Need help whittling opening chapter

EileenG wrote: »

I'll have a go if you like. Be warned, I tend to omit all backstory unless the narration will fall without it!

A fresh sheaf of stapled papers landed on Jerzy Piotrowicz's desk, making his coffee-cup wobble like a nervous toddler. He lunged to catch it, scalding his fingers with the hot liquid. Pushing the cup out of harm's way, he went back to filling out his accident report in laborious block print.

Another busy day and another boring night lay ahead for the gangly cop. Eleven months in the job and still nobody spoke to him. This was the life he'd always feared –endless hours spent writing about car-crashes he hadn't seen and homicides he hadn't witnessed in an office where nobody cared if he lived or died.

Piotrowicz was never included in the bagel run, always left out of the in- jokes, never invited to Barney's for birthdays or when a colleague hung up his holster. The only concession to his existence at the station was the nickname – if you could call it such – they'd given him on his first week there. Joe. As in Jersey Joe. It was a moniker conferred more out of laziness than affection. He didn't mind so much; it had always been that way – school, the academy, his first job. It was not that he was universally despised, or even disliked; just something about him evidently did not inspire people to want to befriend him. It was the same in the evenings. He'd get dressed, slick back his thin, blond hair, splash on a few drops of Brut 33 and hit a bar. He'd sit for a couple of hours on his own, try talking to some girl – some guy even – ask the score, ask the time. It never lasted more than a minute before the eyes started looking to escape, hands clasping purses, feet twitching. I've-just-seen-my-friend... Maybe he smelled. He couldn't tell and couldn't ask. That would've been nice – to have someone be honest enough to tell him he stank like an old mattress. It could have been his nose – long and crooked – but he'd seen worse, and on guys with pretty girlfriends, too. Was he aiming too high? He'd made an effort to chat up ugly chicks for a while, to no avail. Probably smelled the desperation. Nobody liked that odour. He was no fashion-fiend, but his clothes were okay, pretty much identical to what other guys down the bar were wearing. He'd tried cruising in his uniform – lots of women were into that; he'd seen other cops work a room using only the badge. When he tried it he just met with the opposite reaction – that singular distrust and hostility reserved for members of the force.

Piotrowicz signed off on the MTS 284 and took a quick look at the new set of legal sheets. Missing person. They didn't get too many of these. These cases mostly involved paperwork and the odd phone-call, but occasionally there was an opportunity for some actual investigation. He began to read. It was typical fare. The guy was a loner, stressed out, no girlfriend, took off on vacation and didn't come back. He was fine, probably, better than he'd ever been. He'd obviously just had enough and decided to get out. His stomach knotted as Piotrowicz imagined doing the same.

The file went on – reported missing by employer. Great. The only reason anyone missed him was because work wasn't being done. Parents contacted, unaware of whereabouts. Neighbours questioned, not a single one recognised his name or knew what he looked like. When they'd kicked in the door of his apartment there had been no mess, no signs of struggle, no smell of decomposition. His home was neat and spotless. No plants or animals lay neglected inside. A grainy photo accompanied the form, the kind that only ever seems to show up when a person is missing or dead. Grim expression, check shirt, balding. Jerzy didn't feel it. Give the poor guy a break, let him stay missing. Beneath the photo was a list of people who should be contacted before they could write off the case. Piotrowicz picked up the phone and dialled Visa. In the eight minutes before an employee took his call, he doodled on the back of the form, a sketch of the missing man and a boat. Freedom. The wait music was Prokofiev, which he guessed most callers wouldn't know. When he asked the call agent for the transaction records from the client's card she said she'd see what she could do. He hung up and went to get a Danish.

The fax whined as a set of listings came through, stirring Piotrowicz from a daydream. They were mostly routine movements – salary in, groceries out, mortgage payments, plane tickets and a series of cash withdrawals, the last one in Bogotá. There was also a debit payment from American Airlines. A little strange; perhaps worth a look.

Ten more minutes of Jerzy Piotrowicz's life elapsed before the airline answered. The payment was a recompense for lost luggage, which made sense, in hindsight. If you could get them to admit to ****ing up they were obliged to fund you for a day and send your clothes to your hotel. He verified that this procedure had been followed. The address quoted by the airline didn't match the name of the place he had on file. Probably nothing – people changed hotels at the last minute all the time. He rang the number in San José and was relieved when the phone was answered on the second ring, and in English. Jonas Cotton had indeed stayed there, just for one night, before checking out in the early morning and without waiting for his missing luggage to arrive. When pressed, the receptionist seemed to recall him having taken a taxi back in the direction of the airport.

Piotrowicz had been on the case a half-hour and was already going round in circles. This time he looked up the number and rang the Costa Rican airport directly. Once again, the girl on the other end confirmed that the baggage had been sent to the Ratpackers. Time to move up a level. He asked to speak to her superior, a little sad to let her go. She had such a nice voice. Her boss had a gruffer voice but a longer memory. He recalled, after a little probing, a fellow coming in to pick up his late luggage in person. Now he was getting somewhere. Jerzy pressed him for more information on the missing man's whereabouts. Strike one – the airline didn't fly to Bogotá. Several other companies in the building did, however, fly there and he set about calling them one by one. Strikes two, three and four – none of them had a manifest listing for a Jonas Cotton on that or any other day on any flights to Colombia. Back at square one, he continued his demands. One by one, he asked the airline employee to check any flights leaving San José carrying a passenger of that name. After twenty minutes, the desk-digger at LACSA hit paydirt. One Jonas Frederick Cotton had boarded a plane to Panama City two hours after collecting his bags. He'd paid with paper, after cashing in some traveller's cheques, despite having a credit card. One door closed, Jerzy Piotrowicz set about opening another.

cobsie wrote: »

Hi Pickarooney - I think you have a potentially really strong character in Jerzy. Love the first name, btw.

I think you should commit more to Jerzy's internal narrative style and let the sentences reflect it more because it is the strongest part of the piece. He speaks in short, factual sentences, quickly appraising the case. If you take out a lot of the filler and concentrate on that, it highlights his voice more. I edited together a couple of paragraphs with this in mind, to show you what I mean:

I love thrillers where there are loads of strands and all the characters eventually intersect...is that what you are writing?