While we're at it, here's another excerpt from my newly-released ebook, The Key to My Heart where our hero, P.I. Chance Gannon finds himself in trouble:
I was on the hard cold concrete floor, tasting the salt in my own blood.
I was on the hard cold concrete floor, tasting the salt in my own blood.
They were beating on me, banging on every nerve ending like
a maestro would on the keys of his piano. The pain never went away; but after
the first few blows it did dull. A little. And if it was something the recent years have taught me, it
was you could endure pain. Schmitt aimed another hard kick to my gut. I doubled
over and puked up a mix of blood and this morning’s breakfast. I looked up at
the bastard. That goddamn gold tooth glinted in his smug Nazi smile. “So,
perhaps you are not so cocky now,” said Schmitt.
“Go to hell,” I snarled.
“Wrong answer,” said Beck from behind me. My spine burned up
and down as his boot connected with it. I gritted my teeth. “Tell us about Walter Carswell,” said
Beck.
“I don’t know anything about him,” I spat.
“Wrong answer!” I saw stars as his fist connected
with my face.
I sagged back
and fell against the damp cinderblock wall. Wiping the blood from mouth with my
sleeve, I looked up. Beck and Schmitt stood in the semidarkness, their rough
facial features highlighted by the shadows. I rolled over and lay down on the
floor.
Beck walked over and knelt down, putting his face up to
mine, close enough to smell the sauerkraut he must’ve had for lunch. “It would
go much better for you if you cooperated, Mr. Gannon. Why are you foolishly
insisting on this?”
“Maybe I…” I was going crack wise, but I clammed up. I saw
something that make me blink: Beck still had the same jacket he wore when they
picked me up… and under it, I could see the butt of my .45 gleaming dully in
his belt. Real amateur night. I
pulled myself up on one elbow. “Water. Water please.”
“Karl, bring us some water,” said Beck to Schmitt.
“Careful Hans,” said Schmitt, who seemed to be half-ways
reading my mind. He poured a glass of water from a pitcher on a table and
passed it to him.
“Nonsense,” said Beck, accepting the glass. “Perhaps Mr. Gannon
has learned the value of cooperation.” He patted my cheek with the palm of his
hand like I was a good doggie. “See?” He passed me the glass.
I barely had time to sip the water, as cold good as it felt
in my bloody mouth. My other hand was in his belt, grabbing the butt of my gun.
I yanked it out and palmed off the safety as I brought it up to Beck. Beck’s
mouth opened to form a giant O as he reached for his own gun. I was faster,
this time. My finger squeezed the trigger twice and my hand jerked with the
recoil as Beck dropped to his knees and fell over backwards. I rolled over,
still on the floor. Schmitt was struggling with his Schmeisser when I fired,
dropping him in his right leg. His submachine gun clattered to the floor as he
rolled around, blood seeping through his finger as he clutched his leg and his
eyes tearing up with pain. Leaning on a chair, I lurched to his feet and had
another look at Schmitt. I stuck my gun in my belt; he wasn’t worth it, just
now. See how it feels, tough guy. I found the door and got myself out of the
room.
I leaned on the banister as I climbed up the rickety
basement stairs. With any luck, I
wouldn’t be running into von Stroheim or any other of his flunkies. Not until I
was feeling better. I gasped, holding back the as I hit the top of the stairs.
I pushed the door open. No time to see if the door was open. I could see
another door, with a window in it, and beyond that, blue sky. I lurched across
for the door, shoving it open and pushing myself through.
I was at the top of the same flight of stairs as they’d
brought up. The street was a long way down. Fighting the dizziness and
everything else, I grabbed at the long black rail and began to climb down, one
slow step at a time. Halfway down, a heard a voice behind me, all too familiar.
“Herr Gannon,” said von Stroheim, standing at the top of the
stairs. “I do not know how you escaped, but in your condition, I imagine you
cannot get very far, nacht whar?” He
motioned with his hand and two new boys I’d never seen before came up beside
him, their hands resting inside their jackets. “Please be sensible.”
It was then I heard the siren, as welcome as the sound of a
cavalry bugle in all of those cheesy westerns. Guess the neighbors are nosy here, too. It was followed two seconds
later by a SFPD prowl car, pulling up at the bottom of the steps. I looked up
at von Stroheim and his goons and down at the two uniforms who had stepped out
of the car and were looking up at me, then at the others, unreadable
expressions on their faces. “No thanks boys,” I said, finishing off the last
few steps, “I think my ride’s here.”
You can help out a poor unemployed writer by purchasing my books, Elvis Saves JFK! for just 99 cents and War Plan Crimson, A Novel of Alternate History, for $2.99 and now The Key to My Heart, also $2.99 (all are free to preview). All books -- which are already on Smashword's premium distribution list -- are also available through such fine on-line retailers such as Sony, Chapters Indigo, Barnes & Noble and Apple's iTunes Store. And if you’re looking for an experienced marketing communications guy, do me a favor and have a look here. Thanks.
You can help out a poor unemployed writer by purchasing my books, Elvis Saves JFK! for just 99 cents and War Plan Crimson, A Novel of Alternate History, for $2.99 and now The Key to My Heart, also $2.99 (all are free to preview). All books -- which are already on Smashword's premium distribution list -- are also available through such fine on-line retailers such as Sony, Chapters Indigo, Barnes & Noble and Apple's iTunes Store. And if you’re looking for an experienced marketing communications guy, do me a favor and have a look here. Thanks.