A Kiss to Build a Dream On: Chapter 1.2

Edward Leer looked down at the six inch pistol, which was indeed pointed at his liver, and then looked up into the pale, baby face of the man holding the gun. The stranger's gaze was steady and unblinking. His smile did not waver. In his other hand he held a leather briefcase. Leer made a mental note not to open his door while drunk again; he did not enjoy the idea of being found dead dressed only in an undershirt and a dirty pair of pants.

"That ain't the first heater I've had pointed at me," he said, "And I don't take too kindly to threats. Why don't you put away the piece, and we'll see if we can settle this. Whatever this is."

 The stranger's left eye twitched, "Very well." He slid the pistol back in the pocket of his trench coat and looked over Leer's shoulder into the cramped and filthy office. He drew a soft breath in through his teeth. "You first. Keep your hands where I can see them, and I'll do the same."

"Suits me." Leer walked back in and perched on the edge of his desk The blond stranger followed and then sat down in the worn out armchair facing the desk, placing the briefcase on his lap, and his palms flat on the top of the case.

"I'm all ears," Leer said.

"My name is Ernest Kemp. I am here on behalf of my client, David Thayer."

Leer nodded. "The hotel magnate. Owns the Idlewilde. I'm familiar. So what does one of the richest men in the city need with a two-bit private dick." 

"Please, Mr. Leer. I've read your dossier. A silver star. A reputation for integrity and competence while you were with the Chicago PD.  It's impressive. Even here you've developed a reputation amongst the right sort of people for professional excellence and, most important, discretion."

Leer watched Kemp as he looked around the office with thinly veiled revulsion and suppressed the impulse to toss him out on his ear. He lit a cigarette and mulled over the situation for the moment. Leer could think of no one who'd recommend his work to a society type like Thayer or any of Thayer's well payed minions. "OK, I'll bite," he said, "What's the case?"

 "It is a sensitive matter, Mr. Leer. I need to be assured of your complete confidentiality before disclosing any of the particulars. In short, I need assurance that you are in our employ now."

"Mr. Kemp, you are testing my patience. I'll hear you out. If we can come to an agreement. Great. If not, I'll refer you to someone who can help. You don't stay working in this business with loose lips."

A Kiss to Build a Dream On: Chapter 1

A half a block down, a lonesome El train sped down the overpass, rattling the windows and walls of the nearby fleabag apartments. It was gone in an instant but not without waking the portion of the neighborhood incapable of acclimating to the regular noise of rattling metal and wood and speeding engines.

Inside 1465 West Kemper, Apartment 13,  Edward Leer sat on the edge of the fold out cot that rested in the corner of his office, his eyes half closed and looking out of the window. Since before the crack of dawn, the rain had been coming down in steady, slow drops. A cold March rain, the kind that chilled men to the bone and had sent not a few soldiers home in body bags--victims of hypothermia and walking pneumonia. Mornings like these, Leer could still feel his own brush with mortality in France a few years back, weighing on his lungs like lead ingots. Sleep had eluded Edward that night, as it had many times in recent weeks.

He looked around the 200 square foot space that had served both as home and office for the past three months and took another swig of bourbon from his hip flask. You could only live with so much reality in a day. Edward looked to the manila envelope sitting on his desk. He had had his fill of reality for a while.

As the Bourbon finally started working its smoky tendrils into the detective's weary mind, a sharp strident rapping came from the wood and frosted glass door. Leer awoke from a doze with a jerk and snapped, "We're closed for business. Come back at a civilized hour."

The shadow behind the door paused for a moment, looking over his shoulder. "I'm afraid I have to insist, Detective Leer." The voice was soft, patrician, and laced with a melange of entitlement and irritation. "This is not a matter in which we have the luxury of time."

Leer swore under his breath and pulled himself off of the rusted, squeaking cot. He traversed the office in four long steps and flung open the door. A small, blond man dressed in a gray wool suit and matching fedora stood behind it, looking at Leer through muddy green eyes.
"Listen, pal," Leer said, "Sign says this here office opens at ten in the A.M. That's for everybody. Whatever it is you're heated up about ain't my lookout until I say it is."

The man's green eyes fluttered shut for a moment. "Look down," he said. "That's a Brevetatta. 22 Caliber. Not much, but fired into your liver it should do the trick." The blond stranger smiled an off kilter smile. "Is this enough to make my problem your problem, Detective Leer?"

Stones and Bones: Sherry Roland died last night.

Sad news.

Stones and Bones: Sherry Roland died last night.

The Pleasures of Being Sick

I hate being sick. The aches and pains, the exhaustion, the feeling of forced confinement all drive me to a state of high irritation. That being said, there are a few perks to being trapped at home by a fever and a raw throat--time to write and read, time to nap, freedom to drink as much honey lemon tea as I want. That sort of thing.

Yet sick time is frowned upon in the United States in a thousand little ways, from mandatory write-ups for those exceeding their one to three sick days, to the practice of perfect attendance awards in the public schools--as though a child could elect not to contract chicken pox or strep throat. We reward the healthy and punish the frail just as though we believed illness to be a moral choice. Not even the Puritans were so mean-spirited.

At the root of our feelings toward illness is, I believe, a cultural prejudice against idleness. Idleness tends to be looked upon solely as a vice by our culture (idle hands, after all, are the devil's playground) , but I would contend that a certain amount of idleness is necissary for anyone hoping to be truly productive and live a ballanced life.

It is my contention that anything  can become a vice when done to excess We need food to survive. Eating only becomes a vice when we are gluttons. We need work to support ourselves and to fulfill our potential, but if we neglect family in favor of career we are simply vicious. Just so idleness. People need fallow time in order to digest complex problems, to engage in lateral thinking, hell, just to recharge. Idleness only becomes a vice when it turns into sloth.

Anyway, that's my two cents. I'm going to go and be sick now.

I'm Back!

I'm sitting here in the living room nursing a cup of coffee and watching my cat ride my dog like a pony. There's not a whole lot rolling around in my head. It is Saturday morning , after all, and pleasantly cool to boot.

It's been a good long time since I have done anything with this blog, and for that I apologize. What with teaching a developmental reading class for the first time, re-designing my 097 writing class, researching web 2.0 apps for the classroom, teaching four classes, DMing on friday nights, and working on a few ongoing writing projects, my time for blogging has not been all that abundant. And I admit to being a reluctant participant in the weird yet wonderful world of the bloggosphere. However charming the medium may be, it does have the feeling of a chore at the end of a long day.

Anyway, enough with the lame excuses. It's my goal this spring and summer to spend a lot more time on this here blog. I am trying my hand at vegitable gardening, so I'll be blogging about that from time to time. Additionally, I plan on nurturing my (not so) inner geek a lot more with reviews of fantasy and sci-fi stuff along with the occasional snippet of my own work.

Well, all of this was probably a little too much thinking for one cup of coffee. I'm off to kill some dandilions. Huzza.