Chapter 6

The comments I've been receiving have been extremely helpful. However, it makes me want to see where discussion goes on the remaining chapters I already have written before I write more. I think I basically have to start a new draft. I want to fix the major problems that exist before I go forward, in order to have a more solid vision in my mind when I write further chapters. I have been thinking a lot about how I want to redo things, and I feel pretty good about it. But I'm more embarrassed about what I have done, lol. As it is, I feel like the book is more of a mess than I thought it was. Granted, with the way it jumps around and all the different, odd characters, that might be no surprise.

Chapter 6 is one that I'm thinking I might to place later, probably in extended form. As it is, it's more of a vignette and I'm not sure if what it reveals should be revealed so soon. And I want to develop Shot a little better.

E4, Chapter 6

Detective Shot stormed clear across the town of Tempest. He didn’t like small, former farming communities where everything was tra-la-la friendly and all the shops were closed by eight o’clock. Sure, that wretched tin diner was open 24 hours, but that was because the yahoos in Tempest needed their fill of bacon fat and gristle at all hours of the everloving night. And he didn’t like New Jersey. He was from Vegas, baby, where the lights never go out and the hookers never sleep.

There was no going back to Vegas. Shot acknowledged with consternation that it was indeed his own fault that he was in Tempest, New Jersey. He had volunteered for this investigation, after all. You do what you have to.

At least he liked messing with Vox. And he got to march right out of the stinking hellhole for a few blessed minutes to accomplish his current task.

Shot stopped when he reached the edge of a dilapidated weed-field and assessed his surroundings. He was on the highest hill in town, on the corner of a property that housed nothing but a burned-out barn. The trees were sparse. Looking down, Shot saw the road to Tempest winding away. Good. He was as far as he was going to get in reasonable walking distance from the town’s electrical gizmos and powerlines.

Shot slid a gloved hand into the dark insides of his heavy, leather trenchcoat. He tapped around the various pockets, passing over his badge and the heavy metal lump of the sidearm hanging from his right shoulder. His lithe fingers found the object he needed and pulled out a triangular box that had lots of white buttons on its ebony surface and a purple LED screen. Shot rubbed his head through his hat as he tried to remember the code he needed to key in.

The callbox was needlessly complex, - a nice cell phone set-up would have done just fine. Shot typed in the 18 digit code, raised a telescoping antenna from the box’s center and waited impatiently for a response.

“We read you, Shot,” came a firm but warbling male voice over speakers on each side of the device. Shot thought he could detect a hint of sarcasm there from Derringer. Ass.

“Yeah, I’m here. Just calling in with your daily update, my captain,” Shot said with a bastardly inflection. “I’ve talked with Mark Vox. I still believe he’s at the center of this. I had a little chat with him and he was yapping about stopping some murder. I’m going to investigate further to see what exactly he’s talking about. Might be a lead into this insanity. Derringer, respond with any further instructions if you’ve got ‘em.”

Shot clicked a button on the device and waited. And waited. The callbox didn’t quite work on real time and the delays really pissed him off. Derringer might not even respond at all, but he had to wait and see. He tapped his boots against the ground. He tossed the callbox lightly into the air above his hands a few times and caught it. He whistled a tune that he quickly realized was from some bad lounge act he had been dragged to and quickly stopped. Just when he was about to start lighting fires with the weeds and a book of matches from The Century casino, the callbox buzzed and Shot pressed the play button.

“Research Vox but don’t focus solely on him,” Derringer instructed. “Derringer out.”

Shot looked disdainfully at the box in his hands and thought about the message he had been waiting for. “I already knew that, Derringer. I am competent,” he said out loud, though no one would hear him. “Ass.”

Shot shoved the callbox back into his coat and trudged back to Tempest.