Erotica Harem

Setting: A busy street. Again, I think you did a good job with the descriptions.

Then Slade’s office. There wasn’t as much description here, but I don’t think it’s important.

Characters: The reader learns a little more about Jason. He’s broken the law, but I’m not sure if that’s something he does/did on a regular basis.

Slade is introduced. His personality comes across strong and clear. He acts more like a stereotypical newspaper editor than reporter. Not that I think you need to change anything. Within a short amount of time, you got his character across. Good job.

Referencing: There are few comments in the line by line.

Plot: Jason is trying to go forth with his plan by calling a reporter. The reader still doesn’t know everything, but enough that it’s not frustrating. He’s frightened away from the payphone booth when he hears footsteps approaching.
Then the chapter ends in Slade’s POV. He does get a mysterious call, but it’s not from Jason, at least I assume as Jason was scared away. Slade gets a piece of information that seems to upset him. I would hope it eventually links to Jason’s story or else, what’s the point?

Grammar: I didn’t notice anything, but I’m not a grammar guru.

Just my personal opinion: I haven’t seen any glaring errors nor do I have any major suggestions. I still find the story intriguing. If you have questions or if there’s something that concerns you, that you would like me to look out for, just let me know.

Sephina

Line by Line:

Later that evening, Jason set out to make the call. He planned well, scouted out the perfect spot a week before and rehearsed those ensnaring words he planned to use, the same words meant to pique the interest of the reporter vital to his cause. He’s such a mysterious man! He found Calvin Slade -- award winning investigative journalist for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution -- to be tenacious, even maniacal, and completely driven in his desire to bring news to the world. His plan called for someone likely to snatch the bait without a second thought and run like hell, driven more by greed and competitiveness than moral obligation, overlooking the obvious. He planned to impart enough information to snag the reporter’s voracious curiosity, setting progress in motion and, if all went as he envisioned, planned for all these months, direct the attention away from him toward the real criminals. Sounds like Jason is also clever…

The real criminals; the pun was not lost on him. As word leaked of their little club, the society of vagabonds, the exclusive membership would be quick to retreat, concerned more with distancing themselves from their sullied deeds than worrying much with him. Reporters have rigid reputations about revealing their sources, even when faced with subpoena or incarceration. His search through the newspaper’s online archives revealed Slade demonstrated his allegiance to his profession on many occasions, a proud defender of the First Amendment. Though tossed in jail a few times by contemptuous trial judges irritated with the report’s righteousness, if somewhat displaced honor of pride, the threat never deterred him. Slade would no doubt prove adversarial. And, by the time the enemy figured out who tipped the reporter, he would be long gone.

At least it was the plan of course, that and stealing away with more than ten million dollars that could never be reported missing to the authorities. He’s also a bad boy.

Jason decided earlier to make the call from a payphone at the corner of Piedmont and 10th, about a block south of Piedmont Park. He selected the spot because it marked a busy corner; a heavily traveled intersection that guaranteed witnesses should something bad go down. A Smoothie King Is this a real store in the South? I’ve never heard it of it. At first I thought it was just a witty name you made up. Then I saw Subway… hugged the corner lot, including a Subway and the Flying Biscuit Bistro. Caribou Coffee sat across the street and on the corner, an art-deco structure housing Nickiemoto’s, anchored by a trendy, forever crowded authentic Mexican restaurant more famous for their “Monster” margaritas than fajitas. The adjacent corner housed a century’s old, one story pitted-brick structure, the lone original building in the area. Gutted in the 70’s during one of many attempts to revitalize the area and sectioned into storefront retail space which housed a neighborhood grocery store and flanked on either side by popular gay bookstore and coffeehouse to the east, the opposite end a pub called Blake’s.

He chanced his would-be captors were not gutsy enough to grab him in the open, too brazen an attempt, even for them. He had to be careful. Too much at stake now and one wrong decision meant disaster for him as much as those wishing to harm him. He counted on it.

Swallowing hard, he inserted two quarters in the coin-acceptor of the battered payphone, the last one in the area since proliferation of cell phones. I like how you pointed that out about payphones. On the campus I work at, there’s only one left, in some dorm’s laundry room. Listening for the dial tone, he punched the numbers from recollection, a talent he shared with his mother of recalling information viewed just once before committing it to memory. He possessed a rare, uncanny ability to retain the tiniest of details to the most complex elements of design, from a simple string of words to more elaborate text, series of numbers or even computer entries. No match for the most prestigious scholastic board, he dazzled and amazed with his ability to call to mind obscure facts and numbers, a talent he used to his benefit.

The weather outside turned cloudy and cool, with a light mist floating in the air. You might want to point out the weather conditions a little sooner in the chapter. He strained to see past the rain-slicked Plexiglas of the blue domed-shaped booth, checking for strangers or perhaps lingering shadows, any obtruder Spell check says this is misspelled. I don’t know what word you meant, so I can’t offer a correction that might be tailing him as he waited for an answer.

He chose not to contact the reporter from his home or cell because a movie he saw once revealed how a reporter traced and recorded calls, a chance Jason didn’t want to take this late in the game. Better safe than sorry. I like that train of thought. Going to the police was not an option either, though a much safer bet if not more practical. Unanswered questions, serious accusations of his involvement and assumptions made long before his confessions or a late night attorney could prove his innocence. His revelations might land him in jail alongside the very scum he aimed to expose. He tried to recall the term used on those Hollywood crime shows; ‘accessory to the fact’. The call to the reporter needed to work!

The switchboard operator answered on the third ring in a professional, albeit monotone southern drawl. “Atlanta Journal-Constitution Newspapers. How may I help you?”

“Calvin Slade,” he said firmly, glancing at his wristwatch, which glowed a quarter shy of eleven. Great description. The mist gave way to a light drizzle.

“One moment, please.”

Several uneasy moments passed before the reporter’s harried voice burst through the line. He flinched, thought of hanging up but ignored the impulse, having waited so long for this moment. Tired of debating and exhausted from harboring the details of his actions secret any longer, it was now or never! His plan was foolproof with no holes. *shakes head* Never say foolproof. No better way to jinx yourself. Fat chance in hell of implicating himself party to the crime as long as he stayed focused. And Jason North mastered at staying focused. No holes!

Anxiety overcame him as he waited for the reporter to regain his composure. The workout earlier that morning shot to hell as the reporter’s impatience exploded through the receiver like an angry mob boss. Barley into conversation, Jason heard footsteps approaching from around the corner to his right, slow and calculated footsteps.

Familiar footsteps? Or paranoid?

He slammed down the receiver and crossed the street, synching the strap of his raincoat to keep from getting wet.

[]


The call rang through before deadline.

Shoving a mass of paper aside in search of the telephone, the reporter barked into the receiver. “Slade!”

Silence. “Hey, I got fifteen minutes till deadline,” he snapped, irritably. “Talk to me or bug off. I haven’t got the time.” He seized a half-eaten sandwich left on the corner of the desk.

“Yeah, well, listen up,” barked the voice with arrogance. Male, the reporter thought. Young and cocky; he knew the type well. “I catch your writing in the paper, you know? You’re that investigative reporter. Means you wanna know about stuff, right?”

Slade rolled his eyes and grumbled, snapping a bite of salami, chewing with his mouth open. Cradling the receiver against his shoulder, he fished in the trash bin for a napkin and brushed his lips. “Yeah, okay, I’m listening.” He grunted.

Slade faced an approaching deadline, having dodged all who demanded his attention tonight and now this! The caller was likely a thrill-seeker. That’s what he called them, “thrill-seekers”. Snitches with a propensity for ratting on their bosses and neighbor’s, members of their own family even, anything to get their names printed in the newspaper. He’d witnessed it a thousand times his past ten years on the beat. He could peg an informant from a wise guy in two seconds flat. His bet edged on the latter.

Slade contemplated hanging up, but the next few words he heard stopped him cold.

“That councilman you wrote about? You know, the one cops found drunk in his car a few weeks back,” the voice whispered. A vehicle cranking hip-hop music thundered past in the background. The caller cupped the mouthpiece and forced out his words. “You know, in Buckhead, passed out on the side of the road.”

Slade knew all right, the infamous Mitchell Keyes. Some claim the most corrupt, divisive, son-of-a-bitch City Councilman ever elected president to the powerful, visible and yet, mostly African-American board. “What about him?”

“There’s much more to the story,” the voice teased. “I know some things.”

“I don’t buy information,” Slade warned, making note of the number appearing on the telephone’s LED display.

“Check it out. He didn’t leave the party alone that night.”

The caller went silent. The line clicked off. Slade stopped chewing and slid to the edge of his seat. All he heard was the static drone of a line gone dead.

“Shit!” Slade shouted out to no one. “Shit!”
Obviously, that piece of information meant more to Slade than the reader. Hmm… so how does this relate back to Jason?