Crimson Veil: Prologue

My first novel Crimson Veil will be available in paperback and hardcover on January 13th. The e-book version is currently available for pre-order here. In the meantime, please enjoy the prologue. 

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The rain fell in waves; the small crowd, dressed in their Sunday best, huddled tightly under a thin canvas awning, watching a haggard old priest with a potbelly and jowls read from the Bible. Hooks stood in the back, his hat pulled low, his tired charcoal eyes corresponding to the heavy clouds dumping life all around. He eased his way to the front and listened to the old priest preaching about the blessings of a long life and telling the crowd to dry their eyes and rejoice, for the man who lay next to him was going home.

If coming home was a blessing, Hooks was unaware. Two days ago he was standing in the window of his third-floor office, day lingering on night, his face warmed by the setting sun. Below him the streets came to life, men and women shuffling about, their faces lit in subdued neon. Each one a world unto themselves, a plurality of universes ebbing and flowing, presuming they were alone, each unaware that he watched from above. A thousand stories each the supreme act, unfolding under the illusion of significance.

The phone rang and the woman on the other end spoke in a kind, nurturing tone, apologizing repeatedly, the way people do before they lay the burden of bad news at your feet. He stood motionless, listening to the woman’s voice, his eyes fixed on the last moments of luminescence as the sun descended on the pine covered horizon. Hooks felt the world around him vanish into a haze of unknown. The woman had stopped speaking for some time. The harsh clamor of the dial tone seemed to emerge from another plane, the gentle voice on the other end gone.

The call shocked him, and he replayed the conversation in his head, like a dream just out of reach, that he feared he must revisit now, lest he lose it forever. “I’m sorry,” the voice on the phone said. “Your father has just passed.” The words struck him with a force, delicate and brutal. He felt the world pulling away, like a sailor treading water, thrown overboard, swimming against the current. His life, his future, carried beyond reach, on a ship tracking the edge of the world. With each stroke, his muscles grew weaker, the ship ever smaller, until forever it dips below the horizon, and with it all that was, all that would be, leaving only the pull of the dark abyss lurking underneath.

Loss was a reality Hooks was deeply familiar with. In life it is inevitable. Friends come and go, time shifts relationships like sand, slow and subtle, where longing goes unnoticed, dunes and memories replaced by one and the same. Sudden loss was no shock either. In war, friends were quickly made and quickly lost. Blood is a price that surprises no soldier. But those were friends. There was a world before them and so a world in their absence is not peculiar. It is a return to what was, and life moves on, returning to days once familiar. Losing his father was the displacement of time, the substitution of the future for the unknown. What had always been, no longer was or would be.

He got up to pour another glass of bourbon, but he knew it wasn’t enough. He tore the cork from the bottle and tossed it across the room, and turned the bottle up and drank until he passed out.

After the old priest finished speaking, he prayed for solace and gratitude. The small group of friends and family paid their final respects, expressing their condolences, telling Hooks how they were sorry for his loss and of the great man his father was, and how they loved him. He watched them as they shuffled past and out into the rain-soaked world. Until one by one, only he remained with the body of a memory.

He watched the rain pound the earth praying it might wash away the weight of grief. But he knew better—there was no escaping it. His father’s death wasn’t just the end of a life. It was the end of a part of himself and the birth of something he wasn’t ready to confront. He lit a cigarette, letting the smoke mix with the misty air. What was he supposed to do now? The old man was gone, but now his shadow lingered, heavier than ever. With a final glance at the casket, Hooks turned and walked through the rain, the idea of home now begging for confrontation. But instead of home, the office drew him, where his father’s ghost waited.

Hooks found himself in his father’s office for the first time in years. The air inside was thick and stale, as though it hadn’t been disturbed since the old man last sat there. The familiar scent of pipe tobacco clung to the walls. On the desk, as always, was the worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo, a makeshift bookmark protruding from its pages, jagged and yellow, hastily torn from something less important.

Hooks stood in the doorway and silence fell upon him. Behind the desk sat a tall man with a slightly olive complexion and a thick black mustache that matched his neatly parted hair. The man smiled and waved, and a young boy rushed through the door. He sat on the man’s lap, and they spun together in the swivel chair, and he told the boy he loved him, and the boy asked if he could have the chair, and the man told him, one day. They continued playing until the boy’s ears perked up and he rushed out of the room. When he returned, the man greeted him and again, they played, and again, he was gone. The scene continued each time the boy grew taller, the man older. The years passed, and in the boy’s eyes, ambition replaced wonder, while life signed its tragedies across the man’s face, touching his black hair silver. Smiles turned stern, and open arms to outstretched palms. Then the boy, now a man, walked out of the office one last time and the old man sat alone, obsolete and tired, his eyes fixed at the door in wanting, and as Hooks stepped across the threshold and into the office and the old man faded before him.

He ran his fingers across the chair and gave it a spin. Before he could sit, there was a knock at the door. Hooks answered. The man in the doorway was a tall heavy-set man as wide as the door frame with sad eyes that dropped at the corners, his left ear a mass of scar tissue that looked like chewed gum.

“Boss wants to see ya,” the man mumbled in a foreign accent.

“The boss?” Hooks asked.

“Yeah, the boss.”

“I ain’t got a boss.” Hooks tried to shut the door, but the man pushed back.

“Boss wants a word,” he said through his teeth.

“We’re closed but if you don’t back up, we’re gonna find out if the hospitals open.”

The door slammed into Hooks’ chest, and he stumbled back nearly tripping on his own feet. The man was as strong as he was big, and Hooks glanced around the room for anything that might even the odds. The man tossed his hat to the side and pushed his sleeves up, “Alright let’s find out.”

“God Dammit Jimmy, why the hell are you trying to start a fight? This man is a lawyer, not some two bit junkie?”

“Sorry boss, he was gettin’ cross with me, and I …”

“Cross? Hell, the man’s father just passed, and he don’t know you from a hole in the ground, cut him some slack. He probably don’t take kindly to an ogre like yourself barkin’ at the door. Go wait in the car.” Silas picked up his hat and glared back at Hooks before heading out the door.

“Now, Mr. Hooks, I do apologize for the uncivilized nature of my associate. My name is Orin Persons. If you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word, if you have the time of course.”

Hooks glanced at his watch and straightened his tie. “Yea, I got a minute.”

The two men walked back to the office. Orin reclined in the burgundy leather chair opposite Hooks, and laid his right leg across his knee, and drew a cigar from his breast pocket. He was a man just past middle-aged, slightly overweight, the extra pounds deposited evenly so that he appeared strong rather than fat. One black and one green, hetero-chromatic eyes, set deep in his skull, the corners marked by frayed crow’s feet. He took a drag, his cigar thumping like a red hot heartbeat, and he blew smoke from the corner of his mouth and leaned back, relaxing the tension from his bones.

“Sorry about Silas,” Orin said. “He’s trained to bite. You can’t teach a dog like that nothin’ new. Plus, his mind ain’t right, spent too much time across the pound getting his head beat in. You know a man like that ain’t got a lick of sense, but he’s a loyal sonofabitch and for that, I’m inclined to overlook his less cultured tendencies.”

Hooks looked down at his hand. His fingers were still shaking, his heart drumming in his ears. “Maybe you should get a leash.”

Orin chuckled, “A leash, that would be a sight to see.”

“That it would. How can I help you, Mr. Persons?” Hooks asked, doing his best to hide his irritation.

“I just wanted to stop by and give my condolences. Your father was a good man.”

“Thank you.”

“He was a damn good lawyer as well.”

“I won’t argue with that. Were you a client of his?”

“More or less.” Orin sat up straight and held his cigar over the desk. “You got an ashtray?”

“My father wasn’t much of a smoker,” Hooks said, “But there might be something around here.” He fished in the desk for anything that might pass as an ashtray. In the bottom drawer he found a half empty bottle of whiskey and a single glass. He set the glass on the table, “I suppose this will work.”

“Let’s hope we don’t get thirsty,” Orin said with a laugh as he thumbed the ash into the empty cup. “Out of curiosity, is all this gonna be yours”

Hooks looked around the room and then back at Orin, “It seems that way.”

“You’re an only child?”

“For the most part.”

“And your mother?”

“She left,” Hooks stopped mid-sentence and leaned forward, “Mr. Persons, I appreciate you coming down here to offer your condolences, but is there some reason you’re interested in my family’s history?”

“History, JD, it’s just that. I find a man’s history to be a window into his future. It might seem paradoxical, but what will soon be can be found in the reflection of what once was. And since it appears that you are going to be the inheritor of this practice, I want to know the kind of man with whom I may find myself in business.”

“I’m a lawyer by trade, if you need legal counsel then I can help, there’s not much more to it.”

“Hell, I know you’re a lawyer. It’s the man I’m interested in.” Orin adjusted himself, studying Hooks closely. “Are you a man of morals? The kind of man who’s burdened by conscience?” Orin paused, letting his words linger. “As I hear it, you were in the war?”

“I was.”

“Krauts or Japs?”

“Japs. I was with the 1st Marine Raider Battalion.”

“Now that’s history, that tells me you are a tough sonofabitch, and I like that. What it didn’t tell me is if you are burdened by all those yellow souls you took.”

The hostility in Orin’s words was not lost on Hooks. A twinge of anger crept up and he wanted to push back but he had heard whispers of Orin Persons, the “boss,” and he knew it best to bite his tongue and play nice. “People die in war, there’s no use in crying about it. So no, to answer your question I am not bothered by any souls yellow or otherwise.”

The two men locked eyes in brief silence. Orin Slapped the arms of his chair with both hands. “Good, because given your father’s untimely absence, there are certain affairs that lie just outside of what we might call, legal, that are now in limbo. Due to reasons that are of little importance at the moment, this service that your father provided would best passed on to you.”

“I may take over my father’s practice, but what I decide to continue is under my discretion, and while I may not be, burdened,” as you so eloquently put it by the confines of morality, I do like to know what I’m getting into before I step in it.”

Orin took a drag from his cigar and nodded his head slowly, as if taking counsel from an unseen source. He pulled himself out of his chair, walked across the room, and stood in the window, his wide shoulders eclipsing the sun in artificial dusk. “JD, do you know what it is I do?”

Hooks shook his head with a grin. “It’s kinda hard not to.”

“My reputation is misunderstood. It is an issue of ignorance. When a politician passes a law, that law is enforced, and when that law is violated, a judge makes sure that any individual in violation of that law is reprimanded. That, my friend, is a civilized society, that is order. The only difference between myself and the entire chain of officials of which I have just mentioned is that I do not hide behind irrelevant titles and ceremony. I am the entirety of that chain. I am order.” Orin took the makeshift ashtray from the desk, dumped the ash on the floor, wiped it clean with the end of his shirt, poured a glass of whiskey, and downed it. “There are big things on the horizon, and I am offering you a seat at the table.”

Hooks watched Orin speak with slow, exaggerated gestures. There was a rhythmic, hypnotic cadence to his speech, and losing himself for a moment in Orin’s words, any preconceived notions of distrust evaporated, “yes,” was on the tip of his tongue.

“Mr. Blackwood, I don’t mean to interrupt, but what arrangement did you have with my father?”

Orin took a deep breath. “Unfortunately, this is one of those rare occasions where you have to buy the horse before looking him in the mouth. Consider it an exercise in trust.”

“With all due respect, I don’t trust many people and…”

Orin stopped his words with a wave of his hand. “This is an opportunity, JD, an opportunity to do what your father would not do. He was a reluctant participant, but you can be more. A son is born into the world in the shadow of his father. To the father, that shadow is a blanket, a constant reminder of the safety with which he shields his son from the jealous, vengeful world. In time, the shadow reveals a mountain. The son must emerge out of the dark and into the warmth of glory and redemption so that he can cast his own shadow.”

“For as long as I can remember, my father told me I was going to be a lawyer. To be honest, I don’t know that I ever wanted to. Maybe that was him speaking through me. I tried my hand at war, and I liked it. I was good at it, but regardless, I’m my father’s son. I am a lawyer.” Hooks paused, choosing his words carefully. “If my father found himself in business with you, it was a moment of weakness. He was a man and men make mistakes. Sometimes it’s the son’s burden to correct those mistakes. With that in mind, Mr. Blackwood, I politely decline your offer.”

Orin’s face reddened, and he chewed his lip. “Spontaneous order does not exist, JD. All order is downstream of power. Some men understand this and they draw close, hoping to feed on the scraps from the master’s table. Others are indifferent, they wish to avoid attention, and they will do whatever is necessary to stay in the master’s good graces. Then there are those that require convincing those I must bring to heel.”

Orin’s words trailed off. The two men sat in pre-violent silence, watching each other with stone carved glares. Hooks could hear his pulse thumping in his ears. The thinly veiled threats coming from Orin set him on edge. Hooks tried to stay quiet. He could feel the danger his words would elicit, but pride urged him to break the silence. “Mr. Persons, I am well aware of the true nature of order, and the violence which undergirds it, that I am no stranger to. If you want to threaten me, then do it.”

“Your father tried to keep you out of the war, but your pride wouldn’t let him. You came home in one piece, you got lucky, that won’t happen twice.” Orin stood up and twisted his neck to the side with an audible crack. “If a lawyer is all you want to be, fine. You will find yourself in the same position as your father, whether you work for me or not. You have till dark to decide. If I don’t hear from you by then, I will assume your pride has once again betrayed you.”

Orin stopped short of the door and turned, “Enjoy the rest of your day Mr. Hooks. The sun won’t be up much longer.”

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As organized as his father was, Hooks found it difficult to decipher which clients were on retainer and which had closed their tabs. It was a welcomed challenge that drew his attention from the vague threat that darkness brought, but accounting discrepancies have no effect on celestial bodies and night had come. He was tired, and he had reached the point where he stared into the ledger, with red strained eyes, and the numbers, now meaningless, stared back, and nothing passed between numerals and man.

Orin’s words played in his head, and for a moment he weighed them and he chose to believe that they were empty. Hooks placed the ledger back on the shelf and returned the empty glass and bottle of whiskey to the bottom drawer. He stood in the doorway, holding the light switch, and made sure the office was just as his father had left it.

Hooks stood outside, the smell of rain touching his nose. Overhead, the long low rumble of thunder signaled the storm’s arrival. The first drops fell lonely and far spaced and he hurried toward the side of the office, fishing for his key with long strides. Hooks slid the key into the door and before he could open it, his head bounced off the car’s steel frame. His vision blurred, and he stumbled back, grasping for something that was not there. The air left his lungs, hardened knuckles driving his ribs into his spine. His knees hit the asphalt, and he lifted his arms to stop the next blow, but the blackjack found his jaw.

“Times up.” Hooks wiped the rain and blood from his eyes, the amber street light draped a silhouette concealing his attacker, but eyesight was unnecessary; the foreign accent was enough to identify the shadow standing over him.

“Boss said you work for him or you don’t work at all.” Silas said, shoving a near waterlogged paper into Hook’s hand, “By the way, hospitals open.”

“Hooks watched the shadow walk away, get into his car, and drive until brake lights turned to crimson fireflies dying in the distance. The paper in his hand lay limp, tearing under its weight, blue-black steams carrying the words to the asphalt below. Hooks balled the paper up and tossed it to the side and laid back in the rain. There was no hurry, the hospital would be open all night. He would have plenty of time to recover now that he’d been disbarred.

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Pre-order Crimson Veil, physical copies will be available on Jan-13th.