~~
Home-Summary-Video-Reviews-Author-Links
© 2011, 2012 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved
Home
Filed under Crowdsourced Novel
ROYA FETOVA – 30
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes
next.
“Okay Paul, thanks for the report.” Agent Stan Harris flipped the file closed and moved it to the pile at his left.
Paul’s chair scraped loudly as he stood. “Stan, there’s something I want you to see.”
“What now? Another strangled giant?”
Paul grinned. “Just peek out your door a minute.”
Harris leaned against the jamb as Paul indicated Nathaniel Boldt. He watched the kid a full three minutes. The boy sat at a folding table. An unruly mop of hair. Twisted glasses. T-shirt. Blue jeans. Beat up running shoes. Nothing on the table. No paper. No computer. No office phone. The kid was fiddling with something in his hands. Harris turned to his colleague and spoke under his breath. “All I see him doing is playing around with a cell phone.”
“Looks like that thing makes up his whole world, doesn’t it Stan?”
Harris stiffened. “Yeah.” He silently cursed. His budget didn’t have room for loafers and he didn’t like contractors sprung on him without his okay. “Is he givin’ a report or what?”
“It’s posted on your schedule.” Paul checked his watch. “About ten minutes from now. Of course, you didn’t get the memo. I doubt your computer has been on in a week.”
“Cut the clowning. I used it yesterday.”
Paul chuckled and Nate glanced up. When he turned his gaze back to his phone, Paul went on: “You turned down my requisition for a smart phone six months ago. You, my friend, are an insufferable Luddite.”
“You used that word before. I’m gonna look it up and decide whether to belt you one. Anyway, you already got a cell phone. What’s he doing with that one?”
It’s apparently direct-linked to a big bank of computers at his office.”
“Whadaya mean apparently? Can’t you tell you me more than that?”
Paul shook his head slowly. “Classified. Way above my pay grade.”
“You shittin’ me? That punk kid?”
The boy stood and walked toward them. Paul checked his watch. “Here comes your report—right on time. Can I watch?”
“Get outa here, you wannabe geek.” Paul retreated with a smile and Harris lumbered to his desk chair. The kid came in and took a seat across from him.”
Harris growled. “Did I tell you to sit?”
Nate immediately stood. “Isn’t this the scheduled time?”
“Yeah,” Harris growled. He didn’t want to admit any weakness, especially about technology—not to this kid. He studied the boy a moment. So this was the little runt everybody said was so smart. Well, he’d put that to the test. “So you’re Nathaniel Boldt.”
“Most people call me Nate.”
“So, Mr. Boldt, they tell me you keep your brains in your pocket.”
Still standing, Nate blushed and looked again at his smart phone. “It’s just a phone. You might call it a portable link—for data input and output.”
Harris scowled. “Yeah. Paul told me you got a bank of computers back at your office and he also said it’s classified.”
Nate looked away for a moment. “In a small community, rumor breeds a certain amount of mythology rather quickly.”
Harris pondered what he meant by that.
Nate paced back and forth. “Actually, I run only a few computers with a secure connection. I rent more processor power on the cloud as I need it. I mean my program is always up and running but I can multiply the capacity pretty fast.”
“All with that little gizmo?”
Nate grinned. “You think I’m just a kid with no practical experience and nothing to offer, don’t you?” He paused. “Anybody can see you’re half-right. Give me a chance to prove that you’re half-wrong. What’ve you learned so far about me? Not much, right?”
Harris shut his mouth. Not much was right—just rumor.
Nate rounded the entire office, facing each of the walls in turn. Then he lifted his phone and stroked the screen with a thumb. “I think it’s important to know as much as possible. It says here you served two terms with the Marines. Impressive. Degree in criminology. Night school while you were still full time on the police force. Graduated magna cum laude. Three formal reprimands for your temper but you don’t hold a grudge. I don’t see any pictures on the walls of your office. Two marriages. Neither took. No kids. No family. No—”
“Where you gettin’ that?” Harris almost shouted.
Nate shrugged. “It’s just what I can see in this room and your FBI file.”
“Who let you into that file?”
“Now you think I’m a hacker. You also believe I’m wasting your time. They tell me that kind of thing is bad for a relationship and I suppose that makes sense.” Nate crossed the office twice, then stopped and spoke softly. “Don’t worry about privacy. This is a secure link—I’m running my own encryption app. But to answer your question, I have clearance. I can’t tell you much about it. Can we leave it at that?”
Harris nodded. “Yeah, yeah—just do your report. Get it over with.” Then he raised his voice and thumped his desk with a huge forefinger. “And sit down.”
Nate plopped into a chair. “When I work with real sensitive stuff, I don’t do it remotely like this. But we’re not dealing with military secrets here.” He drew in a lungful of air. “Okay, here goes. You’ve got multiple murders. Some of them bazaar. You think you have a turf war going between rival mobs. Russians, Italians, Chicago, Vegas. You’ve hit a dead end and now you’re starting to re-examine all your assumptions.”
Harris scowled. That much was dead-on.
Nate went on: “Maybe it would help if I explained what I do. I put all the data I can into my program and it goes out and sources related data then kicks back possible solutions with probabilities. That’s why I link so many servers.”
Harris nodded, pretending to understand.
“The search process takes up a lot of processor power and the size of the optimizations can get out of hand. Crunching all that data takes time and my clients can’t wait forever for answers, so I rent more space as needed.” Nate stretched out his legs. “Most people I deal with worry about security when I’m on the cloud. Don’t. By the time the data goes out, it’s all numbers pointing to numeric categories. Looks like a scrambled math exercise to anybody that might peek.”
Harris didn’t have any idea what the kid was talking about. “What is it—some kinda CIA program?”
Nate blushed again. “Actually it’s my own. I call it Harvey.” Harris cocked his head in recognition and Nate went on “I see you remember the old movie. Well Harvey is always with me just like Jimmy Stewart’s rabbit friend so the name seems apt. But my pooka isn’t six feet tall. Like you said, I keep my brains in my pocket.”
Harris leaned back in his chair and it creaked under his weight. He always liked that old Harvey flick. One of his favorites.”
Nate went on: “Let’s talk about the missing man in witness protection—Frank Speck, originally Tony Ferragamo.” Nate worked his thumbs on the face of the phone. I have a large volume of data on his trip to St. Louis—way too much information. That shows definite intent on his part. In other words he blazed a trail for you to follow. But you know that. Then we have the complication of an insurance salesman named Frank Smith. Looks just like Ferragamo. You see where this is leading?”
“Just gimme the rest of it.”
Nate stroked his screen and stared at it a minute. “There’s only one solution for Ferragamo leaving the witness protection program. He informed on the Chicago Mob regarding a rather enthusiastic assassination plan.”
“I never heard nothing about no assasination plot.”
“That’s classified, too. I really don’t understand why the agencies don’t plug the holes in their data files. It’s way too easy for me to access that kind of information. At any rate, the Mob found him. I understand that doesn’t happen—not ever. You have a mole in your organization.”
“Tell me something I ain’t already thought of.”
Nate glanced at the man over the top of his glasses. “It says here that your likely conclusion is that Ferragamo used Smith just to create a distraction, then escaped.” Nate looked up again. “Is that right?”
Harris didn’t respond. That was exactly how he had it figured.
“Well, it seemed a crucial point and I wanted to nail it down, so I ran several scenarios through Harvey and ran them again but I kept coming up with the same answer. Although that theory may be true, Ferragamo didn’t take off for points unknown. He and Smith are both involved in this situation right now. I believe they’ve actually met. It appears that they’re brothers that didn’t know of each other’s existence. I know because Ferragamo found Smith on Facebook.”
“How’d you get that?”
Nate grinned. “My program crawls most every database out there but in this case I sent a request for one of your people to check out Ferragamo’s computer and Internet activity.” Nate turned away again. “I may have made the order sound more official than I can actually justify.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“I sincerely hope not, Agent Harris. That footage of the cop killing at Union Station? The guy’s built more like Ferragamo than Smith.”
“How sure are you about Ferragamo?”
“Confidence interval, let’s see—95%. Good enough for medical science.”
Harris leaned forward on his elbows and glared at Nate. “Keep talking.”
“It looks like your mole is in Washington. Here’s another bit I came across. That gravel truck in St. Louis—Smith’s prints were the only ones on the gun—just the one set.”
Harris cursed under his breath. That should’ve been reported to him.
Nate’s young voice again: “That has to happen against his will so I assume he was a captive—probably mistaken for Ferragamo, which gives us the motive. There’s a private airstrip near the murder and I linked the farm to Uomo Grasso. Harvey’s analysis makes Smith 80% probable for one of those airplane killings— his military record shows training for the way Luigi Gastroni died and I make the personal inference that he was making his escape. But little Harvey here is strangely negative on the other killing. That’s the bazaar one. No solution on that yet but there must’ve been another passenger on the plane.” Nate finally paused for breath. “It just naturally seems to point to that undercover agent on furlough for emotional involvement.”
“Roya Fetova.”
“Yes. But I have no data to input on Harvey and get a solution. Still, if it’s true, you may have a vendetta working in the background rather than a power play. Of course, one must wonder what comes next when she reaches her goal. It will leave a vacuum. Somebody will fill it.”
Harris frowned. “You mean she takes over the Chicago mob? How can a young broad do that?”
Nate put a finger to his lips and then responded. “With a surrogate.”
“I will be damned.” The desk phone rang and Harris grabbed it. “Yeah, Paul?”
“I’ve got the city manager of Crystal Lake on the line screaming about Tatiana Fetova—the suspect’s sister.”
“So what? Deal with it.”
“You want a lawsuit with a municipality? He can take this right up the chain. I figured you had enough on your plate already.”
“Hold on, Paul.” Harris looked straight at Nate. “What you got on her?”
Nate thumbed his phone. “No really direct involvement indicated. She hasn’t given you any useful information and probably won’t. Maybe watch her—discreetly. There’s always a chance one of the parties will show up at her house again.”
“It’s a turf war.”
“I’m seeing two other possibilities. This report out of Lake Geneva is really interesting. It could be both Smith and Ferragamo with Fetova. We only have descriptions and it’s just a guess. And since you’ve lost contact we have to consider the possibility of altered appearance.”
Harris put the phone back to his face. “Paul, come in here, will you?” Then to Nate: “Who’s the mole?”
“Could be this Washington agent, Daniel Mahoney, Organized Crime Task Force. Whoa—look at that red hair.” He turned the phone toward Harris.
The big man blocked his view of the device with a huge hand. “Don’t. I already seen enough of that mug. What’s your percentage on him?”
“Only forty. Not good enough to act on.
“I will be damned.”
“I really advise you to get Mr. Smith out of that man’s hands.”
Harris slouched back in his chair and examined Nate a moment. “Where’d you learn to do this stuff?”
“Mostly my dad.”
“Your father—he with the outfit?”
Nate grinned. “His name’s Zachary. Zachary Boldt. Master machinist—I mean he works a lathe. You could say I’m his apprentice.”
Harris rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes a moment. This twenty something was about to get his Ph.D. and he says he learned most of what he knows from a tradesman? It didn’t make sense but there was something irresistible about the idea. Maybe he should cut the kid some slack. “Let me ask you a personal question, Nate. Your dad teach you computers?”
“He once told me a shotgun made a better gift.”
Harris lifted his feet to the desk and linked his fingers behind his head.
“You ever fire one, Nate? A shotgun, I mean.”
“Sure. Lots of times.”
“And a pistol?”
“Afraid not.”
“You got a suit of clothes?”
“So far I haven’t found the need to wear a monkey suit if that’s what you mean.”
“A monkey suit is a tuxedo. A suit is what a man wears.”
Paul walked into the office and Harris immediately addressed him. “Would you get our friend Nate here outfitted with temporary FBI ID and a firearm? I mean now.” He leaned back further and looked at the tiles in the ceiling. “Not regulation issue—take him out and buy a piece that fits his hand—light automatic—maybe laser sites—back holster—it’ll be his first handgun so get him checked out at the firing range and make sure he can use it.” He turned to the kid. “You got money to burn, right?”
Nate lowered his gaze and grinned.
“That’s what I thought. Buy the best—okay kid? It’s your life here.”
He dropped his big feet to the floor and fished around in the drawer then leaned forward and slid a card across the desk. “When you’re checked out on firing range, go to this shop and get yourself outfitted real nice. Suit, tie, shoes—the works. Get that expensive designer stuff. I don’t want you lookin’ like a kid and I don’t want nobody takin’ you for a Fed neither.” He slid across another card. “That’s a two-for-one coupon. Use it. Show ‘em my card and they’ll get you in and out the door fast—tailoring and all. But first the gun. Gotta wear it when you get fitted for your suits. Make sure it don’t show.”
“I don’t think I—”
“Paul, have him back here by 3:00 to finish the briefing. And Nate,” he smiled at the kid. “Call me Stan. From now on you stick with me wherever I go.”
“My other clients—”
“Plenty of time for them when we finish here.”
Nate checked his phone again. “I can probably give you a week.”
“That’ll be fine.” Harris smiled at the boy. “Paul don’t stand there with your mouth hangin’ open—get our friend here ready for some real work.”
.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive novel. Tell me what comes next. I’ll try to write 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 – When I publish the final novel, I list contributors prominently. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts.
ROYA FETOVA – 29
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes
next.
Desi leaned back further in his leather chair in the waiting room of Ivan & Associates alternately turning pages in his Playboy magazine and glancing at the magnificent view of the city. He rested his feet on the ottoman. Uncle Uomo was too cheap to let him even talk about an office in this building.
Heels clicked against the rosewood floor. The culture bud receptionist smiled at him. Nice Italian girl. Long dark hair. Jacket with lapels. Kinda like a man’s two-button jacket but shorter, girlie fit—and no blouse underneath. That got Desi’s mind operating in a higher gear and he shifted in his seat. Uncle Uomo didn’t keep a receptionist like that. Didn’t have any receptionist at all. In a subdued, cultured voice, she asked if he’d like refreshments. He accepted the offer of a Courvoisier in a snifter. Nine a.m. but so what?
With an effort, he reminded himself that he sat in the den of the enemy. But the enemy lived life good.
In a moment, she returned. Leaning low, she lingered, carefully setting the cognac and steaming coffee on the table beside him. That gave him a long eyeful of what he liked to call nice assets. When she turned to go, he pinched her firm left cheek. No nylons. No panties. Just the jacket, short skirt and high heels. A smiling blush her only reaction to the old Italian custom. Then: “If there’s anything you need, please be sure to tell me.” She took a step then paused and uttered one word with an earnest stress on it. “Anything,” she said. Before he could respond to the provocation, her heels punctuated a return to her desk.
A mellow hunting mood filled Desi’s head. He’d be sure to ask her name and exactly when she got off duty. Yeah, he’d make sure he did that.
Now, with his senses on edge, he glanced around at a waiting room that shouted his idea of a successful enterprise. Four leather Eames chairs faced the glass-wall view and Desi was parked in a middle one, vaguely aware of people entering and leaving the office. Black leather couches and chairs formed two conversation nooks behind him, both vacant. All the best magazines—even tall cases of books.
Track lighting illuminating real artwork—at least he assumed it was real—paintings that must’ve set somebody’s bank account back in a significant way. The big one looked like a genuine Ivan Albright. He wondered if that’s where the company got its name or if it was some kinda visual pun. Probably the second. He smiled his approval as he sipped cognac then coffee and thought about the cheap reproductions on the walls of his uncle’s restaurant—the dump where Uncle Uomo did business.
He couldn’t get his mind or his imagination off that receptionist. A beaut like that didn’t come cheap either, and he glanced at her again after he opened the Playboy centerfold. She sat straight at her desk, working her computer, keeping her face in her own business. Efficient. Professional. He examined the playmate of the month and pretended it was her, letting his imagination ride as he finished his Courvoisier.
“Ms. Fetova will see you now.”
Startled, he looked up from his magazine. The receptionist faced him. Cool. Smart. Inviting. The kind he wanted working for him. He pushed up from the chair and followed her down a hall, fascinated by the way she moved. When they reached a double glass door, he turned to face her. “Come back and get me when I’m done.”
She declined her head then gave him a look that said of course, how he could conceive such a question and held open the door. He entered.
Some young broad with flaming orange hair sat behind a gleaming black desk like she owned the joint. The culture bud guided him to one of four high-back chairs facing the desk. On his left sat an enormous man in a three-piece suit. In the other, that grey-hair that visited his office—the same one that blew away his two guards just last night. Well those were Gionelli’s people, not his, but this Mr. Anthony Dmitri, Investment Counselor needed a shank in the back. The guy nodded to Desi as if nothing had happened. The big guy just watched. What was with that broad behind the desk? He thought he hid his fear well but thirsted for another cognac.
As if on cue, the little secretary placed a fresh snifter next to him and he thanked her with his eyes, then turned to the redhead behind the desk. People didn’t grow hair that shade. Electric. And how come she rated this big office?
“You’ve met Mr. Dmitri.” That wasn’t a question and her voice carried the unmistakable tone of command. Yeah, he met him—after the guy stuffed his two bodyguards in the dumpster. Dangerous for an old guy. Desi could hear his heart pounding and wondered if the others heard it too. The redhead grinned. “This other gentleman is called Nicky. That is all you want to know about him—take my word for it.”
Desi held his tongue and looked at each of the two men then lingered again on the woman behind the desk. Expensive gray suit. Sheer white blouse. Class. Voice sounded vaguely Russian. “When do I see the boss?”
The grey haired man spoke. “Mr. Grasso, do you recognize the center of a spider web when you see it?”
Desi thought about that a moment. This twenty something girlie was the boss? That meant she ordered the death of his bodyguards. “Your man got a little rough. What’s with that?”
“I never authorized the Gionelli family to operate in Chicago. Covet not your brother’s turf, isn’t that right, Mr. Grasso? Certainly their presence must have caused you some concern.” She sighed. “Sometimes one must make an example of such people.”
“What is this? Vegas needs to ask you for an okay or what?”
“You might put it that way. Let’s just say your uncle’s little experiment with interstate detente has come to an end.” She glanced at Dmitri.
The grey haired man cleared his throat. “More to the point are the advantages that accrue to you, Mr. Grasso.”
“Like what?”
“As an investment advisor, I know that you will eventually sit in your uncle’s chair. Such things require planning and careful preparation. We can make that happen more quickly. For reasons that will become clear, our interests run along the same lines as yours.”
Desi fought to keep a suave expression but straightened in his chair. The only way he’d head up the Chicago mob was if Uncle Uomo got dead.
“Let’s wrap this up, gentlemen.” It was the redhead with an abrupt command that amazed Desi. “We do have another meeting. Mr. Grasso, I represent an organization that is rapidly bringing together all the petty syndicates and gangs under the umbrella of a new kind of entity.”
“What makes you think you can do that?”
“It is happening all around you. Don’t look so surprised. We have no conflict with your Italian potentates. Our interests run in a different direction.”
Desi chewed on that idea as she went on.
“We represent Las Vegas, Los Angeles, New York. We are finalizing a contract with New Orleans as we speak. Chicago is next.”
Desi uttered a curse in Italian. Almost before he finished, a stab of pain ran down his neck and shoulder, instantly immobilizing him. After a minute, his toes and fingers tingled.
“Careful Nicky.” Desi heard the red head’s voice above the screaming in his head. “We want to treat Mr. Grasso with the respect he deserves.”
“Certainly.” He released his grip and Desi felt himself slump forward, helpless and numb. The giant man returned to his chair and sat at ease. It took a moment before feeling came back to Desi’s hands and when it did, they trembled. He eyed and the woman through narrowed lids—a show of bravado. “Who the hell are you?”
“There is no secret. My name is Roya Fetova. You can call me Roya if I may call you Desi. Is so much more kulturni that way.”
He squeezed his eyes closed a moment and nodded, this time knowing he caught the Russian phrase.
“Good. As I said, we are pressed for time. We meet with the mayor in thirty minutes. Let me explain the mission of our organization. We consolidate the efforts of all the petty syndicates and gangs.”
“What if some don’t want any part of that?”
“We have not found that to be a problem. Our logic is inescapable. I am aware that you are worried about your precious turf, Desi.” She smiled. “Let me assure you that we interfere with local leadership as little as possible. We do not take away what you have achieved. We do not, how you say, micro-manage our assets. But we do create stability and a market for you as a business.” She moved her hand as if brushing away a fly. “Inter-gang fighting is so inefficient. Our investors are not interested in petty squabbling. By joining a larger entity, each organization solidifies its foundation and increases its political scope at the national level. Our investors include pension funds, federal judges, senators, the president himself.”
“Your investors?”
Dmitri leaned toward Desi. “Please understand, Mr. Grasso. We securitize individual ventures into a legitimate business offering—an alternative revenue stream to our clients—one with a very high rate of return that’s not correlated to the markets in any way. There’s a huge demand for that. Think of it as an index, like the S&P-500, only better.”
“You pose an interesting problem right now, Mr. Grasso.” The big man leveled his eyes at Desi. “Your organization’s grip on this town is slipping. The Russian mob made a move on your turf last year and they’ll try again—yes, they are part of our portfolio but a volatile component. You are vulnerable. Something needs to be done about that.”
“Uomo Grasso is old school—fat and lazy.” The redhead turned and spat on the carpet. “I would deal with him but why put lipstick on a pig? He still holds his meetings huddled in a dingy restaurant. We believe there must be a new face on the organization. Under our umbrella and as leader in Chicago, you will bring your group into the twenty first century. Your office will be wherever you choose. You will pick your own staff.”
Desi’s greed and fear started to overwhelm his senses but he set his face the way his father taught him when he grew up—before papa stole from the organization and got stuffed in a box. “Exactly what you asking me to do?”
“I would think that was obvious, Desi. Certainly nothing you haven’t already dreamed of doing.” She touched a button on a console beside her. “Maria, please come in here a moment.”
The door opened and the culture bud came in.
“We are assigning you to Mr. Grasso. You don’t have a secretary, do you Desi? I thought as much. Maria, please take special care of all his,” she paused and looked at him, “His needs.” She stood. “I am sorry to cut this short, Desi, but we must join the mayor.”
“Please come with me, Mr. Grasso.” Maria’s cultured voice seemed to tickle Desi’s mind. He followed her out the door and down a hall, still fascinated with the way she moved.
She quietly opened a door to a softly lit room and shrugged the jacket off her bare shoulders. It fell to the floor.
Desi caught his breath then licked his lips. Without taking his eyes off Maria, he closed the door behind his back and locked it.
* * *
Tony Ferragomo tossed his suit coat on another chair and loosened his tie. “When do I quit shaving the top of my head?”
Roya blew him a kiss. “Not yet—but you were magnificent, Tony. Your diction was impeccable and you recited your lines just as rehearsed. You disguised your Chicago accent with aplomb. You too, Nicky. I admire both of you more than I can say. What do you think of our Desi?”
Tony was first to speak: “Candy-assed kid. Think he’s really gonna bite?”
Roya placed her fingertips together and peered over them. “When Maria finishes with him? Oh, yes. We are offering Mr. Grasso everything he ever dreamed of. Everything. Leadership. All the perks of power. And a mother organization to hold his hand. Desi needs a mama and I will be that to him.”
Agent Nicholi Segovia cleared his throat. “Well, to tell the truth, that’s what concerns me. The department believes that kid’s been looking for a way to blow away Uncle Uomo for a long time and this may just give him the balls to do it. That’s not FBI policy, but I won’t shed any tears over it. It’s you I’m worried about milashka.”
“Don’t be an old hen, Nicky. I will have no trouble keeping young Desi under my thumb.”
The big man pushed up from his chair and paced the office floor. Tony watched him put his hands in his pockets and take a long look out the wall of glass then turn back with a look of resolve. “As I see it, with that kid in charge of the Chicago mob and you handling him, we got one hell of an information pipeline. On the other hand, you just put a juicy temptation in front of yourself.” He stopped and looked straight at her. “Roya, tell me the truth. You don’t have any plans to take the reins of the local Mafia for real, do you? Or an overlord organization like you pretend to represent here?” He gazed at her a moment longer. “I’d like an answer to that, milashka. I want it now.”
For the first time, Tony saw Roya blush. “Nicky, can’t you trust me?”
“It’s a lotta power you’re holding in your hands.”
She paused and held a finger to her lips and the room grew quiet. Then: “I wonder.” She gave him a coy smile. “I will let you know when I know.”
.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive novel. Tell me what comes next. I’ll try to write 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 – When I publish the final novel, I list contributors prominently. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts.
Filed under Crowdsourced Novel, Interactive Story, Living Novel, Suspense
ROYA FETOVA – 28
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
Agent Harris scowled at his subordinate. “Send that kid back to whatever school he came from.” Used to be the outfit held to regular standards. Now they sent these experts. None of ‘em worth their fat fees and now a green kid.
Paul straddled the old wooden chair backwards and gazed across the desk until the big man finally blinked. “I knew you’d say that, Stan. He’s young. But I checked—he’s a legitimate contractor. And this is interesting: He formed his own startup company while he was still in high school. Sold it for a fortune—before he graduated. So he’s not here for the paycheck.”
“What kinda company? Lemonade stands?”
Paul grinned. “Some sort of mobile app. He skipped college and went straight for his doctorate. A degree I never heard of. Higher math, I suppose. Anyway, he’s already working on his dissertation.”
“So we’re helping this punk kid get his Ph.D. too early?”
Paul shrugged. “Does it matter? Stan, he’s cracked some cases for the bureau using his own methods. I know it’s way out of the box but maybe that’s what we need.”
“What’s his name?”
“Nathan Boldt.”
* * *
The lid of the footlocker opened and two men hauled Frank to his feet.
Bruno, the burly one, indicated the door at the back of the room. “There’s a shower and clean set of clothes there. Gimme your stuff and I’ll get it cleaned, okay?”
Frank forced his knees to lock and arched his back. He said nothing. When he entered the bathroom, he found a neatly pressed Air Force uniform. It had all the same medals as his own—could be his if it wasn’t so new.
He stripped and tossed his soiled clothes out the door then cranked the shower to full cold.
* * *
Desi took the elevator to the office at the Aon Building. The lettering on the door read Ivan and Associates.
A culture bud of a secretary greeted him with a perky good morning.
“I’m Desi Grasso—got an appointment with Anthony Dmitri.”
“Yes, Mr. Grasso. Mr. Dmitri will see you momentarily. Please have a seat. Can I get you something? Coffee, tea?”
“Just water, thanks.” Desi sat in a plush chair and selected a magazine. A Playboy. It sat right out in the open. Not the usual waiting room and the view of the city below was magnificent. He opened the centerfold.
.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive novel. Tell me what comes next. I’ll try to write 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 – When I publish the final novel, I list contributors prominently. I take you at your word that all ideas are your original thoughts.
Filed under Crowdsourced Novel, Interactive Story, Living Novel, Mystery, Suspense
ROYA FETOVA – 27
A Crowdsourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
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.
.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN
HOW TO PLAY–This is an interactive novel. Tell me what comes next. I’ll try to write 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.
Filed under Crowdsourced Novel, Games, Interactive Story, Living Novel, Mystery, Suspense
ROYA FETOVA – 26
A Crowd Sourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
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.”
.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN
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.
ROYA FETOVA – 25
A Crowd Sourced Novel
Read it here – Say what comes next.
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
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
Filed under Crowdsourced Novel, Interactive Story, Living Novel
