A Crowd Sourced 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.

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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.

THE GAMEMAKER’S FATHER

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© 2011 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved

A Crowd Sourced 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

Read it from the Beginning

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.

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

Jump to the Beginning

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

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

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

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

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

Jump to the Beginning

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

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

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

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

© 2011 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved

A Crowd Sourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

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

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

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

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

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

Roya didn’t respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, sure.”

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

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

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

Tony climbed out of the car.

.
What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN

Jump to the Beginning

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

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

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

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

© 2011 John Jonelis – All Rights Reserved

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, no way I’m wearin’ that.”

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

“I’m sayin’ it’s not my style.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about the shoulder holster?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

She did as Tony asked, driving slowly.

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

“I’ll let you out down the street.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you know me?”

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

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

“From who?”

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

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

“Please Mister. I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

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

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

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

She paused, then nodded.

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

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

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

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

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

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

*   *   *

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

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

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

Stan Harris just glared at him.

“ Now, Harris.”

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

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

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

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

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

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

Read it here. Write what comes next.

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

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

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

“Stan, we got computers, right?”

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

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

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

“C’mon, Stan.”

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

Paul grinned and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

“Not like they used to be.”

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

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

“You’re convinced Gionelli will stick?”

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

* * *

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

“Sorry Frank—they do.”

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

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

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

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

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

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

A Crowdsourced Novel

Read it here – Say what comes next.

“Lend me your pistol, will you, Frank? Tony’s .38 is too big for a girl.” Roya leaned down to Frank as he sat on the park bench and when he dropped the .22 in her bag, she pressed keys into his palm. “I’ll call you later.” She kissed his ear and whispered. “Keep Tatiana safe.” Frank thought that over until it registered, then nodded to himself. Tony might trace the car to Roya’s sister. She was being careful.

Tony Ferragamo tilted his foot one way, then the other. “You owe me a new pair of alligators, babe.”

“Don’t get fussy about your wardrobe, Tony.”

He laughed. “Lady, even if this guy’s not my brother, we learned to shoot from the same school. Coulda crippled me good.”

“Frank’s a pro—the best.”

Frank recognized the roll she wanted him to play and tried to appear calm.

She went on, “And yes, the paperwork says he is your brother.”

“I wanna see that proof.”

Frank glanced from one to the other without moving his head. He wanted proof, too.

“You and Frank have every right to those papers—soon as we get out of this mess. Right now let’s move, before the police get here.” Roya immediately started down the sidewalk and Tony kept pace.

Frank leaned back on the bench and watched them out of sight.

He walked to the Mercedes. Cranked the ignition.

Driving back, he wondered. Maybe Roya planned to replace him with Tony for keeps. Not a bad idea. The guy might make a better asset—if she could control him. The idea of taking part in an assassination repulsed Frank, even when it meant killing the same mob boss that hunted him, and Roya had to know that. If she planned to take over Uomo Grasso’s organization—he shook his head. No. That was no place for him. Tony was the right choice.

Then why did the idea grate at his nerves? Was it the possible brother—the professional killer? Or did something else eat at him—something about Roya herself?

He checked the gas. Plenty to get back to Tatiana’s lake house. Nothing to do now but to stay hidden and wait.

* * *

Roya kept up a fast walking pace and glanced at Tony. “Where’s your car?”

“Ditched it. We’ll pick out another one.” This broad carried a commanding tone and Tony smirked at her. Still, she held her head high and met his gaze. Maybe she was all right or maybe she needed a lesson. He’d find out. His foot and knee hurt bad and this brisk pace didn’t help. His eyes still watered from her finger jab and his plans leaned toward the lesson she might need.

I’ve got a Russian friend in West Allis. You know it? West of Milwaukee.”

Tony didn’t answer. Then: “There’s one.” Tony nodded toward a small Chevy parked on a side street.

“It’s junk.”

“Beats a Mustang all to hell. I spotted you in that thing in no time. Nobody’ll notice this one.”

Roya scowled then agreed. Within minutes they rolled down the road. “Take the highway east.”

Tony steered the little car and flipped on the radio. Roya immediately switched it off.

Tony grinned—this lady had an attitude but he respected that. He decided to keep quiet and keep the peace—for now. All his plans just turned upside down and he needed time to think. If that Frank was his twin brother, it changed everything. The resemblance did seem kinda crazy. What did he know that could disprove it? This Russian dame said the guy was a pro and Tony’s information made him a wannabe insurance man. Could be a quick cover. He shrugged. Nothin’ to do but wait and see the papers. If this Russian beaut stayed straight with him, he could end up second in charge of Chicago’s streets, and rich—

In a little less than an hour they rolled into West Allis. “This is an old Polish neighborhood. Lots of Russian émigrés now. Some of them friends.” Roya lowered her voice. “Some on the inside.”

Tony didn’t respond. So this was her turf. Better stay alert.

“Turn there. Fifth house on the right.” They parked in front of a bungalow and went inside.

Tony looked around at the furniture. A bunch of thrift shop rejects. Heavy masculine chairs. No pictures. Roll shades, no drapes. “Whad’ya say your friend’s name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Nicky.”

In an instant his knife found her throat. With his other hand, he grabbed her belt, lifted her off her feet and backed her against a wall. “This ain’t no lady’s house. The place is a dump.” He pressed the knife harder, careful not to make a cut unless she moved. She glared at him and remained silent. Yeah, Tony could tell this gal was all right. Plenty of nerve. He released the pressure on the blade. “Tell me a different story. Convince me this time.”

She took a breath before she spoke. “Nicki doesn’t lives here, you ape. It’s a safe house. Don’t go all tight on me, Tony. Put me down. I’ve got lots of connections—inside here, inside there. How else you suppose I do business?”

“Wrong answer sweetie.” No question Tony had to kill this bitch—she as good as admitted to playing double with the mob and the Feds. But why rush things? He lowered her to her feet, pressing hard on the knife again. This time a thin trail of blood ran down her neck, trickled between her breasts, disappearing under her blouse. He withdrew the knife and poked the sharp tip into a vacant buttonhole. “Real pearl buttons. This one sliced off clean. So Luigi claimed you for hisself?”

Roya took another deep breath. “Friend of yours?”

“Yeah, we was friends once. That button trick—kinda his trademark.” Tony sliced through the threads of the next button. Pinched it between knife and thumb. Put it in his pocket. “Luigi’s dead. I own you now.” He figured he’d do this slow and let her enjoy it.

She wrapped her arms around him. “If you just wanted some fun, why didn’t you ask? I like my men strong, but not so rough.”

That sounded a lot more like it. He figured he’d put the fear in her, just like he wanted. Now she’d do anything to save herself. He’d kill her later, but first give her hope. “You wanna see tomorrow? Make this real good.”

“Anything Tony—anything you say.”

A pain, hard at the back of his neck like he’d never known and a flash of light. Tony went limp and fell to the floor. He heard his knife clatter. Saw her above him, watching. She slid a long flat piece of steel into her belt—looked like a slim jim. What did she do to his neck?

“Well, Tony. Did I, like you say, ‘Make this real good?’ Those were your words, were they not?” She smiled faintly. “Can’t talk?”

He worked his chin and tried to swear at her but the words came out garbled and the sweat ran down his forehead, into his stinging eyes. He tried again and this time gained command of his voice.”

“Watch your language around the ladies, Tony. No, don’t move your head—not an inch. Maybe you’re already a paraplegic—maybe not. We’ll see.” She produced a pair of handcuffs from her bag and bound his wrists together, elbows pointed to the ceiling, cuffs behind his head. “Doctor’s orders, Tony. This’ll keep your head still. Now I babysit. Try not to embarrass yourself, okay? I might not clean it up.”

She moved a kitchen chair close while he tried to blink the sweat out of his eyes. “Okay, you twitched a foot. You’re going to be fine—just don’t move for a while.”

Through a phlegm-filled throat, Tony forced out a short response.

“Tony! I told you about that language.” She placed her shoe against his forehead, the spike heel entering his ear canal. “Don’t you want to get better?”

She had him and he knew it. He closed his eyes. Cleared his throat. Cleared it again, then spoke. “Okay, you own me.” Tony figured it was the plain truth for the moment.

“That’s real nice, Tony but do I want you? I guess it depends. Let me think.” She paused. Stepped away. Tony opened his eyes in time to see the knife slice a button off his shirt.

“Now I own you, Tony. Let’s see if you can tell me everything I ever wanted to know about Uomo’s organization.” She rolled back his shirt. Stroked his pectoral with something wet. Lifted a syringe from the table—a big one. Looked like the kind they used on horses. Pointed it to the ceiling and squirted some liquid in the air. Plunged the needle into his chest.

* * *

Tony woke to Roya massaging his neck. The cuffs were gone. A cold wet towel lay across his brow.

“Feel good? Oh, that’s right, the headache. I should have warned you about that. It might last a few days. All my gentlemen friends say so—I mean the ones that misbehave. I’m pretty sure you can sit up now.”

Tony forced himself into a seated position while she cradled his head. As soon as he got upright, nausea swept over him and he tried to lie back to the floor.

“No, no, don’t do that.” She stood behind him, pressing her legs against his back. The sick feeling will pass. Here’s your chance to prove you’re a man. You’re on your own now, okay?” She stepped around him, sat on the kitchen chair and smiled, chin in hands.

It was all he could do to stay in a seated position. Tony knew he’d told her everything about organized crime in Chicago. Names. Places. Even the cop he killed at the station. Once he started talking, it all just came out and looking back, he found himself at a loss to explain it. It was like he wanted to tell her—like he’d been hypnotized. What he said after he blacked out, he didn’t know.

“What was in that needle?”

She smiled. “Even your government knows nothing of that. But it will make you much nicer company. Isn’t that wonderful news, Tony? You want more? No? Perhaps not. As a vegetable, you serve no purpose. Time to get off this dirty floor.” She helped him to his feet and to the kitchen table. As he sat, he took the opportunity to deliver a pinch.

She slapped him across the face and the impact sent a lightning jolt down his spine. He thought he’d fall from the chair.

“Did I make the dose too weak? I am not an Italian girl. Remember that when you work for me.”

“What did you say?”

“From now on, you’re my attack dog.” She laughed lightly again. “You know, I always saw you that way but you bit my hand. You won’t do that again, will you, Tony?”

He didn’t answer. He knew he’d never lay a hand on her again and nobody was gonna be allowed to even utter a threat against her. Something was different between him and Roya—something that felt permanent. He didn’t understand it, but he knew it for sure.

“Head stop spinning? That’s good. Did you ever see a Siberian tiger?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. At the zoo.”

“Did you know they are the biggest of all cats? I saw one that weighed 800 pounds. As a girl, I tamed one like that. I would lie against him and hear his rumbling purr…”

“I’m hungry.” Roya opened her phone. “Nicky, it’s me…Yes, I know but it can’t be helped. Trust me on this…Yes the usual place…Can you pick up pizza and beer on the way? Okay, thanks.” She put away the phone. “Nicki will be an hour. You’ll feel fine by that time—except for the headache.

* * *

Tony showered and seated himself at the couch with Roya as she watched an old movie. He felt almost alive again but not the same. The movie helped keep his mind off the headache. The sound of a key in a lock and Roya switched off the remote.

The front door opened and a man backed in and kicked the door shut. A huge man, easily 300 pounds, holding a boxed pizza and a six pack of beer. “Hope you like Bud.”

Roya got up and kissed his cheek. “Tony, I want you to meet Nicky—Nicholi Segovia. He’s deep inside, too. I didn’t think of aspirin, so you’ll have to settle for beer.

* * *

At the lake house, Tatiana scrambled eggs to go with toast and coffee and they sat on her patio by the shore. She didn’t make much conversation and Frank figured she knew not to ask questions about Roya’s business.

Frank was grateful for the coffee. He’d barely slept—his mind kept drifting back to Roya. When would she call? Was she safe with that guy? Would she use seduction to get what she wanted out of Tony? The ideas that ran through his mind made his jaw ache.

“Frank, is there something wrong with the eggs?”

He looked down at the plate of food and quickly picked up his knife and fork. “Any more coffee?”

Tatiana poured him a cup, then peered at him and nodded with a smile.

“What?”

“It’s like somebody wrote it all over you with a marker.”

Now she had his attention.

“I’ve never seen it so clearly. You’re jealous over Roya, aren’t you? I think you’re in love.”

What happens next? TAKE YOUR TURN [click here]

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

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

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

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