Snippets

 

Some of the biggest authors around have websites where they publish snippets of their latest work. Especially sci-fi guys like Eric Flint or George RR Martin or Peter Rholdan. They publish a few chapters of their latest to whet the appetite of their fans. 

Now I am not doing that because I don't have a bunch of fans like they do. I just do it as an exercise. Well, that was until I ran into a problem. 

My Microsoft 365 that I bought with my new computer has expired. A purchased a different one from this company Mashable which was a great bargain. The problem is as with all great bargains it is not easy, and it is not working yet. I downloaded it fast enough, but it is not working for some reason.

So, in the meantime I will publish some snippets here. I am up to Chapter Twenty-Nine so far as we will see where we are as we go.

Feedback would be greatly appreciated.

If there is anybody out there.

Hipster Holocaust

She loved Brooklyn like a fat kid loved cake. She loved the feel of it.  The smell of it. The taste of it. Every single thing about it.

She had always wanted to live in the city. When she was a kid upstate she would see movies and TV shows based in the City and want to move there to get out of her hick town that was more of a prison than a home. She would watch reruns of shows like “Friends” and “Caroline in the City” and she would dream of coming to New York to be an artist. The problem was she wasn't particularly talented. She couldn't sing or dance or draw. A mediocre student she just didn't have the skills. But she didn't let that stand in her way.

Instead of Manhattan like Rachel and Monica she found her way to Brooklyn. It was much cooler than Manhattan. Cheaper too. Not by much but enough to get by.

When the time came she moved down to Bushwick with a couple of her friends from high school. They all got bullshit jobs to pay the rent on the shoe box apartment they had in a dilapidated brownstone. Jobs in retail. Waitressing. Temp work. Make work. Just enough to get by while they searched for what they were looking for. If they could figure out what the fuck they were looking for.

They all wore a uniform. Not the fast food uniforms that she wore in McDonald's up in the little shit hole town outside of Utica where she grew up. A different kind of uniform. The hipster uniform. After all she had to display her tribal markings. It was the only way to belong in the big city.

So she had the ragged haircut. Dirty hair under a dirty knit cap. The ripped jeans. Tattoos. A nose and lip piercing. An i Phone. A bike that she rode to work. And an entitled attitude that flowed before her like the stink off a homeless guy’s asshole. She was a hipster and she was making no bones about it. It was their time. Get out her way when she rode her bike down Court St.

The date with this dude she met on Tinder was just not working out. He was your typical pajama boy Peter Pan hipster. Older than her for sure. In his thirties. He was wearing the uniform too. Male division. Well the quasi male division. Dirty jeans. Ratty retro shirt. Thin vest. Beard like a misplaced Amish farmer or the bassist in ZZ Top. And an attitude. That he was all that and a bag of organic gluten free kale chips. Another wasted night.

They had met for a drink at a little bar right off the bridge on Carroll St near the Gowanus Canal. They had a drink. He had a craft beer. She had a mojito. He paid. So far so good. At least he wasn’t a cheap douche nozzle like the last five guys she had dated. They chatted awhile. Superficially of course. Without giving too much information. Just feeling each other out. She didn’t think they would be feeling each other up. It just wasn’t happening for her. Sometimes that’s how it works out.

They decided to go for a slice of pizza at the pizzeria on the corner of Third Avenue. They had gluten free slices which was unusual. She figured she would get a bite and then walk back to her bike that she had chained up in front of the boutique that she worked at. This way she could brush off this dude and get home safe. She definitely didn’t want him to take her home. In fact she insisted on paying for the pizza so he didn’t get any proprietary impulses. It would be best to shut that shit down as fast as possible.

When they finished they said goodbye on the sidewalk. Totes awkward. A quick hug and a peck on the cheek and she scurried off down Carroll Street back to the store. She hustled along. She wasn’t afraid. She was never afraid. Her bosses at work couldn’t believe that she lived in Bushwick. They thought it was a war zone or something. But she was of the generation that hadn’t lived through the crack wars and the crime waves of the ‘70’s and 80’s. That Nazi Giuliani had cleaned it all up and she had no reason to be afraid. She could go anywhere and do anything and never looked over her shoulder.

The street was a little dark. It seemed that the streetlight was out right in front of the bridge. The smell was enough to guide you. The turgid water glowed from the chemicals in the Canal. They had been cleaning it up for decades. It was even a superfund site. But the Canal at Carroll Street was particularly bad. They had installed huge fans that pushed the water out of the canal and into the ocean. Unfortunately the fans were on the other side of the bridge so the water never moved on this side of the Canal. It was basically just a stagnant, putrid pool of slop. She quickened her step so she didn’t have to smell it.

There was a shadowy figure standing on the bridge wearing a hoodie. She wasn’t apprehensive. Well not really apprehensive. What was going to happen to her two blocks from her job? Just as she got close the guy turned and she could see his face in the moonlight. Shit. She know him. She relaxed. It was so stupid to be worried.

“Hey how are you? What are you doing over here?” She said. She smiled at him. He was always very shy. So she didn’t want him to feel bad. She never wanted anyone to feel bad if she could help it.

He didn’t reply. He just sort of ducked his head down. And took his hand out of his pocket. It held something shiny. What was it? A cellphone. No a knife. A knife?

He took the knife and slashed it across her throat in one swift practiced gesture. She couldn’t even scream. She just started to gurgle as her life’s blood spurted out in a rush. He grabbed her. Held her up. Making sure he was out of the path of the blood. He looked into her terrified eyes as her life was rushing out of her body. He pushed her against the rail. Over. Her last thought as she died was how bad she was going to smell. She didn’t feel anything as she slid beneath the water.

The shadowy figure looked around. No one was out. He folded the knife and put it in his pocket. He walked away.

One.

Snippet 5

The park was just down the street from the bar. It was a strange little park in the middle of million dollar brownstones. It had a wire hurricane fence and some benches and a war memorial from I think World War One. The senior citizens often came there to take the sun and the Jamacian nannies would bring the yuppie rug rats out to run around and scream while they gossiped. At dusk it was empty. Except for a man sitting on the bench across from the memorial.

He was of medium height with very nondescript features. Didn't look anything like his old man. He was dressed to the nines as usual in a fancy suit with shoes that probably cost more than my car. He was one guinea looking bastard with olive skin and kinky curly hair that caused him a lot of grief when he wore it in the style of an Afro when were in high school. Of course now he had it styled in a razor cut like all the wise guys did these days. Ever since Gotti glammed it up they all tried to look like the second coming of Amard fucking Assante.

"Hey Mikey. Very dramatic meeting in the park like this. Why couldn't we meet at your mothers house. At the kitchen table."

"Bobby thanks for coming. Sit down, we need to talk."

I sat. "I heard about your dad. Sorry man."

"He's dying Bobby. Got maybe two weeks. And the fucking sharks are circling. You hear about that shemanutz Victor." That was the capo from Park Slope who was the acting street boss of the family. He was the Snakes right hand man while he was in the joint. A real piece of work. Everybody hated him. Everybody was afraid of him. So far the fear was winning out.

"No what's that got to do with anything."

"He's just waiting for the old man to go. Then he's coming after me. Big time. And the rest of the guys in the club. Benny. Short Leg Louie. Bobby Bells. Shit he might even wanna whack Louie Nerve for all I know. He hates 'em enough to do it. It's going to be some sick shit."

"Hey that sucks man, but what can I do about it. I mean really. You made a lot of enemies Mikey and instant karma shit is gonna rain down on you or whatever that stupid song sez, ya know."

"Yeah I know. I can't just sit here and let it happen. I have to make a move. And I need your help."

"My help. That ain't happening. Look I can get jammed up just talking to you. There ain't shit I can do for you so forget about it."

"You do that computer shit down at the cops. I need access to addresses and shit. Even phone numbers and what not. I got somebody in the phone company can help me out I tell where to look. I gotta know whats going on. I gotta make some plans." He took out his gold cigarette case and lit up a Lucky Strike. He looked away at a bird walking along a ledge, "You owe me man."

"Did you talk to the old man. Is he still got his marbles. What does he say?"

"What does he say? What he always says. Blast em. Kill the fuckers. Each and every one. Down to the third generation. He says I have to do it now to set myself up. Otherwise they will take a run at me every fucking month till they get me. I don't know if he ain't right Bobby. I got to do something. And fast. I think that prick is just waiting for the old man to die. He's still shitting yellow at the thought of him. But don't help me in the long run."

I had to agree. But I didn't feature getting involved again in this shit. I had made my peace with it and got out of the line of fire. I couldn't let him pull me back in.

But I couldn't abandon him either. We went back too far. We knew too much. He was right. I did owe. Big time. Shit this sucks.

Snippet 4

I am sitting there sipping my beer and I throw back the shot. The cool smokey flavor of the whiskey gave me that sweet burn that I loved so much. Too much really. Looking out the big front window who do I see struttin' down Court street but fucken' Louie Nerve. Jesus.

Louie went to Sacred Hearts with me and Mikey back in the day. He wasn't especially nervous. He just had the Tourettes and had to scream out curses every five seconds. Last I heard he was running errands for the old man in the social club. The sent him when they wanted to be subtle.

He opens the door and sreams at the top of his lungs "Bitch whore motherfucker."

Jed Camplet drops the glass he is polishing.

"Bobby fuckface, cocksucker, Mikey is waiting in park cunt licker." The Mexican cooks come out of the kitchen caring knives.

"Glad to see you keeping up you vocabulary there Louie. Where by Veranda."

"Pussy muffin eyeball cock. Yeah."

"Ok I be over there in a bit."

"Dick, asshole, fisting keyhole twat."

"Yeah Merry Christmas to you too." He turned and walked out. Even the cat was staring at him.

Snippet 3

As I leaned back in my chair I opened my leather jacket and adjusted my piece that I had in a shoulder harness. Fuckin’ Jethro saw it as he was bringing my drink and he didn’t know whether to shit or go blind. I mean I look like a cop. A big fat white guy with the map of Ireland on his face and white donut crumbs on his shirt is usually a cop. But this dick was so lame he didn’t know what was going on.

He actually spilled some of the beer when he put it on the coaster.

He scurried off to the end of the bar and picked up the phone and whispered into it. About two minutes later this Arab looking dude came bursting out of the door from the basement and looked at me. And visibly relaxed. Then he actually slapped the kid on the head. Hard enough to knock off the hat. I guess they don’t have a human resources department in Damascus.

He oiled his way down the bar. Didn’t look like much. Wearing a too shiny shirt with a too shiny skin. Wasn’t much comfortable in either.

“Hello my friend…how are you…I am Wally and I own the restaurant. “
“Bobby Doyle, nice to meet you chief. You can relax, I‘m on the job.”
“I thought so but I felt I should ask. Guns make me nervous you know. Perhaps you meant to go next door to Brady’s. Most of the police prefer it there although I would like to get some of that business. I just don’t want any trouble.”
“No trouble just meeting a friend. Don’t sweat it Babu.”
“Wally.”
“Whatever, pally.”
“Thank you sir. Please to have the next one with us ok?”
“Thanks.”
He walked away back to end of the bar, whispered to the shit kicker and went back downstairs. Something was hinky here but I really didn’t give a shit. I just wanted to get this over with.

Snippet 2

You see the old man Greg Scala was a shooter for the Snake ever since the Gallo wars when we coming up in the sixties. He had so many hits under his belt they freakin’ called him Elvis. He ran his own crew out of a social club on Lorraine St down in the Hook and everybody pretty much left him alone. The cops. The crooks. The corner Boys dealing crack out of the projects. Nobody wanted to fuck with the Weasel. Or his son for that matter. The only question was how much of it was Mikey and how much was it the weight his old man threw. I guess we were going to find out now. Because the old guy was gonna croak in the next few weeks. It was a miracle he lasted this long.

That’s why I agreed to meet up with Mikey in a public place. I hadn’t talked to him in a year or so. I already had a couple of beefs in my jacket from consorting with “known” criminals so I tried to lay low. But he told me he needed my help. And when your brother calls you for help, you come. No matter what.

So I met him in the Court St. Saloon that used to be Cousins back in the day on Amity. We used to hang there for years on end. Back before he got made. And I wasn’t on IAB radar. The place had changed owners. The guys who owned it were Italians but they sold out to some Syrians who owned a deli in the city that got demolished for a skyscraper. So they decided to go into the bar business. They didn’t have a clue.

The waiter was some hipster dofous wearing overalls and a john Deere cap. He had a soul patch, a bunch of tats and the skin of leper.

“Hey, howya doing” I said. “Mikey around.”
“Mikey Who? I don’t see anybody else here in the bar dude. What ya have?”
“Gimmie a Bass pint and a Jameson shot. And a menu.”

So I sat at turn of the bar where I could see out on Court St and keep my back up against the wall. I didn’t think anything was wrong, but it pays to be careful. That’s why I am still here. And a lot of other people ain’t.

First snippet?

My best friend is a killer.

Which is bad enough. But what's worse is that I am a fucking cop. A fat out of shape lazy cop who works with computers and sits on his ass but still a cop.

Where we grew up in Red Hook in the sixties you had a good chance to be one or the other. Or you moved to fucking Staten Island over the guinea gangplank and never looked back. We didn't though. We were what the moolies called original gangsters. Of course Mikey still was a gangster. And it looked like he was gonna get promoted. To capo. Hot shit.

Mikey Scala was coming up in the world. He had his button for quite a while but now his old man was on his last legs and he wanted to secure his place in the family. The old man was a holy terror and the most feared hitman on the East Coast for the last twenty years. Nobody fucked with the Weseal. He had the biggest balls in any borgota in the city, jesus in the fucking country. That's what made is so ironic that he was dying now. Of aids. What the fuck?