Next!

 I won't spend too much time waxing poetic here, since the point is to announce a new blog (I thought it best to separate this one from my other one to reduce confusion), but I'm going to spend time blogging about one of my other hobbies - guitar - and compile the things I've learned along the way.  My hope is to merge my desire to write and my desire to play guitar into one spot.  Obviously, it's not fiction, and, if you're not interested in music, the content may be dry, but I'm hoping to be entertaining nonetheless - https://middling-guitarist.blogspot.com/.

What's Next?

 So, what is next?  I've finished my 56,322 words after 557 days (I believe I started writing on July 29, 2019, right after I published my challenge to myself) for a not too shabby average of 100 words per day.  When it comes to any type of blogging, this is the longest I've ever kept to this type of goal and it feels good.  It wasn't the 365 (or 366, since 2020 was a leap year) days I'd set as a primary target, but it wasn't unfinished and it wasn't even double the time I allotted.

None of this answers what's next, though.  Well, for starters, I'm going to take time off and let the novel sink in.  Not too much time, but probably a good month or so.  Then I'll go back for another editing pass.  I have no real goals for it.  Few people are reading it, so I'm not in any rush to move forward.  

I liked the whole exercise of composing it and will probably write a blog post on its composition and what I can do differently next time.

Which leads to next time. I've discovered I have the drive to take on a pretty monumental undertaking (at least when the table stakes are low), so why not keep moving forward?  I don't know if it will be a novel - it may be a character vignette here, a short story there, a one-act play over yonder, but I'll try something else out.  I know it won't likely just be random blogging, as the appeal of simply writing my thoughts down for the world to read without direction or in a non-literary format isn't too compelling.  There are enough other unstructured opinions in the world today, and none of us seem to be able to influence others (for better or worse) anyway.  I'll also spend some time with my other hobbies, like guitar and doodling, while I still search for meaning on why I do any of this, anyway.

One thought that keeps me empowered - I read in the last day or two that if one wants to be a serious writer, one should dedicate two hours of time to writing a day.  I don't know that I want to be a serious writer for now, but two hours of writing a day, even if it's just random word salad, sounds more like a dream than a chore (as long as I have the finances to allow it).  So, if given the means...

Anyway, I'll be back soon.

Coda

 Thanksgiving, 1935

The three of them sat at their usual booth, a slightly yellowed, freshly laundered, cloth draped across the table.  Outside a slurry of drizzle mixed with light snow fell on the quiet city streets.  The industrial corridor was typically absent of pedestrian foot traffic, but the holiday added a layer of tranquility on top of the otherwise laconic atmosphere.  Inside the diner, the atmosphere was anything but solemn.

"So your parents are ok that you're not coming home for Thanksgiving?" The smell of a brined and butter-soaked turkey wafting from the kitchen made Spinoza slightly more hopeful, slightly more irritable in every statement he issued.

Vera quaffed the remaining ounce of wine from her glass, nodding.  "Yup.  I told them I'd be home for Christmas when the school break's longer and that it's not worth spending the money now for such a short period.  I also told them, given all we've been through in recent times, I felt it appropriate to spend time with my new friends."

Spinoza colored at the oblique compliment.  It didn't go unnoticed by Vera.  "Are you blushing?  I'd expect that from ol' softy here," she jerked a thumb at Tannehill who was staring wistfully out the window at the wintery mix, "but not from a grizzled veteran such as yourself."  This observation made Spinoza blush harder.

The ensuing weeks hadn't done much - visibly - to shake the foundation of the city.  To the average citizen, the story read as depressingly familiar: corrupt policeman on the force attempted to strongarm his way into apportioning a share of stolen goods and, by pure happenstance, seemed to have been caught in the act before too many innocent people could've been harmed.  Beneath the veneer, however, things didn't remain in stasis.  The department heads realized that the potential murder of six individuals - thieves or not - by a sworn police officer in furtherance of another crime was a bridge too far.  Though introspection may have been too generous a term to describe the thought process behind their next steps, they did realize that the "Protect and Serve" portion of their oath didn't meet the appropriate accuracy standards for their purposes, so they began to root out the most corrupt actors and hire others true to the stated ideals of the city.  

Even more stunning was the realization that, in conjunction with the press, certain individuals - i.e. Novak - worked to pursue justice rather than cover the events up and allow the internal mechanisms of retribution to take control.  Murphy was due to face his literal day in court rather than receive a slap on the wrist or a bullet to the back of the head in an alley puddle as former department protocol may have merited. 

The department, recognizing Tannehill's inherent moral compass and eager to build upon past relationships, offered him a high ranking position in the brass with a substantial pay increase.  He promptly followed his moral compass and turned it down, aware that - for any well-meaning citizen installed at that level - the temptation could be too great.  Instead, he opted for a more modest consulting role that still allowed him to move into a larger apartment - one with a full bedroom and a kitchenette - and buy a used car to replace the one sitting at the bottom of the bay.  At the current pay scale, he'd never become rich, but given the hard times people were still facing across the country, he was counting his blessings.

And now, in the halcyon days of bliss in which Capital City was beginning to find itself, Vera found herself in charge of planning and assembling a Thanksgiving dinner for the three of them and all of the employees and immediate family of The Happy Hour Diner.  Immediate family being a very limited group as most of the employees were itinerants with the exception of Happy, who had a wife and two full-figured daughters around her Vera's own age who smiled in equal measures as much as Happy frowned.

She stood up from the booth and heard Happy muttering nearby about her choice of mashed sweet potatoes of all things!  What's wrong with normal mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving?  What's next? Sweet potato fries?!  His grumbling faded as she passed the counter and entered the kitchen, happy to be allowed a moment of solitary tranquility with the amiable din just out of reach.  She took a deep breath, fearing for the worst, before opening the oven door and inspecting the turkey, watching the fat pop and sizzle on the bottom of the pan.  It looked golden and crisp, juices running clear when she poked its sizable breast. 

"Need a hand?" Spinoza stood behind the counter just out of sight.

She stood up, smoothing her dress, "No thanks," she turned to him smiling contently, "everything's perfect."

FIN

[Author's Note: For my mother.  804 words. 56,322 words]

  

Chapter 51 - DC Al Coda

 "He's a regular Lothario.  He's got this whole side of town in an uproar."

Tannehill slouched back in his chair listening to the wide man across his desk imploring him to take his case.  It didn't surprise Tannehill that his wife was cheating on him.  He was as wide as he was tall - though he fell several inches short of Tannehill - and he had a special talent of somehow employing a personality that was equal parts grating, mean-spirited, and forgettable.  Five minutes into his pitch and Tannehill had already misplaced his name.

"If you already know that your wife is being unfaithful, what exactly do you need me for?"

"It's not to catch him in the act.  It's to punish them," the bullfrog of a man croaked out the last word with an irritable contempt.

"Because they should be at home preparing a Beef Stroganoff instead of cavorting around the city?"

"'xactly," Bullfrog mumbled out, missing the inherent sarcasm behind Tannehill's statement.  "It's not just me.  I've talked to three, four other guys who know he's messing around with their wives.  It's injurious to the moral fiber of the city."

"And these guys," Tannehill let the word roll around on his tongue, "all upstanding citizens like yourself?"

"'xactly." Tannehill was beginning to believe that Bullfrog didn't know the word started with an 'e' and had a congenital inability to appreciate an ironic turn of phrase.

"So, I'd be acting on behalf of a class action?"

"Yes!" Bullfrog's eyes lit up as though he'd help plan a grand strategic maneuver.

Tannehill's posture didn't change, but mentally, he sighed.  Since becoming a PI, this type of case was 'xactly what he expected.  He was happy to exchange the stress of walking the tightrope politics of a corrupt department and flirting with tragedy on a daily basis for the common grievances of the everyman, but he wished that every client who'd walked through his door hadn't so obviously and overwhelmingly contributed to his own tedious fate.  Finally, he croaked back at Bullfrog, "I'm still not entirely certain what you're expecting."

"Pictures, like usual." As though Bullfrog knew what was usual in this case - or maybe he did.  Maybe unfaithful paramours were a common occurrence.  "We need them for proof in court to ensure our fortunes remain intact."

"Ok." This time the sigh was audible, "how many of you are lining up for the class action?"

"So far?  Four of us.  This guy's a real work of art."  Tannehill envisioned four large, shapeless, inconsequential men sitting in a smoke-filled room airing their grievances while ignoring their wives' silent, consistent and reasonable pleas for attention.

"Tell you what I'll do," impossibly Tannehill slouched even further back in his chair, "as long as there are at least three of you, I'll charge each of you my standard rate, plus incidentals, minus a 10 percent discount for each of you."

The Bullfrog considered the terms momentarily and croaked his assent.

"And all you need are photographs of your wives with the," Tannehill paused looking for a word that would add dramatic flair that the Bullfrog so obviously craved, "assailant?"

"That's correct."

Tannehill nearly blurted out 'should be easy enough,' but caught himself, eager not to let the Bullfrog and his compatriots know how simple the task was likely to be.  Instead, he refrained "I believe it's a task I can manage assuredly for you."  The Bullfrog nodded in enthusiastic agreement.  

Tannehill stood from his chair, joints aching from being frozen in such a lackadaisical pose for so long, and extended his hand - "well, sir, I'll be in touch once I have the evidence you need. If you don't mind cutting me a check for my customary down payment prior to leaving." The Bullfrog pumped his hand excitedly and did as he was told before waddling toward the door, eager to let the others know that justice would soon be served.

10 minutes after the Bullfrog left, Tannehill heard another knock at the door - one somehow telegraphing bravado hinging on arrogance.  He opened the door to see a man, nattily dressed in a brown suit, thin mustache, and hair slicked back with pomade standing expectantly in front of him.  The man maneuvered his way around Tannehill and sat down comfortably in the seat opposite Tannehill's chair.  He extended his legs and leaned back, taking in the room.

"Can I help you?"

"While I'm certain you can, I'm here because I can help you, friend." The man spoke in profile to Tannehill - who was still standing at the door - not bothering to fully face the object of his conversation.  Tannehill closed the door and walked over to his desk.  He sat and placed his arms on his desk, leaning toward the man.

"I suppose I'm generally eager to accept help, but you'll have to color me skeptical in this case, because I'm not sure what I need help with." 

"Well, I can assist you with providing evidence for the gentleman - and his associates - who just graced your presence."

"I appreciate the offer, but this isn't a case that I expect will cause me too much difficulty."

"What if I told you that you could cash this paycheck without needing to lift a finger?"

"Oh?  How's that?"

"I can take the pictures for you.  You give me a reasonable percentage of your earnings, and you'll never have to leave your desk."

"Again, I appreciate your offer, but I don't need anything professional.  As long as the exposures aren't too blurry, they'll suffice."

"Oh, these won't be professional," the man grinned widely, a mixture of malevolence and mischief written into his lupine expression.

"Then I'm at a loss at what service you're providing me."

"Don't you get it, pal?  I'm the cad you're looking for.  The roustabout, the rake, the libertine."

Tannehill was silent for a moment, processing the statement.  "I see," though there was still confusion written across his face, "what? Why?"

"Well, I've just been having a bit of a lark with these women.  No expectations.  No strings attached.  And now, I've evidently been discovered.  If my adventures are ending, the least I can do is try to find myself a consolation prize." A wink accompanied the final statement.

"Aren't you worried about retribution?"

"You've met these men."

"Fair enough." Tannehill paused again.  Removing the drudgery of a day's worth of work chasing unfaithful spouses was likely worth the offer, "I'll cut you in for 10%."

The man scoffed.  "10%? I'm the one doing all the work here.  This would be a steal for you at 50%.  You don't have to do anything."

Tannehill snorted at the 'work' the man needed to perform, but his point was still valid.  "25%. Take it or leave it.  I have no problems performing the work myself if my terms aren't amenable."

The man grinned again.  "Deal." He reached a lengthy arm across Tannehill's desk to shake his hand."

"But don't get used to any type of this arrangement, Mr.?" 

"Snell.  It's Richard, but you can call me Dick." The man winked again, irritating Tannehill, who was thankful he wouldn't need to encounter this particular deplorable individual again once the case was concluded.

[Author's Note: ONE MORE CHAPTER.  Today's edition is 1200 words for a total of 55518 words.]

Chapter 50 - All's Well That Ends Well

After leading the police to the storage locker and ensuring everyone was safe, Vera walked purposefully back to the diner in a futile effort to combat the consistent throbbing in her head.  Upon entering the diner, Happy quickly moved from the kitchen to the change counter and began berating her over her two and a half missed shifts.  Vera yelled back that she had been taken hostage not once, but twice - including by a very well-armed, corrupt policeman - and she would've been happy to bring the machine gun into the diner as proof, but was denied the opportunity by a truculent but well-meaning former policeman.  Happy countered that was VERY LIKELY the worst excuse he'd ever heard and would've fired her on the spot if she weren't also the accountant and executive chef.  When Detective Novak and a few officers stopped by later to corroborate details from her kidnappings, Happy grudgingly decided to give her the rest of the day - and the two following days - off with pay.

The following morning, the three friends gathered at the diner.  They decided to wait until mid-morning so they could all rest appropriately to compare notes on recent events.

Vera was hunched over their normal booth, shoulders squeezed closely together.  She was still bleary-eyed from the previous days' activities and was enjoying the spirit of rejuvenation through the simple act of sipping her coffee.

"So, he killed both of them?  That seems a little excessive," she pondered aloud.

"Killing one of them would have been sufficient?" Spinoza countered.

"No," she drew the word out before pausing, "well, maybe.  I mean given the circumstances."

"Which murder would've made sense?" Spinoza perked up, eager to follow her logic into the dark corners of her mind.

"Certainly Bellucci.  He presented to the biggest risk to Murphy."

"But he wouldn't have needed to kill Bellucci if he hadn't killed Snell.  There would've been no need for a cover-up."

Vera took a long slow, sip of her coffee, as though she were percolating the concoction anew.  "Like I said, given the circumstances," she gave her already hunched shoulders a further shrug and sipped again.  "I'm still unclear - why did he kill Snell?"

Tannehill chimed in, "He thought that Snell had a change of heart about sharing the stolen property with him.  He also thought that Snell was toying with him by not telling him about his change of heart."

"Seems a bit impulsive."

Tannehill glared at her with a dull expression.  "This is a man who killed two people and was likely seconds away from killing four more."

"Fair point.  But what did exactly did Snell do to anger him and why did he think Snell was making a fool of him?"

"That's Otto's fault."

"Otto?"

"Yes, Otto of the instant headache.  Otto, who likes to lie in wait for his victim and brain them from behind."

"I'm still not sure that I follow."

"When Otto paid me a visit at my office, he ambushed me from behind my door and hit me over the head.  After I was able to subdue him, he started rambling about how Snell wouldn't tell him where their stolen items were.  But I don't think the issue was that Snell wouldn't tell him.  It's that he couldn't.  Otto had used the same technique to surprise Snell as he used on me, except I think he landed a much better blow on him, which knocked him silly."

"Oh," recognition dawned in Vera's eyes.

"Once Otto paid Snell a visit, Murphy followed shortly thereafter for his own têt-a-têt.  It's highly likely that Snell was still wandering around the room in a confused state.  Murphy - not the most forgiving judge of men's intentions even under the best of conditions - assumed that Snell was playing him for a fool rather than merely speaking nonsense.  The idea of losing out on a fortune and simultaneously being mocked for it drove Murphy over the edge."

"Pretty scary that he's got such a hair-trigger." 

"I'd say that mercifully for Snell, he probably never understood what was happening to him, so he didn't suffer much, even after the beatings he received from Otto and, presumably, Murphy."

At this point, Happy appeared at the booth with three plates of hamburgers in hand.  He distributed them curtly, making a point of letting the plates clatter on the tabletop as random fries scattered to freedom from their plates.  He walked away mumbling something along the lines of "it's too early in the day for hamburgers."  Vera thought about responding, but, instead reached for the bottle of ketchup abutting the window, happy to have someone simply grouse about her meal choice rather than try and kill her.

"And Bellucci?"

"It's like Murph said - he got Bellucci to take the fall for Snell's murder.  Bellucci probably assumed at first that Murphy would be able to get him off with a lesser charge, and his short time spent in prison would be worth the wait for his cut of the loot.  But, it must have dawned on him how egregious the crime actually was and what he was really facing.  His problem at that point was that he began to think out loud.  Capital City's police can be corrupt, but they can't permit an open admission of one of their own committing a murder in cold blood, so Murphy felt he needed to shut him up."

"What about Beederman?" A teardrop of ketchup smeared the corner of her mouth as she spoke, hungrily shoveling in fry after fry.  "I mean, what about the name Beederman?"

Spinoza swiped a fry from her plate and dipped it in a large dollop of ketchup.  Vera looked incredulously at the stack of fries on his plate and back at the dwindling supply on her own.  "Otto confirmed," he said, finishing his pilfered prize, "they chose the name because they thought they'd be able to play off the sympathies of Jewish buyers and up the price."

"Noble," Vera responded laconically, simultaneously annoyed at such a crass plan and her stolen food.  "What about our dear couple?  What happened to them?"

Spinoza began to dig into his own tranch of spuds, one hand carefully wrapped around the plate guarding it against potential retaliation.  "Considering they were mostly guilty of incompetence as far as the US government is concerned, they received some leniency.  The Feds are repatriating Emily back to England and letting Otto tag along so they can use them as low-level intelligence agents against their former employers."

"Can't wait to see the treasure trove of valuable information that will yield.  And the treasure itself?"

Spinoza sighed.  "There's no chance of repatriating the items to the rightful owners, so the police department is looking for local Jewish buyers to ensure that history doesn't stray too far from the community.  Proceeds will go to local soup kitchens."

"And the recovered cash?"

"Soup kitchens."

"That's surprisingly noble for any municipal entity of Capital City."

"Like I said," Tannehill croaked, "Novak may be a jackass, but he's got a strong sense of honor."

"All's well that ends well, I guess," Spinoza spoke quietly, more focused on his hamburger than on further details of the investigation.  The other two followed his lead in momentary silence.  Outside a light drizzle began to slicken the city's streets.

[Author's Note: The End?  Not quite.  Now I can definitely say there are still two more chapters left.  Today's chapter is 1227 words.  The book is still running at 54318 words.]

Chapter 49 - With Friends Like These

 "That's a pretty desperate bluff, CH.  So, now I assume I look over at the roof, and while distracted you rush and disarm me in some hope that you'll triumph in the outcome?"

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Tannehill responded, apparently unconcerned that his gambit had failed and veered ever closer to infinite darkness.

Murphy snickered.  "What's next, you'll yell 'lookout behind you!' and try the same asinine maneuver?"

"Nah," Tannehill responded, "you'll find out what's behind you soon enough."

As Tannehill spoke these words, Murphy took an unconscious step backward.  He felt something hard press against the back of his skull.

"Probably better that you didn't look," Tannehill pondered, "Spinoza may have gotten spooked and blown half your face off before you were able to turn around."

"If you'd be so kind as to hand your weapon to Tannehill, we can dispense with any issues regarding my nervous trigger finger," the disembodied voice announced behind Murphy.  Murphy paused, weighing his options, wondering if it were better to inflict some final damage to Tannehill before feeling searing heat in the back of his head and experiencing extended silence.  He then considered his chances with the courts in Capital City and thought better of it.  He pointed the weapon toward the ground and yielded its stewardship to Tannehill.

Tannehill fished for some change in his pocket with his free hand and passed it to Vera.  ¨Go call the local precinct and ask to speak with Detective Novak.  Tell him what's happened and who's involved.  Make sure to tell him that the scene is secured and that I've temporarily taken Lieutenant Murphy into custody until he arrives."

Vera turned to leave but immediately wheeled on her heels, "can I bring the gu...?"

"No." With that response, she wheeled back in her initial direction to make her appointed phone call. 

Tannehill disassembled the machine gun, removing the magazine and the firing pin, and tossed the firearm over the railing of the walkway.  It clattered loudly in protest before resting in silence.

Tannehill patted Murphy down for additional weapons, but found only Murphy's service revolver. He gave it the same unceremonious treatment as he did to its more ostentatious cousin.  Spinoza produced a pair of handcuffs and shackled the police officer's hands behind him.

"Where did you get those?" Murphy asked in disbelief.

"What?" Spinoza's voice was thick with annoyance.  

"Those," Murphy did his best to gesture with his head toward his back.

"They're handcuffs, not battleships.  They're not too hard to obtain." Spinoza placed a hand on Murphy's shoulder and forced him to sit facing the storage area courtyard, legs straddling the railing of the walkway.

Tannehill leaned on the railing near Murphy, careful to keep his distance.  Spinoza kept an eye on Emily and Otto, though they seemed more invested in finding a spot to sleep off their hangovers than finding a way to evade capture.  Both of them slumped against the exterior wall of the storage unit, nodding drowsily.

"The problem with perpetuating systemic corruption," Tannehill opened pensively in the lieutenant's direction, "is that it breeds laziness.  Most of the time any unforeseen issues can be swept under the carpet, but, every once in a while, they require the skills an individual is supposed to be trained for rather than ones he simply claims by fiat."  He was silent for a moment.  "What's sad about you, Murph, is that you've always just been a thug with a badge.  Lord knows I've made my own egregious mistakes, but I didn't dive into the system with reckless abandon and begin to believe my own press.  It's what kept me sane.  Poor, but sane."

Murphy stared at the far end of the courtyard, unresponsive.  Tannehill took that as acquiescence to continue.  "While it's true that I don't have many friends left in this town, it's not a giant leap to assume that I probably would've had some back up with me, paid or otherwise.  If I were facing anyone other than you, I would've had to be more cautious.  But you," he wagged a finger in the direction Murphy was staring, "you came to believe that I was so incompetent, that I'd just rush headlong into your trap.  You were so cynical in your own relationships that you never recognized that friends who've had a falling out could reconcile and even risk their lives for one another when it matters." He stared down at his feet in an unspoken disappointment of his adversary's skills.  "One could say that I took a big gamble with such a simple plan, but I knew I was up against you, so there was no real gamble in such a simple strategy in the first place."

Murphy sneered with a glint of triumph remaining in the corner of his eye.  "When the whole," he paused for effect, "brigade" - he said the word with such flourish that his confidence in his outcome was all but guaranteed - "When your brigade arrives, why do you think anyone will believe you?"

Tannehill let the question echo through the courtyard.  "You mean, why do I have faith in the same corrupt department that will do almost anything to protect its own, even if it means damning ten innocent men for expediency's sake or one extra, paltry dime?"

"What are the chances that they'll believe you, CH - a disgraced laughingstock of a former officer who's actively despised by his former co-workers? And, even if they do, what makes you think they'll ignore their loyalty to the department?  And to me?  Loyalty goes a long way in this town, and it makes a lot of careers."

"That's where you're hemmed in by your own biases, though, Murph.  You can only see things through your own lens.  Not everyone sacrifices their moral compass for unencumbered ambition.  I've watched Novak.  He may be a jackass and he may be insufferable, but he's not corrupt.  He understands and accepts his station as a public servant and all of the sacrifices it entails.  I suspect it's what helps him sleep at night."

Murphy continued to sneer, "if Novak can't be bought, he can certainly be dealt with."

Tannehill sighed, "sadly, you're right.  That's why I had to come up with contingencies."

A glimmer of worry crept into Murphy's sneer.  "What contingencies?" He spat out the syllables of the word as though it were an epithet.

"Well, while I agree that loyalty is highly prized among the civic-minded leaders of our fair city, political cover and deniability is of equal import.  Spinoza's taken dozens of pictures even prior to your arrival at the bakery and made sure to transcribe every word you've said since we've arrived at the storage room.  It's why I waited until morning to move ahead with my little plan.  The flash from his camera would've been too obvious a tip-off that something fishy is going on - even for you." Tannehill cleared his throat for emphasis.  "There's no way the department will back you in this venture once the rest of the press gets a hold of it.  They'll claim that you acted alone and, for once, they won't be lying.  Of course, everyone will miss the subtext that you're a monster of their own creation that shouldn't have been allowed to roam in the first place, but one battle at a time, my friend.  They'll be more than happy to hang you from the highest gallows and then point in the direction of your corpse while they continue to pick the pockets of the city clean with noble largesse."

The two men fell silent, one reminiscing on the poor choices of his past, the other fearful for his future.  They remained quiet until Vera approached from the far end of the courtyard, a large complement of dark blue marching purposefully behind her.

[Author's Note: I went back and forth over the course of the novel determining who was going to murder whom and had several different scenarios.  I wasn't even certain who was going to remain alive at the end of the book.  I considered killing off Vera or Spinoza at one point to adhere closer to the noir spirit of the novel I had originally intended, but the story really didn't support it.  Today's version is 1310 words for a running total of 53091 words for the book.  If I had to guess, there will likely be two more chapters in this first draft.]