Erotica Harem

Please don’t ‘read between the lines’ with my comments. I say what I think free of insinuations. I am a retired martial artist and retired police officer, thus I look at things differently.

I dislike the rating system. If required to do so to submit a review, be advised that I rate conservatively. I am direct but always respectful.

This is one person’s opinion. Keep writing and always have fun!


Title: Pretty Boy Dead

Chapter: 27

Author: Jon M

Plot:

Style & Voice: 3rd person via each character in the diff parts. The last one, with Jonny, seems to have a good bit of 'telling' in it.

Referencing: Consistent

Scene/Setting:

Characterization: Gooood

Grammar: Goood

Just My Personal Opinion: 1,773 Words. Jon, I have a strong memory of reviewing this chapter but can't find it posted anywhere. I can't explain it but I'm sending it again.

"Pretty Boy Dead"

by Jon Michaelsen

Chapter 27

Calvin Slade had worked better to say 'spent' or 'wasted' vs. 'had worked' which is a bit bland much of the day snagging new bits of information related to the Piedmont Park murder, but his efforts produced little more than filler for the newspaper’s online website. At midday, he’d filed an update that police were seeking a person of interest in the murder of Jason North, but fell short of calling the man a suspect. Slade followed up in the afternoon informing the public of the decision by the North family to hold a private memorial later in the week add comma? SMIRK and asked everyone to respect their privacy during such a difficult time.

To pitch his managing editor of a connection to Councilman Mitchell Keyes, Slade knew he needed more than a hunch to expose the newspaper to threats of a lawsuit. Besides, without new information coming forth, the story faced assured death in a day, two at max. Did he really need to invest more of his time? Reporters, as well as cops make up 'confidential informants'. Maybe he'd think of doing that, but then nix himself by saying he didn't want to push his luck by pullling that stunt too often.

It was a question he’d begun to ask himself a lot in the last few hours, but something about the park killing kept nibbling at him, taunting his brain with thoughts just out of his reach. Slade contemplated about the mystery caller from the other night, the sound of the young man’s voice, the fear lacing his words. Oh, Duh. I forgot there was a REAL informer.

“There’s more to the story. He didn’t leave the party alone.”

“’Didn’t leave the party alone’”, Slade said 'said' is bland. Mumbled? aloud, tapping his pen against the keyboard of the laptop to a tune of a favorite beat. No doubt the caller spoke of Mitchell Keyes. What Slade needed to do now was A bit thick: How about he just needed to do it link the anonymous caller to the victim in the park, get proof of an association between North and the beleaguered council member and he’d have one hell of a story. If only it were that simple. Getting such proof would prove difficult since Councilman Keyes was popular among his constituencies. There are always those who don't like someone. Find them? Any effort to tarnish the man’s reputation would be met with fierce resistance. In Slade’s court, Keyes had been arrested recently of suspected DUI, which provided a window of opportunity the seasoned reporter could not ignore.

[]

Parker and Brooks stood on the wide brick porch waiting for an answer at the front door. The 1930’s-style Bungalow sat close to Park Drive, a poplar and oak lined street west of Monroe Drive in the Morningside community. The narrow lane, lined with cars on either side, ended at the southeastern entrance to Piedmont Park, an area frequented late at night by the drug-induced and men looking for anonymous sex.

Minutes after their initial knock, the door creaked open. The gesture by the old woman the other side appeared draining to her. “Yes,” she mumbled, stepping forward in a haze of bewilderment beneath a mess of gray hair.

“Excuse us ma’am,” Parker said and glanced at Brooks for reassurance they had the right address. “Detectives Ken Parker & Timothy Brooks from the Atlanta Police Department, Homicide division. Do you have a tenant by the name of Johnny Cage living here?”

The woman stared at their identification and appeared dazed, as though rustled from a deep sleep. The name seemed to register and she offered up a thin smile and her features relaxed. “Why yes, yes there is. Helps me around the house, with the yard and such. He’s a nice boy, he is.” Fear sprang forth and gripped the deepened the lines in her forehead. “Is he in some kind of trouble?”

“No ma’am,” Brooks assured. “We would just like to have a word with him if we may.”

“Well, of course.” The woman angled her small frame. but fell short of clearing the way. She glanced back at them. “I’m afraid he’s not here right now, but I’ll tell him you called.” She moved to close the door. “Run along now. Good day.”

Parker stuck his foot inside the jam. “Can we take a look at his room to be sure?” The lieutenant was inside before she could offer up much protest. The expression flashed across her face gave little doubt she’d refuse. I thought he was a sgt. And that's illegal. It happens, but illegal.

“Well, I-I guess so. He stays in the basement, pays his rent on time. He’s no trouble at all.” Her tone became sharp. “What’s this all about,” she asked, stepping aside.

She became anxious as Parker, followed by Brooks, rushed forward in the direction of her gaze toward a small wooden door at the end of the hallway. A staircase descended to the basement below. Parker hit a switch on the wall to ignite a light bulb at the base of the stairs which casted not sure casted is correct a muted glow throughout the area. Both ducked to avoid the water-stained, low-hanging ceiling as they entered Cage’s quarters. Had the man been in his room upon their first knock, he most certainly would have fled at the sound of their footsteps, assuming there was a door leading outside. Turns out, there was. Author intrusion?

The basement door appeared locked, not dead-bolted or chained. Parker surmised Cage used the door to come and go as he pleased. He and Brooks stepped through the door to an algae-covered brick patio furnished with a couple metal webbed chairs and oval wicker table with glass top, the type found at most box discount stores. An ashtray atop the table swelled with cigarette butts and rainwater.

Brooks leaned over for a closer look at the ashtray. “The same brand found in the deceased’s coat pocket”, he pointed out.

“Maybe they were more than friends,” Parker said. He looked around the area and saw fresh shoe marks imbedded in the soft soil leading away from the patio. The tread appeared familiar. “Put a car down the street. When Cage shows up, I want to see him at the squad questioning.” A cop just can't make someone come down to the cop shop. Unless the person is under arrest and here, not enuf evidence. Only other way is with consent.

[]

From a spot across the street and about a block away, steely eyes watched as two men presented identification and entered the house on Park Drive after an old woman. The pair of eyes saw the men emerged a short time later, the taller of the two speaking for a moment with a female police officer who arrived moments before. The cop put her vehicle in reverse and backed into a spot down the road a bit and killed the engine, no doubt to keep the house under surveillance. All 'telling'.

The watcher had no plans to go back to the house any time soon. The place no longer proved a safe haven since police had obviously made some kind of connection. Of what he was not sure, but he didn’t worry. The plan to put great distance between himself and all who came looking had been put in motion. He turned and walked along the cracked sidewalk a few blocks until the road dead-ended to Piedmont Park. A metal barricade prevented vehicles from venturing forth, yet allowed pedestrians to continue onward into the park. He crossed an old bridge overlooking that overlooked a dog park on the right and a deep drainage ditch on the left. Refusing to look over his shoulder, he stared ahead, lit a cigarette and headed deeper into the green space. Kinda telling paragraph.

After cutting through the park and climbing the sloping terrain, the watcher exited and walked along the sidewalk fronting 10th street. He crossed the intersection at Piedmont Avenue next to a restaurant and walked the couple of blocks to the Midtown Marta station. Using his Breeze card at the turnstiles, he descended an escalator to the landing deep within the earth. A train pulled into the station with a rush of wind and screech of airbrakes. The aluminum vehicle opened its doors to deposit and accept people. The watcher hopped aboard the train and rode twenty-five minutes to the end of the line south of the city to Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. Exiting, he took the stairs down instead of the escalator, passed through turnstiles and entered the airport terminal at the baggage claim area for Delta Air Lines in South Terminal. Determined and confident, he followed the wide, hospital-slick corridor toward the airport security portals.

“ID, boarding pass,” the TSA agent said. She sat on a stool and peered at his information with a scowl. “You Johnny Cage?” She tilted her head, looked up at him over her glances. “You look different, been buzzed, son.”

Johnny smiled and offered in a southern drawl. “Yes, ma’am, I enlisted in the army last week. Headed to Texas for boot camp, ma’am.”

A large smile spread across her brown face and reached her eyes. “Praise the Lord,” she said and handed back his documents. “You a good boy. Ya’ll be safe out there, hear? God be with ya’ll, child.”

Johnny cleared the screening area without incident, rode the steep, steel-tooth escalators to the pedestrian corridor beneath the terminal and boarded a tramcar. He exited in the bowels Concourse B, took yet another escalator up a thirty-second ride to the terminal. Turning right, he walked down the crowded passageway, passed a multitude of overpriced fast food restaurants and haberdashery. Midway into the concourse, Johnny reached a small alcove crammed with double-stacked, built-in footlockers. The place had proved the perfect spot for keeping a stash of cash. He opened a top locker with his key and rummaged through a black leather duffel bag filled with fives, tens and twenties. No greater denominations as larger bills would draw unwanted attention. Johnny filled his pockets, inserted payment to cover another week’s rent and shoved the bag back into the locker. Should he turn around or stop to look in a store window or somewhere to check if he's being followed???

Retracing his steps, Johnny hopped a tramcar in the opposite direction and rode back the way he came, taking the escalators to the main terminal. He skirted past the car rental counters packed deep with impatient business types and confused tourists and emerged once again near baggage claim. He headed in the in the opposite direction from which he came through a marble corridor until he reached a multitude of airline ticket counters. He purchased one-way airline tickets to New York, Chicago, Dallas and San Francisco at each is 'of' missing? the AirTran, American and Delta Air Lines ticket counters, all in the name matching the identification in his wallet and bought with cash stashed away for months in case they came looking for him.

No one seemed to notice he had wads of cash stuffed in his faded jeans. No one thought to question why his hair was far shorter and a shade lighter than captured on the official Georgia Driver’s License. No one appeared concerned about his one-way ticket requests. The TSA agent, the only one to see his ID asked about the appearance. No one else had a reason. He bought tickets at machines; who would question it? But I bet there's a software program to make an alert.

No one seemed to care and that suited him just fine.