Chapter 1, Part 2

Towanda Stephens lived at the Parkside Housing Development, one of Dayton’s notorious public housing projects. The designers and engineers had apparently decided to make it easier for residents to car jack any interloper who was stupid enough to try to navigate the maze of streets and parking lots that were contained in the wrought- iron fencing that surrounded the whole place. It took me five tries to find Towanda’s street, even though I had been there several times before. On the fourth try, I had to turn around in a cramped parking lot and accidentally ran over a small, rusty bicycle that I assumed belonged to one of the big-eyed tots looking out from apartment windows. I started to get out to see if there was a kid around who I could talk to when some hairy, toothless, crazy man came running towards me, yelling about the destruction of his “fine vehicle”. I left before he could commandeer mine as a replacement.

When I finally made it, Towanda saw me before I got to her door.

"I don’t want anything you selling, and I don’t got anything you want,” she shouted through a crack in her front window.

“I’m looking for Bennie. He told me to meet him here. Can I talk to him?” I yelled back.

Towanda’s next door neighbor looked through her cracked door. “T, you got some white woman here looking for your man? Ain’t that a bitch,” she cackled.

Towanda came out her front door, wrapping her housecoat around her skinny arms. “Ain’t no bitch takin’ any man I got, ‘less I want to give him up.” She turned towards me. “I ain’t got no use for that lousy, lazy excuse for a man. You see Benny, tell him the only thing I want from him is my child support.”

“Towanda, you and Bennie don’t have any babies together,” I said, hoping it was true.

“What you call Roderick?” she looked at the toddler peeking out the door.

“I call him somebody else’s child, that’s what,” I retorted.

“Ooh, she got you T! You gonna let her talk like that?”

The one-woman peanut gallery was getting on my nerves. Time to stop her.

“Aren’t you one of Marlene Gaskin’s cases? I know she handles a lot of the ladies from this neighborhood,” I asked the neighbor. My co-worker Marlene had a reputation around Parkside as a P.O. you didn’t want to mess with. She was from the projects, and was not afraid to come around looking for any of her people.

“You go on and mind Towanda’s business, and I’ll just mind mine,” she said. “Shoot, I don’t need Marlene coming around.” The neighbor disappeared in her apartment.

“You ain’t got to punk me out like that,” Towanda said.

“And you don’t have to try to pin a baby on Bennie that doesn’t belong to him.”

“Well, seeing as I got pregnant with Roderick when Bennie got locked up the time before last, because I need some attention and help with my car, I think he should be responsible for helping me out.” Towanda’s logic was giving me a migraine.

“How about you just tell me where Bennie is, and I’ll get out of your hair,” I offered.

“Can’t tell you what I don’t know. I ain’t seen him in at least two weeks. I thought maybe he got locked up again, although I couldn’t figure out why he didn’t call for cigarette money if he was.”

“He left me a message a little while ago to meet him here. Maybe he just hasn’t shown up yet.”

Towanda cocked an elaborately stenciled and pierced eyebrow. “He ain’t on his way here if he’s smart. Somebody’s sure to spot him.”

“Who’s he got to worry about around here? ” I asked.

“Oh nobody too important, unless you count the X-Man,” Towanda said, examining her three-inch long, rhine-stone encrusted nails.

I was momentarily stunned. The X-Man was far from nobody. The X-Man was definitely a somebody; in this neighborhood, he was the somebody. Namely, the somebody who ran the biggest drug empire in the city of Dayton, and ruled several of the projects like they were his own little serfdoms. “What’s the X-Man want with Bennie? Bennie’s never been a dealer. He’s never tested dirty for anything but weed.”

“Oh, word is that Bennie is real dirty, all right. Dirty with a wad of cash that belongs to the X-Man. If he knows what’s good for him, he’ll stay gone. Soon as he breaks me off a little piece of that cash. You find him, tell him I said that,” Towanda was doing the eyebrow thing again and pointing one of her gaudy nails in my direction.

I decided to wait around a little while longer to see if Bennie would show. I got in the Wrangler, turned on the heat and the radio, then leaned my seat back. I started to doze, when a car’s backfire jarred me back into full consciousness. My favorite talk radio station was on with the five o’clock news. The anchor informed the listening audience that the breaking story was that Dayton Police officers had just been called to investigate a shooting at the Parkside Housing Development, off of Keowee street. No word yet on casualties, but the police were on the look out for two or three men on foot, who were reported to be running through the Parkside neighborhood, firing shots.

“Holy crap! That’s here,” I yelled at myself, as I sat my seat up and shoved my Jeep into reverse. Soft-top Wranglers don’t offer much in the way of protection from stray ammunition. As I careened backward out of the parking space, I heard and felt a big thump simultaneously. I was opening my door to see what I had backed over, when the passenger side door flew open and Bennie jumped in the seat. “Go! Go, don’t stop to see. He’s gonna kill us!” Bennie screamed.

I didn’t wait to see if this was true. I jammed the stick in first and peeled out of the lot and onto the street on two wheels. “Where are the police? They’re supposed to be here,” I panted. My heart was banging in my chest and I felt like I had just sprinted a mile.

“Back on the other side of the project. They didn’t see which way we were running,” Bennie replied, looking through my plastic back window. “I don’t think he’s getting up.”

I turned down a side street that would take us back to the other side of the project. Bennie looked alarmed and yelled, “Where are you going?”

“To the police. We need to tell them what happened. That man was trying to kill you and I may have killed him. They need to know things like that,” I replied, my breath a little more even.

“You can’t do that. They might take me in.”

“Sounds like jail might be a safer place for you, with people trying to shoot you out here. What’s all this stuff I heard about you stealing money from the X-Man?” I looked at Bennie out of the corner of my eye.

“The X-Man is exactly why I can’t get locked up. He’d get me in jail for sure. Out here, I at least got a chance. Now turn around and take me down town.”

“Not a chance. We have to talk to the police. You didn’t tell me why you stole from him.”

“I didn’t.” Bennie said, looking out the rear window again. He swung his head around, then screamed, “Look out! Stop!”

I slammed on the brakes and the Jeep stalled out. Bennie slammed the door open and ran out into the street, turned down an alley, and disappeared in the dusk. I ran out into the street, first looking for Bennie, then looking to see what he had been screaming about. Nothing. Apparently talking to the police wasn’t in his plan.

Lamenting Visitors

Okay, I am ready for visitors. I'm going to email the link to Lainey Writes to a few friends and have them forward it to anyone they think might be interested. Please feel free to do the same. I'm hoping for some good feedback.

Anyone out there been to any major writer's conferences? I'm debating attending one or two. There's one every summer near my home in Ohio,but it costs a lot. I'm looking at the Back Space Conference in NY (see link). Sorry really great writers will be presenting, including Lee Childs and J.A. Konrath. I'd like to hear if you think in general they're worth the bucks.

Chapter 1

I'll try to get the breaks in this time:

“Damn You Bennie!”

The shock of wet, freezing slush sliding down my neck did nothing to cool out the very hot frame of mind I was in. Thirty degrees in Dayton, Ohio is colder and uglier than in most places. Not enough snow to cover the grimy, broken sidewalks or the litter scattered everywhere. Not enough snow, but plenty of slush; wet stuff that seems to seep in every crack and crevice of your home, your car, and at this moment, my coat. All the pain of winter, none of the fun.

“Answer your damn door, Bennie, or I swear I’ll bust your butt…”

“If you don’t shut the hell up, I’m gonna bust your ass all the way up the block!”

I ducked the second slush avalanche caused by Bennie’s neighbor slamming her apartment window shut again. This time my Timberland’s got soaked, and I was losing all feeling in my toes. For good measure, I pushed as hard on Bennie’s bell as my frostbitten fingers would allow, then stomped off to my Wrangler.

“Got some new Tim’s I could hook you up with, seeing as you got yours all messed up,” offered the neighborhood hustler on the corner, “Nice brown ones, deal of the week.”

“Yeah, and you’re ‘Old Shady’ instead of ‘Old Navy’. I take mine with a receipt,” I cracked.

It wasn’t surprising that I could get the same boots I bought at the boutique next to my loft building for half the price ten blocks away. Dayton’s like that: a small, deadly city that has pitted fine arts, sports, and urban renewal against gang banger wanna-be’s, sports, and urban decay. Old factories turned into fancy lofts and offices that look down over the homeless sleeping on benches outside the main library. Fancy, rebuilt homes in new-old neighborhoods, next to public housing projects in old-old neighborhoods. In the winter, though, nothing looked new or improved. After the Christmas lights come down, the whole city seemed to be covered in a blanket of wet, gray poverty.

I parked the Wrangler in my spot, and waved at the camera looking out over the alley parking area. I could smell the cinnamon, vanilla, and coffee wafting from the Keystone Coffee House that shared lobby-level space with the leasing office of my loft building. I immediately began to thaw, and as I passed the Joey-Eric Boutique and Square 1 Salon, my step was lighter and I was beginning to forget my wet collar and frozen toes. The Cannery Lofts (unit 314) was my oasis.

“Hey sugar,” my neighbor Cantrell called over his shoulder as he brushed by, flinging air kisses in his wake. “Scrabble tourney tonight in the party room. You and Sam are going down.”

I stopped at my mailbox, and could not remember the combination again. I went to the service window and a guy I had never seen before looked up.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Erin Kavanaugh, box 314. I can’t open it up, I forgot my combo again.”

“Do you have any I.D.?” the new guy asked.

“Yeah, but you better remember my face. I have a real mental block over this. I know my entire social security number by heart, almost all of my computer passwords, but I can’t seem to recall my mail box combination or debit card code to save my life.” I handed him my license.

“Okay, I wrote it down for you,” he said. “Maybe you could stick this someplace in your purse or wallet, so you don’t have to remember it. It’s not labeled, so no one would know what it goes to.”

“Great idea. Thanks for your help.” I went back to the box, opened it, and pulled out a pile of bills and a flyer. It read ‘Oscar’s Gym: Come and find the new you.’ “That would be the me that has the paycheck to cover all the rest of this mail.” I was, however, sufficiently chided by the flyer to forgo the elevator in favor of the stairs.

I noticed a unseemly amount of huffing and puffing coming from my own mouth when I got to my loft, and decided maybe I needed to see if Oscar’s Gym might squeeze into my budget. Squeezing definitely described what I had been doing to get into my favorite jeans lately. I’m not decrepit or anything, I could probably just use a little toning. My size eight behind seems to have aspiration to become a size ten. If that occurs, I would be forced to cut my hair off. Every time I gain more than ten pounds, I get a compulsion to change something about my appearance and it usually involves my hair. Since my hair had finally passed the shoulder line, I wanted to avoid this if at all possible. I just had it colored a yummy brown with highlights, and it looked like a shiny, chocolate waterfall. There I go again, thinking about food. Crap.

“Sam, you home yet?” I hollered as I walked in the loft. I dropped the mail on the side table, and peeked in the living area. No music or other signs of 15-year-old life. I back tracked to my room, and flopped on my bed, basking in the silence. Thoughts of Bennie intruded on my reverie and I hopped up quickly, remembering my wet clothes. As I headed for the shower, I wondered where Bennie had disappeared to. Bennie knows what a pain in the butt I tend to be when he is not available for inspection, so he keeps in touch regularly. Plus, he usually needs some sort of help, either with a job, a girl, a ride, whatever. He was like a fungus: a creepy little something that grows on you. Too bad I was going to have to kick his butt when I finally caught up with him.

Dry clothes and fresh boots improved my disposition greatly, and I decided to check in with the office one more time before calling it a day. I dialed my work phone and bypassed my voice mail message and retrieved the only message left for me.

“Ms. K? It’s Bennie. You gotta help me. I’m in big trouble. I need you to meet me at Towanda’s place, only don’t come alone. Call O...” The message abruptly cut off with a loud clatter, then dial tone.

Big trouble? That probably meant he needed money. Or a referee for his latest disagreement with his sometime girlfriend, Towanda. I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. Why did he tell me not to come alone? And what was “O”? Benny had a lot of explaining to do, and if he wasn’t careful, he’s have plenty of time when I busted him back to the pokey on a parole violation. My feelings of endearment were almost worn out.

Oh, glorious day! 

Sorry

Sorry about no hard returns on chapter 1.  I’ll try to fix next time.

Chapter 1

Chapter 1“Damn You Bennie!”The shock of wet, freezing slush sliding down my neck did nothing to cool out the very hot frame of mind I was in. Thirty degrees in Dayton, Ohio is colder and uglier than in most places. Not enough snow to cover the grimy, broken sidewalks or the litter scattered everywhere. Not enough snow, but plenty of slush; wet stuff that seems to seep in every crack and crevice of your home, your car, and at this moment, my coat. All the pain of winter, none of the fun.  
“Answer your damn door, Bennie, or I swear I’ll bust your butt…”“If you don’t shut the hell up, I’m gonna bust your ass all the way up the block!”I ducked the second slush avalanche caused by Bennie’s neighbor slamming her apartment window shut again. This time my Timberland’s got soaked, and I was losing all feeling in my toes. For good measure, I pushed as hard on Bennie’s bell as my frostbitten fingers would allow, then stomped off to my Wrangler. “Got some new Tim’s I could hook you up with, seeing as you got yours all messed up,” offered the neighborhood hustler on the corner, “Nice brown ones, deal of the week.”“Yeah, and you’re ‘Old Shady’ instead of ‘Old Navy’. I take mine with a receipt,” I cracked.It wasn’t surprising that I could get the same boots I bought at the boutique next to my loft building for half the price ten blocks away. Dayton’s like that: a small, deadly city that has pitted fine arts, sports, and urban renewal against gang banger wanna-be’s, sports, and urban decay. Old factories turned into fancy lofts and offices that look down over the homeless sleeping on benches outside the main library. Fancy, rebuilt homes in new-old neighborhoods, next to public housing projects in old-old neighborhoods. In the winter, though, nothing looked new or improved. After the Christmas lights come down, the whole city seemed to be covered in a blanket of wet, gray poverty. I parked the Wrangler in my spot, and waved at the camera looking out over the alley parking area. I could smell the cinnamon, vanilla, and coffee wafting from the Keystone Coffee House that shared lobby-level space with the leasing office of my loft building. I immediately began to thaw, and as I passed the Joey-Eric Boutique and Square 1 Salon, my step was lighter and I was beginning to forget my wet collar and frozen toes. The Cannery Lofts (unit 314) was my oasis. “Hey sugar,” my neighbor Cantrell called over his shoulder as he brushed by, flinging air kisses in his wake. “Scrabble tourney tonight in the party room. You and Sam are going down.”I stopped at my mailbox, and could not remember the combination again. I went to the service window and a guy I had never seen before looked up. “Can I help you?”“I’m Erin Kavanaugh, box 314. I can’t open it up, I forgot my combo again.”“Do you have any I.D.?” the new guy asked.“Yeah, but you better remember my face. I have a real mental block over this. I know my entire social security number by heart, almost all of my computer passwords, but I can’t seem to recall my mail box combination or debit card code to save my life.” I handed him my license.“Okay, I wrote it down for you,” he said. “Maybe you could stick this someplace in your purse or wallet, so you don’t have to remember it. It’s not labeled, so no one would know what it goes to.”“Great idea. Thanks for your help.” I went back to the box, opened it, and pulled out a pile of bills and a flyer. It read ‘Oscar’s Gym: Come and find the new you.’ “That would be the me that has the paycheck to cover all the rest of this mail.” I was, however, sufficiently chided by the flyer to forgo the elevator in favor of the stairs.I noticed a unseemly amount of huffing and puffing coming from my own mouth when I got to my loft, and decided maybe I needed to see if Oscar’s Gym might squeeze into my budget. Squeezing definitely described what I had been doing to get into my favorite jeans lately. I’m not decrepit or anything, I could probably just use a little toning. My size eight behind seems to have aspiration to become a size ten. If that occurs, I would be forced to cut my hair off. Every time I gain more than ten pounds, I get a compulsion to change something about my appearance and it usually involves my hair. Since my hair had finally passed the shoulder line, I wanted to avoid this if at all possible. I just had it colored a yummy brown with highlights, and it looked like a shiny, chocolate waterfall. There I go again, thinking about food. Crap.
“Sam, you home yet?” I hollered as I walked in the loft. I dropped the mail on the side table, and peeked in the living area. No music or other signs of 15-year-old life. I back tracked to my room, and flopped on my bed, basking in the silence. Thoughts of Benny intruded on my reverie and I hopped up quickly, remembering my wet clothes. As I headed for the shower, I wondered where Benny had disappeared to. Benny knows what a pain in the butt I tend to be when he is not available for inspection, so he keeps in touch regularly. Plus, he usually needs some sort of help, either with a job, a girl, a ride, whatever. He was like a fungus: a creepy little something that grows on you. Too bad I was going to have to kick his butt when I finally caught up with him.Dry clothes and fresh boots improved my disposition greatly, and I decided to check in with the office one more time before calling it a day. I dialed my work phone and bypassed my voice mail message and retrieved the only message left for me.“Ms. K? It’s Bennie. You gotta help me. I’m in big trouble. I need you to meet me at Towanda’s place, only don’t come alone. Call O...” The message abruptly cut off with a loud clatter, then dial tone.Big trouble? That probably meant he needed money. Or a referee for his latest disagreement with his sometime girlfriend, Towanda. I grabbed my keys and headed for the door. Why did he tell me not to come alone? And what was “O”? Benny had a lot of explaining to do, and if he wasn’t careful, he’s have plenty of time when I busted him back to the pokey on a parole violation. My feelings of endearment were almost worn out.

Hello again. I am having technical difficulties with my Links lists, and I have some cool links I'd like to share, so bear with me.

Question of the Day: How much time do you spend writing? I am expecially interested in those of you who have full-time "other" jobs.

Hi! My name is Lainey and I am an amateur mystery writer. I have passed through the "wanna be" stage, by way of self-mockery and need for a creative outlet. Last year, I decided to stop telling myself and anyone else who would listen, that I "really could probably write the stuff
I spend all my free time reading". I actually began a novel and am now in the process of trying to get past the first few chapters.

I really owe any and all writers a BIG apology, because although I do have a little bit of creativity and style, I have been greatly lacking in stick-to-it-tiveness. Writing is hard work! It takes way more commitment and time than I ever imagined (as evidenced by three chapters for my novel and one short story in all of 2005). Hats off to all of you published and seeking to be published writers out there. Heck, anyone who actually takes time to write on a daily basis should feel great about themselves.

Anyway, I started this blog in the hopes of finding other writers who would like to shares thoughts, ideas, critiques, bitches or brags about their experiences in writing. I've found that sharing with others at any stage in the writing process has been a catalyst and motivator for me, so please stop by frequently and let me know what you think.

The name of my novel in progress is No Time Off for Bad Behavior.
the protagonist is a parole officer in a mid-western city, and it is a humorous (hopefully) mystery that I would like to turn into a series.
I have a lot of writers that I enjoy reading and that have influenced my writing, but two stick out because not only are they awesome writers, but they have taken the time to share insights into the art and science of writing: Janet Evanovich and J.A. Konrath. They both have excellent web sites and J.A. Konrath has a great blog too.