'Looking For Harvey Rose' - the short story.

For my creative writing course, I was tasked with producing a genre piece in under 350 words. This caused complications for me, as I think to limit an writer to what is "necessary" to their piece is anti-intellectual and anti-artistic. However, it proved to be an assignment that provided me with insights into self-editing. The genres offered were romance, crime and western; three of my favourite genres. However, as I practically breathe gangster films (or that might just be the marijuana vapour convincing me I'm a G) I chose crime. Because I'm taking advantage of the course for my own means, I chose to use the character from a script I'm writing, the titular Harvey Rose. (No relation to ASSP's own Harvey Slade, obviously, because one does not convey family ties through the first name, apart from in North Korea. And we all know shit's a bit funky up in there.) Anyway, here it is. It's still not quite under 350 words.

“Our boys found a .44 Magnum at your place. What kind of a hippy are you, anyway?”

“Hey, man, I’m a hippy. I just had to pack a gat sometimes to get where I am today.”

“Yeah,” cracked Lieutenant O’Donnell, “...a fuckin’ prison cell.”

It had started, as so often seemed to happen to Harvey Rose, when his door was kicked in. This time it was the cops. Harvey’s dictum was that familiarity breeds not contempt but comfort. He sat stolidly as they fired easy questions at him, thinking, there’s nothing so daunting about the tank if you’ve been in there before; once, twice, a dozen-odd times since the pop revolution.

“Then there’s this heavy, got his ass mown down ‘side some party in Topanga two years back. Seemed like your garden-variety worthless piece of criminal shit, but he worked for none other than Vitale Danza, so perhaps he wasn’t without talent.”

“Just checked the file, Joe” the cops were doing their routine, “and Timothy “Rattlesnake” Conway had a preternatural gift for cocaine trafficking.”

“Don’t know no Rattlesnake,” Harvey grunted.

“Ain’t that just some shit, ‘cause, hypothetically, we knew who shot him, we could stick his ass in stir.”

“See where we’re goin’ with this?”

“As it happens, we’ve been looking for a hook into the Danza organisation for some time. Now, if he ain’t fuckin’ killed you yet, that implies to me that he ain’t fuckin’ gonna...”

“It’s funny...it’s almost like,” Harvey laughed in too high a pitch, “you want me to flip?”

You could hear it from the booth; even the coldest narcs, guys who hadn’t cracked a smile since Kent State, broke out in laughter. The lieutenant wiped his brow and spluttered, “We laugh now, but that is the idea, yes.”

“Hell, fellas, you got the wrong guy. Check your garden, I probably landscaped it. I’m straight.”

The lieutenant had been pacing, but at this he sat opposite Harvey.

“Only been 18 months. And it was gradual. Six months prior, you murdered Rattlesnake Conway. Why? I could give a fuck. He was a louse. It took you half a year to make good with Danza before you could get outta the game.  How hard’s it gotta be to make a comeback?”