He’s going to kill me. Senator Hart is going to kill me. And there’s nothing I can do to stop him.

How did I let myself get into such a mess?

I was sitting in Croce’s Diner on Fifth Street, halfway through my corned beef on rye, and I was thinking about a conversation I had the night before with my writing instructor. We were talking about dialogue – I was having trouble writing believable dialogue and she told me if I wanted to write the way people speak, I need to start by hearing the way people speak.

I’d been thinking all day about that conversation, and had even gone so far as to jot down little snippets of conversations I overheard. Now I had my notebook out in front of me, and was reading bits of dialogue between bites:

“Morning.” “Hi.” “You don’t have to apologize, I’m just throwing ideas out at you.” “Can you hand me that?” “Look at this guy.” “I hate him.” “Where are we?” “Have you been helped yet?” “He did what?” “Oh, God.”

Oh, God was right. Here I had spent all day listening to the mindless banter most people usually just tune out, and while I had maybe one or two good lines in there, I couldn’t see how this was supposed to make me a better writer. Frustrated, I put my notebook away and turned my attention back to my corned beef. That’s when I heard it.

“Where the hell have you been?” It was the man sitting in the booth behind me. I had noticed him when I walked in but hadn’t really taken a good look; I get kind of distracted when I’m thinking about my work, and sort of tune out the rest of the world. When he spoke his voice was hushed, in fact it was almost a whisper. Even so there was no mistaking the flat, nasally voice of Senator Bob Hart.

I didn’t catch the other guy’s reply; I was too busy just then fumbling in my bag for my notebook. This, I knew, was going to be good. I turned to a blank page, got out my pen, and cocked my head to one side, trying to create the impression that I was staring at a painting above the bar. I turned just a little in my seat to give the conversation my full attention. The senator was talking again.

“Were you followed?”

“No way.”

“You’re sure?”

“Where’s the waitress? I need a drink.”

“Are you sure you weren’t followed?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Jesus, relax will you? Nobody knows.”

“How can you be so sure?”

There was a pause here in the conversation for several long minutes.