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.

The Inn at Ocean Springs

The Inn at Ocean Springs, Mississippi

Noticed I haven’t written a blog in some time?  Been on the road for the best part of three months.  Visited Michigan, took a cruise around Ireland and the British Isles, and did the southeastern United Colonies from Georgia to Louisiana to Florida and back to Georgia.

Time to give both my loyal readers random looks at my discoveries.  Let’s start in Ocean Springs, Mississippi.  If you haven’t been in Mississippi in a few decades (I’m holding up my hand), it’s time you took a trip.  I stayed along the gulf coast and didn’t venture into the northern parts.

Ocean Springs is a wonderful art community nestled among Biloxi, Gulfport, Latimer, and probably a few more villes I’m not familiar with.  But, let’s forget all the fab seafood diners and BBQ places that remind you of the 50’s, and let’s settle on downtown Ocean Springs.  

The Old Town, the home of Mom and Pop coffee shops, art shops, fashion boutiques, breakfast nooks, bakeries, and a very special place called simply The Inn.  The magazine Coastal Living called Ocean Springs a ‘dream town.’ Pretty much dead center on the truth.  Walk down Washington Avenue and you’ll see at a glance what I mean.

The biggest thing you’ll notice about the small town south is that people are friendly.  I’m not just talking about the shopkeepers, but everyone.  People just know each other.  They stop and inquire because they want to know.  “How’s your momma doin’?  Heard her dog died.  I know she loved that dog.”  Look for that on the streets of Chicago or Cleveland.  Best get yer-seff a concealed carry permit before you go lookin’.

Old town Ocean Springs is small town.  Park your car and walk down the old live-oak lined streets.  Browse, enjoy, relax.

Let’s poke our heads in The Inn at Ocean Springs, right in the beating heart of the old town.

Takes the kind of robust nerve I admire to hang out a sign that says, this ain’t an inn, it’s THE INN.  Should be a subtitle of ‘Best Coffee in this town or many many others!’ 

I stopped in to chat with the proprietors, Ted and Roxy Condrey, but Roxy wasn’t there, so Ted showed us around, offered us a cup of the finest coffee I’ve ever tasted and told us about how he and Roxy started the place.  

Ted is an easy man to chat with.

Only two bedrooms, but what bedrooms! You’ll think you stepped back in time.  Such tasteful antique furnishings, with a lovely porch outside.  You’ve just returned to the long ago days of southern hospitality, when men wore linen suits, white shirts and ties, even in the summertime, when ladies wore dresses and hats and the only air conditioning appeared with they unfolded a fan.  A taste of elegance is what I’m trying to say.

But, let’s not get too carried away with the taste of nostalgia. The rooms, which are more like suites, have private baths, air conditioning, flat screen TVs and a selection of other amenities.

Care for tea and biscuits and jam on the long, southern style porch? This is the place.

Wait a sec.  Only two rooms and no room in The Inn?  The Condreys also own The Bradford House, only a four-minute walk away from The Inn, offering another two splendid suites, including one with a kitchen.

But, time to talk about the wonderful coffee.  Ted buys roasted beans from Tuxachanie Coffee Company.  But, what makes his coffee so different…. Almost lost track of what I wanted to say, memories of Ted’s coffee is just that delicious.  He didn’t tell me how Tuxachanie does the roasting, but from the taste, I’d say they roast at a much lower temperature than the big boys and probably for a longer time.  The result:  Coffee with robust flavor that demands a second cup, but without even a hint of acidity and bitterness.  If you’ve been to Gimme-yer-Bucks, you know quite well what I mean.  Even if you don’t usually drink your coffee black, you can drink Ted’s black.  Smooth and delicious.

The Inn is not just an elegant guest house, but a travel adventure in a “dream town”, but even if you don’t need a room for the night, be sure to stop in for a chat and a cup of fresh roast. 

Lowdown. Dirty. Shame. Another Glimpse at Cassavora County

If you enjoyed Cassavora County, you may want a return visit...or maybe not.  The fresh coat of paint is already peeling, and what’s underneath smells of corruption and roils like a nest of greedy termites.  Do things ever get untangled and straightforward in a small, urban county?  Especially when it’s saddled with both a big heart and a guilty conscience? 

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.  And that’s not the half of it. Don’t laugh!  Not yet, but humor is on the way.  The job sounds simple and there’s money on the table for just one night of 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…All in all, it's a Lowdown. Dirty. Shame.  Damn, my heart is pounding just thinking about it.

Available on Amazon right now, both paperback and Kindle.

Extract from my novel Cassavora County

    Published by Waldport Press, Cassavora County is a novel set in the small town south.  Riotous humor, mystery, sex, and nefarious characters creep off every page.  Take a look on Amazon.com, where you'll find reviews and a synopsis.  Meanwhile, here's a taste of what you're in for.  Don't turn your back, and be careful whom you trust if you live in Cassavora County.

         

        .....   The door to the United States Post Office was locked. Sheriff Goddard rapped his knuckles on the glass. Wilma, her light, blue-gray uniform shirt bright and starched, dark blue slacks covering a middle-aged middle, walked over and gave him a pinch-faced stare through the thick pane. “Sheriff’s Department, open the door please.”

            “I’m not allowed to open the door until eight thirty. We open at eight thirty.” She said it as a closing statement.

            A deputy came over at a half jog and stood behind Goddard. “The Doc’s on his way, but he wasn’t too pleased about it.”  Goddard let the remark pass.

            “Ma’am, I’m conducting an investigation and I need to talk to you.” The Sheriff, like everyone else who has visited a Post Office, felt impatience creeping resolutely into his voice.

            “This is federal property.”

            “I know what the hell it is,” Goddard commented, “Now open up.” The deputy adjusted his wide brimmed hat and stared down at his black, highly polished shoes.

            “You’ll have to wait until the Post Office is open,” Wilma countered, obviously irritated. “These people all think they’re special,” she muttered and frowned. “This is a Post Office and we have regulations!” She said the last part out loud, then turned to walk away.

            Goddard’s face changed color. “If you don’t open this door, right now, I’m going to book you as an accessory.” Wilma kept on walking. She had things to finish and except for double-parking six years ago, she’d never done anything she could be arrested for. Anyway, it wasn’t as if she could just turn the key and start the day. Wilma lived her routine according to Postal Regulations. The clerks that worked for her did too. They’d better. She hadn’t spent twenty-seven years working hard just so she could jump around at every customer’s little whim. There was a procedure for everything and forms to sign and stamps and money that needed to be counted. The union rules made it clear she didn’t have to jump just because somebody yelled grasshopper. “Why is it people are always so thoughtless and demanding?”

            Goddard wanted to smash the door and slap cuffs on this irritating, jackass of a Postal worker, but instead he turned to his deputy. “Go back to the car. Call the Postmaster and tell him we found a body in his parking lot and one of his stupid, overpaid clerks.... did you get a look at her name tag?” He paused.

            “Cook.”

           “Okay, Cook. Tell him Emperor-in-charge Cook is interfering with our investigation and saying it’s on his orders.”

         Five minutes later, a peevish looking Wilma Cook opened the door and started answering questions. Other Postal clerks hovered in the background, going about their daily chores, all ears trained on Wilma, the sheriff, and the deputy.

            Did she see anything? Only the usual. What time did she get to work? Seven thirty, like always. Was there anybody else in the Post Office when she heard the shot? Just her fellow clerks. Anybody in the parking lot? Not that she saw. The questions came like a pack of angry yellow jackets, but she stuck to her story. Nobody was there. Everything was normal. She hadn’t seen anybody else outside or inside. By now, however, she was sure she had heard a shot. As her interrogators walked out the door, she overheard the deputy asked the Sheriff if a thirty-eight would make the same sound as a backfire.

Ok, you've had a taste; now belly up for the full meal:  http://www.amazon.com/Cassavora-County-William-Stroud/dp/098205341X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1328373487&sr=8-1