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At the sound of the door, Desi Grasso glanced from his computer and then looked again in earnest. A well-tailored businessman stood in the open doorway. Bald. Glasses. Old, yet he looked fit. How did this guy get past the guards? How did he get inside and reach the second floor of the shop without tripping the alarm? The thought of how that might happen sent an instant chill up Desi’s spine but he determined not to show fear. “Who the hell are you?”

The man strode into the office and placed a business card on the desk. He took a seat. Leaned back. Crossed his legs. Didn’t say a word.

Desi grabbed the card. Anthony Dmitri, Investment Counselor. Aon Building. Desi always wanted to move his operation there but Uncle Uomo was too cheap. The man in the suit exuded a nonchalant attitude except that he watched with an intensity that made the younger man squirm. Desi picked up the phone, glanced at the number written on his blotter and dialed Aldo’s cell phone. It rang six times. Then came the recording. Where were Aldo and the other guard? He cleared his throat. “How’d you get in here?”

The man’s eyes didn’t break contact when he answered in a mild voice. “Aldo Gionelli used to be a friend of mine.”

“He had orders to guard the place.“

“I didn’t meet much resistance.”

At that flat tone, Desi felt beads of sweat on his upper lip. He fought to keep control of his thoughts, of his voice. “What’re you tellin’ me here?”

“You’ll find Gionelli and his nephew outside. I’m an investment counselor, Mr. Grasso. My partners and I want to offer you a business proposition—a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. My team believes you’re ready to be your own boss.”

Desi turned the card over and over until he noticed the nervous tell and placed it flat on the desk like a playing card.

Dmitri went on: “Uomo Grasso is a powerful man but we think he’s old-school. We feel you have the intelligence and business acumen to step into his role.” He smiled. “Certainly you’ve thought about that from time to time, Mr. Grasso?” Dmitri got to his feet. He seemed to do it effortlessly for an old man.

“What connections you got, Grandpa?”

“It’s a rather large office. 9 a.m. Mr. Grasso. Don’t be late.” He walked out and closed the door behind him.

Desi stared at the door for a full minute before he regained control of his thought processes. First thing was to find out why those goons didn’t alert him. He lifted a snub-nosed revolver from his desk drawer and moved slowly down the metal spiral stairs, scanning the shop for this Dmitri guy.

Nobody there.

Outside, all was quiet. No traffic, no guards. He paced around the building.

Nothing.

The night air chilled him and he zipped his leather jacket, then pulled out a flashlight and moved more slowly through the alley, scanning corners, windows, doorways. When he reached the dumpster, he lifted the lid.

Aldo’s eyes stared upward, a look of surprise frozen on his blue lips. The other body lay folded beside him. Desi almost lost his greasy pizza supper. He went back into his office. Locked the door. Sat at his keyboard. Googled Anthony Dimitri, Investment Counselor. The search lit the screen with the name.

He selected the first website. Professional. Complicated. It looked legit.

Ten minutes later, Desi’s hands shook. He poured whiskey in the bottom of a paper cup. Moved to the water cooler. Topped it off to the brim, then downed it in three gulps and poured another. He needed to think this out.

* * *

When he made three blocks from Desi Grasso’s electronics shop, Tony Ferragamo, alias Anthony Dmitri pulled out his phone and called Roya. In a minute, her car glided to the curb and he climbed in.

“Any trouble?”

Tony just smiled. Easy—so easy. This businessman cover worked fine. Watching his words proved the only challenge. He’d done some acting before he got kicked out of high school and it finally paid off. Just like the teacher told him—nothing learned ever got wasted.

.
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Frank’s body heat filled the box. The few holes drilled in the metal sides didn’t bring enough oxygen. Sweat dripped off his nose. With head crammed low between his knees, unable to move, his anger grew and his breathing quickened. Pulse beat in his ears and he tried to hold his bodily fluids.

Before they crammed him in this thing, it looked like an ordinary steel footlocker. Not as small as the box used in pilot survival training—an experience he never expected to repeat. How many hours? With a curse, he realized he’d lost track of time.

Without warning, the lid opened and he squinted against the instant glare of fluorescent light.

“Sam, Bruno, get him to his feet.” The voice of Mahoney.

Two sets of hands lifted him out of the box. “Please stretch your muscles, Mr. Smith. It’s time we talked. Bruno, bring him to 109 when he’s fit to walk.”

Frank looked at him from under his brows.

Mahoney turned and strode out the room while Frank tried to straighten his back, his legs. He glanced at the front of his shirt and pants—heavy and dark with sweat.

* * *

The door to the interrogation room slammed closed. Solid steel-on-steel. Frank arched his back then paced. Why didn’t they cuff him to the chair? He pressed his face to the mirror and tried to see to the other side of the glass. Impossible.

The door opened and Mahoney breezed in. “How are we doing, Mr. Smith?”

A stupid question—ambivalent, sarcastic, calculated to bait him. Frank’s military training included interrogation techniques but now his anger burned. He didn’t bother to answer and decided to show no fear or discomfort.

“Not talking?” Mahoney grinned. “Perhaps you resent that box? Convenient thing to keep lying about. Who would guess I’d use it that way? Yes—strictly against regulations, I know.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“You actually have quite good legal counsel.” Mahoney grinned and glanced at a clipboard. “It’s all here in black and white. According to these documents, you’ve been released on bail. Why are such things allowed?  The laws of this country are certainly lax.”  He lifted the page and peered at the next.  “At this moment, you’re walking free on the street, perhaps stopping at a store or restaurant. A criminal–a killer like you.  It says you like golf.”

“I said I want a lawyer.”

Mahoney slouched in the steel chair and examined Frank. “Don’t act so naive, Mr. Smith. Technically, you have ceased to exist, but on the books… Let me put it this way: You have been replaced by a paper trail. Don’t act so surprised–it doesn’t convince me.”  He sighed.  “We are building quite a dossier on you. Frank Smith will check into hotels, travel from city to city.”  He clucked his tongue.  “Already violating your parole  A suitcase will be open and clothing will hang on the rack, soap and towels will be used. We can be very thorough, you know. Of course, in reality, you aren’t hearing me say this.”

Frank’s face burned with anger at this dirty Fed. He felt he could strangle the guy. It wouldn’t be hard to snap that pencil neck. How many others did Mahoney torture? “How do you get away with this? It’s against the law.”

Mahoney sighed. “Don’t be a bore. I’ve scheduled you for training. That box is part of it as I’m sure you are quite aware from your military school.  We don’t do that to our pilots in my home country, but it does seem to prepare a man.” He looked Frank up and down. “You look fit enough, but you lack certain skills. We have only a few days to train you. It will be intense. Think you’re up to it, old boy?”

So that was the game. When Mahoney crossed to his side of the steel table, Frank grabbed his throat with one hand and with the other, lifted him from his feet by the belt and slammed his body against the huge mirror. He squeezed until he felt the man’s larynx through the pasty flesh. Mahoney’s face turned red as his hair and seemed to swell.

The door burst open. Sam and Bruno rushed in. They took hold of Frank and pinned his arms to the concrete floor. Mahoney drove the heel of his shoe into Frank’s solar plexus.

The breath driven from him, Frank gasped for air.

“Put him back in the box.”

.
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HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive novel. Tell me what comes next. I’ll try to fit it in.

1.) IT’S EASY – Just enter an idea, such as: “their jeep drives off a cliff.”

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – In general, if it wouldn’t fly in a 60′s Bond flick, then it’s out.

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Frank always felt exhausted after an airplane trip, even in a wide first-class seat.  He stared out the window, Dan Mahoney at the isle.  The cuffs hurt and a muscle cramp formed in his back.  No food.  No sleep.  No conversation.

In Washington, they met two other agents at the gate.  Big, fit, cut-from-the-mold government jocks.  Again, just like his long walk through O’Hare, wearing the cuffs made him blush.  Nobody pointed, but he saw the looks followed by the averted gazes.  Then the lobby and the flash of news cameras.  Frank never expected to make the national news.  Now everybody knew his face.

After a ride in a closed van, he sat cuffed to a steel chair at a big steel table.  The room—gray walls, low ceiling.  He tried to get comfortable and noticed his chair bolted to the floor.  He pushed against the desk.  Bolted too.  The big mirror obviously gave a view from outside the room.  Minutes crawled like worms.

The door finally swung open and Mahoney strode in.  “Well, I hope they’re treating you well.  Care for a bottle of Perrier?”

Frank didn’t answer.

“Not talkative?  Perhaps I should have you fitted for an orange suit.”

Frank felt his stomach turn over.  He knew from watching television not to talk without counsel.  “I want a lawyer.”

Mahoney laughed.  “You can dream about that the rest of your life.  Officially, Frank Smith has already met with his attorney and is now in a neat cell awaiting trial.  But we both know that isn’t true, don’t we?

Frank decided to keep his answers short and not commit to anything.  “That’s illegal.”

“What do you mean?  Frank Smith will go through the system quite legally.  I can do pretty much what I want with…”  He flipped a hand.  “With you.”

“You can’t do that.”

“No, you’re quite right about that.  I can’t do that to a person.  But in case you didn’t realize it, your physical presence here is something of an enigma.  You seem to be a specter.  ” He laughed again.  “You’re a ghost, Mr. Smith.  There aren’t any laws on the books protecting ghosts.  Haven’t you heard about advanced interrogation techniques?  I can bury you alive and the world will believe you’re awaiting sentence.”

Frank’s stomach turned again and he thought he’d retch.  How could this be happening in the United States?  Then it dawned on him.  He wasn’t dealing with the justice system.  He was in the hands of a dirty agent.  He groaned and tears welled in his eyes.

Mahoney’s voice took on an edge.  “Spare me the histrionics.”

“Just exactly what do you want?”

The red-headed man went still a moment.  Then: “So easy?  Wouldn’t it be more fun to spend a few days in a cell with some warm company and come visit me at odd hours?  I heard you were tough.  Surely you’ll push back, test your limits.”

“I’m not a criminal.”

“Oh, Mr. Smith, I am disappointed.  I was so looking forward to…  Not a criminal, you say?  How many have you killed?  That policeman at the train station…”  He clucked his tongue.  “Let’s call that one indiscreet.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mahoney shook his head then rubbed his brow with his fingers for a while.  After a few minutes he spoke:  “Harris says you’re part of a new mob moving into Chicago.  Seems you’re tearing down the Grasso family by twos.”

“I’m innocent.”

Mahoney sighed and ran his fingers through his thick red hair.  “Whatever.  Too much has happened to believe that.  But even if it were true, old boy, what difference does it make now? ”

That puzzled Frank.  How could the truth not matter?

“You appear so perplexed.  Don’t you understand, Mr. Smith?  I don’t need facts from you.  I need action.”

“I’m just an insurance salesman.”

Mahoney ignored him.  “There’s a situation brewing.  We know the Russians are planning a move on Chicago soon.”

“What does that have to do with me?”

“Why, Mr. Smith, surely that’s obvious.  Thanks to you, the door is open to them.  You are going to sabotage their little party.”

Frank felt completely overwhelmed.  What was he supposed to do against the Russian mob?  Maybe it would be better to stay in prison.  “I can’t help you.”

“If you take that path, you’ll never see the sun again.”

“This is America.  You can’t do that to me.”

“Transport to another country can be arranged.”

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN

Jump to the Beginning

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive novel. Tell me what comes next. I’ll try to fit it in.

1.) IT’S EASY – Enter an idea, such as: “their jeep drives off a cliff.” I’ll try to write it in.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – If it wouldn’t fly in a 60′s Bond flick, then it’s out.

3.) SHARE – If I publish, I’ll list contributors prominently. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts.

© 2011 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved

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Back in the car, Tony de-briefed with Roya.

“What do you mean you whacked them both? I told you to get them out of the way.” Roya chewed her lower lip. “This is not good.”

Tony felt a distinct annoyance at her shrill tone. Two clean hits. What was the problem? “Hey, that’s what I do, okay? And what’s the risk? Nobody can recognize me in this banker’s suit. Grey. Bald. I look like a 50-year-old businessman.”

“Tony, I want Grasso and his mob—not a war with Vegas.”

Didn’t this gal understand the power plays that went on between mobs? “Listen little girl: Aldo Gionelli is close family out in sin city. Killing him might get that group to pull back. That’s what you want, right?”

Roya didn’t respond.

“I stuffed the bodies in the dumpster. We can go right up to the office like you wanted.”

Roya pulled away from the curb. “No Tony, as it is now you’re going in alone. Next time do exactly as I say. Now I want you to see Desi Grasso personally and set an appointment with him for tomorrow morning at 9 am. Here’s your ID.”

Tony opened the black leather wallet, glanced at the credit cards, the driver’s license, the business cards. Conservative. Nice embossed lettering. He studied his name—Anthony Dmitri, Investment Counselor. “This says our office is in the Aon Building. Nice real estate.”

“We’re renting it by the hour. When you talk to Desi, just try to sound like an educated man. No tough stuff. Give the air of big money. And Tony—don’t threaten—don’t kill—no matter what. Just invite him to the meeting. Be polite.”

Her phone rang and she listened for a moment. “Tatiana, you’re hysterical. Take some deep breaths…Yes, I’ll send a lawyer and see what I can do at my end…No, don’t you do anything—don’t say anything, not a word…He’ll be there soon…I’m sorry Tat, but these things happen. Try not to attach so much importance to it…Okay later.”

Roya snapped the phone closed. “Be respectful, Tony. You’re making a friendly visit—delivering an invitation. Make it cordial. If he asks how you got in, just say his employees gave you some resistance and leave it at that. He’ll find the bodies soon enough.” She squinted at him. “Think you can pull that off.”

“Yeah, sure.”

She grinned. “After your pleasant talk, the sight of those bodies will put him into a tailspin. He’ll believe he’s out of his depth. I think we can turn Desi against his uncle Uomo with the right combination of fear and greed. Remember, we’re putting on a front and you’re my ambassador.” She pulled up to the curb in front of Desi’s electronics shop. “Can you handle the lock?”

Tony glance at her from under his brows and said nothing.

“All right, Mr. Businessman. The show is on. Get in, get out, and walk away. Call me with a pickup location.”

Tony climbed out of the car.

.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN

Jump to the Beginning

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive novel. Tell me what comes next. I’ll try to fit it in.

1.) IT’S EASY – Just enter an idea, such as: “their jeep drives off a cliff.”

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – In general, if it wouldn’t fly in a 60′s Bond flick, then it’s out.

3.) SHARE – If I publish, I’ll list contributors prominently. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts.

© 2011 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved

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Tony Ferragamo watched Nicholi “Nicky” Segovia stoop and inspect him. If this huge Teddy bear of a man was FBI, how did he fit in the picture?

Roya leaned against the kitchen table. “The gray hair isn’t good enough, Nicky. I’ll get the shears.” She left the room and came back with an electric clipper that looked like a leftover from a dog groomer. “Tonsure it.”

“Yeah.” Nicky nodded. “I think that should do the trick.”

Tony looked from one to the other. What’d they want? He should look like some kinda monk? “Hey, nobody cuts my hair unless I say so.”

A blow to the chest and Nicky shoved him back in the chair so hard he almost went over backwards.  Tony cursed to himself. Maybe he’d get his chance at the big man later.

Roya’s voice took on an edge. “Sit still, Tony.” Then, in a softer tone, “Nicky specializes in disguise; that’s why I called him. You want invisible? Trust me. You’ll look like a different man.” The clippers already buzzed across the top of Tony’s head.

In a few minutes, the big man switched it off. “How does he look to you milashka?”

“Terrible. Such a shame, Tony—all that beautiful black hair.” Roya sighed. “I suppose it will grow back some day, if you live that long.” She smiled. “Something for you to look forward to?”

The big man’s voice: “Looks good to me—like he’s pushing fifty—gray fringe and that stubby goatee is more like it—salt and pepper, real natural. But those clothes don’t work and those alligator shoes have to go. I’ll see what we got.” The floor creaked when Nicky walked.  He disappeared into a bedroom.

Roya licked her finger and ran it across Tony’s bald head, from his brow to the hair remaining in back. “So smooth. So distinguished.” She pressed her lips to his ear and whispered. “I like older men.” Then she stood straight and grinned.

What was so funny about it? There was his hair scattered around him.

Nicky plodded back, carrying a suit in one huge hand, a pair of cargo shorts in the other. “Business owner or weekend slob?”

Roya bit her thumb. “We do suit. It works better downtown.”

“Hey, no way I’m wearin’ that.”

“Not flash enough, Tony? And you who won’t drive even a Mustang?” Roya crossed her arms. “Still the rebel. Maybe the needle again?”

“I’m sayin’ it’s not my style.”

“Hey, tough guy.” The big man’s voice got deep and hard and Nicholi Segovia didn’t look so much the Teddy bear—more like a grizzly. “Your style is what got you found in the first place. Look at this.” He held up the suit. “Hart Shaffner and Marx. Finest thing in menswear. Made in USA. In Chicago, even.” He tossed the suit in Tony’s lap. “You’re gonna like the way you look.” Nicky made a menacing grin. “I guarantee it.”

Roya laughed. “Don’t mind Nicki. Half of what he says is a quote from a movie, an ad, whatever. I enjoy it. It kills the boredom.”

“I’m never bored with you, krasivyĭ. Nicky cocked his head toward the bedroom. “There’s a couple white shirts, hotshot. Button-down collars. Silver cuff links. Try the black wingtips. And one more thing.” He leaned forward and his huge fingers fit horned rimmed glasses on Tony’s face.

Tony carried the suit into the other room. He faintly heard Nicky ask Roya what color she wanted her hair. The shirt felt a bit tight around his neck and he covered the open neck with a rich paisley tie. Jacket fit fine—pants too loose. He found a belt to cinch up the waist. The shoes fit tight but not too bad. A glance in the mirror revealed a non-descript middle-aged businessman. Was this how he’d look in thirty years? Nobody was gonna recognize him this time. He stepped out of the room.

Roya sat facing him, Nicki behind her, lathering some kinda suds in her hair.

Roya drew in a breath. “Oh, Tony! So dignified, like tycoon. I just love it!” She wrapped a towel around her head and walked to him, buttoned his jacket and smoothed his lapels. “He looks like big money, don’t you think, Nicky?”

“What about the shoulder holster?”

“Never use one—too obvious. A pistol fits nicely in back.”

“Okay, try it and let’s see.” Nicky stared a few seconds before responding. Then he nodded. “That’ll do.” He turned to Roya. “You done with me? I been away from HQ too long.”

“So soon? I thought you’d be my driver.”

“Y’know, milashka, I trust you to get to the right place in the end, but how you get there—” He shook his head. “I got a feeling where you’re going next might end my career. This makes us even”

“Not quite, but go, Nicky.  And thanks.”

When Nicky left, Roya rinsed her hair at the kitchen sink. “You like redheads, Tony? I picked out three new outfits that will be just right.”

Tony liked blondes, but he felt certain that Roya Fetova looked good in any color. “Whatever you say.”

* * *

They arrived in Oak Park at dusk. Roya drove by Desi Grasso’s electronics shop. “See anything, Tony?”

“Desi’ll be upstairs doin’ what he does with the computers. Go ‘round the block one more time.”

She did as Tony asked, driving slowly.

“There, down that alley. Turn at the corner. There’s another one of ‘em. Those guys aren’t Uomo’s men. Hey—that’s Aldo Gionelli. Since when does the Vegas mob work Chicago?”

“I’ll let you out down the street.”

Tony climbed out of the car and slowly walked down the sidewalk. His disguise was perfect and he knew it. He slipped into the alley, walked past the man, then abruptly turned, shoved the .22 pistol into his gut and without hesitation, squeezed the trigger. The body doubled over and fell to the pavement. Tony pressed the muzzle to the temple and fired again. He tightened his lips in satisfaction over the silencer’s efficiency, the lack of spattering from the small caliber round.  Killing brought no thrill, no remorse.  Just emptiness.

Out front, he approached the other gangster. “Hello Aldo.”

“I don’t know you. Get lost, old man.”

Tony brought his foot down hard on Aldo’s instep, then shoved the sport coat down over his arms.  He lifted the man’s gun and pocketed it. “Let’s go where we can talk.” He pushed the goon toward the alley.

Aldo limped toward the space between buildings and Tony prodded him twice before they reached the dead man. Then Aldo stopped.

“Back to the wall, Aldo. Thought you’d be safe back here with you’re pal, didn’t ya?” Tony pressed his pistol against Aldo’s brow till his head stopped at the brick wall. The man sweated freely and the rotten smell made Tony sneer. “Your friend didn’t cooperate, Aldo. Maybe you’re different than him.”

“How do you know me?”

Tony almost felt bored—this seemed so easy. “Just answer questions. Why do I see Gionelli men on Uomo’s turf?”  Might as well find out what he could before he turned out this guy’s lights.

Aldo shrugged. “Guess it’s no secret. Uomo needs protection. I’m protecting.”

“From who?”

Tony saw the fear in the man’s eyes. He’d seen that before. “I don’t know, you gotta believe me, just protection is all.”

“I asked from who. Don’t tell me you’re following orders. You’re close family in Vegas.  Give me something I can use.”

“Please Mister. I don’t know.”

“You’re not playing ball, Aldo. You know how this goes.” Tony immediately fired three quick slugs.

The man dropped like a limp rag and Tony checked his pulse. Slipped Aldo’s gun back in his holster. Walked to the street.  Down the block.  Found Roya’s car.  Climbed in. 

“What’s next?”  Strange.  Why did it always get so cold after a hit?

.
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HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

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Frank backed away from the bedroom window.  So many police cars.  It was good that Roya was someplace else.  He checked himself—wrong time to start thinking about Roya and Tony.  No sign of the police boat yet.  “Tatiana, don’t move from this room.  If they question you, tell them I held you hostage—you got that?”   

“That’ll just get you in deeper trouble.”  She sounded scared.  Frank needed her calm.

“Don’t worry about that.  The way things are going, it won’t cause me any more trouble than I’m already in.  The important thing is to keep you out of it.  Besides, I just might get away.  Don’t say anything about Roya.  Admit she’s your sister and she stopped for a visit but that’s all.  You don’t even know my last name–just some guy named Frank.  Can I count on you for that?”

She paused, then nodded.

“Stay down.  If you hear shooting, don’t move.  They’ll eventually find you here.  Tell them you’re scared.  They’ll probably question you.  Don’t believe anything they say about Roya or me–it won’t be true.”  Frank closed the bedroom door and crept down the steps. 

Sun blazed through the windows overlooking the lake—the water only fifty feet from the French door.  He’d just slip under the surface and swim away.  He knew better than to give himself up.  If they put him in prison, that contract on his head would get filled before morning.

The door and two windows crashed in, immediately followed by flashes so bright, he lost his vision and explosions loud enough to cut off his hearing.  Stun grenades.  He’d used them in training but he’d never been on the recieving end.  Disoriented and unable to see or hear, Frank felt the steel cuffs squeeze his wrists behind his back.  In the acrid smell of magnesium and aluminum, large hands gripped him, half carried him out the splintered door.  Walked him across the lawn.  Pushed his head down. As his vision cleared, he found himself in the caged back seat of a car. 

Two women dragged Tatiana to another car.  Frank saw her hysterical tears but couldn’t hear anything but the ringing in his ears.  His car pulled away.

*   *   *

Agent Harris watched the operation from the back seat of his car.  He checked his watch.  Thirty three seconds.  Satisfying.  He had Smith—the main event, and maybe a bonus.  “Let’s go, Paul.” 

His car rolled out behind the other two and Harris settled back in his seat for the long drive to headquarters.  Soon he’d find out everything he wanted to know. He’d get a line on Fetova and take the head off this new organization. 

When they crossed the Tri-State Tollway, Paul handed back the phone.  Harris grabbed it.  “Talk to me.” 

“The house is clean.  Not even a weapon.”

He scowled at that.  “Lock it down till forensics gets there.  If Fetova left so much as a flake of dandruff, I wanna know.”

*   *   *

Harris stepped through the elevator doors, across the hall and into FBI headquarters.  When he got to the interrogation room he checked the glass, saw Frank Smith sitting across the table and the back of a head.  Thick red hair.  Not one of his men and he didn’t like it.

He pushed through the door and faced Dan Mahoney—the pencil pusher from the Organized Crime Taskforce in Washington.  Harris leveled his eyes at Smith, showing his command, then turned back to the red-headed man.  “Let’s talk in my office, Mahoney.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be necessary and there isn’t time.”  That irritating nasal whine made Harris grit his teeth.  Mahoney went on: “I’m taking this prisoner to Washington.  I’d appreciate a lift to O’Hare.”

Stan Harris just glared at him.

“ Now, Harris.”

.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. In general, if it wouldn’t fly in an old 60′s Bond movie, then it’s out. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. If so, I’ll list your name prominently as a contributor. If not, then we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

Read it here. Write what comes next.

“Yes Paul?” Agent Stan Harris put down a report on his battered desk and looked up at the younger man.

Paul handed him a printout. “Positive ID on Frank Smith. Lake Geneva. Restaurant owner spotted him and watched him drive off in a white Mercedes. And Stan—we got the tags. Traced it to an address in Crystal Lake. Local police already staked out the area.

Harris looked at the time stamp on the initial report. “How’d you trace the tags so fast?”

“Stan, we got computers, right?”

“Lousy computers. The restaurant guy should get the credit—not some machine.” Harris hated anything digital—wouldn’t have it on his desk. To him software sounded like a dirty word. These days, everything ran on the little parasites—even cars. He checked the hands on his watch.  10:30.  His stomach growled.

“You’re a real Luddite, Stan, y’know that?”

“Maybe I am—so what? Wait till the Chinese launch a major cyber-attack and your precious Internet fries. When the crazy Arabs explode a nuke in the stratosphere, nothing’s gonna work and we’ll all be helpless. Problem is, people forget how to do things. We lean on these electronic contraptions. We’re letting ‘em rule our thinking.”

“C’mon, Stan.”

“They’re crutches and we’re only crippled because we use ‘em. People can’t add numbers without a calculator. Can’t spell without a word processor. A simple power outage and everybody thinks it’s a disaster. You wait and see. When the lights go out for good it’s gonna get ugly.”

Paul grinned and shook his head.

Harris stood. Slid back his chair. “Paul, the windows on this building don’t open. What’ll we do when the AC goes dead? Let’s get out there. I want two of our own cars for backup. Keep the locals for the perimeter. Yeah, I know—the phones are digital, too. You make the call.”

They stepped into the elevator and Stan glared at the array of glowing buttons. Paul punched the one for the garage. “Something more, Stan. We spotted the Gionelli family in town. Doesn’t make sense that Grasso allows that. What do you think it means?”

Stan thought about that as the elevator descended to the basement. “Uomo lost four top men—not troops but close lieutenants. How many guys like that you think he’s got—guys he can trust with his life? Most of the rest are family. He knows this Smith is getting close. Could be he’s running scared. You think he wants his family on the front lines? He saves the cush jobs for those guys.” Harris squeezed in the back of the Crown Vic. “Make me more legroom, will you Paul?”

Paul slid the front passenger seat forward. “This is a full-sized car, Stan.”

“Not like they used to be.”

Paul cranked the ignition and pulled out of the garage. Two identical cars lined up behind them. “So you think he called in Gionelli himself?”

“Could be. He flew out to Vegas. Just stayed a day. He needs more muscle but he’s gonna want ‘em gone when the threat’s gone and that could be a problem.” Harris went silent. That made seven major mobs in town. Uomo Grasso ran the bulk of it. The Irish, the Blacks, the Chinese—they pretty much stayed strong on their own turf. The Russians in the background, waiting their turn. Now this Fetova-Smith group was killing off Uomo’s top men—the FBI knew next to nothing about that organization and the Gionelli mob was setting up to make a move on the same guy. Didn’t look good for the Fat Man. Were Fetova and Smith really a new organization or running front for the Russians or even Gionelli? It’d be a good strategy for Giuseppe. When it shook out, which group was gonna grab the top spot? 

“You’re convinced Gionelli will stick?”

“Ever try to get a leach off your hide? Put yourself in the place of old Giuseppe. He’s been working Las Vegas forever and can’t get a foot in Chicago. I’m thinking he’ll dig in here. Then if the Russians make a move, we won’t know who we’re fighting any more. Lot’s more body bags.” Harris scowled. He didn’t care much when they killed each other but then there were innocent bystanders and terrorized neighborhoods. People shouldn’t live in a war zone. How was he gonna keep tabs on who’s who? At least he left the gangs to the local police for the most part. “For now, we stick to what we know. We nab this Frank Smith. Maybe the Russian gal. Take the head off that organization. See where that leads.”

* * *

Frank peered out from a upstairs window into the sunlight. “That’s six police cars so far. No, Tatiana, you stay down behind that bed. They might open fire or something—I don’t know. Do they have a boat patrol?”

“Sorry Frank—they do.”

Frank wished he hadn’t gotten her into this. His problem—not hers. Somehow they found him—probably traced the car. Didn’t matter how. Either he got out of there or he went to prison that day. Or got shot. He wondered what they were waiting for. “Tatiana, you don’t happen to have a secret tunnel or something?” He grinned to himself. Strange to find it funny. Just a few days back he was sweating hard to make it as an insurance salesman.

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive story based on Nate’s game in my novel. You get to say what comes next:

1.) KEEP IT SHORT – It’s easy to play Nate’s game. Just enter your idea as a comment like, “their jeep drives off a cliff.” Don’t worry about form—just suggest the next step in the story. I’ll pick one, write it, and post it as a scene in serial form.

2.) KEEP IT CLEAN – I hold the veto pen. In general, if it wouldn’t fly in an old 60′s Bond movie, then it’s out. Since this is an experiment, I get to add rules as we go along.

3.) SHARE – Your posts are a precious gift to me. Maybe you’ll help write my next novel. If so, I’ll list your name prominently as a contributor. If not, then we’ll just have a great time. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts. No criticism. No arguments. No lawsuits allowed. Let’s have some fun.