On The Late Channel

The dark summer streets of the north loop are calling thru the static and squelch of the scanner. The 10-code is heavy with traffic stops and suspicious activity. So what else is new? It's the tenderloin of Chicago. Area Three. My area. My playground at night. I like the dark. I'm going out to shoot some new stuff soon with my camera. I'm going hunting. The hunting will be good. It's always good on 'the late channel' after midnight in area three. I'll follow the neon like a thousand times before. Like a incandescent vapor trail. Can't miss. I'll leave the half drained Jack Daniels on my desk as a sign that I'll be back before sunrise

dollface....wait up, wonchya?

3/27....again

What is so mysterious about March 27th? Every year it seems my fingers are drawn to the keyboard to type something. The story My Toy City is routing around to agents and hopefully one will bite and that's all there is to say at this point in time so good evening to you.

Up LaSalle Darkly

M: yeah, there probably is six million stories in the naked city.
W: more like a couple billion.
M: Yeah--
W; What? Each person probably has a few hundred in their head.
M: And you? What's in your hunderd?
W: I live, I breathe, I seem to feel, thrillin life along the keel.
M: Just make that up?
W: Nah.
M: Ever driven up LaSalle late at night?
W: Maybe--
M: Ever seen any bodies?
W: You mean by Clark?
M: I mean by Clark.
W: No. I have not.
M: Never?
W: Never. Uh....yeah, never. That's right.
M: I see.....

W: What do you 'see'?
M: Nuthing.

W: Oh you see something alright.

M: Well....
W: Yeah?
M: Well I see one of your hundred stories rising to the surface, maybe--
W: Yeah?
M: Yeah.

M: Tell me when you saw the body. I won't spill. Let me pour you another drink.
W: Are...you...sure...we're alone in here?
M: Sure.
W: I did see one body. One time. But that was all.
M: Okay. Drink your drink and relax and tell me all about her--

City Beats

So allotta you mugs wanna suck vodka with a skirt, eh?
....Shut the door.
....Sit down. I'll pour you a smooth one.
Okay?
Fine.
The story was a real tale. Cops as aliens. Old ladies heeled over. Quite a combustion, don't you think?
....Well?
....Cat got your tongue?
I know-I know. It's late and you're wondering why I asked you over. You want that blast and you want to high-tail it over to your midnight watering hole.
Well that's fine. Drink up. That's it. Drink it down fast.
....All set?
Oh, just before you skee-daddle, what did you do with the body? You know—last night. The body!
Don't look so glum pal. You're starting to sweat. And on such a cool night. How odd.
Did I say something to rattle you?
Pardon me.
Go-hed. I see you eyeing the door. Beat it to your joint.
But those steps on the street tonight might not be mine.
When it's cold and dark later tonight, or should I say this morning, it might not be me coming along through the fog behind you. See?
But you head on out into the night.
You have yourself a time.
Tell the babe hello.

You write the next chapter....here's the beginning

It was quarter to one in the afternoon when twenty-two seventy-seven told dispatch he would go canvas on the 5th floor of the apartment building. He got a ten-four in reply. The door to number 515 was unlocked and open an inch. A bad smell hit his nostrils. He drew his automatic. Pushing open the door with the nose of his .38 he found the room had been tossed. He radioed his findings. He touched nothing in the living room and stepped over the books, broken glass and clothes strewn on the floor. He didn't touch the door frame leading into the study, nor the edge of the end table, nor the edges of the chair, nor the remote control for the television balanced on the arm of the chair nor any portion of the dead man sitting in it. The volume had been muted. His eyes were glazed over. His body was stiff. A tiny few splatters of blood dotted the top of his right ear and the right collar of his shirt. His mouth hung open like he had wanted to say something. The handle hung in the air just behind of his right temple. The blade was pretty deeply imbedded into his skull. The hair was wet and mushy around it. There was very little blood otherwise. First-class ice pick work, he thought. Then he radioed his findings. He was thinking about where to go to lunch while walking back out to the hallway. He pulled the door almost shut then stood waiting for the medical examiner.

Oh, that unmistakable, huh?

Dark is the night. But the neon has that glow you are attracted to. The jazz joint is our destination. Can you meet me there around 11? I'll be the guy swimming in jack daniels....

Here's the rub....

The name is Arty. Relax and fill a pipe with me. You got some talking you want to do? Don't let me stop you. Spill. After all, it's a free country.

You want to get comfortable? Do so....your case might just resemble the case I'm on. That said, we might have a mutual interest in seeing the johns stay away for a little while. Of course sooner or later they'll come around—they always do—flashing the buzzer and wanting some answers. But for now, everything's jake.

Go hed, light up. Just watch where you throw that paper match.

Let me refill that glass for you. This bottle ain't hurtin' nobody tonight. It's the right stuff alright.

Now if you have a story to tell you better be gettin' on with it. Send me it and I'll look it over. The address is: artyk4320@yahoo.com. If I like it fine and it makes enough sense I'll print it and then we'll have a chance to talk it over....before the detectives come knockin' wantin' their answers like they always do.