A Nights Work

ManwitaPlan

A few months back I made a first attempt at writing something. Anyway at the time I was not very satisfied with it so I left it and did nothing with it. I went back to it recently and read over it again and cleaned it up a bit and I decided to post it on here to get some feedback.

I would appreciate any advice or criticism and I have no problem taking harsh criticism at all, so feel free to post your honest opinions;).

Its the first chapter of a thriller about the life of a hitman in the 60's and an international conspiracy he gets tangled up in. The first chapter focuses on a nights work for the assassin. Enjoy.;)


Berlin. 1962.


The man felt the cold steel of the rifle butt against his cheek. The rooftop of the Park Inn provided an adequate vantage point. The man concentrated intensely being careful to avoid any pronounced movements. He had spent the last five hours nestled in the same position, making minute periodic adjustments to his bulk to stave off cramp. Light drizzle gently pelted the black tarp which lay over his body. The wind was brutal but the man relished the challenge. It was with some trepidation he had accepted the job eight weeks before. His handler, designated only as Mr. Kemp, sent a telegram to the hotel in London where he was staying, it read:

Paris stop Cafe Merial stop UT.

A wry smile cracked across his lips when he heard the message, one which would be meaningless to most casual observers but which the man knew meant work. Cafe Merial was the meeting place, the UT simply meant "usual time" or 12.55pm.

As the man lay motionless on the rooftop he thought of the meeting. His handler, known only as Mr. Kemp, had been ill at ease. A blunt character at the best of times but that day, on the straw seats of a dingy cafe in Paris, he seemed different, restless, even nervous. It made the man uneasy. After the usual jostling and baiting, Mr. Kemp dispensed with the details of the man’s latest assignment. "Do you know a man named Gerlatzer? Hermann Gerlatzer?" asked Mr. Kemp. "Yes" replied the man. "Well Mr. Gerlatzer is getting fat, he's causing problems". Thats all the man needed. He would have been perfectly happy to bid Mr. Kemp good day and go to work, but Mr.Kemp continued. "Gerlatzer rose to prominence during the war when he was known as one of the most prominent bootleggers in Germany. He's not the usual low life. He's university educated, from a good family. He saw an opportunity during the war. Harmless stuff really, liquor, cigarettes, medicine. He must have developed a taste for the work because when the war ended he continued the business", "The business?" the man enquired, "The supply of desirables which the powers that be don’t see as desirable. Of course Liquor, cigarettes and the like were widely available by then so Gerlatzer moved on to women and drugs, he became a drug dealing pimp. Of course old Hermann would never describe himself as such but he was".


The man studied Mr. Kemps face as he took in the information. He knew little about Mr. Kemp accept that his name was almost certainly not Mr. Kemp and he had worked for the organisation for over 20 years. He liked Mr. Kemp, he was a serious man but he had a strange air of innocence about him, as if he was never fully aware of what he was doing. He often sounded like he was describing a boat he just bought or an enjoyable round of golf he played rather than a person he wanted killed. The man felt he probably looked older than he was and placed him at around 50. He nearly always wore the same clothes, only varying the colour. Today he wore a bottle green polo neck sweater underneath a two button corduroy blazer. He wore dark brown herringbone slacks and a pair of chestnut brown brogues that the man was sure were Italian and cost more than the total of every piece of clothing on him. He looked like a cross between a Geography teacher and a wealthy playboy. He looked paler than usual and the deep lines of his face, which told a story of a difficult life, gave the face character and even warmth. His hair was greying (It was jet black when they first met) and it was expertly combed in such a manner as to cause controlled chaos which took a few years off his appearance.


Mr. Kemp continued "Over the years he expanded, he grew his organisation so to speak. A charming fellow by all accounts, and smart, but cross him and.....well there are stories", "Stories?" enquired the man, "They say he's secretly a sadist", "Does'nt seem much of a secret", "No I suppose not, maybe he likes it that way, keeps his associates on their toes so to speak. Anyway it’s beside the point, the important thing is in the years after the war he rose to prominence in the German underworld and today he is classed as the boss. He wields tremendous power, and wealth of course, but recently he has become a little too big for his boots so to speak. He has people inside the big banks in his pocket apparently. Two months ago a top executive at Commerzbank turned up dead in a hotel room. It’s no good for business you understand and the higher ups in the German cabinet are getting worried. Every successful country has people like Gerlatzer. Those who have exploited and ridden on the coattails of a countries success". The man tweaked an eyebrow; it was unusual for Mr. Kemp to take a moral stance on anything. "Not that it makes a difference to me how a man acquires his wealth you understand. The point is every country has men like Gerlatzer and for the most part they are accepted and tolerated as a necessary evil. As I said though, with Kemp it’s becoming something else, he's interfering, becoming....." ".....too big for his boots?" The man interrupted. "A problem" replied Mr. Kemp, He leaned forward "A problem that the fat cats no longer want, or feel the need, to tolerate". The man liked the mention of the "fat cats". Jobs like this usually paid handsomely and if the man was perfectly honest with himself working on men like Gerlatzer, men who thieved and exploited and murdered, always felt different. He knew is shouldn’t have, but it did. "Bottom Line?" the man asked. Mr. Kemp leaned closer "five months, 15 U.S., bearer bonds". Five months to complete the job seemed reasonable to the man and although the $15,000 in bearer bonds was less than he expected it was not up for negotiation. Mr. Kemp reached for his attaché case; he lay it across his lap and removed the assignment dossier. He handed the sealed envelope, wrapped in a leather binder, to the man uttering his usual mantra "read and burn".


It was this meeting that ensured four months and twenty one days later the man found himself on a hotel roof on a blustery December night in Berlin waiting for a three hundred pound German crime lord to leave his favourite restaurant. The man reflected on the last four and a half months of his life. He had spent it like a tattoo on Gerlatzers back, always close, observing his every move, but completely out of sight. The man could walk up to Gerlatzer now, look him in the eye, extend his hand and he would have no idea that this is a man who has been following him for the best part of five months. That was reassuring. The man took pride in his work.
What he had found out about Gerlatzer had both attracted and repulsed him in equal measures. This was a man who was clearly intelligent, he read Joyce and listened to Brahms. In ways he was charming and charismatic, with a wide smile and what appeared like a tolerant temperament. On the other hand he controlled a criminal empire and the man knew that did not come simply by being charismatic or charming or intelligent. It took something else, ruthlessness yes, most definitely, but also cruelty. In four and a half months the man had witnessed this cruelty on one occasion. A young man had volunteered information on one of Gerlatzer's Brothels to the police in order to beat a larceny rap. Gerlatzer got wind of this and decided to teach him a lesson. The man cast his mind back to the night in the restaurant. Seated dressed in an impeccable dinner suit with a pretty young escort facing him. He sat close enough to Gerlatzers table to hear what was going on but not to arouse suspicion. Gerlatzer and one of his cronies known only to the man as Lahm sat together eating quietly and talking about nothing in particular. Around twenty minutes into the meal more of Gerlatzers drones arrived with the young man in question. They sat and ate for a short time while Gerlatzer talked in a soft tone to the young man as if he was a young boy who stole a cookie before dinner. Finally Gerlatzer instructed the party, "Let’s move to the kitchen". As Gerlatzer and his men made their way to the kitchen with the young offender in toe the man excused himself from his table and on the way to the bathroom took a detour for the rear exit which lead to a narrow alley with steel grates along the wall to let the steam escape from the kitchen. The man peered through one of the grates and observed the group. After a short conversation the young man voluntarily held out his hands while Gerlatzer produced a pliers and proceed to pry each one of the man’s fingernails from their fleshly cuticles. The young man fell to his knees, crying. He then held out an open palm and collected the 10 fingernails and stored them in his breast pocket. Gerlatzer said something to young man who simply nodded and Gerlatzers party left to return to the dining room.


Perhaps it was the fact the man had spent the best part of his life observing thieves and swindlers and crooks and corruption but such events ceased to faze him. Or perhaps it was something else he thought, as he lay on the roof of the hotel, an inherent tolerance for such behaviour. It never ceased to amaze the man that however great the cruelty or evil deeds of some of his targets, at that moment, with the scope of a high powered sniper rifle trained on them, it always seemed inconsequential, like the actions of a small baby who cries at night and keeps his parents awake and cursing.


A little before midnight Gerlatzers plump frame emerged from the restaurants door. His rotund physique provided a more than ample target for a skilled marksman and in such blustery conditions a double tap to the upper body was preferable to a head shot. The man lowered his head and placed his right eye against the lens of the scope. Over half a mile away Gerlatzer moved the short distance to his car. The man was calm. Gerlatzer seemed to move in slow motion. With the sniper sight aimed firmly at Gerlatzers chest the man inhaled. He gently squeezed the trigger as he slowly let out the breath. In quick succession after the crack of the first bullet leaving the rifle he sent the second shot on its path toward its target. The bullets met their target with pinpoint precision, ripping the flesh from Gerlatzers chest and sending him lifeless, limp, on the cold Berlin sidewalk.


The man quickly collapsed the two piece sniper rifle as silent mania erupted just over half a mile away. He moved to the attaché leather case he had left beside the entrance to the roof and quickly removed the sleek black sweater and black monkey hat to reveal a pristine white cotton dress shirt and a mop of thick wavy black hair. He removed a light grey blazer from the case and replaced it with the collapsed sniper rifle. A pair of tortoise shell glasses completed the transformation. He entered the hotel and made his way for the entrance now playing the role of the tourist rather than the silent killer in the shadows. It would be a few minutes before the hysteria had made its way to the hotel and the man calmly traversed the hallways and staircases of the hotel until he was bid good night by the doorman. The man smiled politely and made his way to the inconspicuous maroon rental car. He got in, turned on the radio, window wipers and headlights and religiously stuck to the speed limit as he made his way to the Tempelhof International Airport. He would sleep well tonight.

ManwitaPlan

OK as loathe as I am to bump things Im genuinely curious as to why nobody commented (sorry, I am very anxious for some feedback).


I assume since nobody commented they did not find the story engaging? What about the story (or the first few lines/paragraphs) did people not like? Did people not like the idea? did they find it boring? Is the writing bad?



Im genuinely curious and Id love any feedback.

Thanks.

Antilles

Don't feel bad, lots of stuff doesn't get comments.

Matt Holck

break it into smaller paragraphs

it starts well with an assasin in his roost

but the descriptions of the perp hedge though on walls of text
I give up half way through

femur61

It starts well, it got curosity at the begining but I lost interest after awhile. I think the descriptions were a bit tedious though I understand why you felt it necessary to include them. Maybe introduce them another method.

Riveam

It needs a hook at the start, something to motivate the reader to continue down the page.

You know, a question that we can't wait to find the answer to. Like this:

'Blood slicked across the pavement creating a billow of steam in the air as it met the frozen side walk. Creeping towards the gutter, it seemed to highlight the stillness of the still-warm corpse from which it oozed. In the fray and commotion that surrounded it, this sight seemed a vacuum of calm and eery stillness, a piece of meat devoid of life, where only moments ago it had buzzed with a decisive energy.'

You need to grab the audience's attention, especially if this is the first chapter. Focus more on bringing some energy and action to your first chapter rather than back tracking and explaining who the target is. Perhaps the killer knows nothing about the target and it is revealed later who he was and provides a twist to the plot.

Also stop refering to the killer as 'the man' it grates on the reader. Give him a name, or just refer to him as he. It doesn't have to be his real name, maybe just a descriptive nickname like 'black-eye', but introduced as 'a blackened eye stared down the scope of the Mauser rifle' and then refer to him as 'black-eye' after that.

I have to say well done for making the effort!! it's not easy to sit down and try and write something. Kudos!!

Don Schneider

Dear Man,

You asked for honest input and nothing else will help you.

You are obviously erudite. Your basic writing skills and vocabulary are quite satisfactory. The problem is that you are woefully unfamiliar with basic creative writing skills, the mechanics of the craft.

As others have mentioned, your paragraphing is horrible. Not only are your paragraphs, in the main, way too long, but you seem unfamiliar with the fact that one changes paragraphs each time one changes speakers when using dialogue. I wish I could show you my own piece as an example, but unfortunately it is flash and there are no instances of back-to-back dialogue passages within it. Perhaps another who has posted a piece here will point his or her’s out as a suitable example.

You simply must realize that you can’t be taken seriously as a writer if you, reading your own work over, see nothing incorrect in constantly referring to your protagonist as “The man.” There are synonyms, you realize, in the event you want his name withheld from the reader for the present time, as well as better ways around it than simply substituting the pronoun now and then in a futile effort to avoid monotony.

You must also be always cognizant of what you have previously written within a piece. Very early on you repeat—just two short paragraphs apart—“His handler, designated [known] only as Mr. Kemp."

Before you can entertain the notion of writing professionally or semi-professionally, you must go out and read a few successful contemporary novels and short stories and pay attention to the mechanics of the writing exhibited by the authors (and their editors). Then come back and post something else (preferably shorter, to start with) and we can discuss your plotting. Until then, that is pointless.

I don’t intend to be harsh. As I alluded to previously, you already possess the necessary intelligence and command of the language, and I rather suspect a sufficiently broad base of knowledge to translate your life experiences and readings into good creative fiction. You simply must remember to put the proverbial horse in front of the cart and not visa versa.

Best regards,

Don Schneider