An update, of sorts
Thursday, February 4, 2010 at 9:46AM BIG NEWS: The crew over at Do Some Damage is planning a short story collection. Look for it in the next couple of months. The stories tie together by location, theme, and other ways I hadn't expected. You'll dig it.
John McFetridge, Dave White, Jay Stringer, Bryon Quertermous, Dave White, Joelle Charbonneau, and Scott D. Parker. What's not to love? 
My contribution is more of a peak into the "retirement" of Oscar Martello. This story takes place just after "Terminal," which took place around the time of "The Desk." All taking place after "Missed Flight," which began his trip to NYC. OK. Glad I could clear that up for you.
"Nothing Personal" appears in the debut issue of the new Crimefactory. (And on the Kindle)
"Missed Flight" appeared in Beat To A Pulp.
"Code Adam" appeared as part of Patti Abbott's Flash Fiction Challenge.
"Terminal" appeared as part of Dan O'Shea's Flash Fiction Challenge.
"The Desk" appeared as part of the Friday Flash Fiction challenge from Cormac Brown.
So there's some background for you. And, here's a quick look, a draft of the opening:
->
“Just some asshat going through the wrong way,” the guy behind the counter said.
“You sure, Teddy?” a woman two stools down from me said. “I heard there were shots fired.”
Oh, goody. Shots fired. Someone watches too many cop shows. Teddy and the woman went back and forth for a few minutes about what would happen if shots had been fired. If someone had jumped the security line.
I was watching the guy back in the kitchen. He was wiping his nose with the back of his wrist, then digging in and making sandwiches for people. Using the inside of his thumb to scrape something from his nostril.
“Can I get ya, big fella?” Teddy asked when he and the woman had finished showing off how smart they were about airport security.
Still waching Booger, I said: “You got any pre-packaged sandwiches?”
“Got some little boxes of cereal, chief. Honey buns, too. You in a hurry? Gotta jet?” Then he laughed like he had trouble breathing.
I’d had to come through security to get here, so I didn’t have anything I could use to slice his throat open to help him breathe. Felt kinda bad about that. I turned my eyes to him, then my face. “Let me ask you again. You got any pre-packaged sandwiches?”
He stopped laughing. “No, sir.”
I ordered a beer. In the bottle. Didn’t want to take any chances. “I’m going back into the restaurant now. I’ll need another beer in a few minutes.”
I found a table in the back corner. Half the tables had chairs on one side and booth on the other. A four-topper, I think they call it. The rest were all one way or the other. I sat in a chair, my back to the wall, took another look at Booger through the doors, and closed my eyes.
***
I let the darkness come, picked the room I was in last night. The paneling on the walls. The leather chairs. The chandeliers overhead glowing gold. And Johnny Quinn sitting at his desk, handling his business.
He was twirling one of his cufflinks while a woman held the phone to his ear. French maid outfit. Red lipstick. Poofy white things around her wrists. He leaned back in his chair, flicked something off his pink silk shirt, and waved the other people in the room out. A couple tons of scowl walked out behind me and closed the door. Quinn nodded to the woman who snapped the phone closed. Then she followed everyone else out.
I shifted in the chair. They’d taken both my pistols when I came in, so even a big lout like me had enough room to move around.
“Sorry about the misunderstanding at the airport yesterday,” he said. “Someone in one of the other organizations must have put a bad word out.”
“That’s an interesting conclusion,” I said. “How did you arrive at that?”
“Oh, Oscar,” he said, “You know I can’t go into the details of an ongoing investigation.” He pulled a cigar from his desk, leaned back, cut the tip, and rolled it around in his mouth. “Smoke?”
“No, thanks. More interested on what’s going on with the other thing.”
“What other thing?”
I looked at him, raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, yes. Your son. Oscar, I really don’t know how to tell you how sorry we all were about that.”
“I don’t see what you have to be sorry for,” I said. “Not like it was your fault.
He harrumphed a little. “No, of course not. Well, clearly they were trying to send us a message. I think that’s fairly certain.”
“Of course,” I said, putting both feet on the floor. “Another internal investigation.”
“Yes,” he said. “Well, something like that, of course.”
He was getting nervous. Hadn’t lit the cigar. Just moving it in and out of his mouth as he talked. “Something we have to address, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Could be why they moved against you at the airport yesterday. They knew you were coming.”
“Can’t imagine how they knew I was here,” I said. “I drove in from Chicago. Came straight here to talk about what happened to my son. Stayed for the meeting with Vitus. Then bought a ticket at the airport to go home. You saying someone here put out a call?”
“Oscar, you’re letting the death of your son cloud things for you.”
“They killed my son, Johnny. They couldn’t get to me so they killed my son.”
“I didn’t think you were close,” he said, finally getting his cigar lit.
“What difference does that make?” I said, standing up and squealing the chair back.
The doors behind me opened and a half-ton of guys came back into the room.
DSD, Oscar Martello 
