Two wildly disparate ideas coalesced to inspire this blog. The first was a criticism from a member of the gang of eight that my ramblings lacked a certain continuity . ” I like stories with a beginning, a middle and an end, ” he said. The second input came from one of America’s truly great writers, Joyce Carol Oates. She observed that it was possible to tell a compelling story using only beginnings. Opinions about writing obviously vary.
My critical friend deserves a challenge. I will write a beginning here and give him three weeks to provide a middle and an end. This fellow loves the novel of international intrigue -spies – hit men etc.- spiced with the occasional detective story. So, with apologies to the brilliant Raymond Chandler, here is the beginning that must be built upon:
He wrestled the coupe onto the interstate and raced down the crotch of the valley toward SevenOaks. The mountains rose sheer on either side and the son was high. nice day, Crake thought. nice for everyone who except Clarence Motley. Motley wouldn’t enjoy it. Motley was dead.
Crake wondered why he was always getting the goofy cases. In twenty years on the force he worked on plenty of weird ones but when he hung up hiss shingle they got worse. He thumbed a deck of Lucky’s and lit up. He tried to get it all organized in his mind. motley was found in his mountain cabin with two .45 slugs in his noodle. A note was pinned on the lapel of his cheap seersucker that read.THE HOLY LEAGUE NEVER FORGETS. Nothing more to go on. No prints, no weapon…no nothing. Motley often rented the cabin in season so the two squashed butts in the ashtray were little help. Motley didn’t smoke and they looked about a hundred years old. If there was on e thing Ben Crake had learned from experience it was the simple fact that women often figured in rich men’s murders. That’s where he’d start.
Crake needed a drink…maybe more. He saw a sign about a quarter mile ahead and dragged the old DeSoto off the highway. Before getting out of the car Crake did his usual inventory:the .38 was snug under his left arm The wallet with his license and permit was ok. The Walker House was your standard watering hole complete with a bartender that looked like a defensive tackle with mitts the size of a good Porterhouse. “Scotch…rocks…a double” produced a highball glass with a light pour spun down on a faded coaster.
No, it didn’t get any easier the more he thought about it . It got worse. Sure, Motley was rich and everybody hates a winner but Motley seemed to share the wealth. He gave money to schools , hosp[itals and orphans and he was clean aas a whistle as far as the law was concerned. No it had to be a dame.
Why Motley ?
OK START WRITING THE MIDDLE AND END HERE: You have three weeks. Have fun.
Olio Folio 
Realizing the importance of staying hydrated, Crake asked the bartender for a water chaser. He set it down with a sneer. Crake stared out from under his faded fedora and said, “can I get a straw for that?”
The barkeep spun on one elephantine leg and glared at him. “Doncha’ know ya can’t get a plastic straw in this burg? You wanna straw, join the club.” He gestured over his shoulder with a chartreuse swizzle stick. On the wall was a rack of stainless steel drinking straws with initials monogrammed on their sides. “Dues are nine ninety-nine a month. Meetin’s are odd Fridays at the Goodfella’s Club. Or is it Good Fridays at the Odd Fellows Club? I’ll have to check. Hey, we need a treasurer. You good with numbers?”
The only number in Crake’s head was 45, the caliber Motley had bought it with. And there they were, two of them, right across the bar. One of the geezers sitting there stood up to visit the vicar and revealed the shapely blonde lounging next to him. Crake took his time checking out the rest of the package. She was several seasons past her best-by date, but still qualified as a dish by Seven Oaks standards. Legs like a Steinway climbed up past an ample midriff to the twin peaks above. The topper was a head of hair the color of tapioca pudding.
“Why don’t you take a selfie, sugar, it’ll last longer?” She said, catching his eye. “I left my stick at home.” Crake mumbled, woefully. “I might have something for that in my purse,” she replied, brightening up.
Before Crake could answer, a tremendous crash shook him off the bar stool. A Tesla Cybertruck was now occupying the bar opposite him. Shards of glass and pieces of ceiling tile covered the bar, and the air was filled by choking dust. The blonde was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter Next
Crake squinted in the afternoon sunlight now streaming in through the hole in the wall. The room was a mess, and someone was screaming at the top of their lungs. The bartender climbed over the wreck of the bar and slapped Crake hard across his face. The screaming stopped.
“Get a hold a yerself and help me!”
Crake took a survey of the scene. The Tesla was still spinning its wheels on the filthy linoleum. He looked through the side window for a driver but the truck was empty.
“Need some help over here!”
Crake turned to see the bartender squatting next the remains of the blonde.
“I think she’s expired.” Crake said.
“I guess I haveta call the Casa now.” Groused the bartender.
Chapter Next
“So tell me exactly why you happened to be in that bar, Crake.” Sergeant Muldoon had been a boil on Crake’s bum since the Academy.
“I was thirsty.”
“Don’t get cute with me,” Muldoon replied, “I still haven’t cleared you from that Von’s fiasco.”
Crake thought back to his last case. An overzealous bag boy had broken open a ring smuggling disposable grocery bags across the California state line. His client had gotten off with probation and community service picking up cigarette buts at Torrey Pines. Rumor has it that Crake had gotten off, too.
“If I find you so much as tossing out an alkaline battery, you’re going to lose your license!”
“Tell me, Muldoon, did you notice anything strange about that truck?’
“Besides the fact that nobody was in it? Yeah, there wasn’t a scratch on it.”
“Yes, Elon builds a quality product. But I was thinking about this evidence photo here.”
Muldoon snatched the snap from Crake’s hand.
“There’s some kinda sticker on the rear bumper. Looks like a baseball with a slug going through it.”
“Right. The Holy League. What do you make of it?”
“Looks to me like some kind of warning.”
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