Rough opening of FIXED FIGHTS
Here's the opening paragraphs of the book. It's a little rough, but I'm starting to like it more and more. Let me know what you think! You can check out more at IvanInfantewrites.com
January 15th 1938
Mike Chance stood in the stern of the wooden Bearcat water-taxi wearing a tuxedo and tugging at its collar. He had stolen the outfit off a drunk the night before and he had been a little off when sizing up his victim. The suit didn’t quite fit.
Mike braced himself with a hand atop the canvas roofed cabin. As the boat tumbled down the far side of a wave, Mike let his knees give a little and he swayed down to look through the open hatch into the passenger compartment. There weren’t many other people on board, only Benny and a couple of sour-faced gunmen. Benny also wore a tuxedo, but his was exceedingly well tailored.
The gunman who sat across from him wore cheap, threadbare suits. They had met Mike and Benny in the parking lot and frisked them without saying a word. Then they walked them down to the water taxi, ushered them onboard and frisked them again.
Waves rocked the boat and Mike turned his attention to staying on his feet. Gusts of wind made that even more difficult and brought seawater in buckets, so Mike ducked down and slid below deck.
He sat down next to Benny and lit a smoke. He puffed and stared out the square portholes at the big white-capped waves. They were in for a rough trip. Good thing it was short. The run from Santa Monica pier took ten minutes on a calm clear day, but this wasn’t one of those days.
Mike looked over at his partner. Benny’s eyes were shut and his face had turned a milky pale green. Across from him, the gunmen sat in over-size coats that bunched up around their necks and made their heads seem tiny. They stared at Benny with a look of anticipation. One of the men held a fiver. The other had his finger’s crossed. They had wagered on whether or not Benny was going to throw up. Benny had taken this ride many times before. The odds were 5 to 1 in favor of sick.
Mike liked those odds. He reached into his pocket, brought out a couple of bucks, and waved them at the gunman with the fiver in his hands. The thug twisted his face into something that fell a few teeth short of a smile, reached into his jacket, and came back with a ten. Mike nodded back at him, then turned his attention to Benny. The little guy had his eyes screwed shut and he sweat bullets, but he didn’t upchuck.
Mike looked out the portholes again. On the horizon, a hulking rusty-white barge bobbed low in the water. It looked more like a box than a boat. Everything had been taken out to make room for gambling and a long wooden building had been built on deck. It had a neon sign on top of it that spelled out CASINO in bright red letters, right now this was not lit.
January 15th 1938
Mike Chance stood in the stern of the wooden Bearcat water-taxi wearing a tuxedo and tugging at its collar. He had stolen the outfit off a drunk the night before and he had been a little off when sizing up his victim. The suit didn’t quite fit.
Mike braced himself with a hand atop the canvas roofed cabin. As the boat tumbled down the far side of a wave, Mike let his knees give a little and he swayed down to look through the open hatch into the passenger compartment. There weren’t many other people on board, only Benny and a couple of sour-faced gunmen. Benny also wore a tuxedo, but his was exceedingly well tailored.
The gunman who sat across from him wore cheap, threadbare suits. They had met Mike and Benny in the parking lot and frisked them without saying a word. Then they walked them down to the water taxi, ushered them onboard and frisked them again.
Waves rocked the boat and Mike turned his attention to staying on his feet. Gusts of wind made that even more difficult and brought seawater in buckets, so Mike ducked down and slid below deck.
He sat down next to Benny and lit a smoke. He puffed and stared out the square portholes at the big white-capped waves. They were in for a rough trip. Good thing it was short. The run from Santa Monica pier took ten minutes on a calm clear day, but this wasn’t one of those days.
Mike looked over at his partner. Benny’s eyes were shut and his face had turned a milky pale green. Across from him, the gunmen sat in over-size coats that bunched up around their necks and made their heads seem tiny. They stared at Benny with a look of anticipation. One of the men held a fiver. The other had his finger’s crossed. They had wagered on whether or not Benny was going to throw up. Benny had taken this ride many times before. The odds were 5 to 1 in favor of sick.
Mike liked those odds. He reached into his pocket, brought out a couple of bucks, and waved them at the gunman with the fiver in his hands. The thug twisted his face into something that fell a few teeth short of a smile, reached into his jacket, and came back with a ten. Mike nodded back at him, then turned his attention to Benny. The little guy had his eyes screwed shut and he sweat bullets, but he didn’t upchuck.
Mike looked out the portholes again. On the horizon, a hulking rusty-white barge bobbed low in the water. It looked more like a box than a boat. Everything had been taken out to make room for gambling and a long wooden building had been built on deck. It had a neon sign on top of it that spelled out CASINO in bright red letters, right now this was not lit.
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