Night and Day
Authors: Ken White
Night and Day
Ken White
mysterious man known only as Killian. Their comments and suggestions made this a whole lot
better than it would have been.
No part of this document or the related files may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, by
any means (electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
Contents
Note
When I started writing about this world, Night and Day was
not
the book I was going to
write.
That book is called Poison Blood, and it's the prequel to Night and Day. It tells the story of
how things got to where they are in Night and Day.
I did a lot of research on it. Thought about it a lot. Mapped out scenes and sections of the
book in my head (I almost never write down a road map of a story, an outline, a synopsis - I do it
in my head, and if I don't remember what I came up with when I get to the writing, it probably
wasn't worth remembering). And interestingly, I still remember a lot of it right now.
Then one day, I'm driving somewhere and it suddenly strikes me that I don't want to
introduce this world with that story. Because it takes place on a larger stage (as you'll deduce
when you read Night and Day), Poison Blood isn't as immediate and in your face. It's a good
story, the characters are interesting, and it does indeed answer most any question you might have
when you finish this book.
But I didn't want to write a "watch the world change" book as the first in this world. I wanted
to write a "the world has changed" book, put you into the story almost five years after the events of
Poison Blood. As interesting as "
How did this happen?
" is, "
What is it like now?
" struck me as
more interesting, as something that, as a reader, I could identify with. What would my life be like
in this situation? And how would it compare with the lives of the characters in Night and Day.
So this is the book I wrote. Though you won't have details, I think you can probably figure
out the broad stokes of "
How did this happen?
" from a few of the characters you'll meet in Night
and Day. The follow-up to this book, Bleeding Sky, will answer a lot of the questions, though
from a different perspective than Poison Blood.
And then I'll probably return to Poison Blood, redo some of the research because time has
passed since I started working on it and things change, and start writing.
You can also check out the Night and Day series blog at
http://www.vee-for-vampire.com
and read probably way too much information on what I'm working on, how I'm doing it, and
why. You can also join the Night and Day mailing list (no spam, promise) and get very
occasional updates on what's happening with the series, as well as the occasional freebie that you
might find interesting if you have any interest in how story and writing changes from draft to
draft.
Night and Day is also on Facebook at
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Night-and-Day/535848199814689
, so stop by and say hi. And
Night and Day is on Twitter, at
https://twitter.com/NightandDayBook
.
Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think.
Ken White
September 2013
Chapter One
It was seven in the morning, and the bums, lowlifes, grifters and renegades were hitting the
streets.
A few years back, when I was still a cop, the morning sun would have sent them scurrying
back into their holes, leaving the streets to the civilians they preyed on. Of course, a few years
back, they owned the night and cops were their only problem.
Now sunrise was their cue to get out and make whatever living they could, however they
could. In most ways, they weren’t much different from the Johns and Janes that filled the
sidewalks around them. They woke up, waited for the sun, and went to work. Just like me.
There were others too, people heading home from work. There weren’t a lot of them, but
they were easy to spot. Around their necks, hanging close to the base of their throats, they wore
an oval pendant about the size of a small egg. The design on each pendant was different, some
covered with strange geometric designs, others with splashes of color.
But even without the pendants, you could pick them out. They moved with an easy
confidence that was missing from most everybody else on the street. They moved like they were
above it all, untouchable, not one of the mere mortals surrounding them.
A case could be made that their confidence was justified. A pendant meant you belonged,
that somebody cared enough to give you one, to show you were important to them. And
technically, it would keep you safe. Technically.
It was a kind of status most people didn’t have, and it should have made them happy. But
they never seemed to smile. Maybe they were just tired and looking forward to some sleep. Or
maybe they were just as nervous as everybody else when the sun went down. Even with their
pretty pendants.
I walked through Expedition Square, past the old ladies already staked out on their favorite
benches, feeding the pigeons, then crossed the street in front of Hanritty’s. I paused on the
sidewalk for a second, checking out the people on the sidewalk and those in the square on the
other side of the street. It was just habit. I was working a couple of missing persons, both
neighborhood girls, and there was always a chance that one or both were laying low close to
home. It was unlikely, but you have to cover all the bases.
Nothing. Nobody I was looking for, nobody interested in me. I turned and opened the door.
Hanritty had a cup of coffee waiting for me on the counter by the time I got there.
“Morning, Charlie,” he said over his shoulder as he walked to the big griddle in the back.
“Han.” I scooped up the cup and headed for the last booth, my usual spot. Hanritty’s is
your basic hole-in-the-wall. Chipped Formica counter with eight stools on the right side of the
narrow room, four bright-red leatherette booths on the left. He seemed to do okay, but I was
never sure how he made a living on neighborhood business. I’d been taking my meals there for a
year or so, and had never seen more than a half dozen customers in the joint at one time.
Maybe he had money. Maybe he had something going on the side. It was his problem, not
mine. I was just looking to get fed.
I slid into the booth, my back to the rear wall of the shop, dumped some sugar in my coffee,
and took a sip. The coffee was strong. Real strong. Hanritty gets to the coffee shop at six and
opens at seven, but his coffee tastes like he made it the night before and left it on the burner to
boil.
My eyes on the door, I said, “Johnny Three-Legs still sniffing around you?”
“Johnny?” Hanritty asked, his back to me as he scraped the griddle. “Nah, Johnny’s no
trouble. Long on talk, short on action. I know how to handle him.” He paused. “Why?”
I took another mouthful of coffee. “Saw him down the street when I came in. Looked like
he was heading this way.”
Hanritty nodded, his back still to me. “Sausage or ham?”
“The sausage fresh?”
“More or less. I’d go with the ham.”
“Ham,” I said as the door swung open and Johnny Three-Legs strutted in.
Johnny wasn’t much more than a kid, maybe 22 or 23, short and slender, with spiky black
hair and the barest hint of a narrow mustache above his thin lips. According to the neighborhood
working girls, the only thing that made Johnny special was in his pants. Which is where his
nickname came from. A nickname he took great pride in.
I knew next to nothing about Johnny. Didn’t even know his full name. He would have
been in his mid-teens before the war, probably one of those kids who hung out on street corners
and scared old ladies. After the war and the camps, he found a place under the wing of Eddie
Gabriel, the neighborhood’s gangster-in-residence. I never could figure out what value Johnny
brought to Eddie’s crew. It sure wasn’t his keen intellect or sparkling personality.
We’d had a few run-ins, Johnny and me, and I’d had to spank him a couple of times and
send him back to Eddie Gee. Nothing serious, but he wasn’t the kind to put the past behind him.
He didn’t like me. He didn’t like me a lot.
Johnny stood near the end of the counter, looking around the empty coffee shop. His eyes
rested on me for a moment, and his upper lip curled into a tough-guy sneer. I shot him a smile,
nodded, and sipped my coffee.
Point made, he swaggered up to the counter behind Hanritty and rested his elbows on it.
“Hey, Hanritty,” he said.
Hanritty didn’t look up from the griddle. “Take a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute. Menu
is on the counter, next to the sugar.”
Johnny’s lip curled into that same tough-guy sneer I’d seen a second earlier. “I ain’t here
for the food, asshole,” he said, his voice low. “We got business.”
A few seconds passed. Then Hanritty looked over his shoulder. “Oh, it’s you, Johnny.” He
smiled. “Only business I got is food. You’re not here for breakfast, I can’t help you.”
Johnny leaned in on the counter, baring his teeth. “Listen, fucko...”
Hanritty turned and used the spatula in his hand to sling a sausage patty at Johnny’s face. It
didn’t hit him. I don’t think it was supposed to. Hanritty just wanted to throw him off balance
for a second.
Johnny jerked back and before he could come forward again, Hanritty was at the counter,
his fingers gripping a handful of Johnny’s greasy hair. He slammed the kid’s face down on the
counter, hard, and held him there, the spatula pressed against Johnny’s throat.
It was a sturdy looking spatula, a sold hunk of steel with a black plastic handle. A little
pressure and Hanritty probably could have severed Johnny’s windpipe.
“No,” Hanritty said, his voice calm, almost conversational. “You listen, Johnny. Do you
remember back a couple of months ago? We had this talk. Nothing has changed. I don’t want
anything Eddie Gee is selling. I don’t want his overpriced meat and eggs. I don’t want his
punch-card games. I don’t want his protection.”