Chapter 8 - Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 8

The hallway was just as musty as it'd been that morning, stuffy even. The abandoned apartment, up on the third floor, was also locked, but I had a feeling this lock wouldn't take me as long. My hands were shaking when I pulled the pick set back out. The scraped, striped nail was staring back at me. I put my own probable Sodroxide symptoms out of mind for now and went to work.

I lowered my voice to a whisper. I didn't want Pete to hear us out there.

“Pete left me a letter, telling me he found a body at Marlowe's. He thought it was from the '20s, but I'm pretty sure it's more recent, like two years old.”

He interrupted me, “A body? Like, dead?!” It struck me then that that sort of outraged reaction was normal. For a fleeting moment I wondered what the hell was wrong with me that I wasn't more affected by the dead body, or its gruesome stashing in a wall, or the fact that I'd seen it, and held it. Then I pushed those punishing thoughts aside. If I could vindicate this body, there was no need to feel bad about my lack of compassion for it. I nodded.

George calculated quickly in his head. “Two years? Then it could be – ”

Chapter 7 - The Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 7

I let the green door slam hard on my way out. Even though I knew it was unlikely that she'd hear it from the basement, it was the only thing I could do to express my anger.

Sure, I could have chased after her and chewed her out, but that would have given her the chance to respond. Plus, I kind of liked the idea of Aimee unknowingly being in the basement with a gross dead body.

That two-faced behavior was just like her – really, I was to blame for having been taken in. She was never one to fully trust a woman, but it was typical of her to warm me up just to cut me down – especially given how much she blamed me for Pete losing his investment.

I realized I hadn't even thought to ask what her take on Pete going MIA was – after all, abandoning all his shifts must have really upped her hours. She was probably enjoying the extra tips.

I hopped a cab home and collapsed into the seat. My internal clock had been wound and rewound these last few days, and I needed some sleep, pronto.

I'm not proud of what I did once I got home. I was beat and my feelings were hurt. I'd selfishly imagined that, like me, Pete had remained single these last two years. Of course he hadn't. He was a man. He was a bartender. He was a charming, loser, fixer-upper stud. He probably got laid every night of the week. But, if Aimee hadn't just been saying that to hurt me, he'd also found someone to fall for, someone to actually date, at least for awhile. So I crawled into bed and cried.

Never a big sleeper, I was only able to force my body to accept three hours of sleep, and cursed my high-strung brain as I looked at the clock and saw that it was only 9pm. Then again, I should have cursed my stomach – that single slice of pizza hadn't done much to fill it and it growled at me again.

I grabbed a snack of crackers, deli cheese and apple slices. I wasn't being fancy. The apple was severely dented and I had to cut out good pieces. I really needed to go to the supermarket. I tell myself that every day.

I hopped in and out of the shower and was stuffing my dirty clothes in the hamper when I heard paper crinkling – like a red string tied around my finger.

I pulled out the slacks I'd worn yesterday when I dressed for the Harding meeting but ended up at Marlowe's instead. The day Len gave me the letter Pete left for me. The letter Pete wrote when, according to Len, he'd planned to be gone for good.

I ripped it open.

Chapter 6 - The Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 6

I trudged up the subway exit at Bergen Street. I'd been conflicted since I left the meeting. The idea that I might now know who was decaying in Marlowe's wall was competing for attention with the need to contact the police. I also knew that Pete thought he was in danger, and that he really wanted me to forget all about the body in the wall, which made me not want to contact the authorities. Which went against every instinct in my body.

I found myself leaving Harding and taking the route out of work I used to take when I was dating Pete, getting on the 2 train without thinking. The 2 takes me nowhere near home, but there's a stop a block from Marlowe's. That's where I got off.

It was around 4pm and the warm early-June sunlight contrasted strongly with my troubled mood.

I knew Pete had told me to return to my normal life, but what normal life? My currently planned future was falling apart faster than Stephanie could criticize what I'd written to date, and I had no real new ideas.

In fact, the only thing consuming me was this new mystery. That, and hunger. Since the TST closed Bruno's Pizza, I had to walk three blocks further to grab a greasy slice. Once my hunger was dealt with, I turned back to the dilemma at hand.

Writing was investigation, imagination investigation – and here was a real mystery that had been dropped into my lap. Forced into my lap by Peter. Just because he delusionally thought he'd put me in danger didn't mean he could erase everything I'd learned in the last day.

I went through the green door.

Chapter 5 - The Body at the Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 5

“Do you know who this is?” I asked him, indicating the skull and hand.

Peter looked like he was about to faint. He sat down but couldn't take his eyes off the bones. He shook his head slowly.

I didn't quite believe him. “Do you think you know who this might be?” I repeated.

He tore his gaze away from the head, glanced at me, then moved on to the hand, picking it up. Ignoring the question, he asked, “How do you think it – she – died?” His voice was very quiet.

I indicated the hole in the head. “Probably what they'd call blunt-force trauma. Hit in the head.” I couldn't believe what I was tangled up in.

“Could she have been poisoned?”

“Not likely,” I indicated the hole in the head again. I wasn't following him.

He held out the hand, pointing at the knuckles. “What about these?”

I took the hand. The knuckles looked normal. For a dead hand.

“They look fine, I mean, I've never seen a dead hand in person, Pete, I don't know what it's supposed to look like.”

He was looking down at his own hands, still gloved. He flexed his fingers, making and releasing a fist.

I hadn't anticipated he'd respond this way. He'd done a one-eighty since his excitement while pulling the skull out of the wall. I drained my tea.

Eyes still averted, “Her knuckles look swollen.”

“That's hard to determine. I mean, maybe she had weird hands.”

I put my empty mug on the coffee table and stood. He moved to my seat, taking the hand in his again, running his fingers over her knuckles.

I brought over the still-warm kettle and refilled my mug, using the same tea bag.

“I don't think she had weird hands,” he said.

I took a sip of my weak tea. “Pete, are you sure you don't know who this is?”

Idea for second book:

Novel I'm working on now: Soon-to-be young female PI witnesses the kidnapping of a drinking, drugging, bartending unfit mother she's supposed to serve child custody papers to - but no one believes the victim didn't just take off on her own!

Thoughts?

Chapter 4 - The Body at the Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 4

I woke with a start. Pete was shaking me.

“Wake-up-wake-up-wake-up are-you-okay?” He honestly sounded concerned, which made me concerned.

But I felt okay. I shoved him away and sat up. My usual surliness upon waking seemed to convince him I was fine.

My head felt better than it had all day. Assuming it was the same day. The curtains had been pulled aside slightly and the dark sky outside the window seemed to indicate that night had fallen. I still had a dull pain in my head, but it was a familiar pain.

Since the gun and severed hand were out of sight, I decided to play nice.

“Caffeine.”

“You trust me?”

“No, but I haven't had any caffeine since before noon and I've apparently taken two naps, so if you don't want me to turn into a bad hostage, bring me some caffeine.” I was fairly certain that would assuage my headache.

He went behind the curtain and I heard a cupboard open and close. He came back with a bottle of diet cola. It was sealed, so I took a chance and drank it.

“Where's the hand?” I asked.

“Hidden.”

I pointed to the floor.

Pete said, “No, somewhere else.”

I pointed to the knapsack now at his feet. He shrugged assent. He checked his watch. It hung loose from his wrist.

“We gotta go.” He held out his hand.

There was still some of the old Pete in his face. Behind the panic. I took his gloved hand and let him help me stand. I was barely wobbly. Once I was stable, he dropped my hand and led me through the curtain. As I'd presumed, it was a dinky, typical Brooklyn walk-through apartment. We exited its front door, down the stairs.

Halfway down the stairs, the suspense got the better of me. “Where are we? Where are we going?”

He turned, with childlike excitement. “You'll see.”

Chapters?

Are the chapters too long to read in blog form? Or is it easy to read? Or should I do scenes at a time instead?

Chapter 3 - The Body at the Bottom o fthe Bottle

CHAPTER 3

Luckily, George followed me out of Marlowe's without too much convincing, once I lied and told him a very grumpy Len was downstairs. I lit a cigarette and started walking – I couldn't call in a dead body at Marlowe's in front of the very guy trying to find an excuse to close the place down.

I rudely blew smoke in his direction.

“What are you doing here? And what about the restraining order?” I was shaking but kept walking, hoping to dissuade him from following me. The cell phone was still in my hand, my thumb hovering over the call button.

He started to answer, but I thought it best to cut the conversation short.

“You know what, I don't care. Get away from me and stay away from Marlowe's.” I started down the block.

My mood dropped two more notches: one when I caught sight of my watch and saw how little time was left before my Harding meeting, and another when George started following me, jogging easily until he’d caught up, reminding me of the kind of high school jock I had always hated.

I reached the corner of Flatbush Avenue and threw my arm up to hail a livery cab. I could call 911 from the taxi.

“I have a very important meeting. I’m very eager to get to it.” I’ve always been a natural liar. “And I am certainly not going to make myself late by talking to the man trying to take over a whole neighborhood for his company.”

A yellow cab – a rare sight in Brooklyn – spotted my hail from a block away.

“Forget about that!” George spoke with urgency, raising his voice over the traffic. “I need to talk to you, but not about the TST project – well not entirely. I need to warn you!”

Book titles and bar names

The book I finished is currently titled The Body at the Bottom of the Bottle. It works for reasons I will explain after Chapter Two has been up for 24 hrs. And while I like it, it doesn't work as a title.


The bar in the book is currently names Marlowe's. But it's based largely on Freddy's Bar and Backroom in Brooklyn.


I'd like to change the name of the bar to Freddy's.


I'd like to change the name of the novel to Bottom of the Bottle - or Body in the Bottle. These make less sense - UNLESS even though the bar's name is Freddy's, it's KNOW as The Bottle because of a prominent beer bottle sign or neon sign.

Thoughts?

Chapter 2 - The Body at the Bottom of the Bottle

CHAPTER 2

Marlowe's during the daytime was not a new sight to me – I spent too many afternoons there with Pete, setting up for the night shift – and even though I’d been there less than twelve hours earlier, it always looks like a different place in the sunlight. From the street, it looked dingier than at night – a little shady, a little run down. But on the inside, it was a different story.

The night cleaner Hermes always made sure that before the day bartender walked in at 11am the floors were spotless, the bar was spic, the booths were span and any beer/cigarette/body odors from the long night before had disappeared without a trace. That last part might have changed, though, since there was a distinct, if pale, sewage odor in the air.

The bright June sunlight shone through the clean windows and sent shadows on the shiny floor while making the whole place look bigger by bouncing off the mirror that ran behind the bar.

I peered through a window pane but didn’t see anyone there. No customers at that hour was not very odd, but I’d expected to see Len behind the bar. I noticed the “closed” sign was hanging in the door, which was unusual – the place had usually served a few rotating regular lunch drinkers by that hour – but the ceiling lights were on.

I tested the front door and it opened easily.

The crazy artwork, usually hiding in shadows, was crisply visible and suddenly the seasonal decorations hanging from the ceiling fans jumped out at me – I hadn’t noticed them at all the night before. I now saw they were Valentine's Day hearts left over from a few months ago. A nice touch – the sort of kitschy decorating tip one wouldn’t think Len would go in for, but which I happen to know he treasured, planning them well in advance and hanging them himself plenty of time before each holiday.

He was also a hopeless romantic, and the night Pete and I broke up he told me he knew I'd find the right person – when I was least expecting it. I'd been least expecting it for two years now, and had just about resigned myself to remaining contentedly alone.

Chapter 1 - The Body at the Bottom of the Bottle

All comments are welcome!!

CHAPTER 1

Last call had been over an hour ago, but I snuck behind the bar to pour myself one last beer. At the other end of the bar, Len shot me one of those, “Really? Already?” looks – it was my first night back at Marlowe's since I'd stormed out over two years ago – but he also shot a look at the empty rocks glass in front of him. He tipped his chin at me in silent consent as he slipped out from behind the counter, raising two fingers at me.

Once he sat down on our side of the bar, it was free reign for us regulars to serve ourselves. After counting out a big shot of Jack for Len, serve myself is exactly what I did – foam was exploding over the top of my pint when I decided that since I was never able to pour myself a drinkable beer when sober, there was no chance I'd be able to do it after hours of reminiscing. I dumped it out in the sink and turned to look at the top shelf stuff.

My instinct was to reach for the 30-year aged Kendrick’s Whiskey. I like the idea of drinking whiskey older than I am and have, thus, progressed from the twenty-year to the twenty-five and now, with my thirtieth birthday looming in a few months, I’m almost too old to enjoy my 30Keds like I used to. Guess I’ll have to move to the more expensive, more aged stuff. Then again, since I don’t actually like the taste of whiskey and just shoot it straight down, maybe I’m getting to the age where I shouldn’t waste my money on it at all.

I made a big show of ringing up my drink like he'd shown me and putting the money in the already-emptied register to make sure Len saw I was paying my way.

“See you still remember how to work it, Claire,” he called out before I reached for the bottle.