Only the Details Read online

  Only the Details

  Alan Lee

  Sparkle Press

  Only the Details

  by Alan Lee

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 Alan Janney

  First Edition

  Printed in USA

  Cover by Inspired Cover Designs

  Formatting by Polgarus

  ISBN: 978-0-9962293-9-5

  Sparkle Press

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Hemingway

  Italics

  Medicine

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part II

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Part III

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Untitled

  “Every man’s life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguishes one man from another.”

  - Hemingway

  A note about italicized words—

  Technically I’m supposed to italicize most words spoken in another language. Those are the rules as set down by knowledgeable grammar persons. Take Manny, for instance—a lot of his dialogue is in Spanish. But I don’t want to italicize all those words. I’d rather save italics for emphasis. I remember reading Hemingway’s For Whom The Bell Tolls and being exhausted by all the emphasized foreign words. So in my novels, I only use italics properly when the reader might get confused by the foreign language mixed in with English. Some foreign words are italicized, and some aren’t, and it’s my book and I can do that. =)

  As Stephen King said, the rules of grammar are meant to be broken. At least I think that’s what he said—I might be botching it.

  A note about medicine—

  Some creative liberty was taken.

  Some artistic license was invoked.

  Part I

  1

  “Jiminy Christmas,” I said. Again.

  I’d said it a lot that day but the phrase felt right. Don’t tinker with a good thing.

  I sat in my reclining swivel chair, feet planted firmly on the floor. I wanted to cross them on the desk like any respectable and debonair detective would do but my sneakers had been unresponsive for several hours, the cowards, stunned into insubordination.

  My laptop was open and impatient, beckoning for attention. Outside, cars passed with their headlights on, windshield wipers sloshing the drizzle. The cheery glow emanating from Orvis across the street was brighter than the afternoon sunlight.

  In my hands I held an official marriage certificate pinched gingerly on the edges between my fingertips, like it was hot.

  It was my marriage certificate.

  Whose marriage certificate?

  Mine.

  That’s impossible, you say.

  You’re right it is. I’d never married anyone.

  And yet…legally I had a wife.

  I had a wife.

  She was a humdinger, too. A dame worth killing for. An attorney with a predilection for mixing cocktails. She read books to children at the Rescue Mission and drove too fast through school zones. She adored my son and hinted about seducing my roommate. She’d never told me she loved me but she’d admitted it to a poker table full of professional malfeasants. Hard to decide if she looked more like royalty wearing an evening gown or black activewear.

  A girl I deemed deserving of my dedication and devotion.

  Did I want to marry her? I assumed so, yes. One day.

  Though probably not yet.

  However…here I sat. Contemplating the evidence of our union.

  “Jiminy Christmas,” I said.

  My net worth had probably skyrocketed. So that was nice. And she’d mentioned marital consummation and honeymoon bliss as she dropped off the document earlier that day.

  Did I desire honeymoon bliss?

  Yes. Yes I did.

  But did I deserve it?

  Yes. Yes I did.

  Mackenzie August. Husband of Veronica Summers.

  The real question was…was a question I’d been avoiding. I had a maxim in life and it was unspoken but I followed it closely anyway—be an independent and complete human being. Or phrased differently, I stayed true to what I believed and I did not compromise.

  My life was well-organized and clean. Because that was necessary. Because I’d learned through pain it must be. Because I’d compromised myself before and ended up a wreck.

  What did I believe? Live simply. Do justice. Walk humbly. Commune with my creator. Love deeply. Honor my father. Train up my son in the way he should go. Pay my taxes. Don’t drink cheap beer. Iron the collars of my shirt so they didn’t curl. Important things like this.

  So the real question was…

  …was I being true to myself if I didn’t get the marriage annulled?

  …was I compromising if I let a woman marry me without my approval?

  And I didn’t love the answer. I took umbrage with the truth, because I was besotted with the woman I unwittingly married. Did that matter?

  I fretted that it did.

  It went against my quest for independence. Not the marriage itself, but the vehicle in which it arrived. My signature had been forged. The ceremony was faked for inheritance reasons. Should that matter if the other name on the certificate was Ronnie Summers? Even if the motive was altruism?

  It did matter. I’m glad no one was there to ask me why.

  Mackenzie August, a navel-gazing mess.

  Someone knocked on my door.

  If I was the kind of incompetent man who got startled, I would have been.

  A cute girl stood there. Not a girl, but younger than me. Maybe twenty-five. She had one of those haircuts that looked feminine but didn’t reach her ears. Blonde. Untucked slim-fit checkered flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up. Jeans. Bright white teeth. All American.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said.

  “No you’re not.”

  “A little, I am. I should say, I hope you don’t mind if I disrupt your daydreaming.”

&n
bsp; “Better,” I said. “More honest.”

  “You look like a man in a good mood. You were grinning at the ceiling.”

  “I do not grin. And if I did, it would be a volitional expression of good humor. Not the reflex of a milksop,” I said.

  “Jeez, okay. Why are you purposefully displaying your good humor?”

  “I got married today.”

  “Oh wow. Congratulations!”

  “Not necessary. It’s easy to do, turns out. How can I help?”

  “You’re Mackenzie?”

  “I am.”

  She pointed down the stairs. “I bought Metro. Or, the space next-door where Metro used to be. I was going to ask if you had five minutes to lend a hand, but seeing as it’s your wedding day…”

  I stood. Laid the marriage certificate carefully on my desk. Like it might eat me.

  “I miss Metro. Their lunch menu was solid.”

  “Mine will be better,” she said. “Guaranteed.”

  “What do you need help with?”

  “The water main. I’d like to switch it on. So stupid but I can’t find it. I’ll give you a free lunch when we open next spring.”

  “Deal.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  I came around the desk. She backed up, letting me descend the stairs first.

  I grabbed the handrail.

  “What class of fare will you be serving?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  There was a prick at my side. Just above the belt.

  She was gripping and lifting my jacket with her left hand. With her right, she had plunged a needle near my hipbone.

  “Take it easy,” she said. She popped the needle free from my skin and replaced the shirt. “It’s a harmless injection. You’re fine—I’m a physician.”

  Alarms sounded in my head. Obviously.

  But my body was too sleepy to care.

  “You’ll be completely out in less than thirty seconds. Might want to sit down.”

  “You’re a physician,” I said. “Not a restaurant entrepreneur.”

  My hands wouldn’t work.

  She said, “A fabricated story to get me in. I gave you a cocktail of Propofol, Vecuronium, and ketamine, plus an accelerant. I doubt you’ll need rescue breathing—you’re a bigger man than I was told.”

  The door at the base of the stairwell opened and a man took the stairs two at a time.

  My brain was shutting down.

  My limbs refused to lift.

  The man caught me. Pinned me to the wall and held me steady, so I wouldn’t tumble.

  “Kidnapped,” I said. The word slurred. Head slumping.

  “Yes,” she said. Her blue eyes were close to mine. “Sorry.”

  I wanted to fight.

  But I felt so serene and lethargic.

  Mackenzie August. In big trouble.

  Falling asleep.

  On the stairs. On my wedding day.

  2

  There was no awareness of time or movement. No dreaming or struggling. Simply lights out.

  I came to slowly as if from a dead sleep. Vision returned before comprehension.

  My hands were in my lap. Great hands, really. I watched them. They twitched when requested. An enormous accomplishment and I grunted with pride.

  Someone had fitted me with bracelets. Silver, thankfully. Gold aged me.

  I was sitting in a chair. Or rather, after a second inspection, a restraining harness held me upright, pinned to a chair. My head lolled lazily on my chest, so I watched my hands some more.

  Hey, I recognized some of the bracelets around my wrists—handcuffs. How about that.

  The girl. In the stairwell. I remembered.

  She was not a restaurant proprietor. She had lied.

  I tilted my head up, degree by degree.

  Oooouch.

  I was in an airplane. A private jet, medium-sized, five windows to a side. The front hatch was swung open, letting in cold air and the unmistakable noise of engine whine. The plane sat on a tarmac at an unfamiliar terminal.

  Across from me was a man. Tall, erect posture. Bearded, and pale enough that I could see some veins. He wore black boots, blue 5.11 tactical pants, and a black Rothco undercover vest over a henley shirt. Ballistic plates sewn into the vest, probably. I knew the outfit—commonly worn by guys in his line of work. He held a pistol in his right hand.

  He leaned forward. “You can hear?”

  “Sure,” I croaked.

  “You know who I am?”

  “Listen to me. Carefully,” I said. More of a whisper. I licked my dry lips. “I have to pee.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You’re going to.” I paused to take a deep breath and stretch my jaw. “In less than sixty seconds, my guess.”

  “You know who I am?” he said.

  “The bathroom attendant.”

  “I am a bounty hunter.”

  “Hunt me a bathroom,” I wheezed.

  “You do not follow the orders? I shoot you,” he said with a strong German accent. Follow zee orders. “I get paid either way.”

  “I’m going to pee either way,” I said with a strong American accent. Plus a hint of Cajun and anesthesia.

  “Hold it.”

  “No.”

  The cute girl with short blonde hair appeared. “I’m taking him to the bathroom.”

  “Could be a trick.”

  “My patient, my rules. It’s inhumane otherwise. Everyone pees. Besides, urine stinks of ammonia and I don’t want to travel with it,” she said. “He’ll still be cuffed and have very little muscular control.”

  She released my harness and I slumped forward onto the floor, unable to halt my fall. Face first on the carpet, I said, “I don’t feel dangerous.”

  It took me a minute to climb to my feet. Another handful to get my bladder operational. Then still several more to fully void it.

  Old age and I were going to have issues.

  “Nice plane,” I said, shuffling back to my chair. My ankles were cuffed too, and the German bounty hunter kept his gun on me. I’d have shuffled even without the shackles, so feeble were my faculties. “But the other passengers ruin the ambiance.”

  There were no passengers other than Ernst and the dastardly physician. I hoped he got my meaning—Germans have terrible senses of humor.

  The physician strapped my harness back on, sort of a locking seatbelt around my torso and elbows. She brought me a cup of water and some pretzels.

  “No,” said the German. “No pretzels.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I say. No pretzels.”

  “No pretzel for infidel,” I said, with a hint of German.

  He hit me. An insouciant smack to the face.

  “Hah. Can’t feel it. Anesthesia and all,” I said.

  It was a lie. That smack hurt.

  “Ernst, do not strike my guest,” said a new voice. Firm but soft. “I need him in peak condition. Plus, what are we, animals?”

  It was Duane, one of the minor Kings. I’d met him at a poker game. Looked like Euro muscle but rich. Raspy voice, thick neck. His eyes and cheeks were puffy, like he used to fight. Or had a food allergy. His shirt was tailored intentionally tight and it shimmered green. He was followed by a guy in a navy jacket, tattoos on his neck. And Tattoo Neck was followed by a woman.

  The jet had sixteen seats—a group of eight up front and a group of eight in the back, four on each side. Each group of four seats faced each other. I was strapped into the rear group, port side.

  I was facing forward. The bounty hunter sat across, facing me, gun in his lap. Duane sat across the aisle, facing me. The woman sat beside him and Tattoo Neck sat in the forward group of eight, not part of our group. Poor guy.

  Duane nodded. “Mackenzie August.”

  “Duane Moneybags,” I replied.

  “Chambers. My last name,” he said.

  “Moneybags suits you better.”

  He shrugged, partially raising one eyebrow.
“Maybe. You know why you’re here?”

  “I have many guesses.”

  “Let’s hear’em,” he said.

  “First guess, you’re mad I beat you at poker.”

  “Beat me at poker. No.”

  “Second guess,” I said. “I called you a few months ago about a thing in Virginia Beach, and it was late and I ruined your REM cycle.”

  “No, it’s not because you called too late.”

  “Because I killed Toby Moreno.”

  He shook his head. A tiny movement.

  Heavy hitters like Duane wasted no energy on exaggerated motion. In fact I wasn’t sure he even shook his head. More of an indication that he might, if he was a lesser man.

  I said, “Because I killed Calvin Summers?”

  “No.”

  “You’re mad I busted up some of your prostitution racketeering.”

  He shook his head again. “That’s not why you’re here. But that thing displeased me.”

  “You’re mad because I killed Angelo the coyote.”

  He took a deep breath, held it, slowly released it through his nose.