I promised to stick three pages up a week. Oh, I'll write seven, but c'mon. Even I don't want to read some of that. I don't know what all the pages will be, since I'm working on a couple of different things, but here's one from the Neo-Victorian novel that I'm middling my way through. It's near the end of the middle, and it's the prelude to a fist fight. It is almost entirely as it is from my notebook. So, um.... Well, here it is.......
Les was not pleased at the number of names on his list. Twelve shopkeeps this week would need convincing. Twelve.
He hoped that his size would be all the convincing they would need to pay up.
He wondered what Adella was doing. It was just as well she wasn’t here to see him set off to begin his duties. She wanted to believe he was better than Vicktor—so did Les, but the truth was they had been the same once, and the bad man still lived in Leslie, no matter how deeply buried. He wanted to leave it buried, but he knew if he wanted to kill Vicktor, he couldn’t.
So he set out to find his the first name on his list.
“Afternoon, Mr….” Les paused to consult is list. “Cabbot, is it?”
The man rose from is chair and stood eye to eye with Les. “It is.” He answered. “Who’s askin’”
“You can call me Mr Fordham. I’m here on behalf of our mutual friend, Mr. Ketchem.”
“No friend o’ mine.” The other man’s eyes narrowed to slit. “And neither are you, if you’re his man. I’ve no interest in what he’s sellin’.”
Les smiled sharp and said, “You’ve already bought it. Now Mr Ketchem needs his cred.”
Cabbot looked Leslie up and down and laughed. “Or what?”
Leslie stepped closer to Cabbot. He widened his smile to show teeth. He did not what to be this man again, yet he was slipping into the role quick. “Or I go to work. And then you pay.”
“I don’t need protection from the likes of you or him.” Cabbot told him. As he spoke, he caught hold of Leslie’s right forearm, gripping hard enough to prevent him from side-stepping the punch.