I have so many deadlines for publishing magazines and other people's books, that my own writing has been getting pushed aside lately, so I sat down and cranked this out for my upcoming novel "The White Death." Five minutes of writing and I felt like I'd taken a week's vacation. I think I'll ignore a few deadlines and write some more. The deadlines will still be there in the morning.
“I’m being followed,” said Kirk. “So I need you to get something to someone for me. You got to help me, Charlene.”
He was breathing hard. Out of shape as always. Served him right climbing up her fire escape at two in the morning. He stood near the window silhouetted in the nightlight’s soft glow like a mugger in a dimly lit alley.
“You can’t keep breaking into my place,” said Charlene. “You scared me half to death.”
“I get a boyfriend someday and you might get shot. You ever think of that? And where’d you get that raggedy-ass jacket?”
“In a dumpster,” said Kirk.
One arm held a typing paper sized box to his chest. The other held the bottom of his coat tight over his stomach like he was about to throw up.
“You’re wearing something from a dumpster?”
With his silvered sunglasses and leather hat, he looked like a park ranger on dope when he nodded his agreement. He was the only man she knew with eyes so sensitive he wore sunglasses at night. And she wasn’t sure how Kirk managed a coherent thought, but he did seem to know when to nod even when sloshed.
“You like it?”
Quarter inch of stubble on him looked like fuzz on a turkey’s neck in the dim light.
“You have to go in the other room while I get dressed,” she said.
“I thought I was in the other room.”
“Go,” she said.
Blankets held clutched in front of her breasts, she pointed toward the living room.
“You got beer?”
“Kirk, get out and close the door behind you so I can get dressed,” she repeated.
“Don’t turn the lights on, okay?”