Goode and Sharpe (Short Fiction)
01st August 2006
In: Short Stories
The trouble with living with an all-action hero is that, in private, they're a bundle of nerves. An amazingly psyched-up, muscle-toned machine with split second reactions and built-in evil-detectors. But a bundle of nerves, just the same. And, of course, all that anxiety is catching. He keeps me awake at night, knowing his one good eye is frequently open as he lies there, twitchy-limbed, tensed to spring into action at the creak of a stair tread, ears flapping like a retriever who senses a grouse about to break cover.
"Lenny" I whisper tiredly, "this isn't doing our relationship any good."
No answer. He's the strong, silent type and it's my fault because I made him that way. But I know what he's thinking. He's a big man but he's got a lot of enemies - again my fault - so he has to stay alert to be one step ahead. Lenny Sharp. Sharp by name and sharp by nature. Hold that cliché.
Lenny Sharp's a cool P.I.
Sharp of name and sharp of eye....
My own Bruce Willis type, anglicized by an eventful Birmingham upbringing and with a full complement of torn and sweat-stained, once-white vests hanging in the closet. Sorry, wardrobe. We live in West Sussex now. A bit out in the sticks but pleasant enough.
I switch the light on and have a good long think. Having wrapped up the Underground Clinic affair, busting the Bellorini gang and delivering them to Interpol already trussed like so many turkeys ready for a good roasting, he's now bored and restless. He needs something else to occupy him or he'll be chasing shadows all night. I grab my clothes. A walk will do us both good.
Perhaps it's not the smartest thing to do - troll round the streets at around three in the morning - but it clears the mind and the walking tires the body. Suddenly there's the wail of a siren and an ambulance flashes past the top of the road. There's no casualty department at the local hospital so they must be passing through. I shiver although it's not cold. I'm thinking of whoever's in the ambulance and wondering if they'll make it. Lenny's keeping a low profile and any thoughts on the subject to himself.
There's noises coming from a parked car. A sort of scuffling like something trapped in the boot. I'm wary and a little scared and am beginning to wish I'd stayed in bed. I shrink back against a rather threadbare hedge and stand as still as possible, listening and imagining all sorts of stuff. Lenny, for once, seems vague and oddly unsure of himself, offering no suggestion as to a course of action. He must be tired, I decide. After all, this is real life so not really his province.
There's a distinct thump from the interior of the car followed by a low moan. It sounds human. I freak, recover myself and rush forward to bang on the panelling. "It's OK, I'll get help!" Then I hurtle off down the road in search of a phone box to call the cops. I can't find one and think it's probably quicker to go back to the flat and phone from there. Then I realize I didn't take the registration of the car - it was a grey Ford Granada, I think - and then I can't remember the street name either. I'll have to go back and check. Lenny must think I'm a right klutz. He's a gangster movie buff and often thinks in those terms.
I try and retrace the route but all the streets are beginning to look alike - narrow rows of Victorian terraces. The trouble is, I haven't lived here long and hardly know the area. By the time I get back to where I think the car is, I'm no longer sure of anything but there's a Granada-sized gap between a Rover and an old BMW. I have a hunch the tarmac is probably still warm. Lenny shrugs and I give up. We go home, defeated.
The next morning I try to rationalize the whole episode. It was dark. Sound travels differently at night and can be deceptive. And I have a very creative imagination, hyperactive, excitable even. There has to be a logical, simple explanation. If only I can think of it. Which I can't. And it's no good appealing for Lenny's help. He's still sparko. Totally out for the count. So I'm on my own.
It takes three cups of coffee and it's past ten before before I can begin to settle down to do some work. I sit at the keyboard and turn the machine on. I write three lines of the next chapter, wince when I see how bad they are, erase two of them and grind to a halt. I can't seem to pick up the thread of the plot. Nothing's coming except a rerun of last night. So I write that down instead. Maybe if I turn reality into fiction I can make some sense of it. But on paper it looks thin and I need to beef it up a bit. So I microwave a pizza while I give it some more thought.
Of course, I should get on with the novel but Lenny's still not coming out to play so I give myself the afternoon off. No point in flogging a dead-to-the-world hero. But I'm worried that he's gone soft on me. Lost his edge. He's usually ready for anything. I muse about this as I get ready to go out. That, and the vanishing Ford. Is there a connection? Bloody daft, the way the mind clutches at straws.
I take a bit of care with my appearance as it's daylight and you never know who you might bump into. Not that most people round here have cottoned on who I am yet. Verity Goode, author of four novels and winner of The Crime Writers' Association Silver Dagger Award with the second one - A Mad Dog's Breakfast. You've probably never heard of it. Anyway, I like to try and look good for my public, wherever they are.
A few weeks back I made a complete arse of myself coming home on the bus. Loaded with shopping, looking like an extra from Eastenders in a tatty old denim jacket and a pair of combat fatigues, I plonked myself down beside a student type who just happened to be reading a copy of Good 'N Dead. I grinned at him like a halfwit and asked him if he was enjoying it. He rather begrudgingly told me it was OK, in parts. I pointed to the picture on the dust jacket. "That's me" I assured him. He looked from the picture to me and back again. It was an arty studio portrait, carefully lit to give me some semblance of bone structure, plus I had make-up on. It didn't really look anything like me so I could forgive his disbelieving expression. He got off at the next stop. So now I always make an effort, just in case.
But what am I going to do about Lenny? We've romped through four novels together and suddenly things are flagging. We're just not communicating. Like any affair, things change but I still need him. I thought I knew him inside out but I'm having doubts. There has to be a side to him I haven't found yet. A hidden facet of his character. I need to walk with this and come up with a solution.
The penny dropped in the library when I clock this elderly gent with a violin case. It's started to rain so I'm in here to check out the fiction shelves. See what they have under the 'Gs'. Anyway, it's a very battered violin case and the owner's busy looking at sheet music. Violin cases have associations with gangsters, Lenny's name is Sharp. There's sharps and flats in music. See the way my mind's working? I'm getting excited now. Lenny is going to have an alter ego in the music world. A classical violinist. Packing a pistol alongside his Stradivarius and able to use both to good effect. Neat, eh?
I sit down and start scribbling some notes. As in words not music - no pun intended. Right on cue, Lenny struts in, looking fit and primed for a piece of action. He's smiling and that tells me all I need to know. He likes the new idea and we get straight down to some plotting. I laugh a lot as I write and a few people stare but that's OK. We're used to that.
Night time again. Lenny is sitting on a bedroom chair practising his bowing technique. He's insisted on trying on his evening suit and he looks good in tails. Distinguished and rather sexy. The violin now seems part of him and he's playing something soft and very restful. I imagine I'm being serenaded and let myself drift. I'm confident my readers will like this new cultured Lenny. I know I do. He's really cool.
As for the Granada incident, I'll probably turn it into a short story. Lenny has some rather interesting theories on the subject and I never like to waste material if I can help it.
So, growing Lenny Sharp fan club please note - the next novel's called On The Fiddle. The plot's all mapped out, Lenny's in cracking form and it should be in the shops next autumn.
"I think it's time for bed now Lenny," I coax. "It's getting late."
He gives me that look from under lowered lashes and starts unbuttoning. I smile to myself, a little smug at the prospect and remembering those people in my life - my mother, my friends, my publisher - who all seem under the impression I live alone. I suspect they even feel sorry for me. No imagination whatsoever, bless them. If only they knew.
THE END
"Lenny" I whisper tiredly, "this isn't doing our relationship any good."
No answer. He's the strong, silent type and it's my fault because I made him that way. But I know what he's thinking. He's a big man but he's got a lot of enemies - again my fault - so he has to stay alert to be one step ahead. Lenny Sharp. Sharp by name and sharp by nature. Hold that cliché.
Lenny Sharp's a cool P.I.
Sharp of name and sharp of eye....
My own Bruce Willis type, anglicized by an eventful Birmingham upbringing and with a full complement of torn and sweat-stained, once-white vests hanging in the closet. Sorry, wardrobe. We live in West Sussex now. A bit out in the sticks but pleasant enough.
I switch the light on and have a good long think. Having wrapped up the Underground Clinic affair, busting the Bellorini gang and delivering them to Interpol already trussed like so many turkeys ready for a good roasting, he's now bored and restless. He needs something else to occupy him or he'll be chasing shadows all night. I grab my clothes. A walk will do us both good.
Perhaps it's not the smartest thing to do - troll round the streets at around three in the morning - but it clears the mind and the walking tires the body. Suddenly there's the wail of a siren and an ambulance flashes past the top of the road. There's no casualty department at the local hospital so they must be passing through. I shiver although it's not cold. I'm thinking of whoever's in the ambulance and wondering if they'll make it. Lenny's keeping a low profile and any thoughts on the subject to himself.
There's noises coming from a parked car. A sort of scuffling like something trapped in the boot. I'm wary and a little scared and am beginning to wish I'd stayed in bed. I shrink back against a rather threadbare hedge and stand as still as possible, listening and imagining all sorts of stuff. Lenny, for once, seems vague and oddly unsure of himself, offering no suggestion as to a course of action. He must be tired, I decide. After all, this is real life so not really his province.
There's a distinct thump from the interior of the car followed by a low moan. It sounds human. I freak, recover myself and rush forward to bang on the panelling. "It's OK, I'll get help!" Then I hurtle off down the road in search of a phone box to call the cops. I can't find one and think it's probably quicker to go back to the flat and phone from there. Then I realize I didn't take the registration of the car - it was a grey Ford Granada, I think - and then I can't remember the street name either. I'll have to go back and check. Lenny must think I'm a right klutz. He's a gangster movie buff and often thinks in those terms.
I try and retrace the route but all the streets are beginning to look alike - narrow rows of Victorian terraces. The trouble is, I haven't lived here long and hardly know the area. By the time I get back to where I think the car is, I'm no longer sure of anything but there's a Granada-sized gap between a Rover and an old BMW. I have a hunch the tarmac is probably still warm. Lenny shrugs and I give up. We go home, defeated.
The next morning I try to rationalize the whole episode. It was dark. Sound travels differently at night and can be deceptive. And I have a very creative imagination, hyperactive, excitable even. There has to be a logical, simple explanation. If only I can think of it. Which I can't. And it's no good appealing for Lenny's help. He's still sparko. Totally out for the count. So I'm on my own.
It takes three cups of coffee and it's past ten before before I can begin to settle down to do some work. I sit at the keyboard and turn the machine on. I write three lines of the next chapter, wince when I see how bad they are, erase two of them and grind to a halt. I can't seem to pick up the thread of the plot. Nothing's coming except a rerun of last night. So I write that down instead. Maybe if I turn reality into fiction I can make some sense of it. But on paper it looks thin and I need to beef it up a bit. So I microwave a pizza while I give it some more thought.
Of course, I should get on with the novel but Lenny's still not coming out to play so I give myself the afternoon off. No point in flogging a dead-to-the-world hero. But I'm worried that he's gone soft on me. Lost his edge. He's usually ready for anything. I muse about this as I get ready to go out. That, and the vanishing Ford. Is there a connection? Bloody daft, the way the mind clutches at straws.
I take a bit of care with my appearance as it's daylight and you never know who you might bump into. Not that most people round here have cottoned on who I am yet. Verity Goode, author of four novels and winner of The Crime Writers' Association Silver Dagger Award with the second one - A Mad Dog's Breakfast. You've probably never heard of it. Anyway, I like to try and look good for my public, wherever they are.
A few weeks back I made a complete arse of myself coming home on the bus. Loaded with shopping, looking like an extra from Eastenders in a tatty old denim jacket and a pair of combat fatigues, I plonked myself down beside a student type who just happened to be reading a copy of Good 'N Dead. I grinned at him like a halfwit and asked him if he was enjoying it. He rather begrudgingly told me it was OK, in parts. I pointed to the picture on the dust jacket. "That's me" I assured him. He looked from the picture to me and back again. It was an arty studio portrait, carefully lit to give me some semblance of bone structure, plus I had make-up on. It didn't really look anything like me so I could forgive his disbelieving expression. He got off at the next stop. So now I always make an effort, just in case.
But what am I going to do about Lenny? We've romped through four novels together and suddenly things are flagging. We're just not communicating. Like any affair, things change but I still need him. I thought I knew him inside out but I'm having doubts. There has to be a side to him I haven't found yet. A hidden facet of his character. I need to walk with this and come up with a solution.
The penny dropped in the library when I clock this elderly gent with a violin case. It's started to rain so I'm in here to check out the fiction shelves. See what they have under the 'Gs'. Anyway, it's a very battered violin case and the owner's busy looking at sheet music. Violin cases have associations with gangsters, Lenny's name is Sharp. There's sharps and flats in music. See the way my mind's working? I'm getting excited now. Lenny is going to have an alter ego in the music world. A classical violinist. Packing a pistol alongside his Stradivarius and able to use both to good effect. Neat, eh?
I sit down and start scribbling some notes. As in words not music - no pun intended. Right on cue, Lenny struts in, looking fit and primed for a piece of action. He's smiling and that tells me all I need to know. He likes the new idea and we get straight down to some plotting. I laugh a lot as I write and a few people stare but that's OK. We're used to that.
Night time again. Lenny is sitting on a bedroom chair practising his bowing technique. He's insisted on trying on his evening suit and he looks good in tails. Distinguished and rather sexy. The violin now seems part of him and he's playing something soft and very restful. I imagine I'm being serenaded and let myself drift. I'm confident my readers will like this new cultured Lenny. I know I do. He's really cool.
As for the Granada incident, I'll probably turn it into a short story. Lenny has some rather interesting theories on the subject and I never like to waste material if I can help it.
So, growing Lenny Sharp fan club please note - the next novel's called On The Fiddle. The plot's all mapped out, Lenny's in cracking form and it should be in the shops next autumn.
"I think it's time for bed now Lenny," I coax. "It's getting late."
He gives me that look from under lowered lashes and starts unbuttoning. I smile to myself, a little smug at the prospect and remembering those people in my life - my mother, my friends, my publisher - who all seem under the impression I live alone. I suspect they even feel sorry for me. No imagination whatsoever, bless them. If only they knew.
THE END