The thread elsewhere on multiple 1st person POV spurred me to look at a stalled WIP, not so much a linear narrative as a storyline you piece together from a series of personal accounts...
Danny and I eased our way into the forward cabin, guns drawn. The curtains were closed against the heat of a Los Angeles summer but there was enough light from the overhead to see clearly.
Lou Weisman stood with his back to us, transferring small, flat, metal containers from a duffle bag to the narrow shelf above the starboard bunk. The Margolotta shifted at her moorings, making my partner swear and grab the door frame for support. Weisman paused in what he was doing but didn’t look round.
I cocked my .38 by way of a formal introduction. “Hands where I can see them, Lou. No sudden movements.”
Weisman stiffened slightly, then continued stacking the shelf. “Homicide Detectives Harvard and Yale. A paring that is proof-positive your dear Lieutenant Halloran hides a sense of humour beneath that stony countenance. You may have found me sooner rather than later, gentlemen, but this was not unexpected. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
Lou Weisman was a two-bit fence who’d barely graduated High School. He was a fink, a low-rent hustler who’d roll over at the mere sniff of a badge. This wasn’t like him at all.
When Danny spoke he sounded rattled. “We’re the guys with the guns, Weisman, which makes you the one who does as he’s told. So quit dicking around and raise your hands.”
Weisman set the final container in place and smoothed the duffle bag flat. “What do you think is happening, detective? Is it these cans? What do you believe they contain?”
I cleared my throat. “Industrial waste from the radiology department at UCLA. Enough material to make a poor-man’s dirty bomb, in the right hands.”
“How inventive. Well, the allegation alone would certainly deter all but the most terminally curious, I must admit. But why is this of interest to Homicide, Detective Yale?”
“That dead body back at your pawn shop, pal. Shotgun blast to the face, both barrels, close range. What happened, Weisman? You decide to cut your supplier out of the deal? Or maybe a potential buyer didn’t like the price and tried to lift the goods?”
There was a smile in his voice. “Neither. He was more a seeker after the truth, in a manner of speaking.” Weisman gestured to the neat row of metal containers, “No, what we actually have here is part of J. Edgar Hoover’s private collection. Eight-millimetre cine film from a series of illegal FBI surveillance operations. Specifically, President Jack Kennedy in the company of young women, none of whom were his wife. Cans thirteen to seventeen feature Marilyn Monroe and were, by all accounts, a particular favourite with the Director.”
I snorted. “You’re saying the fall-out would be political, not nuclear? Pull the other one, Lou, this is old news. “
“Unsubstantiated rumours, detective. Until now.”
“Whatever. You can finally prove that Jackie Boy played the field – big deal. It’s not like anyone on these films is still alive. Nobody would kill to possess them, and they certainly don’t warrant a city-wide manhunt on false pretences. So, you’ll forgive my partner and I if we threat this situation as a bit more serious than some old skin-flicks coming to light.”
It was like Weisman was lecturing a slightly backward child. “JFK was quite the voyeur in his own right, you know. And what greater thrill than to watch yourself in action?”
Danny frowned. “Huh? You can prove Hoover supplied these films to Kennedy himself? OK, embarrassing for the man’s reputation, for the family name, but nothing more. Like Luke says, this is old news.”
“No, no, you misunderstand, Detective Harvard, but that’s only to be expected. Hoover himself failed to appreciate exactly what it was he was watching, despite the evidence being right there in front of him. I can only assume he was too focussed on the, ah, foreground action to pay much attention elsewhere.”
I could feel a headache coming on. “Look, pal, enough of the spiel. Just put your hands behind your back while my partner cuffs you. We can sort everything else out down at the Precinct once the NEST team has cleared this place.”
“Can fifteen contains the best example, should you get the chance to view the films. You can clearly make out JFK reflected in a wall mirror, standing off to the left, watching himself and Monroe cavorting on the bed.”
Danny and I glanced at each other. I licked my lips. “What?”
“It’s the age-old question, Detective Yale, how can one man be in two places at the same time?” Weisman turned to face us. His eyes were pure amber with no visible iris or white. “But not a question I’ll be able to help you with. One world of caution, though. Should you encounter the book then either read nothing or more than the first few pages. For, as they say, a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.”
The cabin interior was suddenly flooded with a searing white light. Danny and I both tried to shield our eyes against the glare. We both fired. I missed and blew out a porthole. My partner nailed Weisman square in the chest.
Nothing happened. Lou didn’t cry out, or clutch at the wound, or even flinch. Instead he smiled. “Run, detectives, run. There may still be time to save yourselves from my fate. If not from yourselves.”
Weirdness got the better of me, of us both. We turned and blundered though the cabin cruiser, out onto the fantail. It was like being inside a 1000-watt bulb; the world was shades of white and as hot as an open furnace. I grabbed Danny’s arm and together we jumped into the harbor, into a plunging silence.
Then the sound and shock of an explosion swept over me – cushioned by the water but enough to drive the breath from my body. I swirled in the current, bathed in light, with no sense of up or down.
Darkness.
Momentary blindness following the end of a searing brilliance, leaving only…
Daylight.
I surfaced in a rush, sucking down a great lungful of burnt air. Danny was clinging to a mooring buoy, coughing. I floundered over and grabbed hold as well. The Margolotta was gone; reduced to scraps of burning wreckage and a bubbling oil stain. Directly above us was a gap in the clouds, a perfect circle, now starting to close.
Neither of us said a damn word.
There was nothing to say that made any sense.
Danny and I eased our way into the forward cabin, guns drawn. The curtains were closed against the heat of a Los Angeles summer but there was enough light from the overhead to see clearly.
Lou Weisman stood with his back to us, transferring small, flat, metal containers from a duffle bag to the narrow shelf above the starboard bunk. The Margolotta shifted at her moorings, making my partner swear and grab the door frame for support. Weisman paused in what he was doing but didn’t look round.
I cocked my .38 by way of a formal introduction. “Hands where I can see them, Lou. No sudden movements.”
Weisman stiffened slightly, then continued stacking the shelf. “Homicide Detectives Harvard and Yale. A paring that is proof-positive your dear Lieutenant Halloran hides a sense of humour beneath that stony countenance. You may have found me sooner rather than later, gentlemen, but this was not unexpected. I’ll be with you in just a moment.”
Lou Weisman was a two-bit fence who’d barely graduated High School. He was a fink, a low-rent hustler who’d roll over at the mere sniff of a badge. This wasn’t like him at all.
When Danny spoke he sounded rattled. “We’re the guys with the guns, Weisman, which makes you the one who does as he’s told. So quit dicking around and raise your hands.”
Weisman set the final container in place and smoothed the duffle bag flat. “What do you think is happening, detective? Is it these cans? What do you believe they contain?”
I cleared my throat. “Industrial waste from the radiology department at UCLA. Enough material to make a poor-man’s dirty bomb, in the right hands.”
“How inventive. Well, the allegation alone would certainly deter all but the most terminally curious, I must admit. But why is this of interest to Homicide, Detective Yale?”
“That dead body back at your pawn shop, pal. Shotgun blast to the face, both barrels, close range. What happened, Weisman? You decide to cut your supplier out of the deal? Or maybe a potential buyer didn’t like the price and tried to lift the goods?”
There was a smile in his voice. “Neither. He was more a seeker after the truth, in a manner of speaking.” Weisman gestured to the neat row of metal containers, “No, what we actually have here is part of J. Edgar Hoover’s private collection. Eight-millimetre cine film from a series of illegal FBI surveillance operations. Specifically, President Jack Kennedy in the company of young women, none of whom were his wife. Cans thirteen to seventeen feature Marilyn Monroe and were, by all accounts, a particular favourite with the Director.”
I snorted. “You’re saying the fall-out would be political, not nuclear? Pull the other one, Lou, this is old news. “
“Unsubstantiated rumours, detective. Until now.”
“Whatever. You can finally prove that Jackie Boy played the field – big deal. It’s not like anyone on these films is still alive. Nobody would kill to possess them, and they certainly don’t warrant a city-wide manhunt on false pretences. So, you’ll forgive my partner and I if we threat this situation as a bit more serious than some old skin-flicks coming to light.”
It was like Weisman was lecturing a slightly backward child. “JFK was quite the voyeur in his own right, you know. And what greater thrill than to watch yourself in action?”
Danny frowned. “Huh? You can prove Hoover supplied these films to Kennedy himself? OK, embarrassing for the man’s reputation, for the family name, but nothing more. Like Luke says, this is old news.”
“No, no, you misunderstand, Detective Harvard, but that’s only to be expected. Hoover himself failed to appreciate exactly what it was he was watching, despite the evidence being right there in front of him. I can only assume he was too focussed on the, ah, foreground action to pay much attention elsewhere.”
I could feel a headache coming on. “Look, pal, enough of the spiel. Just put your hands behind your back while my partner cuffs you. We can sort everything else out down at the Precinct once the NEST team has cleared this place.”
“Can fifteen contains the best example, should you get the chance to view the films. You can clearly make out JFK reflected in a wall mirror, standing off to the left, watching himself and Monroe cavorting on the bed.”
Danny and I glanced at each other. I licked my lips. “What?”
“It’s the age-old question, Detective Yale, how can one man be in two places at the same time?” Weisman turned to face us. His eyes were pure amber with no visible iris or white. “But not a question I’ll be able to help you with. One world of caution, though. Should you encounter the book then either read nothing or more than the first few pages. For, as they say, a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.”
The cabin interior was suddenly flooded with a searing white light. Danny and I both tried to shield our eyes against the glare. We both fired. I missed and blew out a porthole. My partner nailed Weisman square in the chest.
Nothing happened. Lou didn’t cry out, or clutch at the wound, or even flinch. Instead he smiled. “Run, detectives, run. There may still be time to save yourselves from my fate. If not from yourselves.”
Weirdness got the better of me, of us both. We turned and blundered though the cabin cruiser, out onto the fantail. It was like being inside a 1000-watt bulb; the world was shades of white and as hot as an open furnace. I grabbed Danny’s arm and together we jumped into the harbor, into a plunging silence.
Then the sound and shock of an explosion swept over me – cushioned by the water but enough to drive the breath from my body. I swirled in the current, bathed in light, with no sense of up or down.
Darkness.
Momentary blindness following the end of a searing brilliance, leaving only…
Daylight.
I surfaced in a rush, sucking down a great lungful of burnt air. Danny was clinging to a mooring buoy, coughing. I floundered over and grabbed hold as well. The Margolotta was gone; reduced to scraps of burning wreckage and a bubbling oil stain. Directly above us was a gap in the clouds, a perfect circle, now starting to close.
Neither of us said a damn word.
There was nothing to say that made any sense.
