Scratch

I've been writing a book for a fair year now, and I am self-publishing it with a popular publisher. It's a non-fictional story based on Crime and Mafia, so I'm not entirely sure it's appropriate for all users 
Anyway, I'm really proud of myself, it's selling on the net for £8.00! 

A little extract
Ryan Levarno was quite possibly the poorest, saddest  lowlife living in New York in 1956. But now he lives in a high storey, lusciously furnished apartment, overlooking the streets far below, like God looking down on Earth, his creation a reality. He was one of the richest people around, and when his name was spoken people were silent with admiration. It was surprising how Levarno went from rags to riches with just one phone call and a few cheap beers. And here's what really happened.

   The high pitched chime of the phone rang. And again. And again. Ryan Levarno recoiled from his lousy position  in his armchair and slouched towards the phone. He picked up the receiver, hearing the interference buzzing in his ear like a raged insect.
“Hello?” He asked. Silence.
“Mr. Levarno?” A voice asked. It was pure Russian, rich and thickly accented. 
“Yes.”
“Hello. This is Stephan Ivanov, I heard your name somewhere. I believe you are out of a job, yes?”
Despite the heavy voice and the strong accent, Levarno put the words together and formed a sentence.
“Yeah, how do you know?” He asked. Despite himself he couldn't help notice his typical Brookside accent.
“So many questions, yes? Meet me and a friend, we'll be waiting for you at the Slaughtered Lamb this evening. Maybe you can earn yourself a few dollars if your the right guy. Come along soon, don't make us wait.” The Russian stranger said. Then the unmistakable sound of a phone disconnecting clattered through his head.

   It was hard to believe that he was sitting in a bar with two total strangers just two hours later. The Slaughtered Lamb was a popular attraction, a small Pub located down the side of an alley, discreet and hidden. There were lights flashing and a classic tune drifted in and out of listening distance.
Levarno had met the two men; in fact, he'd bought them the sour beer they were drinking with his only change just a few minutes before. There was a few moments of silence as they sipped their drinks before they spoke. Stephan Ivanov was a short plump man, not necessarily fat. Levarno took in the greasy hair and bristly moustache well, and had soon adapted to the man's alien accent. The other man was thankfully, and English man; called Robert Townsend. Despite his discouraging feature's, bright red hair and pale skin, in a dark shiny suit; he was a nice man. He was all smiles, but he doubted they were here for the latest gossip. And he soon found out. It was Stephan who spoke.
“Levarno. We know a lot about you. Brought up in New York, convicted at an early age, charged with shoplifting and assault. Who was the person you attacked, Ryan?”
Speechless, he stared dumbfounded. He spoke back, but the anger that flared in his voice was whipped away by the chatter and laughter.
“That's none of your business. Now what the hell do you want?”
“That's no way to speak to an English man, you know.” Robert said, sipping his beer delicately as if the dirty pint glass was bone china.
“Ignore Mr. Townsend. Levarno, where was I? You were convicted even further, but I won't go into it for your sake. We are here to offer you a proposition. We work with the South Brooklyn Boys. Heard of them?”
It was if he was punched in the chest. His throat was heavy, but somehow he spoke.
“Yes.” The single word was dry and hoarse.
“We mainly recruit Italian American people. And surprise! You are Italian, ruthless and dangerous. Join me and Robert and you will have no money problems ever again.”
It fell together like a unsolved jigsaw. He'd been convicted of things he'd not been proud of. He had no job and no money, and the proposition for some was like a a switch that could be flicked to make him rich. And he new that his body would obey. The switch would be flicked.
“What do you want me to do?” He spat out, drowning a shot of strong vodka. He shook his head violently and a wave of nausea washed over him.
“There is a gang we used to be... related to. The Carroll Underworld, or CU. They are causing concern for our people. Our leader sent me and Robert out to get someone to help us. A discreet three man crew destroying the CU. It should be easy enough. They're a small gang, and all we need to do is dash in and out again, and you'll be bathing in cash. If you do that good, maybe there will be some more offers you can snatch up...?” Ivanov blabbed. All the time he was sloshing his beer around in the glass, watching the golden liquid crash against the side of the glass like a deformed sea. Suddenly Levarno had an image of that frothy gold sea an ocean of money, ready for him. Teasing him.
“It should be easy enough, as you say.” He kept his voice clipped short and casual, trying to retain control. It seemed to work, as something shimmered in the Russian's eye.
“Good. We'll call you and arrange a place to meet. But here is something... a little welcoming gift.” He finished, his cheerful accent more like an imitation of a dodgy actor. Doing so, the English man slid a tin box across the sticky table so it was placed in front of Levarno. He glanced up and saw the two men beckoning him on. Like an unstoppable force, he opened the box and he felt a warmness spread over him. Inside was an old Derringer pistol, complete with an assortment of .41 rounds. He clicked the box shut and smiled. He was on the road to richness. And then, in union, the two men drained their drinks and nodded to Levarno and turned and left, their long tailcoats sweeping the floor as they left.

Last edited by FlexiStudio (2010-10-18 16:49:59)