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Chapter 2: The New Landlord Comes Calling (Post 2)

Image by chilsta via Flickr

Los Angeles, 1956

It was after lunch and Keiko had finished the pickled vegetables and cold rice she had brought from home and was again updating the inventory for Shen when he called her away from her desk in the office above the gallery.

At the bottom of the stairs, Shen stood next to another man. He held a business card in his hand and there was another man with him. He was small for a man, shorter even than she was, and he was dark with grayed hair. He looked at her with unfriendly eyes, but his manners were correct, though formal.

“Miss Keiko Owens?” He inquired, and when she nodded, he proffered his card, which identified him as Horace Minnick, Esquire, Attorney-at-Law.

She raised an eyebrow at him and he said, “I have some good news for you, concerning an inheritance. But first, I must trouble you for some identification.”

Keiko raised her eyebrow again, but said nothing. She returned to her desk and retrieved her driving license. She did not yet have a car, but she was hopeful. Despite the number of streetcars and electric buses, Los Angeles was too large, too spread out for public transportation. Especially when the search for certain types of art objects required talking to many people, in many different places.

Mr. Minnick nodded when she showed her license to him, then asked if it was convenient to talk or if he needed to make an appointment for another time.

Keiko looked over to Mr. Shen, who was hovering about, attempting to disguise his curiosity. “Would you mind, Mr. Shen?”

Not only did he not mind, he invited them to make use of his private office.

Once inside the office, Keiko gestured to the lawyer to take a seat. She shut the door and sat in the chair nearest her guest and asked, “What did you mean, ‘an inheritance’, Mr. Minnick?”

Before answering, the lawyer opened the briefcase he carried and removed a blue folder to which several legal-sized papers had been attached. He handed the folder to her and shut the briefcase.

“In 1939,” he said, “a man named Lanham Brown, a well-known and prosperous builder in this city, died in a streetcar accident. A few years before his death, he had our firm revise his will, making you the sole legatee.”

Keiko was at a total loss. “But I know no one by that name.”

Minnick was nodding. “I’m aware of that. At the time that Mr. Brown died, you would have been nine years old, I believe, and living with your mother in Japan.” His eyes narrowed very slightly and only momentarily, but Keiko felt she understood his unfriendliness. He was obviously determined to be professional, however, and that earned him a measure of her respect.

He was going on, “I’m unable to offer you any information about why you were chosen or how Mr. Brown knew of you, or why you were not to be contacted until today. Nothing in any of our – my father’s and my – conversations with him while Mr. Brown still lived, touched on those subjects and the Minnick firm is not noted for curiosity. In fact, I was surprised to find that you, in fact, exist at all. Yet, here you are, in this place, just as Mr. Brown stipulated in his instructions. Remarkable.”

Keiko glanced down at the papers in her hand. On the second page was a listing of the assets of Lanham Brown’s estate, which she had inherited. The dollar amount was substantial. Her eyes widened.

“It’s larger than that, now.” Mr. Minnick told her. The principal was invested as Mr. Brown required and current holdings are quite handsome. In addition, there is his house on Bunker Hill.”

Keiko had noticed something else. A building near the downtown area. And a notation of a certain asset that was to be disclosed to her and her alone with the stipulation that, if she did not accept responsibility for the asset, she could not inherit. When she asked about it, the lawyer cleared his throat.

“Yes,” he said, clearing his throat. “Mr. Brown left one other thing to you as part of his estate. You must agree to take responsibility for it, or decline the inheritance.”

Care for? “What is this asset?”

“Miss Owens, how do you feel about ghosts?”

(To be continued)

Writing Tangent: Finding Your Voice

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

I thought as long as I was blogging writing, I might as well get in a few asides. This one is on “finding your voice.”

I’d be willing to bet that if you looked through the table of contents in ten years’ worth of how-to-write magazines, you’d find voice has been addressed just about as often as characterization and plotting. They usually definite it by saying that voice is your own particular way of saying things and that it can only be found by writing and writing and writing. But they don’t usually explain what all that means or why  this voice thing is necessary. So here’s my shot at it.

Your voice (or “style”) is the way you string words together. And what words you choose. You have favourite words. We all do. And favourite ways of describing things. For example, the tv and print news writers like to describe shots as “ringing out” and fires as “raging.” Those are examples, mind – please don’t use them yourself. You might like fat paragraphs or thin ones. Like dialogue or exposition. Ten dollar words or two syllable ones. You might like a lot of metaphors and similies or leaving the settings to the reader’s imagination. What you like to put on paper (or onscreen) and how you like to combine them is your voice, your style. It’s as individual as the way you look or your fingerprints and there are even experts who can determine authorship from style the way art experts can tell one artist from another by brushstrokes and the type of paper and canvas used.

You can learn about style by copying the style of others or by reading people who do (Bad Hemingway Contest).  But I’m not sure it’s really worth doing all that studying when you could be writing. If you write a lot and spend time revising to improve, you’ll start to recognize your style. Anyway, it will change as you become a more sophisticated consumer of your own words. You’ll tweak it, but at its core it will remain the same, reflecting you and the way you see the world.

Now, why is it a good thing to have a voice in your writing? Well, think about John Wayne. No matter what movie he was in, he was always John Wayne and that came through in every character. People who liked what came through became fans and saw most, if not all, of his movies. The decision to read your work will be partially based on whether or not the reader finds your voice appealing enough to spend time on. Without a voice, your work may read as interesting as the emergency instructions found in an airplane seat pocket.

Sometimes voice trumps plot or characterization; like listening to Lord Laurence Olivier getting his Lifetime Achievement Oscar in the 1980s. He forgot his speech and made something up on the spot. It was gibberish, but he presented it so well, everyone listening was impressed. That kind of impact requires a LOT of style. Modern books don’t usually get by on style alone anymore (I’m not talking about modern literature, here – I gave up trying to understand that in the 1970s). Most of us need style, plot, and characterization along with a little thing called pacing to create a full-bodied work.

Well, that’s my short take on voice/style. I hope it made sense, though as with everything else connected with art, these terms remain open to individual interpretation. Or, as it’s often put on Twitter: your mileage may vary.

Chapter 2: The New Landlord Comes Calling (Post 1)

Los Angeles, 1956
Image by Metro Library and Archive
via Flickr

Los Angeles, 1956

Keiko replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle, and regarded the phone with satisfaction. It had taken a long time – too long – to get the name she had wanted, but finally she had gotten it. And that name had led to another name and that one to a phone conversation, and now she might be only one step away from finding him. In only two days, the man she needed to talk with would be at home. And once she talked with him, she would find the other man. She felt certain. This time, she would find him. And then she would find Akiko.

She opened the desk drawer and pulled out the battered photograph. The solemn Japanese-American family in the foreground. Mother, father, daughter and son. The son had signed the loyalty oath and would be leaving to fight in Europe. He was the only person in the photograph smiling. For the first time, Keiko wondered if he lived. With a sinking feeling, she guessed he had not. The Nisei losses in the war had been very high. She let that thought go and looked at the figure in the background of the picture. An American soldier, his face slightly blurred as he walked out of the shot. When she found him again, how different might he look? And what might he tell her?

She heard a bell tinkle below as a customer entered her employer’s shop. She put the photograph away and looked over the railing to see Mr. Shen advancing with a smile and a short bow to greet the lady and gentleman. Someday, if she was able to open her own gallery, she would have to learn to greet customers with the right amount of politeness and enquiry. Keiko knew her own weaknesses, and lack of ostensible warmth was one of them. If she was to successfully acquire the type of clientele she needed, she would have to develop a new style, or at least be able to feign one.

But not today. She reached across her desk for the bento box containing her cold lunch. As she opened it, she considered how she would go about contacting the soldier.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Near Christmas time every year, one or the other of the Minnicks, but seldom both, would come up the stairs and ask me if I had any requests. Occasionally, when I got a bright idea, I called their office and left a message and one or the other would call me back within the hour, hear my request, and hang up.

I thought it might look better to the cleaning staff if the office got an update every once in a while, so once I asked for some nameplates in a few different names and another desk.  I saw an ad that featured a young starlet talking on a telephone and it looked very sleek and modern next my old black candlestick, so I had a couple of new phones installed. Having taught myself to manipulate solid objects, I occasionally called the time lady to pass the… well, you know. In addition to the papers, I subscribed to several magazines – women might dress differently than in my day, but the hats were just as silly. And I pretty much insisted on a new radio every year. I got one of those big floor sets that brought in stations in Europe and it took me through the war. I heard England’s Prime Minister, Chamberlain, talking about “peace in our time” and the next thing all hell had broken loose. I never wanted to be alive again so much as when I heard about the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and listened nearly round the clock when Roosevelt died.

When we hit Japan with that new kind of bomb, I knew the days of the war were numbered, and I wondered what kind of a future we were going into with weapons like that. There was a lot of talk about rockets and the Bolsheviks and what they might be up to, but Fibber McGee and Molly just kept opening the closet door and music programs like The Chesterfield Hour reminded me of the late nights I’d spent on dance floors with ladies wearing silk and chiffon.

The war had driven most of the talk about eliminating Supernaturals off of the front pages of the newspapers and onto the late night radio shows, and there was even a rumour that some Supernaturals had been secretly used by the government against the Axis powers to counter their own secret SS band of German werewolves. There were other stories, too, about what the army found when it liberated the concentration camps, but for some reason, those stories didn’t get a lot of play. Early in ‘46  I heard that all of the Japanese interned during the war had been let loose, but I didn’t know it had anything to do with me until Keiko Owens showed up ten years later.

(to be continued)

Chapter 1. A Ghost is Born (Post 3)

Image via Wikipedia

Los Angeles, 1939

The Minnicks, père et fils, came to see me after I had been alone a few days and in a panic about what might have happened to Lan.  There had been no answer to my calls, and something was telling me that there never would be again. I’d tried several times to leave the building, but could never get any farther than the front door. It was not like a solid barrier, it more as though I became less real the closer I got to the door. Although I could now touch solid objects and move them, my hand went right through the front door knob. It left me wondering if I was able to get outside, would I disappear entirely? Forced back upstairs, I spent the remaining days until the Minnicks appeared wandering back and forth through the rooms of my office and former living quarters, opening and shutting doors, turning the radio off and on and calling Lan’s house. I tried to distract myself by trying to find out if ghosts could levitate or fly as books had it, but if it was possible, I was too worried to learn how.

The Minnicks were small, dark, clearly related in all aspects. Their firm tread up the stairs belied the nervous glances they gave one another as they moved forward into the large, near-empty office. One last look at each other and both cleared their throats, though only the elder spoke.

“Mr. Brown?”

I, of course, was not visible.

“Mr. Devlin Brown? Are you there? Your brother sent us.”

“Where is Lan?”

They both started visibly when I appeared, but again, only the elder spoke.

“My name is Minnick, Mr. Brown, and this,” he indicated the younger man, “is my son. We are lawyers in the firm of Minnick and Minnick here in Los Angeles, and -”

“Where is my brother?”

Another look passed between father and son, but it was less communicative of disquiet than of consideration. This time, the son spoke.

“We are sorry to have to bring you the news that your brother, Lanham Hayes Brown, was killed in a streetcar accident four days ago. It is not expected that he will, ah-” The younger Minnick paused slightly. “- be returning in – ah – any form.”

“Streetcar – ?”

“Yes,” it was Minnick the elder again. “You understand, we were told about the accident by the police -”

“- after they learned his identity and talked with his secretary at his place of business. She referred them to us as she had had instruction to do -” Minnick the younger finished.

“Instruction?” I was startled. “How could he expect -”

“No, no,” Minnick senior waved a hand in negation and Minnick junior mirrored him. “Your brother was a prepared man. Given your, uh, situation, he quite properly had engaged us some time ago to create a trust, write his will…”

“…a forward-thinking man, your brother,” Minnick the younger said and Minnick the elder nodded in agreement. This finishing of each other’s sentences appeared to be a habit; neither one of them seemed to notice that they did it.

“We learned of his death day before yesterday and yesterday prepared all of his papers and made the arrangements for the funeral and to close the business, which will take a little time – “

“- as your brother was successful in the building trade and there are several projects in the works which must be seen to completion.”

“Oh, yes,” Minnick père seemed momentarily lost in thought. “It will take some time. Mr. Lanham Brown was most particular on that point. None of the homes in process of construction must be abandoned.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“Of course not,” the older Minnick seemed irritated at his own lack of focus. “Not to worry, Mr. Brown. The long and the short of it is, that your brother foresaw that his affairs must be well in hand should anything untoward occur, which it has – our condolences – and we have come to tell you what provision has been made for your, for your care.”

“First of all,” junior took over with no break. “This building was made part of a trust, for which our firm is Trustee. We have undertaken to ensure you are left,” he cleared his throat again, “in peace, as it were.”

“Undiscovered, and therefore unexorcised,” his father put in. “The trust will further ensure that the building is properly maintained, kept sound. To this end, we or our representatives, will undertake a twice-yearly inspection and authorize any necessary work. We will have a copy of the Daily News, Times, or Herald Examiner delivered daily, and engage a cleaning service to remove the newspapers and dust once a week.” He looked at me directly. “You understand that, especially in these difficult times, it would be in your best interest that the cleaning staff and newspaper boy should not be made aware of your presence?”

I nodded and they looked satisfied.

Junior continued, “Finally, we will interview you during each Christmas holiday to determine if there is any reasonable request which the Trust might fulfill for you.”

“Are there any questions?” his father finished.

“What – what arrangements- have you made for Lan?”

“Ah,” Minnick senior nodded. “He will be buried tomorrow, in the family plot with your father and mother.” He coloured a little. “And you, of course.”

Minnick junior chimed in with, “Everything he wished for, stipulated, has been attended to. You need have no worry on that score. It is all in order and as he required it should be.”

“Did he, was it very -?”

“We are given to understand that he was killed instantly and therefore suffered little, if at all.” Minnick junior said. “A broken neck, apparently.”

“Again,” his father said, “our sincere condolences.”

They turned around, nearly as one person, and started down the steps.

“Wait -”

They stopped, turning their heads.

“Does anyone else know about me?”

They shook their heads in a negative. Though paused, they clearly wanted to go.

Minnick senior said, “One or both of us will call on you at Christmas and you are free to telephone our office, should you require something. We will meet your brother’s stipulations, Mr. Brown, as it is our obligation and duty as his attorneys to do. ” Minnick senior went down the stairs.

Minnick junior followed, but paused again and gave a fraction of a shrug, the first really human gesture I’d seen him make. “My father and I don’t believe in ghosts, Mr. Brown.”

Chapter 1: A Ghost is Born (post 2)

Japan, 1939

Tomoe re-read the letter, after a quick glance at her daughter, who was sitting quietly on the floor, absorbed in her washi doll.

Husband:

I apologize for my action in sending our daughter to you. I hope you will understand and forgive. It has become more difficult in these times to be anything but Japanese. I can no longer send our daughter to school and it has become necessary to keep mostly to the house or to take her with me when I must go out. You asked us to wait for you to send for us, but I must regretfully disobey – it is no longer safe for Keiko. I would have written to you, but I am no longer sure my letters reach you or that your letters can reach us; we have not heard from you in some time, though the household monies still come to the bank. In my fear for our daughter, I have purchased a passage for her to Hawaii and then to San Francisco. She will have to ask someone to wire you from Hawaii so that you can meet her in San Francisco.

Tomoe could not be sure her husband was still where he had been. Could not be sure something had not happened to him. Why else would so much time have gone by without word? But even as the tears filled her eyes yet again, she knew there was no other choice. Tomoe again looked at Keiko, who caught the movement and looked back at her. She was too tall for a nine-year old. Her hair was wrong, her eyes too light.  Despite Tomoe’s hopes and prayers, war was coming and the Keiko would not be safe. Japan was no longer hospitable to gaijin and even less hospitable to the children of gaijin. Or their mothers. And if something should happen to Tomoe, what would become of Keiko?

She folded the letter and sealed it, then placed it in the bag sitting on the low table in front of her, and gestured to Keiko. Her daughter immediately put down the doll and went to her. Tomoe stroked her hair and handed her the small cloth bag.

“This bag contains the letter to your father, his name and address in the United States, and all of the money for your journey.”

Keiko nodded and put the bag into the front of her kimono, but her mother took it out again.

“You must wear western clothes for your journey.” Then she reached into her own kimono to remove a small item, which she held in the palm of her hand. “The journey will be a long one. You will have need of this.” She opened her hand to display a netsuke in the shape of watchful dog. It was carved of ivory and made by an artist of skill, for the tiny dog seemed almost alive. Looking up she saw that Keiko’s eyes were wide, one hand rising in what must surely have been a negative motion. Tomoe set the netsuke into her daughter’s hand and was saddened to see her eyes now held an expression of worry and even a little fear. “Thread a cord through it and wear it around your neck.” She looked at the small clock on the low table. “Go and change into what I have set out for you. We must leave soon.”

The large room seemed empty when she had gone. James had bought too large of a house with too large of a garden. In crowded Tokyo, the house was more fitting to a lord or general then to a gaijin and his disowned wife, their mixed-blood daughter, and a few servants. And then, after James had gone,  to a woman, a girl-child and the servants. Nowdays there was only  the woman, the girl and …

She rose and went to Keiko’s room, where she stood for a moment outside the sliding doors, listening to the hushed conversation from within so that she did not interrupt what she was not meant to hear. After a moment, she coughed politely, knelt to slide open the door, and went in.

Chapter 1: A Ghost is Born (post 1)

Teenagers in the 1920s by freeparking via Flickr

Los Angeles, 1939

I died in 1925. Considering I was a detective at the time, my epitaph should have included references to the Big Case I was working, but I wasn’t working any. I had fallen asleep at my desk, an earthquake hit, I fell out of my chair and hit my head. Period.

I found out all of this later, of course. From my brother, Lanham.

At first, I didn’t realize he was talking to me. Eventually, he told me he had been coming to visit me regularly for a week or more before he saw any sign at all that I was there. He would come to my office, where I had died, and sit in my chair and talk to me for fifteen or twenty minutes. Why he did that, I never knew, for he wouldn’t say.

There’s a lot I don’t know about how ghosts are “born,” why some people become ghosts and others don’t.  I’ve thought about it, but there’s only so much detective work you can do when you’re trapped in an office building with only one real visitor.

It was a shock when I saw myself in a mirror. I looked the same as I “remembered” but like colored cellophane, or like the pigment on top of a photograph some people have painted on when they want their portraits to look “lifelike”. The only thing that was different (besides my being dead) was I had a small mark on my right temple, like a bruise, where I’d struck the corner of the desk when the earthquake threw me out of my chair.

I’d left everything to Lanham, of course. He was the only living relative I had that I could stand. He was much older than me, had been in the World War and come back with a weakness in his lungs from the mustard gas. I had wanted to go with him, but our father was dead and our mother had to be looked after. Lanham had taken care of us after Papa died, so it seemed only fair to me that I should be the one to stay. He wanted to go so badly. Afterward, though, when I asked him what it had been like, he only said it hadn’t been what he’d thought and that he was glad I hadn’t been there, too.

About 1920 I joined the police force, but nearly as quickly, I was out. I found I wasn’t very good at doing what other people wanted me to. I went to Pinkerton’s. I liked the work, but not much else. When Mama passed, I took my share of the inheritance and bought my building, a two story brick, and hung out a shingle to tell the world that Los Angeles had a new Sherlock Holmes.

It was a wilder time than now, with bootleggers up and down the coast, speaks and clubs and jazz and women in loose dresses with their rouged knees showing. I spent probably more time playing than working, but I was moderately successful.  I was good at my work and became better. It was a happy time for me; I was sorry to lose it. And extremely sorry to find out that of all the places I could have died in, I was trapped in an empty office building.

Like most of the living,  I’d figured that the dead ought to stay dead and not gallivant about, poking their transparent noses into our business. I remembered telling Lan once about being in favour of a law they wanted to pass making being a ghost a criminal act; if a ghost was found, it would be exorcised out of existence. I agreed with that. I voted for it, as well as the law against other supernatural transformations of humans. Vampires, Werewolves; they should all be put out of their misery. If a person couldn’t be fully human, anymore, what was the point of living? This was after Lan came back from Europe. He just shook his head and said he disagreed. He did more than disagree, or I would not be here, now.

He didn’t tell anyone about me. I had had a lot of friends – people I went around with when I was alive – but none he trusted to keep such an important secret, especially when there was a reward for reporting Supernaturals.

I guess the reward was the start of it, the laws and the politicians and the religious folks all putting their heads together to rid the world of the dead that wouldn’t stay dead. It got worse during the Depression. Lan said some Supernaturals turned themselves in for the reward so their families could survive. And some people hunted Supernaturals for a living.

Lan wouldn’t talk about what he called “those people.” I knew from reading the Daily News that Lan was getting a reputation as a sympathizer and publicly supported changing the laws against Supernaturals. But he didn’t talk about that, either. He talked about what was happening in the country, in Europe, how hopeful he was when Roosevelt was elected. He kept me company part of nearly every day. I was dead, but I had my brother.

Then Lan died, and I was alone.

Something About a Ghost

1956 Oldsmobile by dave_7 via Flickr

What if you had just discovered that your only brother – the one person that you could count on – may have been murdered? And what if you couldn’t do anything about it because you were dead?

This is the situation that Devlin Brown, known to his friends as “Brownie” finds himself in, 31 years after he is killed in an earthquake in Los Angeles in 1925 and returns as a ghost.

The Los Angeles of 1956 is very different from the one in which Brownie worked as a private detective. World War II was not just a war of conquest or ideology, but one in which werewolves, vampires, and other “Supernaturals” were employed on both sides. Where the rights of Supernaturals are as much a question as communists in Washington. Where camps like Manzanar not only deprived Japanese-Americans of their freedom, but also of any Supernatural heirlooms, which then became black market commodities. Where the city of Los Angeles fields an Exorcism Squad and where an underground railroad exists to hide and protect Supernaturals from the government, even while the CIA continues to employ them as weapons in the cold war, and a movement – the “Clean Humanity” party is using the publics’ fear to gain political power.

It is in this Los Angeles that Brownie finds he has been “inherited” by Keiko Owens, a young Japanese-American on a mission to return the artifacts and heirlooms stolen at the relocation camps to their owners. She is not at all pleased to become the guardian of a ghost, but cannot say no to the financial resources this relationship puts at her disposal. She is encouraged in this by her friend and mentor, Laslo Kovacs. An ex-guerilla fighter from Croatia, Kovacs is known in the Supernatural underground as “The Fortune Teller.” In his public life, he runs a shelter for the needy. In his private life, he runs a shelter for Supernaturals and does jobs for the CIA.

Among the papers inherited from Brownie’s brother, Keiko discovers information that Lanham Brown – a prominent builder and Supernatural Rights supporter – may have been murdered. But just as they begin investigation, there is a vicious attack in Griffith Park – a werewolf attack. The city goes into a panic, and as the deaths mount, political tensions increase, vigilante groups form, and the Clean Humanity Party positions itself to seize control of the local government.

Brownie, Keiko, and Laslo are in a race to find and kill the werewolf, avoiding vigilantes and the police, the private army of Clean Humanity, and black market thugs before more people are killed. And before emergency laws are passed to eliminate Supernaturals permanently.

The first excerpt will be posted on New Year’s Day. See you then.

Introducing “Death Park”

I never wanted to be a writer and artist – I just was. I started out to be a lawyer, which I’m sure would have surprised the high school guidance counselor who always slotted me into the “bonehead” classes, but ended up in high tech where I was a technical writer and software project manager. I have lots of interests, but have stayed consistent in loving both writing and art. When I got around to creating a bucket list for myself, one of the items was to complete writing a novel.

After years of false starts and several short stories, I finally started seriously working on my novel in 2004 and completed it in 2006. But that’s as far as it went. I crossed it off my bucket list, but now I’ve come back to it because the characters in it wanted me to.

Anyone who has tried to publish a novel knows how hard that is. I sent out query letters to agents and got one nice rejection; most never even replied. I read up on the publishing industry news and have become convinced that getting a book into either hardcover or softcover is more of a crap shoot than it ever was, and that’s saying a lot. I could just give up – I have given up for months at a time – but these characters just won’t let me give up completely.

So what I’m doing is giving up on traditional publishing. I’m going to publish my novel here on WordPress a bit at a time, starting on New Years Day. In between posts of the novel, I’ll answer any questions (if any) and be glad to talk about writing in general and my other love, art.

As with all writers, I hope there will be enough interest in my book that some people will not want to wait for the installments. I plan on offering the whole thing in ebook (PDF) format perhaps by the summer of 2009. But it’s all speculation right now. Let’s just start with the first chapter in January, and see how it goes.

Robyn McIntyre