Short Story: Portishead: Third

People don't understand why I do this work. It's certainly not the money and there's no real glamor in being a private investigator. Most folks just think I'm a flunked out cop, one of those guys who couldn't cut the mustard on the force so I settled for second best. I always let them think that, they underestimate me and it gives me an edge. I started out as an insurance investigator, hunting down fraud and trying to protect good people from bad things. That's what I thought anyway. Like most jobs the finish wore thin after a few years and I realized more and more that I was protecting the bottom line more than our customers. The underside of every job looks the same, it's covered in blood and gold.

My first freelance case came while I was still working for the company. A good friend of mine had been working in film for a while and something had come up that he needed help with. Why John thought of me, I'll never know. There were a thousand more qualified men out there, ex-spooks, military men. But the letter landed in my hand that afternoon, certified post from London with his name on the top. I read the letter immediately, curious why it would arrive like this. I couldn't remember the last time a paper letter crossed my hands. The letter was straight to the point.

Henry;
I know you've got some experience with these matters. I need your help. Some asshole is trying to blackmail me and I can't get from underneath it. Please, help me find out who this is and get them off of my back. I'm sorry I haven't called but I know they're listening in on my cell and reading my e-mails. I included some money to get you over here in a hurry. Meet me here in the lobby at 4 whenever you get in, I'll be looking for you.

Thanks buddy, I know you'll get me out of this

-John-

Inside I find a cashiers check for $7000 and a card for a hotel in London, Sanctuary House Hotel. What the hell John? Why would I drop everything to help you out? Right, why wouldn't I? This man had pulled me out of some nasty situations when we were younger and he even took a beating that was rightfully mine one night. Some quick arrangements with my boss pushed my vacation up a few weeks and some quickInternet wrangling got me my ticket to Heathrow. I ordered in some food and spent the night looking up things to do in London.

Airports are the same. I don't care what dress you put on them, they all do the same dance. Bored people looking thin and pasted over a fluorescing backdrop. I spent my flight time writing down everything I knew about John and his various "problems". As good of a friend as he was to me, he was kind of a dick. I could see how someone could get a handle on one of his skeletons and give him a good shaking. The shit he'd done, fighting a clown at his nephews birthday, sleeping with his brothers wife, drinking a 30 year old bottle of scotch that his roommate had been saving. You know, that last one doesn't seem that bad, except that it ended up on his roommate. You begin to see my point.

The plane skidded to a halt on a strangely sunny day in London. I checked my GPS to make sure I had landed in the right city. I guess the sun does shine here on occasion. After a half on hour of fighting baggage claim I made my way to the tube station to get to the hotel. I had about an hour and a half to kill before John would meet me in the lobby so I checked into my room and relaxed for a while, pondering the mystery of finding myself in London.

What weirdness. My cell beeped it's alarm and I made my way down to the lobby and waited, looking to the doorway. People came and went on their way, tourists, business types and staff. The time shift started to crawl up my spine and slipped into the aether land of international sleep deprivation. A tap on my shoulder snapped me back into the lobby.

"Mr. Withers? Henry Withers? My name is Rachel Warrington, we'd better have a talk. John has been killed."

Next time: Japan seems to bleed neon.

Short Story: Balkan Beat Box

Legends had been whispered at campfires for years in the valleys surrounding my home. A circus of Gypsies, but not the folk we'd known. The Gypsies I'd known growing up had been merchants, entertainers and hired help during harvests. Foreign certainly but nothing beyond the ken of a well versed man of the world. It was said that these others possessed magics untold, pathways to other worlds and strange devices that no wise man could fathom. They travelled far beyond our the world and brought back with them goods that defy description. Cloth that could not be torn, a flame held inside a bulb with no source of fuel or spark and a thousand fold other fanciful devices were at their command. Most educated persons regarded these whispers as nothing more than the idle talk of peasants and the fevered dreams of occultists and their kin. I pity them now for their inability to see beyond this grey world and into the next.

Talaitha had been around the camps of the Gypsy for as long as I could remember. She had the dark eyes of her folk and always seemed to be in a trance of sorts, peering this way and that at things unseen. Most of the villagers avoided her when the caravan pulled into town, fearing her witchcraft and Gypsy curses. I had always watched her from afar as a boy, hiding myself behind the skirts of my mother and ducking behind stalls as limb turned long and lean in the years to come. When the age came upon me my father passed his knowledge of metals onto me I began trading with the gypsies more and more often. Their metals were exceptional for this region and I could not go a season without bartering for at least some of their wares.

It was late in the harvest season and the caravan was soon upon it's way when I at last summoned forth the courage to speak with Talaitha. No sooner had I approached the camp when behind me leaf and dry grass stirred. Talaitha had been following me since I left my father's workshop. I was carrying to her the pinnacle of my apprenticeship, a trombone made of pure Gypsy brass and lacquered with English silver. She took me then lightly by the hand and bade me sit beside the fire. I sat, waiting with quivering anticipation for her next silken words. She asked me then what had brought me here. "To present you with this, my dear. A token of my undying affection." I spat out in a rush. It would appear that youthful mastery of language appears only in the privacy of ones room.

She smiled at me with that otherworldly glint in her eyes and told me thus. "A fine token it would make, you sweet young man. I could not decline such an offer but I know of a place where such a fine instrument would be better loved than upon my clumsy lips. Have you heard tell of the Balkan Beat Box." I replied that I had not. "Folk here may speak of them as Gypsy, a strange tribe even for our ways and versed in magics not known in these lands." A spark of early childhood campfires brought legend to life in my mind's eye and I nodded emphatically. "Come with me then, let us see if fate may bring us this joy."

She stood there, radiant in her tattered clothes and began casting about her person for some unknown reason. Upon her exclamation she pulled from a pocket a strange dark object. Putting the small blackened box to her face she began talking in a language I could not understand. No sooner had she replaced this thing back into her pocket than I blinked and found myself sitting far away from the familiar camps of her tribe. A queer array of light bled down from some source above my head and the air was stifled with the scent of tobacco, crowded with the din of people talking and hotter than any summer I'd known. The surrounding space was full of items beyond my knowing and people moving in such a rush that my head began to spin.

A cool hand lay upon my shoulder and soothing words swept into my senses, "Fear not, my sweet young man. Let me see that trumpet you labored over so fiercely and we shall see what the fates have in store for us. You must remain here, do not allow your eyes to wander overmuch. It is a forbidden thing, what I have done, and I fear what may pass if you are discovered." Seeing the intensity in Talaitha's eyes I believed her and passed the trombone into her hands. She walked across the floor to a dark skinned man who seemed pleased to see the instrument. A few tentative whispers upon the horn and then a note of such pure radiance that I may never hear anything quite so sweet as long as I live. The man smiled and nodded in my direction and I replied likewise, dazed at the strangeness of it all.

The rest of the people gathered near him and began playing music such as I have never experienced. So this is the legend, Balkan Beat Box, I thought to myself. They are no mere necromancers as legend would have you think, they are true magicians of the highest order spinning spells of drum and brass into enchantments that lasted well past the trailing note of that night. I had never heard such fire, such overwhelming passion played upon a stage and to this day I have never heard the like again. The time passed me by without knowing, each blast of the horn and beat upon the drum lining up with the next tune without pause. I danced with Talaitha upon that strange scene, sweat pouring out of my body as rivers into the ocean deep and I swooned at the joy of it all.

My body spent, my mind overtaken by the pulse of such a place I fell back into my seat and closed my eyes. The magicians had begun packing their constructs into dark casings and the crowd beyond was thinning. Talaitha took my hand once more and spoke, "You must return now, shall I retrieve your Masterpiece for you?". "I would not think of it, it has found it's place here in this magicians hands. It would be a sin to deprive him of my work and this night has left me with payment enough." The mystic smile crept back onto her face. "I thought as much. Come now, we must be off. Take my hand and do not open your eyes."

No sooner did I close my eyes than I felt air around me shift, a chill flowing up my legs and the scent of wood smoke in my nostrils. Alas, I felt no hand in mine and I finally cast my eyes about searching for the smile that had brought me here. It was no more, nor was there any sign of the caravan that had brought her into my life. I wept upon my knees and cried at the moon until I could stand no more. Slumber held me tight that night after I walked the lonely path back to my father's shop.

Morning next I sat in bed and pondered whether any sane man would hear my tale and do anything but laugh or refer me to Father Anders. I thought it might be wise to remain silent and have kept these words still in my breast until this day my son. Should you find yourself standing with a Gypsy girl deep in the night, armed with your intentions and the product of this family's craft, be careful what words you speak. They may lead you into dreams and madness, but a madness you will treasure all of your days.

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Short Story: Jazz Lounge

*This is an old post of mine that I enjoyed enough to send up again, enjoy!*

The blue was almost overbearing. The sky and sea were cartoon clear, mid-June in the Ligurian Sea, just off the coast of Corsica. The sun drenched everything in sight, pulling the teak oil out of the wood of the rented speedboat and shooting it right up my nose full speed. It was competing for space in my senses with a myriad of other smells, sweating skin, the remnants of dockside lunch, blood and the jasmine bouquet of Angeline's shoulders. My god, she really is perfect, I reflected as we hit a wave full force and she launched off the deck ever so slightly, grabbing my arm and smiling. Her teeth were what caught me first. Odd to say, but a woman's teeth speak for her, in more ways than one.

Three days ago I had been lying in a hospital room looking at the mountains surrounding Castiglioncello and wondering just what in the hell had gone wrong. Bryan and I had come to the south of France for two weeks of relaxation, food and serious beach time. It's almost impossible to not have a good time in Marseilles. Especially when you're loaded from a fresh job and with a clean alibi trail leading all the way back three months. It's a shame those plans had to be put on hold. Bryan had clued me into the deal back in March and it sounded fucking perfect. One night's work, thirty years of pay. I had been squeaking by with small time hustles and part time work for a while. Nothing big ever panned out but it never stopped me from dreaming.

The deal was straight forward. Well, as straight forward as these things ever are. African diamonds going to Ukrainian black market dealers for some RPGs and a grab bag of AK47s, pistols and whatever else the Soviets left behind. The buyers were some little known radical faction from a tribal hot zone in the west of Africa. I'm almost certain they were the "Democratic Liberators of Something or Another". They always are. Anyway, the deal was being brokered by some of Bryan's old friends in Amsterdam and for a thirty percent cut, they would let us know where the exchange was and help us find a new buyer in the area. Lawyers. I hate fucking lawyers. But whatever I felt had to take a backseat to these particular lawyers, they were about to make me a very happy and wealthy man.

The one thing I'll give lawyers is that they're detail oriented. We had verified employment in Japan for one of their shell companies, alibis who would swear that we were at their hotel and the receipts to show for it. While our ghosts were working in Sendai (evidently we were contract IT) Bryan and I were mapping Amsterdam and setting up the job. Bryan had lived there in his early twenties so it really helped having him on this. That and his locals kept us in a steady supply of information and good hash. It made for a very pleasant stay. But we weren't here for the weed, not yet anyway. We had work to do.

The plan was simple. The buyers were coming in on a train from Paris and taking a taxi to the hotel a day before. The meet was the next afternoon with our boy so we had about a 12 hour window to relieve them of the diamonds. Hotel security was a joke and the police were far enough away that we could get clean before they arrived on scene.

We walked through the back door courtesy of a very disgruntled and now significantly wealthier cook and made our way to the emergency stairs. Changing into the masks and stripping off our street clothes on the landing, Bryan and I exchanged nervous looks. I hate to disappoint people, but it doesn't matter how long you've been doing this kind of shit, you're always nervous. Professionals just don't let it affect their cool. The door to the room was as promised, unlocked with the master key and opened with a slight click.

Two very surprised looking men were locked into that position permanently as the clack of two silenced pistol rounds opened their minds to the world. Such dirty business. We moved quickly then, scooping up the briefcase, grabbing the keys off both men and re locking the door. Back into the stairwell we headed, pulling back on the tourist outfits and filling our backpacks with the weapons and masks. Thankfully no one was awake and roaming the halls, I hate having to kill innocent people.

Out in the alleyway we met our waiting limo driver and headed off to the train station for passage to Marseilles. I never breath a sigh of relief until the job is done and we were only halfway there. Sitting underneath my feet was about $30 million in blood diamonds and some very bloody keys were jingling around in my pocket. The lawyers were sending their guy to meet us at a resort, Kalenda. A nights ride later we checked into our rooms at Kalenda and I started to sweat.

All that was left now was waiting for the agent to get in touch with us and collect our money. Bryan headed to the hotel bar and I stayed in the room with the briefcase, watching my cell with anxious twitching. I have always hated that part. Sitting, waiting, not knowing what's going on. I like the action. Put me in a firefight and I know what I'm doing. Make me sweat in a hotel room and we've got a problem.

The phone rang, Belgian country code, unknown number. I picked up and listened. "We meet in the restaurant at the docks, Une Table au Sud, 19:30. I will be wearing a white tie." "Alright." Well, there was about three hours to kill so grabbed my cargo and joined Bryan at the hotel bar for a while, clued him into our dinner plans and grabbed a glass of wine. Hotel bar crowds are the same every where, business types, tourists and the occasional local cruising for visitors. Time stood still for a while, chatting up a corporate raider from America about the growth of the Euro. Damn, I should have gotten our cash in Euros. Too late now, I bid farewell to my new friend and headed back to the room to change.

I slid the key into the door and heard the click of a gun one second too late. That's all I remember until the bright sunlight of the Italian morning and some serious fucking pain in my shoulder. Angeline was my nurse and over the next few days I managed to get in touch with Bryan through some contacts in Italy and convince Angeline to help me out. She helped me get out of the hospital without too many uncomfortable "gunshot, found on the beach" questions. Let no one ever underestimate the power of persuasion.

Persuasion, and about three grand in bribes. My pocket money was running low, my shoulder felt like someone had dropped it in lava and I had some double crossing bullshit to wade through. Bryan was in the clear, he had been shot three times in the leg and one to the chest, left for dead by these pricks. The only other person that knew where we were was that Belgian phone number.

A short shopping trip to pick up a new cell phone, call Bryan and give him the new number, find me a boat and we were on our way. Angeline and I were off to Corsica to meet up with him and find out exactly who I needed to punch holes through to get our payday. It was going to be a long summer.

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Rant: I hate you Indie Genre Tag.

I listen to a lot of music. By a lot of music I mean I border on obsession. I listen to every kind there is, all the time I'm not playing it. Before you can say "Everything? Who does this guy think he is?" I will tell you this. My last few procurements are a collection of ancient Chinese folk songs, some Blur albums (Parklife is great by the way, very 80's in spots) and bunch of old ragtime records I found in a thrift store. So I'm into it, hardcore ya know?

A few years ago my CD collection had grown to an unmanageable size and I decided it was time to rip the whole thing into MP3. It took me about 2 years to get through it all but it was totally worth it. Now I had most of my music in a searchable index and I was pleased. Soon as my collection grew beyond it's original 60GB size it started getting harder and harder to search so I decided that it was time to start tagging all of my music. The only fields open to me were Artist, Album and Genre. I groaned, I wailed, I pulled on my hair and finally sat down and started creating genres for my music.

I hate genre. I hate it with a burning passion, I think it's a terrible way of describing music in any but the broadest of terms. So I stick with some pretty broad terms; Opera is easy to distinguish from Punk Rock, Hip-Hop sounds very different from Mexican Bolero etc. The real bitch of it comes in truly modern music. Where the hell do I put Devotchka? They're a Gypsy/Bolero rock band from Denver for fucks sake. Genre? They want nothing to do with it, just enjoy. What about Beck? Every album sounds like a new street drug I've never tried and any attempt to file it in my collection feels wrong.

Alas a gigantic music collection requires some organizing or I'll find myself back with my CDs, staring at a giant cluster fuck of boxes and buying the same album three times in one year because I don't think I own it. So I can either create a genre tag for every Balkan Beat Box that keeps scribbling outside of genre lines or I can try and group some of this crap together so I can find it. Recently a genre tag that I truly despise is creeping into my digital music.

Indie.

I hate you, Indie genre tag. You are a method for distributing music, not a damn genre. You describe nothing, but so much of what I'm all about these day keeps landing in this pile. Again, Devotchka? Where the hell do you go Devotchka? Beyond creating a specific genre for Ukranian/Mexican Rock I can find little else to place them in. Maybe rock, but it still doesn't fit quite right. I'm not rocking out while I listen to them, I rock out when I hear The Black Keys. Or to make things worse, where am I to file Beirut? Gypsy-folk? AAAARG!

I've tried replacing the Indie tag with a few others and I've managed to extract Indie Pop and Psychedelic into their own categories but honestly it's painful work and not something I'm interested in spending a lot of time laboring over. I want to enjoy my music, not spend a couple hundred hours organizing it. That is the exact reason I went to MP3s so long ago, it's supposedly very convenient. Prove it to me MP3s, be more convenient.

I want music playing software that allows me to write in my own fields and then populate them with data that matters to me. Like what kind of sex goes good with this particular Leonard Cohen collection, or what color fruit reminds me of this Animal Collective track. I want emotional tagging. I want to be able to ascribe a mood to every track and every album in my library so when I'm feeling pissy I can just scroll down through my Ani Difranco records and listen to all the tracks tagged as "Pissy". Where's my Magical iPod that can do all of this? Damn you Indie genre, damn you for being useful and annoying.

Fuck it, someone please just take a picture of me every time I play Gulag Orkestar and tell me where it should be filed.

Thanks for listening to me rant,
Eriq Nelson.