Negligent homicide

Two thousand whimsically embarked upon words seem determined to assemble themselves into Chapter 1. I should really be thinking about ways to find more immediate financial gratification here -- novels are like arroyos, the revenue streams are unpredictable at best. My fledgling chapter has strong atmospherics, weak pop at the end. Plus all the perils of using a 12 year old boy as POV -- like writing dialogue for a talking animal. That can be cleaned up on the rewrite, I suppose.

For now, in the best Ludlum manner, I'm calling the book The Chinese Arrangement. "Arrangement" is not a very graceful word, and I expect that will go as soon as the right quirky noun introduces itself.

In other exciting news, a local news story cuts a little too close to home: Mark Doyle, husband of Maria Doyle -- one-time Robin Tennyson Trumble childcare provider and daughter of our landlords -- made the evening news this afternoon and tonight for his involvement in the mysterious death of a child in his care, his two-year-old nephew. The nephew had come to live with the Doyles following the incarceration of the Maria Doyle's crack 'ho sister, the Cardinales' other daughter. His story: he was taking a nap with the kid, and accidentally rolled over and smothered him. Haven't seen Mark Doyle in many years, but Ben reports that he was over here six months ago or so, and that he had gained a lot of weight.

"How much weight?" I asked.

"Oh, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds." A medium-sized human male. "He must weigh four hundred pounds now, easy."

"But still," I said. "Smothering a baby to death. You realize this is going to set the Family Bed back a hundred years. And what normal toddler is just going to lie there and allow itself to be suffocated? I mean, it's going to struggle and kick."

Then came the eleven o'clock news. One of the local affiliates had scored a copy of the 911 call. There was Maria's hoarse voice, streaming out of the television screen: "You've got to help me! My nephew's not breathing!"

"Ma'am, ma'am, calm down," came the dispatcher's voice. "How old is your nephew?"

"He's two, he's two —"

"Where did you find him?"

"Under a pillow --"

Ben and I exchanged glances. Negligent homicide rap for two. At the very least. Because Mark Doyle, claiming to be under the influence of all the heavy meds he's been taking following recent open heart surgery, apparently had the presence of mind to call Maria at work and make her come home, but not the presence of mind to call 911.

Of course, this is Monterey, and the Cardinales have some presence here so who knows if the Doyles will ever be charged with anything. Police and prosecutors have such enormous discretion.

Still, Maria Doyle babysat for Robin for the first six months that we lived here. One cannot be but grateful that Mark Doyle never threw a pajama party for him.