LeonardChang.com - Fade to Clear excerpt

An excerpt from Fade to Clear:

(from Chapter One)

Allen Choice, a.k.a. "the Block," is getting tired of guns. He listens to his partner Larry fast-talk a Jamaican gangster, a sparkling bald black man with a gold earring and a nine-millimeter aimed at Larry's temple, a gangster who has caught Larry and the Block in this Oakland warehouse filled with stolen computers and peripherals. Larry is saying in a tight voice, "I'm telling you we ain't cops. We're just PI's. Check the ID in my pocket. We're working for Supremica and were just looking for their stuff. That's all." Larry's large, protruding forehead glistens under the bright security light. The Jamaican wears a tailored blue suit with a white shirt and blue tie, crisp and clean and alarmingly calm. A silver bracelet slides down the back of his hand as he lowers the gun towards Larry's groin.

Larry suddenly talks faster, telling the Jamaican, "We didn't know what was in here. We can leave and pretend we saw nothing."

"But you did see everything," the Jamaican says in a deep, pleasant voice.

The Block sighs.

The Jamaican turns to him and asks, "What's your problem, Chin?"

The Block says, "Why do you keep calling me 'Chin'?"

"Chin. Chinese. Chinaman."

"I'm not Chinese. I'm actually Korean."

"Man, shut the fuck up," the Jamaican says. "Get on your knees like your friend. Move slowly, or your big-faced friend here might get hurt."

"I have the Supremica contract in the car. It's proof we're working for them."

"The only proof, Chin, is your brains on the floor."

The Block doesn't quite know what this means, but follows the Jamaican's instructions, kneeling, his hands clasped behind his head. The Jamaican has already taken their weapons, the Block's SIG and Larry's Smith & Wesson. The Block says, "The last thing we want is cops. We broke in here illegally. We could lose our licenses."

"You sure did fucking break in here, Chin," the Jamaican replies, pulling twine from a small crate and throwing it towards them. "And now you're gonna tie up Big Face nice and tight. His hands behind his back."

The Block does this, and meets Larry's eyes. The Block has a hidden gun-a small Raven P-25 in his ankle holster, and waits for some kind of cue from Larry. Larry shakes his head a fraction of an inch, and then turns to the Jamaican, who flips open a cell phone.

Larry says, "Shit, who're you calling?"

"Shut the fuck up, Big Face." The Jamaican dials a number. Larry's gun, a nickel-plated .44 Magnum S&W 629, sits on a crate next to the Block's SIG. The Block calculates his odds-the Jamaican has three guns, the Block has one small pocket automatic-and decides to wait this out. He sees Larry also searching for angles, checking the distance between them, the Jamaican, and the exits. The glaring security spot light makes it difficult to see beyond the fringes, where grey shadows blanket stacks of crates. The musty smell of sawdust makes the Block's nose itch. As he ties up Larry's wrists, the Block uses an easy slip knot and puts in Larry's palm the end of the twine which should free him if pulled hard enough. Larry nods, but continues staring at the Jamaican.

This is the third time the Block has had a gun aimed at him since partnering up with Larry. He used to be a bodyguard for ProServ, protecting Silicon Valley executives, and considered that job dangerous, yet this seems equally hazardous. He says to Larry, "I'm getting tired of guns."

"You and me both," Larry replies.

The Jamaican aims his gun at them and tells them to shut up. Then he says into the phone, "It's me. We got a problem."

Allen thought he would have a quiet night. Picture him just a few hours ago in a café in north Berkeley, listening to the buzz of conversations around him. He holds his mug in both hands, leaning forward, his hair damp from a quick shower and tickling his neck, his navy blue button-down shirt dotted with water. The soft background jazz music is punctuated by the snap of newspapers, clinking mugs, and latte orders yelled across the front counter. Picture him sipping his coffee and staring out the window onto Solano Avenue, watching pedestrians along the sidewalks. The acrid smell of burnt coffee beans is oddly refreshing. He is beginning to relax after a tiring day interviewing employees at Supremica, and looks forward to seeing Serena. He thinks, Now I can rest.

His name is Allen, but his old high school nickname, "The Block," seems to follow him wherever he goes. He no longer looks like a wooden block with squared shoulders and a thick midsection, blocking all incoming forwards as an aggressive fullback on the soccer team, yet the name has stuck. He believes most people find the name "Allen" boring, and accepts his nickname with some resignation. He is called the Block and all its variations-Blocky, Blockman, and Larry occasionally calls him Blockmeister or simply "B."

He has been working the inside end of the Supremica case, and interviewed almost three dozen people today. His head aches. Larry is grunting the opposite end, checking out the black market for stolen computer equipment, but neither of them has made much progress after a week of digging. Allen believes they'll find something soon; Larry does not. Larry, in fact, seems depressed these days, and Allen suspects it's linked to Larry's recent fortieth birthday, which Larry insisted they not celebrate or even acknowledge.

Allen is a private investigator, licensed by the Department of Consumer Affairs' Bureau of Security and Investigative Services. He is also a licensed Private Patrol Operator and Security Guard, and has a Firearms and Concealed Weapons Permit. He's a member of the Private Investigator's Guild, the Executive Protection Society, the Black Book Society, and the Center for Corporate Espionage. He has so many licenses, permits, and memberships that he needs a list to keep track of renewals. His life has been validated and certified; he exists as a stamp of approval for a yearly membership fee. Sometimes he wonders what he was before all these licenses. What was he before all these official papers filled his drawers? Before the state of California, the San Francisco Police, the Department of Justice and the F.B.I. downloaded his vitals and his fingerprints (the F.B.I had asked for all known aliases, so of course he had typed in his nickname; now even the U.S. government knows him as The Block), his photo scanned and transmitted-what was he before all this documentation?

He was, well, a kind of block: inert, immobile. Or perhaps the metaphor is more dynamic: he was a block floating on a river. He was drifting, swept slowly by the currents. He watched activity on the banks, but was himself unconnected; he had no paddle, no oars.

But all this is changing. He is getting serious with his girlfriend Serena, who is supposed to meet him tonight at the café. Allen, more than any other time in his life, is suddenly alert and aware and affected by his surroundings, by the people around him; he is very conscious of how he feels and who he is becoming. Last week she mentioned in a very casual way the difficulties of sleeping over at each other's apartments-Allen lives in the city, in the Richmond District; Serena lives in Berkeley-and how maybe sharing an apartment might be more convenient and cost-effective. Allen is acutely aware of feeling uncertain, tentative, perhaps a little fearful. He wonders about the approaching river, if he is now heading towards a pivotal fork.

Allen is thirty-three years old and has been dating Serena for almost a year and a half. He doesn't think he's afraid of commitment. He hopes he's not held hostage to any of those clichés of bachelorhood, of panicky responses to monogamy. He in fact yearns for stability. His last relationship broke up because he had been thinking too long term, whereas his ex, Linda, had wanted more freedom. He is, however, amazed by how quickly he and Serena have progressed, and worries about possible incompatibilities. He thinks, Is this what it's all about? He projects his relationship years ahead and anticipates problems; minor differences between them balloon over time. They love each other, and he believes this to be true, but sometimes he can't help wondering why he's not more, well, giddy. Perhaps he's getting older, more mature. Perhaps he's being careful; he doesn't want to get slammed again. Perhaps he's not really in love, but afraid of loss and loneliness...