Erotica Harem

Title: ""Pretty Boy Dead"" 

Chapter: "Invalid Item" 

Author:Jon Michaelsen...

Plot: Jason is now calling a well known pit bull type reporter so he can throw any trail leading to him off. It also seems someone is on to him, his car has been rigged so it won't start.

Style & Voice: I like this chapter, it reads as dark as the night it's set in.
Referencing: Any referencing you have down nicely. I didn't catch anything off.
Scene/Setting: Great job on the setting I can see the dark empty street clearly.
Characters: Jason, Red and Slade all come across excellent in this. Their personalities are all clear and clean. Great job.
Grammar: I found a few missing words and some commas missing, but nothing major.
Just My Personal Opinion: I'm getting into this story again so much. Loved it then, love it now. Will definitely be back for more. You can count on it. *grin*


Jason set out to make the call late in the evening in an area he’d scouted a week before while he’d rehearsed the words meant to get the attention of the perfect crime reporter. Calvin Slade worked for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, a multi-award winning journalist known as tenacious and maniacal, a driven reporter perfect for his cause. Jason’s plan required a hungry journalist, one compelled by competitiveness and greed more than moral responsibility. He knew reporters had rigid reputations for revealing their sources. His search through the newspaper’s online archives proved Slade demonstrated his allegiance often, a proud defender of the First Amendment. Though tossed in jail a few times by trial judges irritated with the reporter’s righteousness, if somewhat displaced honor of pride, the threat never deterred him. Slade would no doubt prove adversarial since Jason planned to impart enough information to snag the investigator’s attention, set progress in motion. By the time the enemy figured out who had tipped the reporter, Jason would be long gone. Interest in him would fall away and directed toward the real criminals.

The real criminals. Jason scoffed at the thought as he rounded the corner off Mrytle and headed for the intersection at 10th and Piedmont, convinced that when word leaked of the society of vagabonds, their precious membership would be quick to retreat, putting enough distance between themselves and their deeds. Jason smiled as he stopped near the entrance to the Flying Biscuit Bistro. At least, it was the plan, that and stealing ten million dollars that never would be reported to the authorities.

[]

Jason blocked the caller id to his cell phone before dialing. He’d selected the busy intersection to guarantee witnesses should something bad go down. A Smoothie King and Subway also hugged the corner lot. Across the street sat Caribou Coffee and some trendy shops, adjacent across 10th Street featured an art-deco structure left empty as the result of the downturn in the economy, anchored by a forever-crowded, authentic Mexican restaurant famous for “Monster” margaritas. The adjacent block had a century-old, one story pitted-brick edifice original to the area. The building housed storefront retail space, including a neighborhood grocery store, Outwrite Bookstore and Coffeehouse, and to the far left, a tavern called Blake’s.

Jason chanced that his captors wouldn’t grab him out in the open. Such a threat would be too brazen, even for them. Still, Jason had to be careful, too much at stake as one wrong decision meant disaster for him as those wishing him harm. Swallowing hard, he punched the phone number to the newspaper from recollection, a talent he shared with his mother. Jason possessed the rare ability to retain the tiniest of details, the most complex elements of design. He could recite everything from a simple string of words heard weeks before, to more elaborate text, [b}a series of numbers and formulas, even computer entries viewed once. No match for the most prestigious scholastic board, he amazed people with his ability to call to mind, a talent he used to his benefit.

Jason glanced at the sky as he waited for an answer. Clouds had formed and released a light mist in the air. He shifted his eyes and checked around for anyone lingering in the shadows, any obtruder watching him as he waited on the corner.

Jason had chosen not to contact the reporter from his home because a movie he once saw showed how reporters traced and recorded their calls, not a chance he could take this late in the game. Going to the police wasn’t an option either, though a much safer bet if not more practical. Needless accusations of his involvement and assumptions made by many long before he confessed to a late night attorney proved his innocence. His revelations could even land him in jail alongside the very scum he aimed to expose. Hollywood crime shows called this type involvement ‘accessory to the fact’.

A switchboard operator answered on the fifth ring in a professional, albeit southern drawl. “Atlanta Journal-Constitution Newspapers. How may I help you?”

“Calvin Slade,” Jason said and glanced at his wristwatch. A quarter shy of eleven and the mist gave way to a steady drizzle.

“One moment, please.”

Jason thought of hanging up, but ignored the impulse, having waited so long for his one big chance. Tired of debating and exhausted from months of keeping secret the knowledge he had any longer, nope the time was now or never. His plan was foolproof, no holes. No chance in hell of implicating himself party to the crime as long as he stayed focused. And Jason North mastered the art of remaining focused. No holes!

Anxiety threatened to overtake him as he waited for the reporter answer. Jason’s workout from earlier shot to hell the moment the reporter’s baritone exploded through the receiver.

“Slade!”

[]

The late model sedan slid past the Porsche Boxster, cut the corner at 8th and Myrtle and eased next to the curb. A man emerged from the vehicle dressed in black, sweatshirt, jeans, sneakers and knit cap, including a pair of leather gloves shoved in his back pocket. He backtracked to the sports car, checking for any movement in his periphery. Rounding the corner, he surveyed the vicinity as he walked. The fresh scent of rain from an earlier flash-shower permeated the darkness. He saw no one out walking a dog along the narrow sidewalks or appearing from a darkened driveway headed for an evening stroll. Cars raced along Piedmont Avenue one block over, their tires sloshing through rain-swollen gutters and potholes.

Red, nicknamed for the shock of hair spilling around a large, cherry-pink face spotted with freckles, slowed his pace, eyeing the slick car as he passed by. Another quick glance and he abruptly pivoted, trotting back to the vehicle with large hands dug deep in his pockets. Head down, he moved alongside the parked car, scrutinizing the street, glancing at each glowing window of the nestled, restored older homes fronting Myrtle Street.

Convinced no one had noticed him, he eased to the front of the low-riding vehicle, glanced around one final time before ducking beneath the bumper. On his backcomma he fished a hand up through wires, hoses and metal in the dense space and located the spot to insert the elongated wire cutters in his fingers. The smell of oil and gasoline rising from the damp pavement roused his senses. Alarm disarmed, he wriggled out from underneath the vehicle.

Stepping beside the driver’s door, he slipped a slim metal instrument between the glass and rubber perimeter while checking the area. Click! The interior light illuminated and with a quick jerk, the door opened to absorb the intruder. In an instant, he was inside, checking the rearview and side mirrors, spying for unwanted strangers. He smiled at his genius, confident no one saw him committing the crime. All in a dayapostrophes work.

The criminal was trained by the best imprisoned in the Georgia State penitentiary system. Red spent his last five agonizing years at Reidsvillecomma fighting to stay alive among the other hardened criminals, incarcerated for his part in a botched robbery of a convenience store in a suburb north of town. Stupid clerk refused to hand over the money and forced his hand, got himself shot in the process. It paralyzed the fucker from the neck down. Bum luck.

The intruder needed to be swift and precise. Somebody could come along any moment. Heart pumping with adrenaline-laced blood known only to hardened criminals, he pulled the release and popped the hood. He thought about pillaging through the vehicle, but the idea escaped him as he recalled the wad of cash tossed his way for agreeing to do the job. More than he could make in a lifetime of slinging hamburgers or mopping up after someone else’s shit, and scoring an all-expenses-paid trip to the Bahamas to boot! Who in the hell said crime doesn’t pay? Fucking jerks should be walking in his shoes right now. After getting the money, he had booked voluptuous vixen and himself on the first Delta Air Lines flight out first thing in the morning, first class passage to paradise.

He stepped from the vehicle and waited for a slowly passing carcomma which parked several spaces down the street. The driver killed the lights as the passengers exited. The foursome walked in the opposite direction toward 10th Street absorbed in spirited conversation. With little time remaining, he lifted the hood and took a moment to render the car inoperable, yet it took much longer to lower the hatch and press it shut without making a sound. Another quick surveillance and he skulked away, trotting back to his car to wait.


While breaking and entering, he hadn’t noticed the frail old woman peering down from the darkened second floor window of the small 50’s era cottage-style home located across the street, where she often stood, spying on the creatures of the night who invaded the quiet little neighborhood.

[]

The call rang through before deadline.

Shoving a mass of paper aside in search of the telephone, the reporter barked into the receiver.

Silence. “Hey, I got fifteen minutes ‘til deadline,” he snapped. “Talk to me or bug off. I haven’t got the time.” He seized a half-eaten sandwich left on the corner of the desk and tore at the wrapper.

“Yeah well, listen up,” barked the voice in an arrogant tone. Male, Slade thought. Young and cocky, he knew the type all too well. “I catch your writing in the paper, online, you know? You’re that investigative reporter, right? That means you wanna know about stuff.”

Slade rolled his eyes, grumbled and snapped a bite of salami. He chewed with his mouth open and glanced around for something to wipe his face. Cradling the receiver against his shoulder, he fished in the trash bin for a napkin to brush his lips. “Yeah, okay, I’m listening.” He grunted.

He faced a fast approaching deadline after having dodged all who demanded his attention this evening and now this? The caller was likely a thrill-seeker. That’s what he called them, “thrill-seekers”. Snitches with a propensity for ratting on their bosses and neighbors, members of their own family, anything to get their names printed in the news. He’d witnessed the allure thousands of times during his ten years on the beat and could peg an informant from a wise guy in two seconds flat. He edged his bet on the latter.

Slade contemplated hanging up, but the next words from the caller stopped him cold.

“That councilman you wrote about? You know, the one cops found drunk in his car a few weeks back,” the voice whispered. A vehicle cranking hip-hop thundered past in the background. The caller tried to mask the noise as he spoke. “Up in Buckhead, the one passed out on the side of the road.”

Slade knew all right, none other than Mitchell Keyes, some claim the most corrupt, divisive son-of-a-bitch City Councilman ever elected president of the powerful, mostly African-American board. “What about him?”

“There’s more to the story,” the voice teased. “I know some things.”

“I don’t buy information,” he warned, making note of the number appearing on the telephone’s LED display.

“Check it out then.” The caller sneezed. “He didn’t leave the party alone.”

The line clicked. Slade stopped chewing and slid to the edge of his seat. Two seconds later, he heard the static drone of the dial tone.

“Shit! Shit!”