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Yes, I'm sorry about that. I quickly spotted my error and corrected it. :)
Yes, it is, isn't it? It was before the peace process and the Belfast Good Friday Agreement. It aimed at ending the vicious cycle of violence some families found themselves trapped in, from father to son.
@PropertyOfALady try use. Perhaps you might consider splitting it into smaller packets, say three or four pages at a time and posting those?
@Dragonpol powerful stuff. I remember mainland IRA operations well.
I thought I'd post another extract from my first novel, 'An Ungentlemanly Act'. In the following snippet our hero has been captured and he, and the reader, are introduced to the main villain of the piece; Oberstleutnant Wolff, the leader of a cadre of men from
Abwehr Gruppe II. They are members of the Brandenburg Regiment, which itself was the Special Forces element of the German army, attached to the Abwehr.
I hope you enjoy (as already mentioned, please be aware that the forum system doesn't allow for paragraph indents).
Flynn felt the tight grip of the hand about his jaw as it made to lift his head. Slowly, painfully, the black mist began to clear. He realised he was in considerable pain at several points. His chest hurt from its collision with the steering wheel and there was a piercing throb at his right temple, most likely sustained as a result of the second crash.
“Can you hear me?” The voice was low, yet unconcerned and speaking in English, but with an accent as thick as tar.
“Can you hear me?” It repeated.
Flynn opened his eyes, trying to focus on the figure standing in front of him.
As his senses returned he realised his jacket was missing, as were his shoes, and was suddenly aware of two hands, holding his elbows in a vice like grip, effectively pinning him down into a straight backed wooden chair which was as hard and uncompromising as the voice.
“Can you hear me?” The voice repeated before saying something which Flynn couldn’t quite hear.
Looking up, Flynn found himself staring into a face. The face was lean and hard and cruel, with hawk like blue eyes. The mouth was thin and mirthless, overhung by a slender Roman nose. The blond hair clung close cropped to the sides of the head but was quite long at the top, a kiss of fringe hanging lankly above the left eye. The hand - which was still squeezing Flynn’s jaw and compressing his lips - belonged to this face, as did the voice. The voice seemed somehow out of kilter with what he was seeing. It was bordering on shrill, effeminate even. The face seemed to guess that Flynn had registered its oddly immature tones. It snarled, the eyes twinkling sadistically as the hand let go of Flynn’s jaw before swiping hard across his cheek. Flynn could do nothing but accept the blow.
“Who are you?” The man said, straightening himself and turning to walk to a small wooden table which was set by the back wall.
Flynn regained his composure and he watched carefully as the man sat on the edge of the table.
He was about the same height as Flynn, six feet three, though of very lean build. He looked athletic, but with a physique which told of dedication to sports such as skiing or fencing. He was wearing a pair of black leather boots that terminated just below the knee, into which were inserted the bottoms of a pair of smartly pressed black riding breeches, held about the slim waist by a wide black leather brass buckled belt. The belt, like the boots, had been polished to within an inch of its life. The long sleeved black pullover was woven from thin material and had a low turtle neck collar. Flynn noticed the fingers, slender, like the legs of a spider and he was at once obliquely reminded of the film ‘Nosferatu’.
So, Flynn realised, this was Oberstleutnant Kurt Wolff. The MI9 description had proved accurate indeed. Although Flynn continued to stare vacantly at Wolff, he was using his forward and peripheral vision to observe his immediate surroundings.
On the table, to the left of where Wolff was sitting, was a riding crop, an angle poise lamp and a lidless shoe box.
The room itself - what Flynn could see of it - seemed small, long but narrow; with rough stone walls which were covered in peeling whitewash. It was lit harshly by at least two bulkhead lights set on the low arched ceiling and smelled of damp and cigarettes.
Flynn sensed that besides Wolff and the owner of unseen hands who were still fiercely gripping his elbows, there were others in the room behind him, out of sight, listening, menacing.
“WHO ARE YOU!” Wolff barked, his voice echoing dully about the room.
And later on, from the same scene. After Flynn has been subjected to a beating during his interrogation (if you haven't read the other passages then be aware that Flynn is operating under an alias:
“But, I am telling the truth?!” Flynn exclaimed, his voice hoarse.
Wolff shook his head slightly, though Flynn could see by his eyes that he was relishing what would come next.
“Please.” Wolff replied softy. “You underestimate both myself and my organisation.” He let his words hang in the air, menacing in their subtlety. After an inordinately long pause, he continued.
“One of our men was killed yesterday. Shot down by assassins whom I know to be from the Bolshevik terrorist group known as La Mano Roja. What do you know of this incident, Herr Kelly?”
“Nothing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I see.” Wolff broke in, seemingly uninterested. Turning his gaze away from Flynn momentarily, Wolff barked an order in German to the others.
“Hold him.” Immediately Flynn felt several pairs of hands grasp at his shoulders and arms, pressing him down hard into the chair. Another man had joined the two he had seen before; he too was thuggish in appearance, shorter than Flynn and stockily built.
“You speak German, Herr Kelly?” Wolff continued, himself still speaking in German. Flynn looked at him blankly.
“No? Then you will be blissfully unaware of what is about to happen.” Turning to his men, Wolff snapped. “Keep a tight hold of him. We’ll treat him to another taste of my crop.”
Flynn watched in trepidation as Wolff scooped the crop from the table and stood up.
“There is really no need for this unpleasantness, Herr Kelly.” He said, speaking English now. “Just confirm what I already know and it will be all over. You are an agent of the British MI9, you have been sent here just as your two colleagues were. Tell me the details of your mission and what MI9 know about our own operation.”
Flynn had known what was coming ever since he regained consciousness, there was little point in flying into a panic he told himself, for he could do nothing but accept his lot. Sooner or later they would kill him, of that he was sure. It was just a question of how long they would take to do it.
The German’s procedures for dealing with their enemies were already painfully obvious. Flynn guessed that the fate of the MI9 men who had preceded him would have been too grisly for words.
He could do nothing to stop the involuntary shudder which ran the length of his spine that must also have been felt by the hands which were still gripping his elbows.
Flynn’s mind whirred frantically. The solitary grain of control he retained over the situation was nothing other than his choice to prolong the agony or hasten his own demise. It didn’t take long for Flynn to make up his mind and he silently determined that he would indeed go out with a bang, taking his secrets with him, and in so doing make sure these bastards didn’t have it all their own way.
Wolff stepped forward, raising the crop high above his head as he came. His eyes were alight again, ready to savour the beating he was about to administer. There was the hint of a smile playing about his lips as he opened his mouth to speak.
Neither Wolff nor any of his men saw Flynn’s leg until it was too late. The kick was swift and unstoppable, connecting hard with Wolff’s testicles. Wolff buckled and staggered back, dropping the crop as he went.
The second or so it took the enemy to register what was happening was all Flynn needed. He let out a roar and, despite the best efforts of those attempting to hold him, was on his feet and pulling away across the room towards his target.
His injured feet exploded with pain but his fury, adrenalin, and the knowledge that this would be his final act were conspiring to anaesthetise his wounds. He felt a fist on the back of his head, but it was as nothing as he followed up his own attack. He had torn his right arm free in the confusion and punched out with as much force as he could muster, his fist landing square on Wolff’s cheek.
As if in slow motion, Wolff began to crumple drunkenly backwards, his own arms flailing yet unable to arrest his fall as he crashed heavily, shoulder blades first, against the edge of the table.
Flynn saw the flash of pain across Wolff’s face as he made to follow up with an uppercut to the chin to shatter the jaw, but before he could get into position he suddenly found his attack halted.
Two, three, perhaps four pairs of arms were now about him, their owners grunting and cursing with each other as they attempted to control him, dragging him away from Wolff.
Flynn struggled like a man possessed, his progress checked and his arms now constricted, he saw Wolff falling awkwardly to the floor. Flynn screamed an obscenity as he kicked out wildly at Wolff’s head. The strike narrowly missed and put him off balance.
Fleetingly, among the blur of movement, Flynn saw a face appear close to his immediate front. It was a face contorted with hate and it belonged to one of the men who had held him while Wolff had gone to work with the crop. Flynn saw the arm drawn back to its full extent then the fist being thrown forward as the man attempted to deliver a punch. Flynn’s arms were held but not his head. Before the man could react, Flynn struck out hard with a vicious headbutt, catching his opponent squarely on the bridge of the nose. The man reeled, his nose burst in a scattergun cascade of blood as he stumbled away from the fray.
Flynn screamed more obscenities as several blows rained down upon him from all quarters. They were on him, crowding, punching and kicking. Someone had hold of his left arm, but was only clinging on with one hand as he punched Flynn repeatedly in the midriff. Pulling hard sideways, Flynn wrenched his hand free and, in the same move, lashed out at the man to his right. His fist caught the man a glancing blow on the side of the head, though the blow was hard it was not enough to remove the target from the melee.
A thick forearm matted with dark hair appeared from nowhere to have Flynn by the throat in its crook before dragging him backwards and off balance. He had no choice but to comply as several more punches landed about his torso. With his free hand, Flynn grabbed for the arm, clawing with his fingernails and loosening it just enough to allow him bite deeply into the wrist. Flynn heard a yelp of pain and tasted the blood as the arm recoiled away over his left shoulder. In that same instant an unseen fist caught Flynn hard and fast on the right cheek, causing him to stagger sideways. It was then that he noticed the man whom he had headbutted. His nose was well and truly smashed, with blood spattered across his face and shirt. The man was coming back into the fight with murder in his eyes, both arms flailing wildly in his rage. Flynn’s own counter punch was straight and true, landing with an almighty crunch on the already broken nose. This time the man went down, spinning on his axis by one hundred and eighty degrees before falling face first into the stone floor. As he landed, Flynn had his leg up, the flat of his foot stamping down brutally on the back of the man’s neck.
Without warning, a powerful punch caught Flynn in the face, knocking him backwards into the wall and forcing the air from his lungs. He had no time to recover before they were on him, hemming him in with a fusillade of punches.
There were only three of them now, and it flashed though Flynn’s mind that he may actually have a chance to deal some permanent rough justice before his own demise. No sooner had this thought passed when he saw Wolff picking himself up from the floor. Still dazed and with his back to Flynn, he was grabbing at the table in order to gain his feet.
Snarling like a crazed beast, Flynn came forward, giving as good as he got, trying to close on Wolff so that he could pounce upon him and hopefully snap his neck before he himself was finished. The hands were tearing at him, trying to restrain him, but to little avail.
“I’ll kill you, you bastard!” Flynn screamed, seeing the look of panic flash across Wolff’s face as he half turned to see the madman bearing down upon him.
CRACK! The thud of the cosh landing over his right ear wasn’t felt so much as heard, Flynn began to fall, as if in slow motion. He took in the whirling fists and the bodies crowding round him to punch and kick as he slumped to his knees. Everything was going dark now, a welcome return to unconsciousness....
A Blofeld and Goldfinger origin story arc for both characters. It’s been hard, as I want to make it modern day. A part of me also feels that the mystery of the characters is what makes them great to begin with, especially Blofeld.
Star Wars Episode 10: A title with Ice in it. Continuation from the Sequels, with our surviving characters being peace negotiators. Very much a Lando story. The villains would be female witches. No connection to Palpatine or the Sith. Rey trains Jedi, while Yoda, Luke and Qui-Gon make surprise appearances as force ghosts to help the Jedi train. A lightsaber duel on an ice planet inside a iceberg would be a action piece at some point. This is the only Star Wars movie I’ve got planned now. Let someone else continue. There’s more, but I don’t want to jinx myself.
A Al Gore Biopic. Showing how someone can take a “loss” and turn it into something positive.
Just some ideas I’ve been writing about. Not perfect, but I’m happy with them.
The one following is called 'A Dislocation of Expectation' for reasons which become apparent upon reading it.
I used to write so much more, and used to be the most prolific poster on the forum, but these days it's just hard to wedge out that time. A lot of responsibilities and obligations these days, and also the fact that I essentially live at work a lot of the time now. By the time I get home from working a week of 10 to 12 hour shifts, I just kind of want to let my brain rest and pass out instead of forcing my brain to keep running like a tired hamster on a wheel. Hard to feel the creative spirit or motivation when you're that past it. I'm also far more seasoned at art, with writing being a second love that I came to enjoy when I was much older and had actual things worth saying, which is a double edged sword for sure. It's a constant tug of war I have: do I work on the fifty different art projects I have either plastered all in my head or semi or partially developed in reality, or do I chase the dragon of a writing idea I have? I sometimes become so unsure of which creative avenue to travel that I "put it in park" and don't do anything. Part of me loves that I enjoy writing and art, and have gotten a lot of accolades and support for both over the years, but another part of me wishes I was really incredible at just one of those instead of being just good or proficient at both. Then I could just pour all my energy and all my focus in one direction.
It really is hard to be a writer, and only writers know this. I see a lot of readers who love a series or style of books and who will act very cruelly towards the writer of these characters or series because they don't produce enough. George R.R. Martin comes to mind, who I do tend to sympathize with because he's a man struggling with the weight of a gigantic mythos that is not only a hard writing task on its own (chapter based first person POV that is attempting to chain together a cohesive and intelligible story), but has become even harder because of how big his world has gotten and how much pressure is on him because the Game of Thrones IP is grander than God at this point. He has so many people waiting for his every word, but at the same time he's just a man. He has times where he is excited to write, and weeks where he churns pages out while feeling some nice momentum in his story where the narrative really speaks to him, but sometimes he probably spends weeks not touching his pen or keyboard at all. And the latter shouldn't be seen as this great evil that must be challenged or brutally eviscerated. The creative muse is elusive, and sometimes she's an easy partner whereas other times she likes being chased. And sometimes, we don't want the trouble.
The life of any artist, no matter what you do, is one of ups and downs. Sometimes you feel it, get into a nice groove and just produce at an insane level when you feel inspired and unencumbered by your own insecurities or worries in life. Then there's times where you just don't even want to think about anything creative, either because you're in a bad spot in life, don't have a schedule that currently affords that hobbyist luxury, or you are so burnt out from over producing for so long that you just need to take some time away and let your creative spirit find you again. I feel all these things, and I know we all do, because we know what it's like to do what we do, whatever level we do it at. I just wish others who don't have our experiences could relate a bit more. I often get confronted by people who wonder why I don't do more with my work, or they tell me they wish they had a shred of my ability so that they could do something similar, but there's more to the picture than that. If it was so easy, everyone would be doing it, eh? Here's to the creators, those who do the closest thing to magic that exists in our reality: shaping something dimensional and pulsating out of mere scraps of dreams and thoughts in their heads.
I would have liked to make the paperback versions cheaper but it was not possible. Size wise they both share the same dimensions as the hardback version of 'Trigger Mortis', so they're a lengthy read. For the eBook format I've managed what I hope is a keen price point (£1.99). They are both free to read if you subscribe to Kindle Unlimited.
I wrote the third instalment, called 'Clear For Action' but that needs some quite extensive reworking in order to bring it up to standard. Now the bit is between my teeth I think I might set about 'polishing' it.
Anyway, if anyone's interested here's the link to both books:
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0BCZ4NYGV
https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0BCZ9Z5XQ
Thanks for looking.
Thank you, @stag. I am working on a few article ideas and trying to finish off some old articles that were partially written but never completed. There's one in particular I've been writing and researching on and off since 2012 that I'd love to get finished this year. I'll see how it goes. All the best with the new revised editions of your first two Harry Flynn novels.
A suave British agent gazes at a beautiful woman across a chemin table.
This is Bond, James Bond -- 007
At any moment he must be ready
To take a woman to bed
Or drive his Aston Martin ‘cross the Swiss countryside
Guns, gadgets, and girls
This is the world of MI6 agent James Bond
A world of spying and intrigue
Look up the definition of bad-ass in the dictionary
And there you will find his picture
Ready to takedown SPECTRE & SMERSH
All with one fell swoop
Without even breaking a sweat; not a hair out of place
Suits by Turnball & Asser
It would sure be nice to be as awesome as him
Q Branch provides tech
M provides assignments
Bond provides protection
For Queen and Country
Vesper Lynd remarks “Bond reminds me rather of Hoagy Carmichael, but there is something cold and ruthless.”
Just as Bond should be
For the folks at the SIS
As well as Miss Moneypenny
I envy you
You work with a brilliant man
One whom I would love to know
One whom I would love to be
All these reasons and more
Are why James Bond is best
Nobody does it better
Than Bond, James Bond
@Dragonpol if you remember, I was asking for help with Irish sounding names for the second book, your input eventually made it's way into the name of the main 'baddie' in 'Execution of Duty'.
Speaking of help, I'm throwing this out to you all. I've started working on the third Harry Flynn book (actually it's already been written). Just a bit of a preamble but it pick up directly from where EoD left off and sees Flynn involved in trying up a few 'loose ends' as a result of what happened during his last mission (which takes up at least the first quarter of the book) he then goes on to face his new mission.
I'm a bit reticent about effectively encompassing two missions in the same book - though it's far to late to change now - what do you think? Right or wrong?
I had forgotten that, @stag, but now you mention it that does ring a bell. I can't recall what name I came up with but I hope it was a good one. I'm honoured you decided to use it as the name of the main villain in your second novel. That was nice of you and I'm happy to have helped in a small way.
As for the second novel carrying over into the third novel I think that is an interesting approach and the reader of the second novel will enjoy the familiarity of the previous mission being tied up first. It would be a nice way to ease the reader into the next mission. I'd say go for it.
The three books follow on from each other - with a time period of just two weeks between books one and two. Here's the Blurb for book two to illustrate.
Harry Flynn is back, and he’s more dangerous than ever.
Spring 1942. Despite the United States entry into the war, things are still going badly for the British. They find themselves facing serious reverses on many fronts and are stretched almost beyond breaking point. In the cold waters of the North Atlantic, a battle is raging upon which the fate of Great Britain will be decided.
Within this most deadly of engagements, the Nazis have the upper hand. Allied shipping is being lost to enemy submarines at an alarming rate; a rate which cannot be sustained. Both sides know that, if the British lose this campaign, they will lose the war.
The British Security Co-ordination, a New York based MI6 department, set up in 1940 to investigate enemy activity and prevent sabotage of British interests in the United States, has been hard at work ever since it was discovered that someone, somewhere, was providing German Intelligence with information to allow the U-boat fleet to better intercept British convoys. The outcome of their investigation is as simple as it is chilling. The person responsible for leaking the information must die.
When the BSC present their findings to London, it is decided that the case is to be turned over to Department Seven, the top secret assassination and sabotage bureau.
It’s a couple of weeks since Department Seven’s top agent, Harry Flynn’s, return to London from Spain. His triumph against the Nazi intelligence service sent shock waves through the corridors of power. Everyone authorised to know the most sensitive of war secrets were made to sit up and take notice of Department Seven, for Flynn delivered a stunning and sorely needed victory in the deadly clandestine war against Hitler; a victory whose ramifications are yet to be quantified.
However, Flynn’s accomplishments came at great personal cost. Tortured while in the hands of the enemy, his wounds extend far beyond the physical. Under normal circumstances, he would be removed from active service in order he has chance to recover. Unfortunately, the tide of war dictates that Department Seven cannot afford him that luxury.
The prime minister himself has decreed that the job of removing the threat to British convoys is to be given utmost priority. The Director of Department Seven, Sir Claude Robertson QC, knows he has only one man capable of carrying out this mission. He realises he has been pushing Flynn hard these past months - how further can he expect his top agent to go before he cracks under the strain?
Flynn soon finds himself dispatched to New York and propelled once more into mortal danger. The gravity of the situation dictates that failure is not an option. If he is to protect British merchant shipping against the infamous U-boat wolf packs, Flynn must succeed against an enemy every inch as dangerous as the Nazis; the New York mob!
I may post all of my ideas here or in the jaws thread one idea I loved was Hooper became an islander with a bar (named Quint) and he summarized the events of the Orca in a similar monologue to the Indianapolis speech.
Basically it’s the anniversary of the attack and a group of podcasters investigate what happened all those years ago and well in their investigation they realize a new 25 foot great white shark is back in the waters of Amity island
I remind you again of the issues with the forum and indents.
The flight had been delayed, so almost an hour and a half behind schedule, the DC3 swept into land at La Guardia airport. There was rain in the breeze and the leaden sky forecast more as Flynn and the rest of the passengers disembarked and crossed to the terminal building for the brisk formalities of customs and immigration.
Flynn was mightily relieved to finally be at his destination. Oh by god how he hated flying, and these past few days had been full of it.
He had flown From London to Prestwick in Scotland, and from there boarded a long range RAF transport plane for the journey to Canada, via Iceland and Greenland, eventually landing at Goose Bay. He had then been transported to Quebec where he had boarded a scheduled civilian flight to New York.
As was normal operating procedure, Flynn was travelling under an assumed identity, with all the necessary false documentation required to satisfy whatever officialdom came his way.
For the duration of the mission he was a Canadian citizen, a certain Fredrick White. Mr White was a travelling salesman who specialised in footwear; however, the purpose of his visit to New York was to take a vacation.
Flynn knew that this identity would only be used if confronted with the police or other authorities. During his various flights he had ample opportunity to flesh out the basis of a workable plan of action and had concluded that in order to make his task easier he would have to call upon an old acquaintance. She knew him by his real name so Harry Flynn it would be.
As he stepped out of the landplane administration building, Flynn cast his eye about the car parking area opposite. He was on the lookout for the black Lincoln Zephyr coupé. He knew the licence number and was aware that it would be being driven by his BSC contact.
He quickly spotted his target. It was parked just off to his half-left at the leading edge of the front row of parked vehicles. There was a man leaning casually with his back against the driver’s door and one foot propped on the running board.
After cutting through the line of taxis which were disgorging or picking up passengers from the kerbside, Flynn made his approach.
The man had seen him by now and stiffened slightly as he recognised the stranger. He looked around thirty years of age. He was shorter than Flynn - about six foot - and wearing a smartly pressed heavyweight grey herringbone three piece suit and a white shirt which was finished off with a black tie. A white pocket fold was protruding from the breast pocket and the wide brimmed dark grey fedora was worn so its brim came down just above his eyes.
He was smoking a cigarette which he dropped then stubbed out with his shoe as Flynn closed. He was good looking and, upon first impression, appeared to have an air of arrogance about him, as if he had somehow let the fact that he would have no trouble attracting ladies go to his head.
“Flynn?” He opened, extending his hand.
“Yes.” Flynn replied, accepting the invitation. Pressing palms, Flynn was immediately aware that this fellow possessed soft hands, administrator’s hands.
“My name’s Greene, Terence of that ilk. I’m a representative of our mutual friends at the Rockefeller Centre.” His accent was clipped, typical English upper-class. “Throw your case in the trunk and we’ll be off.”
Greene climbed behind the wheel. Flynn followed his instruction and deposited his case before making for the passenger door.
Greene had the engine started and was letting it idle as Flynn settled into his seat.
“There, on the parcel shelf.” Greene pointed with his thumb, after pushing the column shift into first. “The briefcase. Take it. Inside is your gun and ammunition, along with the hip holster as requested. You’ll also find your expenses; one hundred and fifty dollars. The keys to your apartment and the car, the licence plate number is on a tag, are also in there. It’s a two-tone grey Buick Special Sedanette. The weapon is untraceable and there’s no need to sign for the cash. There’s also no need to return anything; unspent money and car included. Although it’s all legal and registered, the car is sterile, it can’t be traced back to the BSC and we want it gone afterwards, so just leave it parked somewhere with the keys in where it has a good chance being stolen. Best too to wipe it for prints before you abandon it.”
Greene was concentrating as he slotted the car into the first break among the line of traffic which was slowly leaving the airport.
“Should you need any more money it will be accountable to my office. Oh, and just a word of caution, they don’t like handing out cash without very good reason. You and I probably won’t meet again, unless you require assistance or further information, or if you have anything you wish to report. I will, however, be on call for the duration of your stay. I’ll give you a ground briefing during the drive.”
“That’s fine.” Flynn replied, reaching into his jacket for his cigarette case and lighter.
“I’ve heard some very interesting stories about you D7 strong-arm boys.” Greene smiled, attempting to keep up the flow of conversation. “All complimentary of course. You’re known as Churchill’s Troublemakers within our circles. I understand that you’re all from the commandos?”
Flynn made no reply. He hadn’t heard of that nickname before but he rather liked it. ‘Churchill’s Troublemakers’. He wondered what Sir Claude would make of the title?
“I’ve a friend who is serving with number three commando. Charles Wittering. He’s a Major. Perhaps you know him?” Greene continued.
“I can’t say I do.” Flynn said, wondering if Greene’s inquisitiveness had a motive he, Flynn, was not privy to.
“Splendid chaps one and all.” Greene smiled. “The last time I saw Charles, he told me a little of the selection and training you fellows undergo prior to acceptance into the Special Service Brigade. Very tough indeed, the envy of military units worldwide. As a matter of fact, I was so inspired by his accounts that I considered giving it a shot myself. I don’t think I’m good enough though.”
“You never know until you try.” Flynn replied flatly.
After the Zephyr had joined the central parkway, Flynn got his first proper view of the Manhattan skyline. He had fallen in love with New York upon his first visit and always looked forward to time spent there. That familiar feeling of excitement and anticipation at being here in this great city once again began to well up in the back of his throat.
Flynn could make out the familiar outline of the Empire State Building, standing needle like among a forest of other skyscrapers, and was cheered by it. It felt to him as if he were being greeted by an old friend.
By now the clouds had broken, bathing the city in early spring sunshine which, to Flynn, was yet another unspoken signal of welcome.
“O’Hare controls pretty much every criminal enterprise in the whole of Manhattan.” Greene began, cutting in on Flynn’s thoughts as he waved his finger at the scene now filling the windshield.
“And nothing happens here which he doesn’t know about. His influence spreads further across the city, and indeed beyond, but this is his stronghold.
The Five Point gang reign supreme and guard their territory with such diligence that the other syndicates, even the Mafia, have to play second fiddle. Fear is the watchword, their network so comprehensive and the hold on everyone within their territory so absolute that their activities have proved impenetrable to the American authorities and, latterly, us. Indeed, we’ve found it almost impossible to get any worthwhile information on any aspect of Five Point operations.
O’Hare is a very slick operator, distancing himself from the darker side of his gang’s activities by earning money from the various legitimate business enterprises which are attributed to the Five Pointer’s. Despite all he has done or been implicated in, O’Hare goes to great lengths to ensure he himself remains firmly within the law. With one eye on the fate of Al Capone, O’Hare pays his taxes. That said, as a demonstration of his wealth and power, rumour has it he keeps a safe in his apartment which holds one million dollars.”
“A million dollars?!” Flynn repeated, his interest suddenly piqued.
“Yes.” Nodded Greene. “Allegedly the proceeds of crime, but officially savings accrued from his various business portfolios, net profits of course. There’s nothing illegal about holding such a large amount of money as it all can be accounted for. O’Hare has nothing to fear in terms of theft either as, given his fanatical approach to personal security, his place is guarded far better than many banks. Besides which, only someone who has suicide in mind would ever attempt to rob him.”
“I’d like to take a look at his home. Do you know where it is?” Flynn asked.
“Yes. On Fifth Avenue, just on the edge of Central Park. It’s actually a onetime five storey luxury apartment block which was purchased in nineteen thirty-six by one of the Fiver Pointer’s companies.
It was subsequently converted for O’Hare’s personal use. He took over the whole of the top floor and soon afterwards moved the leaseholders out. I recall reading that there was some opposition from the residents at first but they were soon, how can I put it, persuaded, that to leave their homes was the sensible thing to do!”
“Let’s drive by before you drop me at my apartment. I want to see for myself what sort of security set up he has on the perimeter. It may give me a few ideas.”
Flynn slotted the Buick into one of the few remaining spaces at the kerbside then stepped out. A glance at his wristwatch told him it was almost midnight. If nothing had changed since his last visit to New York, she would be here until gone two. Flynn knew full well the problems of acting upon old intelligence, but hoped that his target may just still be working at the same place and doing the same thing as when they had last met.
The vivid green and red animated neon sign which showed a couple of dancing girls high kicking either side of the name, announced the entrance to Boo Boo’s nightclub. The canopy which bore the same logo in red and green, extended halfway across the sidewalk.
Flynn joined the small queue sheltering beneath, paying his fifty cents entrance fee to a pretty young girl in a faux bellhop uniform before checking his hat and coat into the cloakroom.
He was wearing a smart dark blue double-breasted suit, white silk shirt and a black tie fastened loosely about his neck with his favourite Windsor knot. He had already noticed lingering glances from a couple of ladies who were on their way out of the club arm in arm with their male friends which prompted him to stop and study himself in the full length wall mirror just inside the entrance way. After he had satisfied himself he was looking his best, he took the dozen steps which led down into the bowels of the building.
Flynn paused on the bottom step to take stock of his surroundings. Boo Boo’s was exactly as he remembered. It was a sea of maroon and gilt, fashioned in a mock Baroque style of the designer’s own imagination which left the place looking vaguely like some third rate Hollywood movie set.
It was illuminated by elaborate wall and ceiling lights which, while throwing enough light into areas of the club which the owners would have the patrons concentrate upon - the bar, dance floor and stage - the remaining areas were in shade, for possibly no other reason than to disguise the fact that, upon detailed inspection, those same areas appeared rather shabby.
Into the centre of the far wall was set a small stage, just large enough to accommodate the eight piece band and a few performers. Directly in front of the stage was the dance floor, which itself was contained on three sides by tables. In the back corner - to the left of the room as one entered - was an alcove, a small raised area which was home to another half dozen or so tables. This section of the room was flanked by cheap looking plaster columns and swagged maroon velvet curtains then cordoned off with gilt rope. The area was the preserve of VIP’s, with a small sign atop a slender brass pole pronouncing that entry was by invitation only.
The place was crowded, but the burble of conversation from the tables was lost beneath the noise of the band, who were pushing out a tight rendition of ‘You Made Me Love You’ accompanied by an attractive blonde singer in a low cut pink satin gown who, Flynn opined, was making a good and equally suggestive job of caressing the microphone as she performed.
The dance floor was a crush of movement as couples circumnavigated the space in time to the music. A haze of cigarette smoke hung like a blanket over the scene, so thick in fact that it was enough to obscure much of the ceiling from detailed view and even diffuse the lights.
And, later:
The meal had been and gone and as Flynn guessed, was sufficiently bland to be unmemorable. He had taken to drinking Oshkosh beer, though making sure he only had a couple of glasses. He wanted to remain sober for obvious reasons, but also because in the back of his mind he thought Donahue or his henchmen may not have finished with him.
They knew he wasn’t carrying a weapon, the search had confirmed as much, so they might just wait for him to get out into the foyer or even onto the street before attacking him. They wouldn’t want to kill him, just issue a severe beating in the presence of the women and the other mobsters in order to illustrate what fate held for anyone dumb enough to speak back to Wild Bill.
If this was what was planned, then Flynn determined he would be ready and he wouldn’t hold back. Although he had no realistic prospect of winning a stand up fist fight against several quality opponents, he knew that before he himself went down he would take a couple of them with him.
The night’s entertainment had continued throughout this time, with music and dancing and several appearances from Boo Boo’s own dance troupe.
The six girls had taken to the dance floor at regular intervals in increasingly risqué outfits to give well oiled interpretations of various popular tunes rendered by the house band, high kicking their way through each routine in a flurry of sequins and feathers.
Their performances were a treat for the audience, and in particular all the red-blooded males, who clapped enthusiastically each time they appeared.
Flynn had seen her on the end of the line as the dancers first took to the floor, and she looked every inch as lovely as he remembered. She was slightly built, perhaps about five feet three tall, and the curves of her toned physique were barely concealed beneath the tight gold costume. Her legs flashed tantalisingly against the tassels which made up the short skirt section of the outfit as she shimmied and kicked in time to the music.
It was late, so Flynn guessed that this was their last spot. Leaving the stage to rapturous applause, Flynn saw her searching among the crowd until her gaze fell upon him. She half smiled then was gone through the door to the right hand side of the stage.
“Harry Flynn!”
Flynn stood up to greet her as she approached. He drew the chair away from the table and offered it to her. She sat down then Flynn took to his own seat.
“Gem Stone.” He said looking into her eyes. Gemma Stonello, or Gem Stone as she was colloquially known, was even more beautiful at close quarter. She was of Italian stock, and traditionally attractive in typical Latin fashion. She had no need for makeup and she knew it, applying lipstick and powder in a most frugal manner. Her hazel eyes were wide and doe like, yet backlit with a fire which spoke of a temperament that was never far from the boil. Her nose was a study in classical perfection and the mouth - that oh so kissable mouth - was full and inviting. Her long auburn hair was set in a fashionable barrel curl pony tail which drew it away from the slender neck. Around her neck she was wearing a thin gold chain with a small crucifix which glinted softly as it caught the light, complimenting the wonderful olive tone of her skin as it rested tantalisingly at the beginning of her cleavage.
She had changed out of her dance costume and was wearing a navy blue polka dot dress with a low sweetheart neckline and elbow length sleeves trimmed in white, with a slim white fabric belt which accentuated her waistline perfectly.
“It’s been a long time.” She opened, with a typical New York drawl which told its own story of perhaps too much of a fondness for cigarettes.
“Too long.” Flynn replied as he waved over the waiter. Pressing the twenty dollars into his expectant palm, he continued. “Would you like a drink, Gem?”
She looked at her wristwatch.
“It’s getting late, but yes, thank you. I’ll have a sidecar.”
“You heard the lady.” Flynn nodded to the waiter.
As the waiter withdrew, Flynn scooped up his cigarette case and lighter. Pressing the button to open the case, he offered it to Gem. She plucked one of the cigarettes then brought it to her lips expectantly as Flynn reached forward with the lighter. She cupped his hand briefly as she ignited the cigarette.
“What the hell are these?” She coughed, taken by surprise at its taste.
“Gauloises.” Flynn smiled as he removed one from the case then lit it. “They’re French.”
She sat back in the chair and regarded him, drawing on the cigarette then expelling the smoke upwards out of the corner of her mouth.
“So, Harry Flynn, what brings you back to town? And what’s with the scar?” She said, looking at his left temple. “It looks pretty fresh. You been upsetting someone you shouldn’t have?”
“I have a little business here.” He smiled, ignoring the question about his souvenir from Spain. “A little business which I thought you might like a taste of.”
“Is that so?” She answered sceptically. “And just what might that business be?”
“I’ll tell you later, but I think you might like what I have to say. In the meantime, how’s about you and I hitting another club?”
Please remember the forum 'indent issue'.
Ducking hard left into an open entrance way, Flynn suddenly found himself inside a fairground. The place was a tangle of people from the gates on in and a blur of light and sounds washed over everything as if to further confuse the scene. A carousel and half a hundred other attractions whirled and span and flashed, the movements quite hypnotic in their effect. The noise of a fairground organ lapped noisily about the place, so loud that it almost overwhelmed the fireworks. The babble of the crowd and the shrieks and laughter of those enjoying the pleasures of the rides mingled with the noise to create a single slab of sound.
Flynn was still at the sprint and quickly made to lose himself among the whirligig of activity before his pursuers had chance to follow.
Once ensconced within the nearest gaggle of tourists, Flynn halted then looked back toward the entrance. The four men were already there and had stopped on the threshold to engage in a hurried conversation. A pointed finger from one of them sent one man walking briskly left, another to the right while the finger pointer made his way in Flynn’s direction. They had lost sight of him so were splitting up to search the place. Flynn noticed that one man stayed behind to guard the entrance, which told him there must only be one way in and out.
Flynn turned and made his way deeper into the funfair, shouldering his way through the crowd. He needed to get rid of this bloody suitcase, as it stood he may as well be carrying a big sign saying ‘I AM HERE’. If he could find somewhere to safely stash the case, somewhere it wouldn’t be found until it was retrieved by himself of one of the BSC men, then he would take himself off the back foot. Until then, he was simply marking himself to those who were hunting him, and would most likely be unable to react quickly enough should he be compromised.
He stopped once more and then turned to make a visual sweep of the area. Just as he had managed to disappear among the crowd, so had his pursuers. They were out there somewhere, closing on him from three sides but he could now not see them.
Among the head and shoulders perspective which was the only point of reference open to them, those doing the chasing would be looking for a tall man wearing a black newsboy cap. Flynn took off the cap and stuffed it inside his coat.
He continued to weave his way through the crowd until he happened upon the gaggle of sideshows which occupied the edge of the park. Announcers were reeling in the tourists with various cries of ‘Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! If you hurry, you’ll see the show!’ And people were eagerly handing over their twenty-five cents to see ‘the fattest man in the world’, the ‘bearded lady’, the ‘pinhead people’ and all the other curious sights on offer.
With a rising sense of dread, Flynn realised that if he continued on his present course he would corral himself into one corner of the park, thus making it easier for the enemy to find him. Now more than ever, he concluded, he needed to outwit his pursuers.
Turning sharply, Flynn had his hand in his pocket and passed over a few coins to the ticket man standing in front of an entrance over which a sign declared ‘THE HOT SPOT. The Best Girl Show In The World!’ in intricate three foot high gold and red letters. The announcer was calling to the crowd “Step right up! We’ve got oriental dancers! We’ve got exotic dancers! We’ve got a little lady who does the dance of temptation! We’ve got the fastest stepping show on the whole of Coney Island!”
Flynn hardly registered what was being said, he was too focused on his gamble that the men looking for him would perhaps confine their activities to the open areas of the funfair, meaning he could hide within this place until they had passed him by. He would then return to the entrance. The last mobster would be waiting for him, but now alone. If he couldn’t pass unseen, Flynn determined to draw the man into giving chase then, as soon as practicable, he would kill or otherwise incapacitate him.
He passed through the curtained entrance. Inside, the place was quite dimly lit, except where a row of lights had been angled to shine onto some sort of low catwalk which ran from front to back for almost the length of the room. The space either side of this platform was packed with men, each eagerly taking in the show. A man at the rear of the hall was playing a badly tuned piano and it was to the accompaniment of this music that the dancers performed. They appeared one by one; each dressed in exotic outfits which were little more than a sparse collection of feathers and lace, to parade along to the end of the catwalk and back before disappearing behind a faded velvet curtain.
The display of flesh was enough to whip the audience into enthusiastic applause, but made it difficult for the girls to hear the music so, even had they any notion of actually dancing, they were largely unable to.
Flynn pushed himself in at the back of the crowd, keeping one eye on the entrance lest any of the mobsters made a sudden appearance.
Was there anywhere he could stash the case? The catwalk seemed a likely hiding place, until he realised that the sides were boarded with plywood. What about behind the piano? It was angled in the corner and if he could place it, the case would go unseen. A closer inspection led Flynn to conclude that there was no way he could get into position without the pianist spotting what he was up to.
“Bloody case!” Flynn muttered to himself.
Just then, Flynn’s eyes fell upon a lone figure. It was framing the doorway about ten yards distant. Despite Flynn’s attempt to hide himself the figure had already seen him and was beginning to move briskly in his direction.
Flynn recognised the man immediately as one of the four who were chasing him. Under the lights Flynn could see he was the very essence of every gangster cliché. He was about 5’10” and stockily built, wearing a dark blue double-breasted suit with a white shirt and matching tie. The wide brimmed fedora was set at an angle which allowed Flynn to fleetingly study the face. The eyes were merciless and their expression of hate had now spread across the rest of his face. The face itself looked as if it had seen more than its fair share of punishment and, aside from the badly broken nose, a prominent scar ran from his left cheekbone almost to the point of his chin. He was a Five Point gang thug alright.
Flynn guessed he would be carrying a variety of nasty little weapons about his person which he would have no hesitation in deploying. Glancing down at the man’s hands for evidence of a knife or cut-throat razor, Flynn was taken aback that he had seemingly no regard for his surroundings or potential witnesses, for he could clearly make out the snub nosed revolver clamped in the man's right hand.
The firecrackers were still exploding overhead but, in here, the sound of a shot could not be disguised. Flynn guessed that if he so desired, the thug could shoot before melting away into the confusion of a panicked crowd, and the look on his face told Flynn that he would have no hesitation in doing so.
Flynn placed the suitcase down at his side then half raised his hands in resignation. The man’s eyes were still boring into him as he closed to within arm’s length.
“Okay, you son of a bitch!” He spat, his voice like gravel. “Get the case and walk to the entrance. I’ll be right behind you all the way and if you make one false move I’ll put a slug straight into your liver.”
“What is it you say?” Flynn replied in German, shrugging his shoulders in bemusement. “I don’t understand. I don’t speak English.”
Flynn had taken the man for what he was, an oaf, and was gambling that his reply was enough to throw the thug momentarily off balance and draw him closer.
“The case!” The thug snarled, nodding toward it as he took a step forward. “Pick it up, then walk!” Flynn felt the barrel of the gun jabbing into his stomach.
In a blur of movement which caught the mobster completely by surprise, Flynn’s arms came down. His right hand grabbing at the man’s wrist, while his left took hold of the pistol. Immediately pulling the gun, he had it turned away before the thug could react. BANG! Flynn didn’t know where the shot went but it missed him. Vaguely, he heard the clatter of the revolver as it fell to the ground. In that same instant Flynn’s knee was up, stabbing hard into the man’s testicles. Staggering backwards, the mobster doubled up, his face an explosion of pain. Without hesitation, Flynn was on him, chopping hard at the back of his neck twice in rapid succession as he crumpled earthward.
It was only then that Flynn registered gasps and shrieks from those about him. Some among the audience, stunned by the proximity of the gunshot, had seen what was happening and were looking on open mouthed.
The music stopped and out of the corner of his eye Flynn saw the flurry of feathers as the dancing girls ran screaming toward the curtain.
In the same instant as the lifeless body hit the floor, Flynn kicked the revolver away and produced his police badge. He flashed it to those spectating before grabbing for the case and pushing his way through the crowd towards the door. Looking back he saw a couple of people bending over the body; presumably they were still unsure of what exactly had happened and perhaps intended to render aid, but Flynn coldly opined that they were too late.