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.”
“Sorry.”
“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?”
“Go.”
