Relative Sanity, NOT!

For this week’s guest on the Tasha Turner Coaching Virtual Blog Tour, my guest is Martin Reaves.  Welcome to Quotidiandose!  Martin joined forces with me in a recent 3 man (person) basketball game during an interview with Bruce Blake.  He has proven to be a good sport and has a fine sense of humor. 

This week’s topic is to share a deleted scene and explain why it’s deleted.  Here’s an opportunity to get inside the mind of a writer!  Instead of my dark caverns, Martin is going to allow you to traipse through his! Please welcome Martin “Mott” Reaves.

Well now…I’m trying to remember what I had in mind with this deleted scene (actual 2 scenes but I’ve only posted one here). This was originally the second and third chapter of my book Relative Sanity. Apparently I had an idea for an entire subplot involving a professional criminal in LA. I wish I could creep back into my thought processes of 8 years ago to ask my then-self what I had in mind. I still like these pages, but they make me nervous–clearly I know a little too much about a bank’s daily opening procedures. For your consideration:
He took his doughnut and coffee and sat next to the window facing Paramount Boulevard. Someone had left the sports section of the L.A. Times behind and he scanned the headlines as he ate his doughnut and burned his mouth on the coffee. Dunkin’ Donuts was nearly empty at this time of the morning and he was enjoying the quiet, and the way the early spring sun slanted across the plastic table.

He checked his watch. 9:23.
A glance across the street at First Mutual Trust. No sign of her yet.
Banker’s hours, he thought, and went back to the paper. The Sacramento Kings were looking good again this year, or so the paper said. The Laker’s were out of it. Cleveland was…shit. Too bad they hadn’t left something other than sports; he’d never been able to work up much enthusiasm for all the macho posturing. He remembered laughingly speculating once that he might be gay.
The woman he was with at the time—what the hell was her name? Casey? Candy?—had not found it very amusing. In fact, she’d seemed to think that sort of speculation usually meant
that you were gay, at least to some degree. Well, what the hell did she know? He’s lying there, giving her the ride of a lifetime, and she’s got to go and say something like that. You brought it up, she’d said. You’re the one was thinking about it. He asked her how he could perform so well
with her if he was gay. Maybe you’re bi, she’d said, and then made some crack about his performance not being all that great. Bitch.
He laid the paper aside and sipped his coffee. Across the street a royal blue Mazda Miata pulled into the parking lot. The driver parked facing the bank, placed a Hawaiian print sunshade in front of the windshield and opened the door. A long leg wearing a white high-heeled pump snaked out the open door.
He checked his notes. Her name was Amanda Welch and she managed the Paramount branch of First Mutual Trust. She was thirty-two, married, with two kids and a three bedroom mortgage
in nearby Downey. A little plump for his taste but attractive nonetheless. He knew it was probably not necessary to be quite so thorough in his research, but it certainly couldn’t hurt. Be
embarrassing to study her movements and find out she was the janitor. Best to be prepared.
She went into the bank and he watched the second-hand on the platinum Rolex strapped to his wrist. Sixty-seven seconds later, the blinds opened on the far left window. Second from the
left stayed closed but the next one over was opened, and so on down the length of the building. Sixty-seven seconds was fast, which meant she was sloppy. That was good, because it indicated they had not been hit in a long time. Maybe never. Nothing made you stupid like a false sense of security.
So, a blind open on every other window was Amanda Welch’s signal for All Clear. If the Operations Officer showed up and saw a different pattern, he would know something was wrong, if he was paying attention at all.
It was another fifteen minutes before the Ops Officer arrived and went into the building. He didn’t knock, just walked right in. Dumb bastard was supposed to let her know he was outside, and then she’d come out, away from the windows and any possibility of being under the control of an intruder. Then he’d know for certain all was well.
“What’s your name, stupid,” he said, consulting his notes. Clifford Farrell; forty-nine years old and single; lives alone. Probably watches a lot of Jeopardy and drinks light beer out of a can, he thought.
He sipped at his coffee. “I’ll take Twentieth Century Presidents for two hundred, Alex,” he whispered. “Ummm, ‘Lost his head while driving down the street in Dallas.’ Boy that’s a tough one, Alex, can I pass?”
Another twenty minutes elapsed before the rest of the employees began to trickle in.
“Don’t make it too easy, folks.”
Every other window means All Clear. And then fifteen minutes of free time. If the job wasn’t wrapped up by then—and it damn well better be—there’d be Clifford to deal with. That wouldn’t be too bad. In fact, it might be a good idea to wait for him. After Mr. Farrell arrived, there’d
be a full twenty minutes before anyone else showed. Worth considering.
He smiled at the ease of it and went to the counter for another doughnut.


*     *     *

Martin Reaves is a writer primarily of suspense/thrillers with a psychological edge. And sometimes horror…or humor…heck, even romance. (Aren’t all these things connected on some level?)

Upon turning 48 he realized he was no longer 47…he wasn’t sure what to do with this information so he moved on.

Martin is very happily married to his childhood sweet-patootie, and has two incredible adult daughters who he considers among his best friends.

Reading and Writing are twin first-loves, followed by music (he is a musician and singer and has been performing semi-professionally for longer than he’d care to think about).


When not selling plastic to pay the bills, he (and his books) can be found here:

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