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.

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles

Never have I read a book like this one.  Original. Polished to a high shine and the characters live indelibly from page to fascinating page.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.  The very Russian Count Alexander Rostov is an aristocrat by birth, but also by inclination.  A man of high character and impeccable manners. Every inch the gentleman, in his appearance and in his unaffected conversation. He treats everyone with respect and yet is a shrewd judge of personalities. 

Unfortunately, Count Rostov was born in one age and now lives in another.  A time traveler?  In a sense.  He’s in Moscow at an elegant hotel, just as the Russian Revolution destroys the world the Count was born into. In the new Russia, Aristocrats are now by definition enemies of the people. The Count faces the unenviable task of having to adjust and yet maintain what he is.

Called before a tribunal, he answers questions forthrightly, without rancor or hesitation, or prevarication.   One thing he cannot hide, nor deny, is that while being politically neutral, he is an aristocrat.   The tribunal decides not to inflict the ultimate punishment on a man who is clearly of the old nobility, but instead his punishment is for him to be listed as a ‘Former Person,’ and confined to the same hotel forever.

However, there are some differences in his style of living.  He will no longer occupy the elegant suite as he has done for several years. 

A Gentleman in Moscow is the story of what happens while he is confined within the walls of the hotel.

The first question is:  How would you handle that situation?  Would you go whack-o ?  Lose your manners?  Would your life lose all meaning? And were you in the Count’s place, what would you to give yourself reasons to go on living life to the fullest?

The reader’s first inclination is to leap to the conclusion that this must be a very dull book.  One man, in a hotel, while the entire country is in flux, does not present itself as an exciting situation.  Your instinct would be very wrong. Much happens in any hotel and in this one, there is a constant swirl of strong currents as the political change slaps like heavy waves upon the shores of an entire nation.  In the midst of this barrage, the Count tiptoes between who he is and who he must be to survive.  Friendships are forged and rent asunder.  Impossibilities lead to unexpected adventures.  All the while, the denizens of the hotel parade before you in a most extravagant and unlikely circus of activity.

Amor Towles has written an extraordinary book that roils and seethes and forces you to read ‘just one more chapter’ before your eyes close for the night.

This is a close-up glimpse of what communism brought and did not bring in an often brutal exchange of one totalitarian regime for another.

In many ways, life goes on in the hotel and as it does, foreign diplomats and journalists and even tourists dodge in and out of scene after indelible scene.

As a writer, too often when I read a novel I find myself at odds with syntax or a faulty plot, or unlikely situations, driven by not totally believable persona.   A Gentleman in Moscow has no such defects.  In fact it has no defects at all.  Nitpicking reader that I am, I would not change a word or a plot twist or even so much as a mustache on a single character.

In short, this is the most honestly written and enjoyable novel I ever remember reading.

A Gentleman in Moscow is an unforgettable tale that rides high above other modern novels.  I was glued to the pages from beginning to end.  I feel certain you will be too.

Only one word of caution, without fear of contraction, I advise it’s best to read this book in an electronic version.  One simple reason.  Mr. Towles’ vocabulary is larger than yours or mine.  As you may know, an electronic edition allows the reader to simply push the word to get an instant definition. You will appreciate this tip!  But, most of all, you’ll appreciate such an enticing novel.  A Gentleman in Moscow.

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.