What does an author do when he wants more folks to read one of his favorite stories? Well, this one gives it away… at least the first bits of it. Because I want you to read them. Through this weekend, I’m running a Decisive Moment promo. To give you a taste for this quirky, fast-paced story, I will post samples of the first few chapters as part of my usual #SaturdayScenes weekly sharing. Let me know what you think!
My hand is still shaking as I sit at an outdoor table waiting for my first meet. They never figured out why it does that, those doctors at the VA. Nerves, one of them dared to suggest, even though it does it any time, regardless of whether I’m nervous or calm. They ran some tests, as many as Uncle Sam deemed fit to fund, before they shoved me out the door with a diagnosis with “inconclusive” stamped on it.
That was enough to end my sniper career, even if the shaking never affected any of my missions or manifested itself in training. In fact, the only time when I know it won’t do it is when I’m shooting, whether bullets or shutter clicks. It’s as if when I’m doing something automatic, the shaking stays away. But a supervisor saw it while we were out for beers, so I had to report it and go in for testing that ended up in “inconclusive.” Since I wasn’t trained for much else and didn’t want to push an Army desk, that was that for my service to my country.
Though I try not to, I often wonder whether the tremors come whenever I’m about to do something I don’t believe in. It’s a silly thought, supported by little evidence. Still, it fits perfectly as I sit here, waiting for Mr. #3, doubting myself all over again for what feels at once like the stupidest thing I’ve done and my only option.
I close my right hand into a tight fist, letting my nails dig into the palm of my hand until the pain becomes uncomfortable. I hold it like that for at least thirty seconds. When I open it, it’s not shaking anymore. There, see? I came up with my own cure, whatever the “inconclusive” doctors may say.
A text on my prepaid phone tells me Number #2 is running a little late for that appointment we set up for an hour from now. Can we make it thirty minutes later? Sure, I type back. Number #3 is himself running a tad late, so the extra margin won’t hurt.
Another ten minutes pass, and finally I see him. Looking around as he approaches, it’s obvious he’s looking for me. He dials on his cellphone, mine rings, and I raise my hand to wave him over. A few quick steps, and he’s on me with an extended hand.
We shake with the vigor of having just made a big deal, and he says, “So, let’s see ‘em.”
On my tablet I’ve prepared two folders, one with 10 selected shots, the other with all 87. I vacillate with the decision of whether to go straight for the 87, or lead him nice and easy with the 10. The former is what Jimmy recommends, but again that’s for embarrassing rather than illegal situations. I go with the 10.
Before I hand him the tablet I say, “I’m not going to want attribution on these. None. Clear?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Sure, that’s no big deal.”
“Oh, yes it is.” I pause for effect. “As you’re about to see, and as I said in my text, this is highly sensitive material. I want no part of it after you cut me the check.”
“We’re getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?”
“I don’t think so.” I hand him the tablet and say, “For your swiping pleasure.”
I lean back in my chair and watch his expression. He hasn’t swiped three times before expletives fill the air between us. “You got more?” he asks when he gets to the end of the sequence.
I smile. “And you get to see them when you cut me the check.”
“How many?”
“Enough. And does it matter? Those ten are more than you need.”
“How much do you want?”
“15K per shot for those ten, or 300K for the full set.”
He frowns as his mind jumps from faulty assumption to quick math. “So you got another ten shots?”
“That would be telling.”
He shakes his head. “Let me run this up the flag pole. Possible issue here is that the police will want to know where we got these.”
“And that’s the flip side of that check you’re going to cut me. It comes with a signed agreement that states you will not reveal my identity.”
“That can’t be legal.”
“Put some smart lawyers on it. Freedom of the press and all that.”
He snickers. “Do you want me to recount all the times a reporter lands in jail for protecting a source?”
“Fine by me so long as it isn’t me.”
“Like I said, I’ll have to run it by my boss. And legal.”
Just then my prepaid phone buzzes. Though I didn’t tell him to call me now, Jimmy’s timing is impeccable. I answer it. Jimmy’s ranting about the cops and Nicko calling him and that he hasn’t returned any of those calls, like I told him, but that he wants to check in with me to make sure he’s doing and saying all the right things.
“Just be cool, man,” I say back. “I’m just running a little late.” I pause for a few seconds, Jimmy going on and on, confused by what I just said. “Yeah, I got ‘em. Sure, I’ll show you all of them. Just give me about thirty minutes to hook up with you, OK?” Another pause, more of Jimmy’s blabbering, which I’m hoping sound to the guy across the table like a very enthusiastically anxious prospective buyer. “Alright, see ya in a few.”
I hang up and smile at the poor guy. “Sorry about that. This other guy can’t wait to see these. Gotta go.”
“Hey, man. Give me a few hours, OK?”
I stop in mid stride, look back at him, smile and shrug. Then I’m off again.
The walk between Dorothy Chandler and my next meet-up location is short, but I make it long by taking a more circuitous route to both burn some time while stretching my legs, and to make sure I’m not being followed.
Prospect #2’s representative arrives a couple of minutes shy of 10:30 AM. The meeting proceeds much as the first did, though this guy, older and grayer than the first, gives a cooler, surer vibe. For my part, I don’t do any hard selling. When you have a solid set, you only need to let the pictures do the talking. He stays even keel as he reviews the 10 shots, and when he’s done, comes on pretty strong about seeing the full set.
I deflect and state my terms.
He leans back and nods for a few seconds. “You seem like a smart man,” he says finally. “I certainly appreciate why you would want to avoid the limelight. But you do know there’s no scenario where you come out anonymous on this unless you eat those shots, right?”
“I guess I’m not that smart.”
He leans forward and intertwines his fingers. “Sure you are. We can promise to stall, say for two to three days until a judge orders us to come clean. Between that and the front end delay of, say, two days before publication, that should be enough time for you to get your affairs in order and bolt.”
“You’re smart enough to know the price goes up in that case.”
“How much?”
“500K,” I say, having planned for this eventuality.
He leans back in his chair, spends a few more seconds nodding. “OK.”
OK? What does that mean? Did he just accept my deal?
“When do I get my check?”
He takes out a checkbook and slaps it on the table. “When I see the full set.”
It takes me a second to realize I’ve stopped breathing. Now I’m thinking this is happening too fast, and that I’m not ready for this. How long do I need to disappear, anyway? And what happens to Jimmy if I’m not around? Is 500K going to be enough if I need to disappear?
“Something wrong?” he asks.
My buzzing prepaid phone saves me. Sort of. It’s Jimmy again. “Sorry, I have to get this.”
“Sure you do,” prospect #2 says with a condescending smirk. This time it’s he who standing up, picking up the checkbook, ready to leave. “Offer expires at noon.” He glances at his watch.
Looking away he adds, “OK, make that one.” With that he turns and walks away.
I answer the phone while I watch half a million dollars climbing up a set of stairs to fade into the nearby streets.
Jimmy is ranting again. I hear none of it. I go to stand up, but my knees are shaking.
Let me know what you think. If you can’t wait until next week’s installment, you could always…
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