Chapters 16-18 now posted

Where Harlan gets to be a detective, and Friday gets to be a hero.

Liking this novel more and more, the deeper I get into it. I'm really looking forward to finishing this one up, letting it simmer for a few months, and then rewriting to get out to a publisher.

On writing, process, and music

I've been asked before if I have certain music in mind when I write my novels. Usually this is asked by people who know what a music whore I am. And yes, I create playlists to help set the mood. In the case of Death Plays an Accordion, I actually put together a soundtrack which I can port around from machine to machine, or play on the home stereo and control with a remote when I'm in the kitchen -- much like Harlan Puchalik does in the novel.

Much of the music was selected because of it's association with the location - Tucson, Arizona. But not all. Yes, Calexico, particuarlly their brilliant album Feast of Wire is heavily represented. Some songs were just chosen because it felt like they fit. Of particular note, the Emmylou Harris song, "Michelangelo" was unknown to me until hearing Jason Webley play it in concert on November 2nd. I tracked it down afterwords, and added it to the list. I feel it belongs. You be the judge.

Crumble -- Calexico, off Feast of Wire
If Wishes Were Horses -- David Baerwald, off 13 Ways to Live
Whipping the Horse's Eyes -- Calexico, off Feast of Wire
Lament -- The Gourds, off gogitchyershinebox
Dub Latina -- Calexico, off Feast of Wire
Sunken Waltz -- Calexico, off Feast of Wire
Michelangelo -- Emmylou Harris, off Red Dirt Girl
The Book And The Canal -- Calexico, off Feast of Wire
Stray -- Calexico, off The Black Light
Lion's Jaws -- Neko Case, off Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
No Doze -- Calexico, off Feast of Wire
El Picador -- Calexico, off Hot Rail
Young Anymore -- David Baerwald, off Bedtime Stories
Fade -- Calexico, off Hot Rail
Cannonball -- Benjamin Costello, off his website, benjamincostello.com
Fox Confessor Brings the Flood -- Neko Case, off Fox Confessor Brings the Flood
Tres Avisos -- Calexico, off Hot Rail
Dance While the Sky Crashes Down -- Jason Webley, off Against the Night
Europa (Earth's Cry Heaven's Smile) -- Santana, off The Best of Carlos Santana

Gentlemn, start your typewriters!

Here we go!

My NaNoWriMo effort for 2008, Death Plays an Accordion, is now being posted in three chapter blocks.

Remember, this is all the raw chapters. Very little, pretty much none, went into the work you see there. This is a rare look into the first draft process.

I welcome comments, but I won't be going back and applying any edits you suggest until at least January. :)

This is projected to be a 25 chapter novel, and I'm thinking I might slip another chapter in as things get rolling. That makes for a total of 9 posts by the end of November.

Enjoy!
-Nate

As one adventure ends...

Yes, it took forever.

There were a few unavoidable delays with the epilogue that involved a dying computer, an editor on the move, and a change in momentum.

That said, the long awaited Epilogue for Chanson Noir is now live.

Starting Friday, November 7th, I will begin posting the raw chapters of "Death Plays an Accordion," the mystery novel I'm writing for National Novel Writing Month.

Let me repeat the important part. "...raw chapters..." What goes up on the site is a first draft, and will require a significant re-write and edit. But this gives my readers a look inside of the process, and allows my informal editors a chance to pass an eye over it and make suggestions.

Enjoy the mystery as it unfolds. "Death Plays an Accordion" will be a bit of departure for me -- a straight detective mystery, there will be no speculative fiction elements present.

Until next time!

Apologies for the delay

Chapter updates had taken a backseat to other projects for longer than I wanted. Chapters have been going up at a crazy pace this weekend, and the final epilogue should go up late tonight.

The entirety of the novel will remain posted until September 12th, at which point I'll pull down all but the first three preview chapters.

Chanson Noir will be put through a final brush-up edit while the cover is being finished. And then, on Friday, September 26th, I'll be taking it the Foolscap Convention in Redmond for pre-sell before the official release on September 30th.

And I'll post a preview of the cover here as soon as I have it in a few weeks.

Thanks for your patience.

Cobalt City - a visitor's guide

For those who wish a look into Cobalt City, I present a visitor’s guide. I apologize for the quality of the map. It is merely a reference copy that I’ve held onto for a while as I wrote the novels.

Lafayette Park - Think Central Park in a lot of ways. Real estate along the long north/south axis of the park are pricy. There is a memorial park/cemetery deep in the park, with graves dating back to the end of the Revolutionary War, its name honors the French who helped win the war.

Parkside, on the east edge, is expensive high rises. Think Park Avenue in New York.

Lafayette Park Boulevard on the west side has more exclusive condos and boutiques and a wide, tree-lined street.

Morrison is a bedroom community/neighborhood. Think of neighborhoods like Wallingford, Maple Leaf, or Magnolia (all in the Seattle area). Not hip, not happening, just kind of there. The exceptions are the sports venues located just off the highway just north of the dividing line between Morrison and Downtown. There are a Football and indoor arena which features Hockey and indoor soccer there.

Karlsburg, however, has old-school ethnic charm. It has a lot of characteristics of Ballard and even Levenworth (both from the Seattle area), to a degree. It's in the hills, so the streets are not generally straight, and tend to be a bit winding. The old buildings and rustic-ness becomes a bit more run down the further south you get. The bottom third is very low rent, and while not as bad as The Hollows, some people refer to that neighborhood as South Karl, Crack Hill, and now that Mister Grey has made it his personal business, Grey Hill.

The Hollows -- I think I might have listed it as the Hollow on the map...my bad. This used to be swamp and fen before it got filled in. It has missed the gentrification that has hit the rest of the city, and is run down buildings, liquor stores, gun shops, strip clubs, and seedy dives. The worst part of town, hands down.

Cannonade – This area used to be primarily military -- a place for to mount cannons to defend the harbor and the mouth of the river. The fortifications are still there, as are the many buildings built to support the military, though they've all been repurposed. A long walking park runs along the shore, above a heavily buttressed sea-wall. The neighborhood has elements of Freemont and SoHo funkieness, blended with Sand Point architectural elements in places (yes, another Seattle reference). This is the "Hip" neighborhood.

Quayside -- Working class, the majority of docks and freight hits here, making it a commercial and industrial hub. But it isn't without its nightlife. Gambling was legalized in Quayside in the fifties, and there are several casinos here, including the Forbidden Palace, run by a suspected gang leader (Donald Lo…he has had several run-ins with the Protectorate). This neighborhood has a mix of urban working class and urban nightlife. Very few people actually live here, commuting for work and play.

The Oriental -- Wild Kat's headquarters, and the place where Simon "Mr. Grey" Floyd was killed and interred for 70 years. Still a matter of historic significance.

Starcom -- The headquarters of Stardust's business, his home, and his not-so-secret lair.

The Keep -- A blocky, sturdy building surrounded by a walled garden, it is six floors high with deep roots, and is tapered slightly towards the top. The design is deep grey granite in appearance, with copper-tinted glass fronts.

UCC - The University of Cobalt City, it is a big campus, similar to New York University. It has a separate biotech campus up in Morrison.

Monday already?

For those of you eager for Chapter 7, it is going up today...first thing when I get home from the salt mines. It should be live by 6pm Pacific time at the very latest, still very much a Monday update, but not as early as I would like.

Chapter 7 finds our heroes back at the Keep. The more science-minded types (Stardust, Worm Queen, and Knockabout) are trying to investigate the Mirror of Shadows while occult-oriented Mister Grey and Doctor Shadow try to wring information out of the captive Louis Malenfant.

I won't give away secrets, but I will hint that those who have been wondering about the "iteration" designation with each chapter are about to see your curiosity rewarded.

Science - it's good for you!

A high-ranking member of the fan-girl nation and loyal reader has just sent me some extensive notes on insects and their care and study. She got a bee in her bonnet and dug up some specifics that, had I done my homework earlier, should have added first time through.

I love when my writing makes people want to learn stuff!

So I'll be doing a chapter revision this weekend, and posting here when the reworked chapter goes live. Ah, the advantage of serializing content...the chance to make fixes before an expensive print run. :)

Chapter 5 now up

When I started this novel, I didn't have a particularly strong affinity for Marcus, the Huntsman. I knew he had an arc here. Things needed to be set up for the second novel, Cobalt City Blues, so more than most other characters in Chanson Noir, I knew there was an agenda here.

And I've always been drawn to the archers.

Yet, the character didn't spark for me. Not until Chapter 5.

Then I started laying out a bit of history -- not just his, but that of the mantle of Huntsman. I started to realize that he was unique among my other characters, in that while Simon was old, and Doctor Shadow was older still, Huntsman had the weight of tradition. And it was being carried by such a young man.

By the time the chips get cashed in at the end of the novel, he had become one of my favorite characters. And maybe I'll find time to do something more with him on another project.

Perhaps he needs to meet up with Gato Loco and Snowflake somewhere out on the road.

Only time will tell. In the meantime, I leave you with the unfolding tales of The Protectorate.

Chanson Noir lives!

Just the other day, I started publishing the chapters of my newest novel, Chanson Noir, in installments. Three chapters a week, posted on (or just before, as the case has been so far), Saturday, Monday, and Wednesday. So far, three chapters are up. At the end of the experience (September, at this point), I'll be taking most of the chapters off-line and publishing it through Lulu.com, just like I have the other Cobalt tales. I have talented people working on the covers to unify the series even as we speak.

It's all terribly exciting.

I'm curious what the reaction of readers might be. I start off with a prologue featuring Louis Malenfant -- the most unsavory character in the narrative at his most pathetic. That was a risk, I knew, but that prologue was the seed for this story. In many ways, he is one of the axis which this novel spins upon.

Monday is going to SUCK!

On the upside, I've made a HUGE dent in my screenplay for Zombre! for Script Frenzy. What is Script Frenzy, you may ask? Merely an insane desire to write an entire screenplay over the course of a month. Last time I did this, I made myself sick overworking myself and contributed heavily to the eventual demise of my second marriage. This time, however, I have two successful NaNoWriMo titles under my belt, and those are over twice the length of a full fledged screenplay, so the workload won't likely kill me. And, well, no marriage to ruin this time. :)

And I need to do something now that I've finished writing the most recent de la Vega mystery. Yes, Gato Loco fans...Ride Like the Devil is in the can. It is being read now by a secret cadre of discerning readers who are picking it apart prior to my edit in July. I expect to have a finished product available just in time for the holiday shopping season! But I digress...

Despite the distractions of the weekend (Hooray for Andrew and Cat making a baby, and BOOO! to the Seattle Mariners), I am about 1/4 of the way done with the script, and I still have a few hours left today to write. It's possible that I could be halfway done with it on Monday night at this rate. That would be, oh, the 4th? Yeah, I think I can get this baby turned around fast. What's more, it's pretty frickin' good, especially if you like the concept of a zombie western!

The downside?

Well, I got about 4 hours of sleep Friday night, took a nap on Saturday mid-day that threw off my sleep schedule, and then was up until 4 in the morning. It's about 7pm here now, and I already suspect that I'll have a horribly messed up internal clock by the time I get on the bus in 12 hrs time to go to work. I wonder if I can get an IV drip at Starbucks?

And for your enjoyment, the movie poster mock up for the project I'm working on!

Credit where it is due

Cobalt City Blues has a huge cast of characters. Keeping them distinct and individual was no small task, but it was made easier by my gifted collaborators who, in fact, created many of the characters which populate Cobalt City. Their creativity inspired my own creativity, driving me to give these characters voice. I could not have written this novel without them. So in all fairness to everyone involved, and as thanks for allowing me to give voice to their ideas, thus populating the city with individuals that you would want to read about, I present what I would like to name the creator roll call.

Wild Kat / Katherine Wilde – Kathleen Crowder
Knockabout / Edirin Okoloko – Andrew Warren
Worm Queen / Anna Lyta – Catherine Warren
Stardust / Jaccob Stevens (and his family) – Karl “Ed” Johnson
Doctor Shadow – Sean Mordaga
Velvet – Jennifer Fermon
Archon – Ian Hamilton
Gallows – Sean Hamilton


Thank you for making Cobalt City a much richer place to live.

Some novel developments

So there are a few changes going on at this site. First off, this is no longer your destination for new chapters of Cobalt City Blues. Yes, I am still publishing it, but I have taken the liberty of creating another site which is a lot more...accessable. Vist it at the above listed link.

This page will go back to it's original purpose, including original content and behind the scenes production diaries, etc. For that reason, I will no longer be pimping my novel HERE, but I will provide for your reading enjoyment the short story that started it all, Masks - a de la Vega Mystery

On the subject of Gato Loco and Manuel de la Vega, I am entering into editing on Greetings from Buena Rosa, the nanowrimo experiment from last November. For that reason, I have removed most of the chapters previously posted and enjoyed by you here. Rest assured, they will be back at some point, even better than the hastily scribbled hackery displayed before. A full edit shouldn't take me too long, with the ultimate goal, an actual print version I hope to have available here and through a third party vendor to be named later. I have left up the first several chapters of Buena Rosa for new readers, but they will be altered in the editing process...be warned.

Old readers, thank you for your support.

New readers, buckle up and enjoy the ride!

Cobalt City Part Four

It's back. Another installment in the weekly saga of Cobalt City Blues!

In which Wild Kat goes on a date and in which her date is made an offer he can't refuse, by someone else entirely.

Yeah, it's a bit early for Valentine's Day, but these things happen. The romantic subplot of the super-hero everyone is talking about kicks off this chapter. And the seeds for Cobalt City's salvation are planted here as well. Don't let the mushy stuff fool you. Hell is coming right around the corner, and nothing will be the same when it gets there. A can't miss installment in four-color style, all for two lonely quarters with the insanely simple magic of Bitpass!

Part Four - Chapters Six and Seven

Enjoy.

Cobalt City Blues Part Three

In which Voodoo Jazz pianist Mister Grey sees a familar face in the crowd. And Doctor Shadow takes rookies Archon and Gallows on a magical mystery tour to meet the King in Yellow.

The wheels are turning, major players are revealed, and the mysterious Augustus Dei is lurking just behind the veil waiting to make his sinster plan known.

Download the latest installment in the super-hero epic like no other, Cobalt City Blues for the sacrifice of two slim quarters. Why, that's only the cost of a phone call! You can't even buy a comic book for fifty cents anymore!

Cobalt City Blues Part Three

Enjoy!

-Nathan, the Tatterdamelion

Oozing into 2006

First off, I would like to highly reccomend Goldschlager mixed with Jones Green Apple Soda.

Secondly, I generally HATE New Years. An unfortunate experience on the ill fated night six years ago tainted what was otherwise a fairly innocent holiday. Now, it is difficult for me to just distance myself and have fun. Even though I was spending the evening with most of my best friends in Seattle, I still was plodding towards it as if it were a cramped bamboo cage at the end of a long march.

But, surprise surprise, it was great. Much fun was had, if not by all, at least by me. I engaged James (expert in China studies and history) and John (expert in economics and politics) in a lively discussion about China's emergenance as a global trade power in the last 30 or so years. Yes, to many of you, this may sound dry, but the time just flew by. And it was only one of the many fascinating conversations the evening held in store. By the time the calendar page flipped over, it seemed as if no time had passed at all. In the end, we ended up outliving our hosts endurance and spilled back out onto the streets and then home.

I was reminded of how fortunate I am to have such an amazing group of smart, compassionate, funny, insightful, and just flat out great friends. New Years was a smash, and all that remains is to brush the beer residue from the teeth and turn in.

New Year's Resolution?

"I resolve to break old patterns."

James, also a counsellor and youth minister, advised that in order to break old patterns, it is usually required to, at least in part, reinvent yourself. So if that's what needs to be done, that's what needs to be done. I think possibly, as of now, I will be black. Very, very pale, of course, but black. Yeah, that might be harder than it sounds now. I shall have to consider this in the morning with a somewhat clearer head.

-Nate

The Cobalt City Epic, part deux

Its a brand new week, so here it is, two brand new chapters for your entertainment. Join the adventure, as The Protectorate peels away the layers of a mysterious criminal and Stardust deals with the trials and tribulations of raising a ten-year old boy. Four color adventure for the price of two shiny quarters. Truly, the best super-hero value on the web!

Cobalt City Blues Part Two

The Epic which started it all!

I've gone and done it now. I've taken the final step and released online content - self publishing last year's underground and hard to find hit super-hero novel Cobalt City Blues. It will be made available through Bitpass. Got to admit, if not for the multiple suggestions by this novel's biggest fan, I wouldn't be pursuing this route. But the sad fact is, this is a tough genre to sell. Sure, publishers love science fiction, and they love fantasy, but put it in a contemporaty setting and throw in a bit of leather or spandex and they get nervous. Well, there isn't any reason for you to get nervous.

In the true spirit of comic books adventure, I'm making the book available to the general public at two chapters for $.50. Yep. That's less than what you used to be able to buy a comic book for twenty years ago. Fifty cents. Two shiny quarters. And Bitpass.com makes it incredibly easy for you to do. Signup takes no time at all and is hassle free, even easier if you have a Microsoft Passport! I did a lot of research, and this is the only micropayment provider who really had a grasp on what I was trying to do.

The first two chapters should be available by cliking on the link below. Rather than release an overwhelming flood of material all at once, I'm electing to update on this site weekly. New sections in two chapter portions should be available every Wednesday.

So put on that cape and cowl, and join in the adventure that is Cobalt City Blues!

- Nathan Crowder

Finally, a non-novel post!

So, November was about as crazy but not as difficult as I had anticipated. The novel, Greetings from Buena Rosa has been finished, as those reading it here already know. Additionally, I found myself published in Thuglit for December with my short story "Kid Gloves". Considering it was done all in one sitting as a lark late one night, I'm particularly happy to see it find a home.

A new story titled simply "The Lake" is making the rounds now, and I'm particuarly pleased with it. It covers some tough subject matter that I was reluctant to put into print, but it was a story that kept bobbing to the surface of my consciousness. Well, if you repress things, they only get worse, so the story was born. It is making the rounds of my readers, and even pulled in some readers from outside my normal review process because of the material. I hope to have a finished draft ready by the end of the year to send off to William Jones over at the Book of Dark Wisdom by New Years Day. Nothing like examining the dark corners of our own psyche to start off the new year!

In unrelated news, my legitimate 9-5 job which graciously pays my bills has taken me off contract as of December first, bringing me on as a permenant employee. This means that I will not be moving to Chicago at years end with my lovely wife, and will instead continue to enjoy the life I have in Seattle, tearing down some old patterns and creating new ones on their bones. (So yes, I am single again. Its true, ladies. Play your cards right and all this can be yours!) I'm very excited about staying, and not really depressed about the dissolution of my third marriage. Without entropy, there can be no growth. And it will allow me to focus on my writing which is long over due. Some good stuff happened this past year. The next year will be even better.

Stay tuned, as always, for infrequent updates. :)

-T

Buena Rosa Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight
The water running through the street out of the shantytown was only water in the loosest of definitions. Manuel shuddered to think what was in the foul colored fluid which reeked of human waste and chemicals. He tried to find a place where it narrowed enough for him to cross without getting his boots wet, then finally had to trust his limited mobility to minimize the contact his boots would have with the possibly toxic runoff. He ended up getting the toes of both boots contaminated by something that didn’t want to run off, and would probably end up destroying the leather. “Well, going to have to burn these boots now,” he muttered ruefully under his breath.
The shantytown was worse than he had expected. There were more children clogging the doorways to the ramshackle homes than he would have thought possible, most of them thin and sickly. And their mothers saw him coming and glared in his direction, suspicious of his motives. He noticed the occasional square brick courtyard placed in the middle of a cluster of houses, a large water pump always in heavy use. While one child filled a bucket with pump water, one more was struggling to get a full bucket home and another was returning with an empty one.
No running water. A glance overhead showed no electrical lines had been run through the neighborhood either. It was a logical extension that there was no plumbing to speak of either, giving him a better idea of what that might possibly be running down the gutter. Definitely had to burn the boots.
There was a layer of grime and dust on every surface, sediment from the factory, most likely. And while it might not be necessarily poisonous, it certainly wasn’t orange juice. Horrible living conditions for an essentially captive work force, all for a greater profit margin; it was so much like modern feudalism that it made his heart hurt.
No one would talk to him. He had been working the handful of adults who met his eyes for an hour, trying to find out anything about Muriel Cruz, but had gotten nothing but fearful shakes of the head or signs of the cross to protect against the devil. She had been a floor supervisor, so she had to have known people, her name had to be familiar. But it was becoming abundantly clear that no one wanted to talk about what had happened.
Manuel was about to write it off as a wasted trip when he picked up the sound of a car tires on the rough roads of the surrounding neighborhood. Once his ears were aware of the sound, he was able to discern the noise of an engine running quietly. Not a truck, not even the Sheriff’s nice and new SUV. This car was quality sedan quiet. The sound of distant voices carried by the wind reached him from the direction of the engine noise. A male voice, deep, native Mexican accent, and regional as well. He was looking for someone.
Tall, thin, in his thirties, wearing a denim jacket and pants and a western shirt.
Someone was looking for him. And this person had a car that ran quietly. It could only be someone from Pegasus Motors. Looking quickly around, he saw no hiding place that he could get to quickly. And when it came down to it, the locals would easily be able to point out where he went. They were certain to be more afraid of someone from the factory that gave them whatever meager livelihood they had than of a crippled stranger.
Well, he reasoned, he did want to get a look at the factory anyway. Might as well take a guided tour. Unless, of course, the person looking for him had another travel destination in mind, perhaps something off the highway near a burned out foundation.
Just to be safe, he slid a hand into his jacket’s breast pocket and activated the tracking device concealed as a library card. If he went missing for any period of time, at least Snowflake would be able to find the body. Then, since time really wasn’t an issue, and his shoulders were starting to ache after propelling himself all over the uneven ground on the forearm crutches, he leaned against a nearby wall and waited to be discovered.
It didn’t take long to be found, but it wasn’t the driver of the Pegasus car that found him first. A woman in black denim jeans and leather vest waved to him from across the street, urging him to come inside. She was about his age, he figured, maybe a bit older, and her bare arms were heavily decorated with tattoos. Her hair was past her shoulders, but tied back to be out of her way. There was something about her bearing that grabbed Manuel’s attention almost immediately, and it took a few precious seconds for him to figure out what.
She looked him in the eye. No one had beaten her down or made her afraid. And that meant maybe, just maybe, she would talk. He hopped across the narrow street on his crutches, sending jarring pain up into his shoulders and legs, but it was over quickly and he was in the close swelter of one of the tiny homes with the strange woman.
Manuel looked at her a little more closely, inspecting the tattoos and the lines around her eyes. He figured her to be maybe five years his senior. Her hands were calloused, and there was dirt and oil under her fingers. The tattoos were quality ink-work from a cornucopia of artists, which implied that she traveled. “Who are you?”
She pressed a finger to his lips, and peeked around the corner of the doorframe, watching the Pegasus Vigilant sedan roll slowly by. When it was safely out of sight, she removed her finger, looking a little embarrassed to have initiated the contact. “I’m Anita Cruz. I heard from some friends that you were asking questions about my sister. You’re Manuel de la Vega, aren’t you?”
“Whatever I’m paying my publicist, it isn’t enough.”
She laughed, a quick throaty chuckle that put him immediately at ease. “I talked to Flip earlier. He told me all about you. Says you’re working on a book.”
“I might be. I am very sorry to hear about your sister.”
A shadow passed in front of Anita’s eyes for a moment and then was gone. “Thank you. I suppose that’s why you’re here in Buena Rosa?”
“In a round about way. The police have arrested my cousin, and I don’t think she did it.”
“No, I don’t think she did either.”
Manuel studied her carefully. No, she didn’t believe the police had the wrong person. But there was more to it. She had been in town for longer than him, and as the victim’s sister, had probably found the locals a little more open in discussing what was going on in Buena Rosa. “Do you know who killed your sister?”
Anita’s voice was so low as to be almost inaudible. Her eyes were fixed on the doorway, in the direction of the Pegasus Vigilant that had so recently passed by. “No. Nothing I can prove.”
Lowering his tone to put her at ease, Manuel still made his voice clear enough that she couldn’t ignore it. “I don’t want proof. I just want to know what you think.”
She was silent for a long time, not changing position. Finally, she turned her eyes back to his, and they blazed in the shade of the hut. “Angels.”
“Like with wings?”
She sighed, and a slight smile of frustration appeared at the corner of her mouth. “You haven’t been here long enough to know the name, I guess. Michael Angels. He’s the plant manager for the Pegasus Motors factory.”
It clicked. Aldovar had mentioned the very name earlier that morning, on the ride to the jail. He had given the police department their vehicles. He had his own private security force, and he seemed to remember Aldovar make a seemingly random comment about improved response time to his hacienda. Michael Angel made an excellent suspect.
And if Manuel’s cousin was causing problems, trying to unionize workers, arranging it so she took the fall for the murder was a coup. But one thing didn’t quite fit. “Wait. Why would Michael Angels kill your sister?”
Anita looked lost for an answer. That was what Manuel was afraid of. When in doubt, blame the rich white guy for all your problems. In so many ways, it was the right thing to do, but without proof, without even a motive, it was useless. Still, Angels did have someone out looking for him, so maybe it wasn’t entirely groundless accusation. Maybe Anita’s instincts were good, and Manuel just needed to connect the pieces.
When in doubt, he figured, suspect everybody then try to trace them back to the crime. And if he wanted to trace Michael Angels back to the crime, he would have to actually meet him.
“Thanks for the information. I need to go talk to the guy in the car now.”
She grabbed Manuel’s elbow as he tried to exit the shack. “You don’t want to do that. If he thinks you are a threat to him, there is no telling what he could do to you.”
“I can’t solve your sister’s murder from inside this shack.”
Finally, Anita let go of his elbow, a trace of nervousness still in her eyes. “Well, at least its you they’re looking for this time.”
He smiled as he headed back out into the sun. It seemed that it was always him they were looking for. Strange how that worked out.
It didn’t take Manuel long to find the gold colored sedan prowling slowly through the streets of the shantytown. He walked in its general direction, apparently unconcerned. As it pulled up alongside, he got his first good look at the driver. It was the creepy Pegasus employee from breakfast, the one Manuel would always think of as a gay lawyer from now on thanks to Snowflake. He struggled for a name, and remembered it to be Contralles just as the window rolled down.
“Mr. de la Vega. If you would be so kind as to get in, my employer would like to speak with you.”
“Why Mr. Contralles, I would be delighted to speak to Mr. Angels. Shall I sit in the back seat?” He reached for the back door and then saw heavy pistol in the driver’s hand, leveled threateningly in his direction.
“I would prefer that you sit in the front where I can be a better host.”
Ah, where you can shoot me if I burp out of turn, you mean, Manuel thought. He kept his game smile on and moved around to the passenger side. The door was open when he got there, and he slid into the leather bucket seat and fastened the belt. “Very nice car.”
“The Pegasus Vigilant ES. Mr. Angels spares no expense.”
“Of course he doesn’t have to pay for them.”
Mr. Contralles smiled. “Of course.” The smile chilled the blood in Manuel’s body, and he felt the sudden wish that he had used the restroom before he left home. He elected to say nothing else for the rest of the trip to the factory.
At the junction where Mr. Contralles turned in to the factory gate, Manuel noticed that the road continued on up into the hills, vanishing around a bend. Unlike the roads in Buena Rosa, this one was well maintained and relatively new. It could only go to Perseus Glen, he reasoned. It was not comforting to know that to get to the management housing, he would have to ride within fifteen feet of the heavily monitored front gate. If he used the road, that is, he suddenly corrected himself.
The gate security didn’t even make the Mr. Contralles roll down the window. In the dust kicked up when the car rolled to a stop, Manuel thought he saw the smallest sliver of a red laser light dance across the front window, near the dashboard. Bar code identification on all fleet vehicles, he figured. Handy. And it was something he might be able to exploit in the future. The razor-wire topped twelve-foot gate rolled open, and they were through, heading towards the office portion of Pegasus Motors.
It wasn’t until they were through the fence that Manuel realized there were two buildings on the site. The bulky, utilitarian factory building had no fence around it, and the sparse parking lot had only a handful of old, dusty cars and trucks. Then there was the administrative building, a three-story structure of bronze colored glass and steel, with decorative exposed I-beams. Completely surrounded by high security fence, the small administrative parking lot had only about a dozen cars. The building itself connected to the factory with an enclosed glass bridge at the third floor level.
There was no pretense of separate but equal here. There was no need for those illusions. There was a deliberate effort put into the design of this facility of separating “Us” from “Them.” No wonder everyone in the shantytown hated the gringos.
The space Mr. Contralles pulled into was the second closest to the door, clearly marking his rank in the hierarchy at the factory. The sign above the space showed it as “Reserved for Director of Personnel.” In the old days the job title would have been something different, Manuel had no doubt. Head bull, or chief leg-breaker, or union-buster, they all meant the same thing. Mr. Contralles was the in charge of handling malcontent employees.
And that made him a very dangerous man indeed.
They got out of the car at the same time, and Mr. Contralles didn’t even pretend to point the gun in Manuel’s direction. For his part, Manuel didn’t pretend that he was going to sprint for the twelve-foot tall security fence and vault over it. It was a relationship that seemed to work for both of them.
Then the bastard Contralles bypassed a perfectly good elevator and made Manuel go up two flights of stairs, aware that just because the gone was not visible didn’t mean that it wasn’t still there. The “Director of Personnel” made it onto the short list of people Gato Loco intended to visit before this trip was finished.
Sweating and shaking, Manuel finally made it to the heavy door of the executive suite. Made from treated pine, it was exquisitely carved around the border with what Manuel could only describe as rodeo symbols.
Mr. Contralles paused at the door long enough for Manuel to catch up, then rapped hard against it twice with his knuckles. “Come in,” crackled a concealed intercom. Without another word, Manuel’s kidnapper pushed the door open.
The spacious office was decorated in early buckaroo, complete with branding irons mounted on the walls and a saddled, stuffed white horse near the windows. Michael Angel was in his fifties, with dark hair turning handsomely to steel gray along the temples. He was not a tall man, nor physically remarkable in any way, but his hair looked great. Manuel couldn’t help but wonder if it was real, then wondered why someone would get fake gray hair and decided it had to be natural. Dressed in a tan suit with a bolo tie featuring a circle of polished elk horn as the cinch, he looked every bit the cowboy.
Manuel wondered if Michael Angel remembered the Alamo, and if so, if he looked to it as a rallying cry or an object lesson. When he spoke, however, he a hint of New England accent that even years of living somewhere else had been unable to completely eradicate. “So, you’re the little killer’s cousin, is that right?”
Manuel looked over his shoulder at Mr. Contralles, and then in mock surprise back at Michael Angel. “Oh! I’m sorry! I didn’t realize you were talking to me.” He was rewarded with a smile that had all the warmth of Rekyevik in winter.
The executive cowboy indicated one of the leather chairs before the desk, both of which were upholstered in the black and white hide of a Holstein cow. “Have a seat Mr. de la Vega. Can I offer you a drink?”
After the stairs, both sounded good, but the risk of being drugged or poisoned was not far from his mind. He worked his way over to one of the chairs and arranged himself in it, finding it more comfortable than he would have imagined. “Nothing to drink for me, thank you. It’s still a little early in the day.”
Mr. Angel held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Well, that’s your prerogative, I suppose. I imagine you wonder why I had Dexter go out and track you down.”
Manuel took Dexter to mean Mr. Contralles. A sideways glance at the broad shouldered “Director of Personnel” showed a trace of discomfort over the use of his first name, confirming Manuel’s suspicions. Dexter Contralles. Good...one more name to research.
Settling in behind his large desk, Mr. Angel looked every bit the congenial host. He leaned back and put the heels of his so-shiny leather boots up on the desk and regarded Manuel warmly. “Listen, I understand that you might be concerned about your cousin. Hell, I would be too, so believe me, I feel what you might be going through. But if I’ve learned anything in my career, it’s that you have to give the police space to so their job. If you get underfoot, it just makes them angry, and then accidents happen. You don’t want accidents to happen, do you?”
Manuel hated him already. It takes a special kind of bastard to have absolutely no regard for a person’s intelligence, to just sell a flat out lie and expect someone to believe it. He set his jaw, and keeping his voice level, prepared for Dex to open up a can of pain on him. “Seems to me that an accident might have already happened.”
“Well, it might seem that way. But justice is a peculiar thing. The police here, they may not know much, but they know how to take care of business. I truly am sorry that your cousin got into trouble in Buena Rosa. And if she’s innocent I’m sure she will be exonerated. But going around my town, stirring up painful memories among the locals, well, I can’t have that.”
Manuel looked over at Dex. The big man was still looking distractedly out the windows, as though he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation, but the thin smile beneath his mustache said more than enough. “So, it would be in my best interest to just be quiet. I think that’s what you are telling me to do?”
“I am asking you politely...I am being polite, aren’t I Dexter?”
“You are the very picture of civility, sir.”
“Thank you. I’m asking you politely to not rock the boat. The police did their job. In record time, might I add. Now it’s time to let the justice system do its job.”
Manuel nodded. He had expected to be threatened off. It was a common tactic of people in power with something to hide. He couldn’t be sure if the executive was himself responsible for Muriel Cruz’s death or merely an accomplice after the fact. It was possible that this one death was merely a thread that threatened to unravel something much bigger, something Pegasus Motors couldn’t afford to have revealed. Whatever the case, Michael Angel was guilty of something. It fell to Manuel to find out what.
Manuel pushed himself up out of the chair with a visible sign of effort. “Well, Mr. Angel, I’m glad you found me in time to set me straight. I could have made a fool of myself otherwise. You know how passionate and unreasonable us Mexicans can get.” He took the two steps to the desk and held out his hand for a thank you shake as a sign of good will. If he played intimidated and lame, only part of which was true, they might not see him as a threat. How much damage could a crippled detective out of his element do in a town that Michael Angel clearly felt he owned?
Michael seemed to come to the conclusions that Manuel had wanted him too. He stood, and with an “aw, shucks” grin, took the detective’s hand and shook it firmly.
The vision knocked the feet out from under Manuel.
Those hands, those old, manicured hands. Manuel felt them on his own and suddenly his hand was a neck, soft and frail. The fingers dug in, molding the flesh and muscle like wet clay. His breath raged like a fire in his lungs, and still it would not end. Before him, Michael Angel seemed to strobe through a variety of outfits, some suits, some pajamas. And the background shifted just as quickly, from desert to mountain to rice papered walls.
Michael Angel had killed before. He had killed often. And more to the point, he had killed dispassionately, which made him dangerous. But the most disturbing thing was that Manuel was confident that Michael hadn’t killed Muriel. There were no ligature marks on the dead girl’s neck. She hadn’t been strangled. And Manuel might not be a criminal profiler, but one thing he was certain of was that serial killers, of which he felt Michael Angel qualified, rarely if ever broke pattern. No strangulation, no fit.
There was more than one murderer in Buena Rosa.
The room swam back into view, and Manuel found himself looking at the ceiling, with Mr. Contralles looking down on him curiously. It was rare that a vision hit him with such strength, enough to make him totally lose his composure, and he had no quick excuse to offer his hosts. Pulling himself up by the desk, enough that he could get his forearm crutches under him, required a little effort. He was not surprised that neither Dex nor Michael had helped him up. “Sorry about that. Got strangely light headed all of a sudden. I probably shouldn’t have walked up all those stairs on an empty stomach.”
The two Pegasus executives shared a look as Manuel got his feet back under him, and he wasn’t sure what that look said. But it made Manuel more than a bit nervous. He turned towards the door, sensing that the interview was over, and began making his way out towards the elevators. Mr. Contralles caught up quickly, then moved ahead to open the doors, a cold efficiency in his manner and voice. “I’ll take you back to town.”
“Great. It would be a long walk otherwise. But we take the elevator down.”
The heavy carved door of the office closed behind them. Manuel suspected that he would be walking through them again before his business in Buena Rosa was done.
Once on the elevator, Dexter Contralles took a strategic position near the control panel, and Manuel was suddenly pretty sure he understood the look that had passed between Michael Angel and his Director of Personnel. When Dexter reached for the 9mm pistol at the small of his back, Manuel was certain of it. They were going to kill him.