An Excerpt from: Lowdown. Dirty. Shame.

Here's an excerpt from my second novel, Lowdown. Dirty. Shame.  This is barely a taste. Call it a literary hors d'oeuvre. Available on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle editions.  Pour yourself a drink.  Settle back.  Get comfortable.  It's a sexy, dirty, romantic, side-splitting, romp of a novel.  Do this author a couple of favors:  Repost this blog to widen my circle of readers.  When you finish the book, write a review on Amazon.  Now, on to the excerpt...

When in doubt, have a drink.  If still in doubt, have another.  I sit on my usual bar stool at The Pagan Cajun, better known as simply Jambalaya. The name of the restaurant hides in small letters on an unlit sign over the door, while Jambalaya garishly flashes and features chili peppers sizzle-dancing on either side.  I gingerly sip the ‘Taste of the Devil,’ a Cajun martini, fired by pepper infused rum.  My lips are aflame.  Fred, the white-aproned barkeep, his back to me, polishes glasses or does something else that needs doing.  He stands next to the huge, heavy bar, stocked with the best libations from the four corners.  With a mirrored back reflecting every bottle and every customer in the place, the bar seems twice as large.  At that moment Fred and I are the only two human reflections. 

I go to bars infrequently, but I make an exception for Jambalaya. It wallows in the comfortable memories of days gone by.  A pressed-tin ceiling, old, cracked black and white tiled floor, cluttered, high marble topped tables and equally worn stools are just the spot for Fitzgerald and Hemingway to swap inspiring platitudes.   Faded posters celebrate ancient Mardi Gras and dirty, smoky jazz.  The place is also as intimate as the sights and smells from your grandmother’s kitchen.  Friday nights they have a trio blowing all the standards until everybody’s fed and all the drunks go home. Weeknights I like it better. Solitude. Thoughts that don’t involve women or money.  All that is about to change.

         She steps through the double, beveled glass doors as gently as an angel looking for a rosebud.  I’d seen her a thousand times before and never seen her at all.  She’s blond and I never go for blonds, but I went for this one.  The powder blue suit and tasteful pearls screams of money and lots of it, but I would have gone for her if she’d been dipped in tar and rolled in feathers.  A line from The Great Gatsby floats through my head, “I hope she'll be a fool -- that's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.”  Sounds good, until you look at it from the other side of the bed.

         To a man, cars and women have a lot in common, at least in the love at first sight department.  Love that Corvette!  Gonna buy it?  Probably not.

         I can tell in the first five minutes if this is going to be just a passing fancy.  I don’t know how I know it, only that I know it.

         The bar stool barely squeaks when she sits down.  A delicate floral scent floats past.  Then, the two bluest eyes this side of a Rocky Mountain sky look my direction.  “Mr. Hudson?”

         “Present, clean and sober.”  I forget about my burning lips.

         “May I call you by your first name?”

         “I always go by Hungus”  No I didn’t say that.  “I always go by Hudson, but the first name is Jack, if you’d prefer.”

         “Mr. Hudson...Jack”  she makes it sound like a gently whispered prayer,  “I’m Candy Brunner.”  Candy can’t have reached her thirties yet and I’m not sure anyone’s going to notice when she does.  She holds out her hand.  I take it and don’t want to give it back, but like a true gentleman, I let it slide across my palm and watch it join its partner in her lap.  “I’m a friend of Margot Bliss.”  She produces a lacy handkerchief and dabs at the corner of one eye and then the other.  “I’m just so sad.  It’s tragic, just tragic.” 

         I wonder if she meant tragic in the classical sense, a rise and fall based on a fatal personal flaw, or if she simply meant terrible.  “It certainly is,” I agree, whichever way she means it.

         “And now Arthur has disappeared.”

         “He has?”  I try to keep from looking stunned.  I fail.  Hundred dollar bills with wings appear.

         “You didn’t know?  The authorities have been looking all over for him.” 

I don’t tell her I spoke with him at his office.  Knew he had sounded in a hurry, but not like he was going to depart for places unknown.

         “Wait a minute.”  It’s time for me to put gorgeousness aside and untangle this Gordian knot, “How do you know I had anything to do with Margot?”

         “Hazel told me.”

         “Hazel Armond?”

         “Yes.  She said you were to meet her husband here.”

         “I’m meeting Mr. Armond, but not today.”

         “She said you mentioned you might have a drink here tonight.”

         I’m trying to remember if I had really said that.  If I hadn’t then I’d better watch myself around Hazel Armond because she’s a mind reader.  And how the hell does she know I’d been hired to keep an eye on Margot?  Jesus, that woman is a spy in her own house.  “Oh, right,” I agree, still not remembering.  I’d mentioned something about getting a drink, but was sure it was tomorrow and Armond not being here proves it. “Speaking of a drink, what are you having?”

         “Just a little bit of Perrier,” she says softly, looking at Fred.  Fred turns, smiles and brings a glass, with a slice of lemon on the lip, and small green bottle.  He pours slowly and we all listen to the fizz.  Then he smiles again at Candy and goes back to polishing glasses.  His eyes can’t help but dart up to the mirror now and then.  There are three reflections now and two of us don’t matter.

         “You’re working for Mr. Bliss?  That’s what Hazel said.”  The deep blue eyes wash over me.  She has a little half smile, almost a quirk, except on that face I wouldn’t call it a quirk.  I’d call it Mona Lisa in the flesh.

         “Yeah, I’m working for him, but I don’t know where he is, if that’s what you’re asking.”  At least I hope I’m still working for him.  I need the money even more now that my house has been trashed. He never told me to quit.

         Candy reaches over and pats my knee, a friendly gesture at best, but nevertheless. Women use little touches like brush strokes on a canvas.

         “So, you just came down here to sip some seltzer water and tell me how sad it is about your friend going missing?”  Why does my brain have to work like that?  Why can’t I just enjoy the moment and chalk it up to good fortune?  Because, I started off suspicious and the last couple of twisted days fanned a raging paranoia.  As much as I like myself, I never was leading man material and beautiful women don’t just drop by to enjoy my company.  Small consolation that beautiful women don’t just drop in out of the blue to enjoy anyone’s company.

Maybe Murder

                                        Maybe Murder

My Newest novel is now available on Amazon, the kindle edition.  Paperback will be out in a few days.

John D "Jack" Hudson is back! Once more he's getting in over his head and this time it's blackmail...his blackmail. A deputy sheriff in Cassavora County has been running drugs and now is turning state's evidence. Someone wants the deputy killed before he testifies. Jack is supposed to do the job, but Jack is no killer. Now he's in a race to sort out friends from enemies, figure out who's behind the game and keep himself alive. Meanwhile, his old girlfriend's ex-husband turns up dead in Jack's house. Another girlfriend has second thoughts about losing him. As with the previous novel, Lowdown. Dirty. Shame., it's set in the quirky, small town south, with a cast of oddball characters. And, nothing is as it seems.

Amazon. Maybe Murder by William Stroud

Chapter 1

The End of the line

I park my white Honda on the other side of the street, get out, and stand in the shadows, waiting for the show to begin.  Tall pines rise up behind me, but it’s a thin copse, with houses and businesses clearly seen past the roughly barked trunks.  My Glock is in my shoulder holster and the other, untraceable pistol rests in the outside pocket of my dark leather jacket.  I’m as nervous as a tethered goat facing a pride of lions. 

A cream and brown patrol car pulls up in front of the house and drives onto the thin, weedy lawn. No sirens or flashing lights, and no hesitation. Car doors slam.  Everything seems to be going according to somebody’s plan.  I don’t know whose. I’ve heard so many different versions. Nobody shoos me away or tells me to get back in my car and move on.  Nobody even looks my way.  That part of the plan is on track. 

Darkly smudged, foreboding clouds drift over, temporarily hiding the sun and casting somber shadows.  I tell myself to stay calm.  Myself doesn’t listen well.  My heart’s pounding like an epileptic snare drummer.   I’d like a cool sip of water and there are any number of places I’d rather drink it and any number of people I’d rather be with.

The former Chief Deputy of Cassavora County, now the star witness in a grand jury investigation, steps out of the backseat of the patrol car and is escorted to the house by both of the deputies.  The escorts wear matching dark brown khaki trousers and crisp, light brown shirts with patches on the sleeves.  They’re bare headed.  Their thick, black belts are shiny leather, with the butts of their pistols and radios clearly visible.  The former chief deputy stands straight, has on civilian clothes and walks with confidence. 

Elton Krebs, the former Chief Deputy is the only one I recognize.  The rest could be from anywhere.  In this state, sheriff’s deputies look like sheriff’s deputies. They don’t have Krebs handcuffed.  He walks like he’s in charge, instead of a jail inmate, facing charges, and waiting to testify.

An unmarked car pulls up and a man and a woman in civilian clothes get out and walk toward the group of three who are just about to enter the house. 

I know these two. The woman turns and motions for me to hurry up.  I hesitate, then start to walk.  I get only a few feet when the crack of what sounds like a pistol comes from inside the house. Krebs and the two escorts drop to a knee.  The deputies draw their guns and aim them nowhere in particular.

Instinctively, I drop down also, but don’t pull a weapon.  Nobody seems to know exactly what’s going on.  Clearly the plan is soggy and already swirling down the toilet.

I glance over where the woman and her partner have taken refuge behind their car.

Something just isn’t right.  Hasn’t been right from the beginning. This is not the way it’s supposed to happen.

The Wife Between Us, by Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen

The Wife Between Us, by Greer Hendricks and Sarah Pekkanen

This book engages you from page one, which is really not the beginning of the book, it’s only the prologue.

“The street is loud and busy, with yellow cabs racing by, commuters returning from work, and shoppers entering the deli on the corner.  But my eyes never stray from her.

She pauses in her entryway and briefly glances back over her shoulder.  An electrical charge seems to pulse through me.”

And farther on:

“She’s oblivious to what I have done to her.”

“She is unaware of the damage I have wrought; the ruin I have set in motion.”

And right away you wonder, who is who in this drama, this mystery, this psychological thriller?  The characters are sharply drawn, yet distantly indistinct.

Who is following whom and why are the players first one name and then another, with the time sequences a puzzle of inconsistencies? 

The people are New Yorkers, politically correct, shallow enough to be oh-so-sensitive and they attach importance to the most remarkably unremarkable bits of clothing and jewelry and shifts of weather and scents.   The details are held up and examined.

But even as unsympathetic as the characters are, I kept reading.  Why?  It’s like a baseball smashing through your window.  All you really need to do is clean up the glass and have the windowpane replaced, right?  For humans, that’s not nearly enough.  We want to know the whole flipping story! Whose ball is it?  And most of all, who’s the bastard who didn’t fess up?

I readily admit that normally after a first few pages of a book like this, I would have slammed it closed and tossed it across the room, irate that the author(s) had wasted my time.

But, instead I read on.  I had to face it, that I was in some inner way thrilled by the exacting perversity of people I wouldn’t have spent five minutes alone with.  They seem normal, yet creepy.  The kind of people who may speak kindly and be impeccably dressed, yet you wouldn’t be surprised to find them drinking directly from a fifty dollar bottle of wine, while they used pliers to pinch the heads off rats.

Want to find a character to like?  Look somewhere else. These folks seem to all have secrets you may not want to know about.  But, I’m curious. Always.  Did curiosity really kill the cat!  Nine freaking times?  How about dogs?  Does curiosity kill them too?

Along the way, the plot comes together.  But, maybe not.  Maybe it’s unraveling.  You find yourself saying , “Ah, now I’ve got it.”  NO, you don’t.  Shreds of evidence are starting to feel like splinters embedded in your fingertips.

I turned pages faster than a mother of triplets changes diapers.  And, the last two or three dozen pages were a breathless sprint!

I found myself thinking, I really do not like these characters!  Maybe I kept reading because I like revenge, or maybe I’m just a curious cat.

An Excerpt From Stroud's Newest Novel: Lowdown. Dirty. Shame.

Dear Sir or Madam, enclosed is a teaser for my newest novel, but first…

My second novel, available in paperback and Kindle editions on Amazon, is offbeat, quirky, and elicited some offbeat and quirky comments, as you might expect from my offbeat and quirky readers.

“Too much sex and violence for me!”  Wait a sec!  You can have too much sex?  An old wives tale.  Very old wives.  Wives with dementia.

“Laugh out loud funny!”  My fervent hope is the reader laughed at the right places.

“I don’t buy books.”  For your vigorous resolve, my poverty stricken family applauds you with hunger-weakened hands.

“The part I liked best was….now I can’t remember.”  What was your name again?

“I thought things like this could never happen, and then my wife found the photos.”  Delete, delete, delete.  Never forget these words.

For those of you, and by that I mean the billions of you around the world that have not had the supreme pleasure of reading my latest scabrous tale of the small town South, I offer this encapsulation:

Jack Hudson is in a pickle. He’s not a private investigator; he’s a small town, small time writer. But, when a well-to-do acquaintance and fraternity brother asks him to check on his wife, Jack is all ears. He has good reasons. The fraternity brother’s wife and Jack are on better than speaking terms, if you know what I mean, wink, wink, nudge, nudge. The job sounds simple and there’s money on the table for just one night of slightly perverse snooping. But, simple things aren’t. Now the wife is missing, Jack is accused, Jack’s other girlfriend is again tangled with her ex-husband, the fraternity brother’s first wife may also be missing, and Jack’s simple life is instantly scrambled and scattered across Cassavora County, several other counties, New Orleans and Charleston. Oh yeah, Jack’s brother may be part of a criminal conspiracy, Jack’s mother is on her last legs…Damn, I know your heart is pounding just thinking about it!

Ready for a sample?  Something to whet your curious and slightly deranged appetite for twisted mayhem?  Keep reading!

Extract From: Lowdown. Dirty. Shame.

A white and tan Ford, a row of flashing blue lights on top, tires crunching the gravel, stops behind my dented, aging, but still dependable Honda. A couple of officers step out, adjusting their gun belts and heading for my front door. I hide in the semidarkness of my bedroom and edge the curtain back another inch. Momentary comfort, before somebody pounds my door with a sledgehammer fist.  An edgy feeling, like a kid playing hide-and-seek when the footsteps get closer. 

Normally I’m up and sparking at seven thirty, but the night before had stretched out like a lazy cat.  Make that a semi-guilty, lazy cat.

The knock is not the gentle knock of a frolicsome cutie, followed by an invitation to come in, take off her clothes, and straddle my quivering flesh.

This knock carries visions of chokeholds and handcuffs.

         “Sheriff’s Department.  We need to ask you a few questions.”  A deputy bangs a couple of more times. 

         “Just a second.”  I grab a robe.  Judy, a sixth grade teacher, offered me a pair of pajamas a few years back, but the two of us never used them.  The PJ habit didn’t take.

         “Sir, we’re asking you to open the door!”  The sharply pitched voice wears a cloak of authority and likes the fit.

         “Hang on!” This time I yell a little louder.  Loud, not threatening.  Only a masochist, or someone suicidal threatens cops.  I’m just a mild mannered writer who yearns for finer things than he can afford.  Younger cars.  Faster women.

         Sunlight cuts my eyes and sprays across two officers in Cassavora County brown and tan uniforms. They stand there hatless, with hard eyes, like they’ve just spotted Son of Sam.  The guy in front is shorter and thinner. Behind him, the other deputy makes up the difference, with beef to spare.  The big guy gives me a bully’s thick-lidded stare, and adjusts his uniform shirt, the way fat guys do when they’re trying to keep their pants pulled up over their paunch.

         I hold up a hand for shade.

“Sir, we need to ask you a few questions.” 

“Yeah, you said that.”

The guy in front, the skinny one, rocks back on his heels, his thumbs hooked inside his tooled leather pistol belt with the fingers of his right hand lightly brushing the handle. The big guy doesn’t say anything, just keeps glaring at me like a linebacker determined to spear the passer.

         “What questions?”

         “When did you come in last night, sir?”  Don’t you just love the needless signs of respect that mean they can kick your ass with impunity?

         “What makes you think I went out?”  Aside from some innocent snooping, unarmed and without malice, I hadn’t done anything noteworthy.  I never do much noteworthy, although that seems to be changing by the minute.

         “Sir,” the voice tightens up, “Are you going to answer our questions, or do we need to take you back to the Sheriff’s Office and question you there?”

         “You know, I might be a little bit more forthcoming if you told me what this was about.”  A citizen’s rights are only a thin veneer when armed officers of the law stand on your porch.

         “Forthcoming,” the big guy mutters, twisting his lips like he’s just spit out a fly.

         “We’re conducting a police investigation and we’d like your cooperation,” the thin one continues.  There is no mistaking the tone. Bad cop and worse cop.

I step out onto the porch. The big guy grabs my shoulder, snaps me around and cuffs me.  “My advice is not to try to resist, motherfucker, although that might be a lot of fun for us.”

“Sorry, didn’t know it was your mother.”

“Don’t,” I hear the thin guy whisper.  The big guy tightens his grip anyway. 

Resist?  That’s a laugh.  “Resist?  I haven’t done anything.”  That point floats cloud-like past the guardians of the law.  Your newspaper spouts off about criminals having too many rights, then you’re cuffed and suddenly everything changes.  You’d like all those rights you read about, a few extras, and a hotshot attorney’s number on your speed dial.  This has to be a gigantic mistake.

         “Can I get some clothes?”

The thin deputy leads me back to my bedroom.  He doesn’t take off the cuffs, but grabs a few things as I nod.  He tells me I can change at the jail.  The big guy stays outside, while skinny hustles me through the front door.

Several trailer-court residents have gathered along my driveway, a few hundred yards from their tin abodes. Must have been the flashing lights.  Moths to the flame. Between them they probably own a baker’s dozen unpaid traffic fines, not to mention a file cabinet full of arrest records. Cans of kerosene, waiting for any flicker of judicial flame.  The deputies barely notice.

         “Hey, Dally!”  Moon yelled at me.   Moon is a well-muscled, white tee shirt, baseball cap wearing, never been close to a razor in a week, mountain man.  My pal.

         And just because he writes only as well as a large canine, doesn't mean he's stupid.  His river of expertise just doesn't follow the usual gullies to the sea.  Need a door re-squared?  A lock installed?  Not getting a pure sound out of your speakers?  Moon reads the intricacies of mechanical problems like another man reads a newspaper.  If anyone still reads newspapers.

         I should mention my house, a mansion in comparison to my trailer park pals.  Nice little bungalow with a porch.  Thanks to Moon, I've got speakers in every room and the sound is perfection.  Didn't have to buy a new stove when a heating element went out.

        Trailer park residents walk under modified streetlights, pulling current the electric co-op hasn't missed.  Moon also walks dogs and fixes cars.

        Ever ask to see your mechanic's high school transcript?  We pick people for their strengths.

My name is Jack, John D. Hudson, or for most just Hudson. The D is for Dallas. I hate my middle name as much as I hate a hair in my gravy.  Moon gets to call me anything he wants.  First of all, he’s big enough and mean enough to pound the crap out of Hulk Hogan’s momma, not necessarily in a fair fight.  Secondly, Moon encourages my passion for fresh herbs, and brings me potted versions from time to time.  Sometimes the little green plastic cups say Wal-Mart on one side and K-Mart on the other, so god only knows.

         I’ve done a few things for Moon and his trailer park brethren. Wrote a letter to the County Commissioners that got the trailer park’s road paved.  Also, regular county garbage pickup. 

Months ago, Moon was court-ordered to write a letter of apology to the owner of a local restaurant, after his persistent and loud belches cleared three tables.  Moon explained he’d been waiting a long time for a table and some of the customers had finished, but weren’t moving.  Right and wrong are vague concepts for Moon, carelessly applied.

My letter allowed Moon to bypass the Creating a Public Nuisance charge and climb the social ladder to the infinitely more respectable, “if you see his car at a restaurant, don’t go near the place.”  He got light community service, serving lunch an hour a day at the jail. He’d been bringing me herbs ever since.

         I have a couple of large, rambunctious rosemary bushes in terra cotta pots outside my door.  As I’m shoved into the cruiser, the big deputy walks over, pulls at the leaves and sniffs his fingers.  “This stuff legal?” he asks no one in particular.

         Moon balls his fists and starts toward him.  “It’s ok,” I yell, “He’s just never seen a plant before.”

         Moon stops. 

The thin deputy tells me, “Shut up and watch your head,” and pushes me the rest of the way in, scattering my bundle of clothes over the back seat.  Both deputies climb in the front.  Doors slam.

         “These restraints are too tight,” I say.  The thin plastic started to numb my fingers.

         “Shut up,” the big deputy says.

         I cough, harder than I need to, spraying the back of his neck. 

         He turns around, his eyes on fire, and uses his stick to rap hard against the steel mesh separating the front seat from the back.  In this case, the mesh is for my protection.  “Don’t do that again,” he says, with venom to spare.

         “Hey, my arms are behind my back.  I can’t help it.”  I cough again. This time the spray hits both deputies.

         The little guy slams on the brakes.  My face slams into the mesh, the same time as the big guy swings his stick. My face feels the sting of a thousand bees.  The little guy tells me if I try that again…the rest of the threat drifts.

A few miles later, we pull in front of the station. The big guy jerks me out of the backseat more roughly than he needs to.  An uncomfortable feeling snakes down my spine.  This has to be about last night.

Final words to faithful readers:  William Stroud, Amazon, Lowdown. Dirty. Shame.  Paperback and Kindle.  Be sure to write a brief review on Amazon!