you one.”
She vanished into the next room, and Malone focused his attention on the antique writing desk. An anthracite?( that’s a type of hard coal isn’t it?) high-end laptop was residing on the green desk pad.
“Is this the only one here...?”, Malone shouted.
Rita appeared in the doorway: “Excuse me?”
“The computer. Do you have another one?”
“No, just the laptop. This is David’s. I am not into computers.”
She stepped to the desk and handed Malone a passport picture of her husband. As he shoved it into his pocket he noticed the strange lack of emotions by Misses Sullivan. Earlier in his office he had rated this as a protecting mask. But the casual way she gave him a photo of her dead husband made him suspicious.
“You don’t seem to be the classic tear-drowned widow, Lady.”
“Davis (David) and I weren’t very close to each other. But, Mister Malone, I can assure you that I have (had) esteemed and respected for my husband.”
“Sure, him and his money”, Malone thought by himself.
“I would like to check the files on this laptop – maybe there’s a trace (clue would be better).”
“It’s password protected.” Rita flipped up the monitor and switched on the computer. After some seconds a prompt appeared on the screen.
“I had tried it several times: his birthday; my birthday; our wedding day...”
She fished for another cigarette, and Malone gave her a light, then granted himself one of his hand-rolled. Putting his hat on the table he sat down in David’s comfortable leather chair. His fingertips touched the keyboard but hesitated. Malone hated computers. Life had been easier without them. Of course there were millions of people out there thinking these machines were God’s gift to mankind, and of course they were all wrong. Once again it seemed that he was the only one knowing the score.
Malone half-heartily checked some combinations of names and dates, but without success. He leaned back and dragged at his cigarette.
“You are a very orderly man, Dave”, Malone thought.
“Sitting here with your new laptop, and now you need a password. A real problem for a guy without fantasy. You’re looking around...looking up and down your new toy...”
The PI once again reached for the keyboard and typed in seven letters.
“TOSHIBA”
The screen changed, and some moments later the computer was ready to reveal its secrets.
For half an hour Malone and Rita had clicked through files of bank accounts and economical stuff before they stumble across a folder named LH. It housed a batch of six photos, and Rita Sullivan was far more shocked about them than Malone. All pictures were taken five days before David’s death and all were showing the same scenery:
The location was a rather large garage. Not a standardised model for one or two cars but a custom-built one, maybe five by ten metres.(This is an awkward sentence construction in fact it’s only fragment of a sentence you need to start ‘It was not...’) In the background a Porsche of grey or silvery colour was visible. The car stood with the rear towards the camera, but a big tool box on wheels was covering almost everything of its number plate.
Nevertheless, all pictures’ main attraction was the naked man in the middle of the dim room. Well, he wasn’t completely naked; two body parts were nicely covered. A tight hood made of black leather enclosed his head. The item met all stereotyped ideas of a S&M-mask, up to the closed silver zipper across the mouth. Nowadays something like that wasn’t actually shocking. No, the true highlight was the object that was cooling Leatherface’s most likely erect penis: a huge frozen turkey, fresh from the shop and ready for the kitchen. Considering his different postures in all six pictures, it became obvious that the guy was fucking his plucked partner with considerable vigour.
“Is one of the both your husband, Lady?”(Not sure what you are asking) Malone asked laconically.
Rita stood stiffly behind the chair, one hand covering her mouth in silent horror. It took her some minutes to utter a response.
“That’s him! I...I recognise him, that’s David. Oh, No!”
“Listen, Lady, I think it’s time for a drink; and grant yourself a double shot.”
III. A car and a guy without underpants
Malone had made some calls after leaving Rita Sullivan. For the PI the pictures were harbouring a valuable trace, but they had really hurt the blonde woman. Grief had been visible on her face when she had discovered that her deceased husband was into necro-zoophilia. So Malone had decided not to tell her that Dave had been cheating on her not only with his tasty bird but with a human female, too. The person who had operated the camera.( A sentence fragment) On some of the pictures blurred red strands could be noticed (use seen instead then a period or semi colon;)– (caused by)a woman’s hairs directly in front of the lens. He had checked both Dave’s Nikon and his mobile phone, but found no more pictures. So he had asked Rita to print out a copy of the best shot and was now on his way to a very good friend of him.(his) Actually, he hated Slick, but every time the long-haired guy could help him during an investigation, he became closer to Malone than his own mother.
Slick hadn’t answered Malone’s call, so the next one of his phone list was his contact at the morgue. According to her, Deadly Danielle, as she was called, Mister D. Sullivan had died from a hit to his head. The basal skull fracture could be either resulted from a blow with a blunt object or from a unlucky fall onto hard ground. Since no suitable weapon had been found, number two was the favourite of the police inspector in charge.
Malone had thanked Danielle with one of his rather ambiguous compliments. Always be nice to that woman - sooner or later we all have a date with Deadly Danielle...
The quarter(s) Slick was living in lied(lay) in the southern part of the town and wasn’t famous for its cultured inhabitants. Malone and Slick had a few things in common – he was “a ...person like him”,(is) how Rita would formulate it(,) so ladylikely; with an extra long pause before “person”. Both knew the street, the environment of the small-time and not so small-time criminals. Slick run (ran) a small garage, sometimes dealing with stolen parts, and he was the man when it came to cars.
Malone climbed up the narrow stairway to Slick’s flat above the workroom. The door was ajar, and as the PI stepped in he was welcomed by the unmistakable sounds of a woman. Single pieces of garments, scattered on the floor, showed him the way into the living room.
On the old brown leather couch the young woman with her eyes closed in lust was on her straight way to the Big O. Her handy naked breasts were rocking in the rhythm of her moaning(. Give readers a chance to breath) under the woollen blanket that covered her legs and abdomen ( there was) was obviously action taking place.(turn this into a second sentence)
Being a gentleman(,) Malone waited for her to finish while he lightened(. He lit) another cigarette(while he waited). It took her some more minutes of moaning, groaning and finally screaming to see the chequered flag. Glistening with fresh sweat, she let herself fall back into the worn leather and slowly opened her eyes. A squeal escaped her luscious lips when she saw Malone standing in the doorway.
“Easy, sweetie. I’m an old friend of Slick – by the way: is he somewhere between your legs by chance?”
Slick’s long-haired head appeared from under the blanket.
“Damn it, Malone! Piss off!”
“Sure, and on my way back trough (through)your workroom I can check the VIN of that brand new Escalade down there...”
With a sigh Slick stood up and wrapped the blanket around his girlfriend. He was nude, too, so he waddled past Malone into the corridor to fish for his jeans.
“What do you want, Dick?”
“Your help, Slicky-Boy.” He pulled out the proof of Dave Sullivan’s amorous adventure. “Do you know what that is?”
“Yeah. It’s called a picture”, Slick sneered.
“You have a loose mouth for a guy without underwear.”
Slick buckled his belt, then grabbed the photo Malone was holding out to him.
“Woo-hoo! Is that you?! Dude, that’s really sick!”
“The car, Slick. I have to find this place and I think the car belongs to the owner.”
“Porsche 993.” He hold the picture out to Malone, but the PI just took a deep drag on his cigarette. There was far more to say about it, and Slicky-Boy better got cracking.
The half-naked man sighed again and stepped into the nearby kitchen where the girl was rattling around, still wrapped into the blanket.
“Are you making coffee, honey?”, he asked. “Make one for Mister Malone, too. Black. I think he isn’t going to leave us anytime soon.”
Slick turned around, and Malone followed him back into the living room.
“See this, Dick?” The gaunt mechanic pointed at a certain detail in the picture. Malone grunted impatiently.
“This tool box in front of the number plate also covers the badge, but you can still see the grate in the bonnet. Painted in the car’s colour, with a vertical strut in the middle. This was originally fitted only to the 993 Carrera S.”
He took a handbook from its creaking shelf.
“As far as I know this car was only built from model year...’97 to...”, he flipped some pages, ”...’98, I think...yes, ’98.”
He closed his book with a snap.
“You are searching for a silvery 993 Carrera S, built between autumn 1996 and autumn 1998. Model years start in late summer or autumn.”
“That’s how I like it, Slicky-Boy.”
The girl came back with the coffee and Slick took his cup.
“Thanks, honey.”
She gave the second cup to the PI: “Here, Mister Malone. Be careful, it’s hot...”, she smiled provocatively.
“Surely not the only hot thing around here, darling”, Malone smirked back.
IV. A redhead and no proves(proof)
Five 993 Carrera S were registered in Chicago, and only two of them were of silvery colour. Connie, the petite brunette from the Department of Motor Vehicles, had been once again a great, tasty looking help.
The first candidate was owned by a guy who looked as queer as Elton John and Boy George rolled into one.
The other car was driven by Doctor Stephen Harlow, happily married to Lauren Harlow - LH.
A rather large property near the Lake Michigan belonged to the Harlow house, including a nice garage with its own pitched roof.
Malone was a little bit curious about why Dave had risked his wiener getting a cold or the bird flue. Not only that Rita was a very attractive person; the redheaded woman that opened the front door was a real looker, too.
But obviously Dave had his very own preferences. In all his years Malone had seen so many perversions – he could write a whole book about them. And if every pervert out there bought one copy, he would be millionaire.
“Yes...?” the fire-haired female sized him with evident disdain.
The short man in the trench coat tipped his hat: “Misses Harlow? I’m Dick Malone, Private Investigations. Do you have a minute, Lady?”
“What is it about?.”
As an answer Malone showed her the picture of David Sullivan – that one without the turkey.
“Should I know this man?.” Lauren possessed the same icy expression as Rita, but her eyes were betraying her.
“Lady...”, Malone pinned a cigarette between his lips, “we can talk now, or we can wait until your husband comes back from his practice...”
The Porsche was still standing on the same spot like in the pictures - obviously a second or third car.
Malone was again shuffling his cards to speed up his thinking process as he strolled through the garage. It had needed a look to the second, more explicit photo for Lauren to grant the taciturn PI access to that building.
“Do you own a digital camera, Lady?”
“You are asking whether I have taken this picture. Yes. All of them.”
Malone was somewhat amazed about this plain statement, but followed up immediately: “What did your husband say to this?”
“My husband?!” She nearly spat out the words. “All my husband is interested in are his fucking cars! Since( For) years I have (had) to take second place behind wheels here and engines there!”
She tried to shock Malone with an explicit description.
“If only he knew! His docile wife being taken from behind on his beloved Porsche! Bent over the front wing with her head in the boot while his long-time tennis partner banging her silly!”
Malone was checking the large freezer standing in the far corner: “But then you got jealous when he started with the turkey. Typical problem of a ménage a trios. You felt taking second place again and...got rid of him. At least that’s my very own theory. Maybe you have another one, Lady.”
“You mean whether I killed that bastard because he had broken up with me to go back to his frigid bitch?”
Lauren Harlow was obviously in a fury.
“David was high with coke when he was fucking the turkey that night. And?!. My husband would fuck his cars if only he gets his prick hard again!”
Lighting another cigarette, the PI feigned understanding: “Yeah, Dave certainly had his kinky fun with you. But back in his proper little life, married and with ‘No Drugs’ on his bumper, he was just another version of your husband. You’ve done the world a favour. I think the police will agree with us. Here, take one; I think we’re finished with the official part...”
He hold (held) his well-shuffled deck out to her.
“Your cheap tricks and mind games are not impressing me, Mister Malone.” She took a card, just for seeing (to see) how he would try to baffle her.
“You’ve drawn the seven of heart and you have murdered David Sullivan, Lady.”
“You are a smutty little voyeur, not a serious investigator.” Lauren gave him back the card. “You are not even a good entertainer.”
The ace of diamonds.
“But I’m never wrong two times in a row...”
“You are pathetic. This could be anyone’s hair in the picture, and no one could definitely recognise the guy with the hood. Not with David’s body being dead since two weeks!” She smiled wickedly. “You have no proofs, Mister Malone!”
“May I ask where the turkey is now, Lady? You know, DNA and those stuffs...”
Lauren Harlow’s smile seemed to become even more evil: “My husband’s family was visiting us for Thanksgiving. Well, I’m personally a vegetarian...”
Malone uttered a husky laugh and bent down the brim of his hat over the furrowed face: “So, with all proves are (the evidence) eaten, we’ll never know?”
“I would say so.”
The PI again laughed dryly and stepped to the door, but turned around one last time.
“By the way: How heavy had the turkey been?”
“Around twenty pounds, I would say.”
“Twenty pounds. That’s ( pounds, that’s) heavy. I bet you could kill someone with such a proud bird.”
“Maybe. But, like you said, Mister Malone: We’ll never know...”
~~~~~
After a single knock the door to the smoky small office on the third storey was opened and a classy looking brunette stepped in.
“Are you Dick Malone?”, the woman said with ice in her voice. It wasn’t a question but more a statement.
Malone looked up composedly and scrutinised her with his dark, piercing eyes, not neglecting his cards.
“How can I help you, Lady?”, he snarled past his roll-up cigarette.
OK Vernom,
This was an ambitious work. You did fairly well but you need to work on verb tenses and certain word choices. There is a short simple book on English grammar called “Elements of style”. It covers some basic grammar and punctuation rules as well as commonly confused words.
Dialog is never easy, and the best way to prepare is, well eavesdrop. listen in on conversations, try and pick up phrases you can use. TV and movies can also serve as inspiration to develop dialog for your characters. You might also want to have a friend read through your work before turning it in.Four eyes are better than two. English is not the most logical of languages, but I bet you already know that.
Take care and keep plugging
Mad Lews
Thanks for your words, Mad!
the human or the turkey...Malone has a strange humourQuote:
Originally Posted by Mad Lews
btw: anthracite is the colour of anthracite (hard coal)
composedly (admit it, you made that word up) Nope; google and LEO are on my side:)
Well, I could do more nit picking.
Flue = flu
thought by himself = thought to himself
…=… .
etc
I liked the idea of necrozoophilia. Appropriately wicked treatment for a cold turkey. I also liked the reference to card deck and the way you used it.
You obviously though the story out and you took it quite far. Streaming the story and getting it just right takes more experience. For example: Are all the segments and episodes necessary for the story? Style: Dead pan narration is quite adequate for this subject. It actually gives the whole story a toungue- in-cheek feeling. Moreover, it matches the coldness of the turkey and the type of character Malone stands for. However, occasional shift into a tongue-in-cheek storytelling (the weight of the turkey) could be a double jeopardy.
Keep it up.
Wolffie (pejanon)