tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30698929621823589292023-11-16T00:01:47.084-08:00TAMWORTH GRICE Welcomes You To GRICELAND!Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-79246717168324208162023-03-07T10:58:00.000-08:002023-03-07T10:58:12.989-08:00Bunny Rabbit Story<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>Here's a story I started. Should I keep going?
<p></p>
<p></p>
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Sam awoke to the sweet smell warm smell of carrots wafting directly into his nostrils. He felt the weight of about 20 pounds in the center of his chest. Squinting his eyes open, still feeling sleepy, he was alarmed by the two eyes, black as lumps of coal but shiny and close together, staring him in the face above a pink twitching nose. “Jesus Christ,” he swore, sitting bolt upright and flinging the furry lump across the room with both hands.<p></p>
He looked at the floor to see if he’d killed it. But no such luck. It hopped about fearlessly, happily, long ears perked and listening, nose quivering, eyes alert. <p></p>
“Louise,” he screamed. “Your goddamn fucking pet is in here again. I swear to God we’re having a rabbit stew for dinner if you can’t get if you can’t get it under control.”<p></p>
He looked at the clock. He still had a half an hour to snooze, but knew he’d never get back to sleep and might as well get up. He was due to catch the Blue Sky Airlines flight from Tucson to Boston at eleven. <p></p>
He sighed and looked across the room. On the armchair by the door was his a single piece of hand luggage, barely under the allowable dimensions. The rabbit sat under the chair, scratching behind its ear with its hind foot and staring at him. <p></p>
“Damn thing,” he said under his breath. He wouldn’t allow a pet in his home at all if it wasn’t for the kid. The whole fucking house had had to be rabbit-proofed to keep it from gnawing everything in sight. And it wasn’t allowed in the bedroom. But here it was.<p></p>
He swung his legs onto the floor, yawned, stretched, and stood. He was naked and glanced in the mirror over the dresser, turning sideways to admire his forty-year-old physique. Not bad, he thought. Of course, being in law enforcement, he had to keep in shape, but still . . . . So what was he doing with fat-assed Louise? He dropped this thought as he stepped over to the armchair ready to give the rabbit a good swift kick in its fucking cottontailed ass. But it watched with shiny black eyes as he approached and, sensing danger, hopped under the bed. <p></p>
He hefted the carry on. It was heavy as hell. He lifted it onto his shoulder. The strap cut int his flesh and the weight already hurt his back, due to an old injury sustained when he’d been on foot patrol years ago. <p></p>
“Fuck.” He’s furious with his wife for not packing the rolling carry-on instead of this heavy duffle. Why can’t she learn to be a real wife, like the policemen had in the old movies. Kevin Costner’s wife in The Untouchables. Mrs. Elliot Ness. She put that little note in with his lunch that said, “I’m so proud of you”? (Louise would never do that.) The fucking good old days. You could slap them around when they screwed up. If they needed it. And they often needed it. But they shouldn’t need it. His own mother never needed to be slapped around.<p></p>
A pair of black eyes shined at him from under the bed. Sam noticed, and kicked his foot, but the rabbit dodged him.<p></p>
Sam said again, “Fuck.” <p></p>
* * * <p></p>
From www.katiesrabbithutch.com<p></p>
Rabbit Mind, Rabbit Memory:<p></p>
Let’s talk about what goes on inside the minds of our bunny pets. <p></p>
It’s been said that they have a five-minute short-term memory. If that’s the case, however, how do they recognize the sound of the fridge door opening and come hopping when we prepare their meals or snacks? <p></p>
The answer is they have both short-term and long-term memory. <p></p>
They can and do retain information about people, places, and things. Like other animals, they have been, since the dawn of time, controlled by an instinct and desire to survive, and to protect themselves. Otherwise, their cotton tailed ancestors would never have remembered which predators to avoid and how to avoid them, becoming extinct long ago. <p></p>
So, yes, they can think, remember, and retain data. They can recognize people and other animals. This is especially true when they connect emotional responses with others—pleasure, fear, pain, etc. They can recall who has treated them well—those they should seek out for such things as nibbles—and those who have treated them poorly or made them feel threatened—such as predators or, heaven forbid, mean humans . . . . <p></p>
* * * <p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxO6A9SYwCtXlt5I8K1t-4OwCsZkdMeqkKqZdeWuXanI-XqvCgsLFcW8ScogC4RfWj7RMJ9HRL8_4Ogj4cNTxcusO-TDNnFhSidW9wk7auREuftAw0kJZuK3cY3M7JYih1LisiDvZ2EYdYEKUotUpZ2lrxswV4YnJ1NHZULP4_WW8ZKIIOnekUXq1/s1194/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-07%20at%2011.41.40%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="946" data-original-width="1194" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmxO6A9SYwCtXlt5I8K1t-4OwCsZkdMeqkKqZdeWuXanI-XqvCgsLFcW8ScogC4RfWj7RMJ9HRL8_4Ogj4cNTxcusO-TDNnFhSidW9wk7auREuftAw0kJZuK3cY3M7JYih1LisiDvZ2EYdYEKUotUpZ2lrxswV4YnJ1NHZULP4_WW8ZKIIOnekUXq1/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-07%20at%2011.41.40%20AM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-51961460582565233272023-02-05T14:39:00.003-08:002023-02-05T14:39:50.915-08:00"Recess" A New Flash Fiction Story by Me<p> </p><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">Recess </span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">by Tamworth Grice </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIzt-wnxFbuvFE81cOtdiKjNgptXK8QehwOGmWpx6MVU2R44rXZZ2DUmmUdXA9hxoWVjAHFWb78AtkPdb3CIQk5pQHclCVGNFT4xDYLeZ8LLyDc0gKeA_To5pMCs7Qzaxek7b6rpwTs1-vDFt-65XPuKqLEVQm5K7u4AvIFDFAqxsH6RzEIk0Gdfo3/s1178/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-05%20at%203.37.00%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1178" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIzt-wnxFbuvFE81cOtdiKjNgptXK8QehwOGmWpx6MVU2R44rXZZ2DUmmUdXA9hxoWVjAHFWb78AtkPdb3CIQk5pQHclCVGNFT4xDYLeZ8LLyDc0gKeA_To5pMCs7Qzaxek7b6rpwTs1-vDFt-65XPuKqLEVQm5K7u4AvIFDFAqxsH6RzEIk0Gdfo3/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-05%20at%203.37.00%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">“I think they’re trying to poison me,” Joe said. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">“Who,” Matt asked. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">“Somebody. The parents. Somebody.” Joe looked across the playground and sighed. “I don’t know.” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He stood up from where they were sitting on the end of the bike rack. The rack was filled with boys’ and girls’ bicycles, mostly Schwinns, mostly in good shape. Here in there was one with rust, or a bent basket, or missing fenders. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">But Joe and Matt were in sixth grade and had stopped riding bikes two years ago. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Matt stood up, too. He had glasses and freckles. He was “husky”—a polite word for a child who overweight. Sometimes the other boys called him “Porky,” but never when Joe was around. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Joe was tall and slim. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Joe looked out at the playground and began walking. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Matt hesitated, then hurried to catch up, sneakers crunching on the gravel.
“Why would your parents want to hurt you?” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">“I don’t know. Forget I said it.” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">At the far end of the playground, in the grass beside the chain-link fence, a group of boys was gathered. Some were standing, some were squatting. All were looking down. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">“Let’s see what they’re doing,” Joe said. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">“Okay.” Matt paused. “But think about it.” He held up his hand to shade his eyes from the noonday sun and gazed at the boys by the fence. “It makes no sense. Why would you even say that?” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">“Because my stomach hurts. All the time. Especially after dinner. Maybe they’re putting something in my food.” He turned his head to look at some girls and boys on the swing sets. “I said I don’t want to talk about it, moron.” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Matt cringed. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> Joe sped up his pace. Matt, with shorter legs, walked faster. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Noticing this, Joe slowed a bit. “Do—do you parents ever fight?” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">“Oh, yeah.” Matt grinned and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “One morning Mom said ‘You put on the coffee,’ and Dad said, ‘No, you put on the coffee,’ and Mom said, “No, you put on the coffee.’ And finally Mom put on the coffee.” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Joe frowned. “I mean like hitting and shouting and stuff.” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Matt said, “No,” shaking his head. “Why? Do yours?” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">“No. ’Course not. I just saw it on TV.” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">They were silent until they reached the cluster of boys. On the other side of the fence was a neat row of white houses. The structures all looked alike, except some were mirror images of the others. All had black driveways and garages at the back. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Joe and Matt craned their necks to see what the boys were watching. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">A praying mantis perched on a small flat stone in the grass, chewing a cricket it had captured. The cricket was still alive and struggled, but the mantis held it firmly. The boys were hushed, staring at it, but Matt broke the silence and whispered, “Cool.” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The insect turned its wedged-shaped head to look up at him, then went back to devouring its prey. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Matt pushed his glasses up on his nose again. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> Joe moved aside and raised his head to look at the houses beyond the fence. He stepped away from the crowd. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Matt stepped away with him. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Joe pointed. “Sherry Blake lives there.” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> Matt nodded. “My sister takes piano lessons from her mother.” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">One of the boys turned and scowled and said, “Shhh.” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Joe grimaced and turned his back on the boys. Matt did the same. They both stared at the brick school building beyond the swing sets and the bike racks and the children playing tag and hopscotch and jump rope. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">“I’m sorry I called you a moron.” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> “It’s nothing. Forget about it.” </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> The bell rang to end recess. Joe looked behind him. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">The boys still huddled around the praying mantis didn’t budge, as if oblivious to the sound. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">“Let’s head back.” Joe walked slowly this time, head down, and Matt trudged at his side. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Everyone but the boys around the mantis was already inside when they reached the rear entrance. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"> Joe stopped and moved his hand to his abdomen. He bent forward a bit and winced. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Matt peered into his face curiously but without speaking. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">“My stomach hurts,” Joe said, not looking at Matt. He straightened, moved his hand from his stomach, and pressed his palm on the bar that opened the school door. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">He muttered under his breath. “I feel awful.”
</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">--end--</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-91375683039995916722023-02-03T13:34:00.000-08:002023-02-03T13:34:08.415-08:00Supportiveness<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGWpo210VxwQVFcBVHASE9Ks9Yja0vtctdlfYxYK4tXmbyaBrbniqinL0uOUzDsgmRVhFKBuJkGLu2syUFyHRrGTckydvlBNJ3N6_QOtSNWVFwys3JaqKc82wE3thalKQeCncCZj4bXVZigMDv0QYtl9OYD1e7q7EaGe5gF0Wa2I0vuKZY-GMmBYgV/s1110/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-03%20at%202.29.57%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="506" data-original-width="1110" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGWpo210VxwQVFcBVHASE9Ks9Yja0vtctdlfYxYK4tXmbyaBrbniqinL0uOUzDsgmRVhFKBuJkGLu2syUFyHRrGTckydvlBNJ3N6_QOtSNWVFwys3JaqKc82wE3thalKQeCncCZj4bXVZigMDv0QYtl9OYD1e7q7EaGe5gF0Wa2I0vuKZY-GMmBYgV/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-03%20at%202.29.57%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>I'm enjoying doing research for my new book.</p><p>But actually, it's not new. </p><p>It's a book I began years ago.</p><p>Stupidly, I let some unkind words from a mean and unsupportive acquaintance discourage me, and I stopped writing it.</p><p>People, don't do this!!! Don't let others discourage you. </p><p>I would even say, don't talk about projects to others, for fear of what they'll say.</p><p>Don't talk about your hopes, dreams, and goals, either. Unless you absolutely, positively know the hearer is unconditionally supportive of you. </p><p>I'll keep you posted about the book, but in the meantime, I recommend avoiding unsupportive people.</p><p>More importantly, always be supportive of others!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrlTDFSEhXchn9uQkChrt9UPvDpPzXj_7_ZTu1ZEwDsCDw1wiexm0r4WfjcvMO1gZHJS9NZAYUkJwNn-E_OcIMB9C-KHPBeLWWE7nB3gKmVpIMcok4CHHr7W3oVuW6BSbn8PU5oBy-GHiTihT1fbYZfQNQ8VyLXReeQ8IXe_vjM1I_1xOtrMpwPb7/s680/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-03%20at%202.30.20%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="398" data-original-width="680" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxrlTDFSEhXchn9uQkChrt9UPvDpPzXj_7_ZTu1ZEwDsCDw1wiexm0r4WfjcvMO1gZHJS9NZAYUkJwNn-E_OcIMB9C-KHPBeLWWE7nB3gKmVpIMcok4CHHr7W3oVuW6BSbn8PU5oBy-GHiTihT1fbYZfQNQ8VyLXReeQ8IXe_vjM1I_1xOtrMpwPb7/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-03%20at%202.30.20%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-43990809795929829092023-01-30T13:06:00.002-08:002023-01-30T13:06:55.437-08:00BACK TO BLOGGING--AGAIN! LOL!<p> Okay, so about 18 months ago I posted something titled "Back to Blogging" . . . and then didn't go back to blogging. 🤣</p><p>Now I will.</p><p>After a hiatus, I'm going back to writing and back to blogging.</p><p>I'll keep you posted here when I publish a new ebook.</p><p>I'm also getting ready to issue my ebooks in print form, so stay tuned for more info about that.</p><p>I'm very excited about my plans for moving forward, and I hope to excite you, too, with what I produce. </p><p>My mission with my writing is to be a rainbow 🌈 in everyone's day, whether cloudy, sunny, or in between.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpo4l4OE__HiQr0JShSG1YR5XlWylpSApDn97MrQHwT_mLQq50VPdEd6Sgw0u9YWlKu5JZ8s3nkumA7GLjpxXkTlGWC3NE3wcBqQ78tJoEHwOqj5G0sRwsK7jLCLc41KpOye9qqA5kSXIWyZxXLchfFZsxKSF5G0P_rtBuJiwWM6w39r0jMC1nZO84/s984/Screen%20Shot%202023-01-30%20at%202.04.41%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="984" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpo4l4OE__HiQr0JShSG1YR5XlWylpSApDn97MrQHwT_mLQq50VPdEd6Sgw0u9YWlKu5JZ8s3nkumA7GLjpxXkTlGWC3NE3wcBqQ78tJoEHwOqj5G0sRwsK7jLCLc41KpOye9qqA5kSXIWyZxXLchfFZsxKSF5G0P_rtBuJiwWM6w39r0jMC1nZO84/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-01-30%20at%202.04.41%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;">Rainbow in Sedona, where I live.</p><p>See you back here . . . soon, this time!</p><p>Bye for now!</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-87383248057796474342021-09-01T19:06:00.001-07:002021-09-01T19:07:26.177-07:00Back to Blogging!<b>Back to Blogging!</b><div><br /></div><div>Wow, after over two years of complete inactivity, I've decided to start up this blog again! </div><div><br /></div><div>This decision was made, in part, because I'm working on a new book that I hope to publish soon.</div><div><br /></div><div>I may keep the blog here on Blogger, or I may move it to its own website.</div><div><br /></div><div>I typically write crime/horror/suspense/mysteries, which are different but interrelated genres with lots of crossover. </div><div><br /></div><div>However, the new book will be in the romance genre--with elements of crime/horror/suspense/mystery. </div><div><br /></div><div>But because it will essentially be romance fiction, I might publish it under an entirely different name than Tamworth Grice.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I just thought I'd do this as my first "back to blogging" post. </div><div><br /></div><div>Watch this space for (I hope!) regular updates. </div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks!</div><div>TG</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-74418165957578258342018-07-14T18:52:00.002-07:002020-05-16T06:08:09.651-07:00My Dream<br />
<br />
Last night I dreamed I was back in college. I was taking Latin (which I did take in college) and had done some kind of digital recording and was worried that the recording didn't work properly. <br />
<br />
I was also worried about a math professor giving me grief for missing the first few days of class. <br />
<br />
I guess some worries stick in your brain and never leave! (I think the dream happened because I was helping a friend's college-student daughter with a writing assignment yesterday.) <br />
<br />
There was also something in there about taking a shower in a kind of grubby shower stall in the basement, and I was wondering why the shower in the upstairs bath wasn't working.<br />
<br />
Also, in the dream I was concerned that I was getting a cold.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the weird thing is that in the dream, my mother was there helping me, advising me, and being generally supportive. <br />
<br />
My mother died when I was 10, so she wasn't around when I was in college. <br />
<br />
Plus she wasn't a very supportive person. <br />
<br />
I guess the dream was basically a form of fantasy wish fulfillment.<br />
<br />
A guy I know who does dream interpretation recommends asking three questions:<br />
<br />
What title would you give the dream?<br />
What was the theme of the dream?<br />
What question does the dream ask?<br />
What question does the dream answer?<br />
<br />
Here are my responses:<br />
<br />
What title would you give the dream? College Daze<br />
<br />
What was the theme of the dream? Do you best in college; if you don't miss class, you won't need to come up with excuses.<br />
<br />
What question does the dream ask? Don't you wish you'd had a supportive mother when you were in college?<br />
<br />
What question does the dream answer? You know this stuff (concerns/memories about college and your mother) will never go away, don't you?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-64768689026340023532017-12-11T15:15:00.000-08:002017-12-11T15:15:45.992-08:00The First Thing I RememberThe First Thing I Remember<br />
<br />
I’m a child, young, perhaps three years old, and I see . . . a face. It is a woman’s face. She’s a brunette, pretty, with bright eyes and a kind smile. I’ve just come from being carried to a strange place with bright colors and brighter lights. Lots of red and green. And shiny things. In the strange place, I was put on the lap of a strange man in a soft red suit. He had a big white beard, like my great uncle, but unlike my great uncle, he wore a peculiar red hat trimmed with white fur and with a white pom-pom on the tip of it. <br />
<br />
Then there were more bright lights, and the flashes hurt my eyes. I cried, and everyone laughed. I was taken from his lap and carried away. <br />
<br />
More about the woman’s face. It’s flat. It’s on a piece of paper, followed by more pieces of paper with dark lines on them. I am sat down on the floor with the face, and some waxy sticks are dropped in front of me. One is put into my hand—my right hand, never my left, as I’d like. I’m encouraged to drag the waxy sticks around the edges of the paper. A large hand closes over mine, guiding it to move the stick. The wax makes a mark on the paper, a mark the color of the woman’s lips. <br />
<br />
The woman is Queen Elizabeth II of England. Her face is in a coloring book I was given after my first visit to Santa Claus. What this book had to do with Christmas or Santa remains a mystery to me today. I think it was just an unsold item, one of many that the department store gave to the kids as gifts after their photo sessions with Santa Claus. I had the coloring book for years, tucked away in the piano bench with a few other treasures. But I don’t think I ever colored in it.<br />
<br />
She did look a bit like my mother, Queen Elizabeth did: same lips, same coloring (although my mother’s eyes were brown), but then all women of any era look a bit alike, I suppose—it’s the style of the times. <br />
<br />
How strange that my very first memory is of the face of Britain’s Queen and not of my mother. <br />
<br />
Perhaps this heralded things to come. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqEywmAR0CqRK5ptq5N8HliUZcEn_Xy_BUdB_I2F2NHwF2C8KgIFUvINzMJI7rlR91d4-WAZ28_GBFhBxINdOeE7uLj6xB17t6B1tWwNw3vEn5B_Y8BwK6qlyhGymLDfFoxhVLk7OMfU/s1600/Queen+Elizabeth+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvqEywmAR0CqRK5ptq5N8HliUZcEn_Xy_BUdB_I2F2NHwF2C8KgIFUvINzMJI7rlR91d4-WAZ28_GBFhBxINdOeE7uLj6xB17t6B1tWwNw3vEn5B_Y8BwK6qlyhGymLDfFoxhVLk7OMfU/s320/Queen+Elizabeth+II.jpg" width="240" height="320" data-original-width="980" data-original-height="1306" /></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-30678004562043591692017-07-23T22:25:00.000-07:002017-07-23T22:25:05.637-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcgM5nvAr1moVY5YmalWxiGwXloFpp0po1S44wop8WFosA-Y9STlTGiotGNp4JBr7dwPaWyVXeqL4QbtUxqz8_DR6W6DkSYnidpWk6ayZLZpekYZy75wbQcglLmyhM4Reyox6j6qP-Es4/s1600/Teeksa+FINAL+nook.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcgM5nvAr1moVY5YmalWxiGwXloFpp0po1S44wop8WFosA-Y9STlTGiotGNp4JBr7dwPaWyVXeqL4QbtUxqz8_DR6W6DkSYnidpWk6ayZLZpekYZy75wbQcglLmyhM4Reyox6j6qP-Es4/s320/Teeksa+FINAL+nook.jpg" width="213" height="320" data-original-width="1067" data-original-height="1600" /></a><br />
<br />
TEEKSA 27<br />
<br />
I have a small box full of pills of different kinds. The box is made of heavy paper. It’s about three inches long by two inches wide by two inches high. The outside is coated with a gloss; the inside has a white matte finish. An aqua or seafoam-colored band runs around the outside, and above and below it there is some small black lettering that I can’t read. On the top is a matte sticker with handwritten lettering. I can’t read it either, but I know what it says: “Teeksa 27,” meaning that it’s meant for me. The box was provided, I think, by the company that makes the pills. Lots of pills are inside it, and they are mostly crudely made, looking like tiny chunks of concrete; few are perfectly formed. Except for the tiny pale-yellow gel capsules, none are colored. They all are just a dismal grey. <br />
<br />
I can’t remember what these pills are for. I used to know—that is, I think I used to. But that was back before my memory went, back when I actually used to take the pills. Now I just take out the box sometimes and put it on the varnished blonde oak table in front of me when my father isn’t around, and I look at the many pills inside. <br />
<br />
I know the pills were given to me by a woman with dark hair in a white lab coat—unless I dreamed this. But no, it was real, I’m sure. She sat at a desk among a lot of other vacant desks in a large and gloomy office. I think she gave me some instructions about how to take them—when, and whether to take them with milk or water or food, and how many to take, and so on—but I can’t remember. That’s okay because I don’t need to remember. Others remember these things for us now. And I haven’t taken the pills for a long time, anyway.<br />
<br />
So I sit at this table peering into the box. It’s not unpleasant, being here, for we live in a large bright and airy house at the seashore. It’s much better than what most people have, I think, and my father says we won the lottery when we got this house.<br />
<br />
Today is the Day of the Ships. A long wide window runs along the length of our beach house facing the water, and from where I sit, I can look out across the sands at the dark and despotic-looking ships looming on the water. Some of them are quite large; one is as big as an office building. <br />
<br />
The idea enters my head that I should put a ship in the water, too. I rise from the table and go to find the one I have hidden away in the bottom of the coal box. It’s a little black wooden model of an old-fashioned single-masted sailboat, from the Times Before. I bring it back to the table, along with a small nugget of soft coal, and set it gently on the smooth oak surface, beside the box of pills. Another idea enters my head (this is dangerous, having too many ideas in a single hour), and I tear off the flap from the part of the box that folds to close it, the top, the part with the matte sticker that says “Teeksa 27.” With the coal, beside these letters and numbers I draw a star and a flower, and I long to write a wish of some kind for the New Days that begin today. I think I learned how to read and write once, but that has been forgotten. My father can write, and he’ll be home soon—perhaps I’ll wait, and then ask him to help. <br />
<br />
The little ship is about the size of the box, but a bit bigger, too big to fit inside. It was my mother’s. She collected boats, or rather, figures of them. Her brother had served on a ship during one of the wars—the one before the one before the last one I think, or one or two before that—and he would get them in various ports of call and send them to her.<br />
<br />
She had dozens, displayed carefully and attractively on wooden shelves in a glass-fronted bookcase in the home where we used to live. They were all beautiful—much lovelier than anything you see nowadays, and certainly more attractive than the black looming boats on the water outside for the Day of the Ships. Most of my mother’s small boats were a little bigger than this one, but all were still of a size that you could hold each one in your hand. And they were painted the most gorgeous colors. She had a model of an ancient barge with purple sails. And the flagship of an explorer with a red and yellow cross on the mainsail. Others had gilded masts and silver threads as rigging; one had an intricately carved mermaid figurehead with the scales painted metallic green and her flowing hair painted scarlet. Some had designs or colored trim on the sides, and others had words on the bow telling the name of the ship. <br />
<br />
Of course, that was in the days when people collected things. They are all gone now, all but this single tiny black sailboat I’ve kept hidden away. Not wanting to wait for my father’s return, I spindle the shred of paper from the box and wrap it carefully around the bottom of the mast of my little ship. <br />
<br />
Clutching it in my hand I run out the door and down the stairs until my bare feet touch the warm sand. It feels pleasant. The sun is high overhead, and my shadow surrounds me like an irregular disc at my feet. A few people are lounging on the beach, but not many. They don’t look at me. They don’t seem to notice me. I pause, and then run into the water until it’s above my waist nearly to my armpits, and I touch the boat to the water. <br />
<br />
At first it won’t float. It tips and sinks. I catch it as it falls slowly downward in the black oily water, and set it on the surface again. Again it tilts and starts to sink. But I try a third time, very carefully now, and it takes hold and floats in the thick liquid. I watch it for a moment, and then I trudge back to the shore. Standing in the wet sand at the water’s edge I turn and see it. I shade my eyes from the sun and focus on it, floating—or rather, sailing—there. Of course it’s the smallest one among many giants, but it is there, and that’s the important thing. <br />
<br />
For a moment, I imagine the tiny object as a life-sized sailboat, and I picture myself sitting on it and looking back at the shore. I turn my head to gaze over my shoulder at our house: the white perfect paint, the sloping sand-colored roof, the broad and long glass window, and the sand surrounding it. It’s nice, I think, and I’m happy to live here. The nearest one is many measuring units away down the long beach. I wish I could remember how long I’ve lived here, and when we came here, and how. But I can’t. I want to sigh, but sighing is not allowed, and there are still some people lounging nearby on the sand. As before, they seem not to notice me, but then again, maybe they do notice me; maybe they all notice me and are pretending not to. Perhaps the function of the broad glass window is to allow them to watch me inside our home.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I don’t sigh. I walk calmly back to our comfortable beach house. My feet gather sand with their wetness as I take long steps to the door.<br />
<br />
Back inside, the pill box is there on the polished wooden table waiting for me—the box with all the pills that I haven’t taken in a long time. It beckons to me, and I look inside it again, seeing all of them, wondering what they are for, and wishing I could remember. I go to the sink. I take a green crystal glass from the cupboard and press a button to fill it with water. Then I return to the table and sit there looking out the window at the ocean. With perfect clarity, as if looking through a telescope, I can see my little toy black ship bobbing on the water. But my note, my little shred of paper with the drawings of the star and the flower and “Teeksa 27,” it has just become detached from the boat. And it is floating away. I should be sad, but I’m not. I feel happy to see my boat there among the others, and I think this will bring me luck for the New Days that begin today. “Take pleasure in small things,” my mother used to say. And I do.<br />
<br />
I hear a noise at the door and look up as my father enters the house. He’s one of the Healing People, from Former Times. He has grown old now; he is bald and what hair he has left is grey. His face is wrinkled, and he is stoop-shouldered—yet he is a proud man, not conquered by his experiences, like so many others are. He’s fatter than he used to be, too, but he’s mostly healthy. Good health is the greatest gift, we’re told, but I don’t think he is happy. He has barely smiled since my mother died, and that was long ago. <br />
<br />
She became ill, right at the beginning of the Time of Forbidden Illness. He tried his best to heal her and failed. I think this is the cause of his unhappiness. They forced him to send her away. I was allowed to visit, just once, in the big white building, and I saw her there in her bed beneath a mound of grey blankets. In spite of her sickness, she smiled at me. That’s my last memory of her. <br />
<br />
I look back into the small box of pills, cupping it and hiding it with my hands from my father. Again I wonder if I should take just one pill, swallow it with water from the green glass, even though I can’t remember why or when or how. I stare into the box as my father crosses the room without speaking. There are so many pills. Except for the gel cap’s pale yellow shell, each is crudely formed and sinister-looking in its crudeness. I’m old enough to remember the days when pills were perfectly round or square or lozenge-shaped, with flat or domed tops and words and letters stamped into them. They were the most marvelous colors: pink, orange, yellow; some were even aqua or magenta. They were nothing like these dull imperfect things resembling crumbs of concrete. <br />
<br />
But these were given to me for a reason. I know this, given to me by the woman with the dark hair in the lab coat at her place among the desks. I recall stepping up to the counter and speaking with her. But that’s all I remember.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I should take one? Would that make my memory worse than it is? What harm could be done by a single crudely formed little pill? <br />
<br />
My father, not seeing the small box cupped in my hands, gives me one of his rare weak smiles. He carefully folds his coat, places it on the bench under the window, and asks me how was my day. I start to shrug, but shrugging is not allowed, so I say “fine” and think of asking him where he’s been. But I decide not to. <br />
<br />
He stretches out in the big comfortable chair across from me between the table and the window. I keep my position, with the box hidden cupped in my hands that rest innocently before me and beside the green glass on the table. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking up at the ceiling, thinking or daydreaming. Daydreaming is not allowed either, of course—but how could they know?—so everyone does it. At least, everyone I know. Which is myself and my father. <br />
<br />
Thinking about the box and the pills and whether it would make me sick to take one, the thought comes into my mind of how sickly I was as a child. I was not expected to live, and if my father hadn’t been one of the Healing People, I wouldn’t have. I think of the stories about how, in spite of his being a healer, I was nearly taken away from him and from my mother during my earliest days. It’s strange that I survived. <br />
<br />
I speak up and say to him casually, “Hey, Dad?”<br />
<br />
He turns to me.<br />
<br />
“When I was a little sickly baby,” I continue, smiling at the thought that we’ll have a conversation, “did you think I’d live to be 27, or 37, or 57, or 60?”<br />
<br />
He doesn’t answer and gives me an odd look, perhaps not remembering or not wanting to remember, and I drop the subject. <br />
<br />
I sigh—inwardly only—and wonder what to do next. In my impotent state of wondering and having no ideas, I inwardly sigh again.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, impulsively, I look beyond him to see if my little sailboat, my tiny offering, is still out there on the dark water. There are more people on the sand now, and more large grey ships in the water. They all seem predatory to me: ships like sharks, or killer whales, or sea monsters. I try hard to focus my eyes and finally I manage to do so, again as if looking with a telescope. <br />
<br />
But I can’t see it. <br />
<br />
It’s gone.<br />
<br />
I’m glad it has floated away.<br />
<br />
—THE END—<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-90465811531173575982016-09-07T22:31:00.000-07:002016-09-07T22:31:25.154-07:00How I Write—In Case Anyone Is Interested!Sometimes people ask me about my “writing process.” I’m not sure I have one. I have no requirements about tools or time or place: I can write on a keyboard or a notepad—or even on a barroom beer mat. I can write anywhere—at a desk, a café table, in bed, on a park bench, on sand at a beach—and at any time of day or night.<br />
<br />
Two things I can say about what writing is for me: first, it’s a process of recording. The ancients believed that the were given their art by divinities, by muses for whom they were simply translators or elements of transmission to a human realm. I completely understand this idea. When I write, I don’t know where the stuff comes from. It surely doesn’t come from me! The words, the images, the characters, the stories—none of this is mine. It all comes into my brain from somewhere, from out of nowhere. It’s like a movie playing in my mind, and it’s up to my hands to get it onto the screen or the page. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3y4_QetpJVnMtZv_jxCeIhBhNHIly-Uh2jGNFklKcXs8ZbG-YOXWD5TkR_2hIcj55tlaTEObjNEMJGrVt21DGWiqPwSRj06ZDvkiy-efZriwE64dyO6Zarq-XK3rrAjCWxbP6aHpEG4/s1600/Apollo_and_the_Muses_-_WGA17365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-3y4_QetpJVnMtZv_jxCeIhBhNHIly-Uh2jGNFklKcXs8ZbG-YOXWD5TkR_2hIcj55tlaTEObjNEMJGrVt21DGWiqPwSRj06ZDvkiy-efZriwE64dyO6Zarq-XK3rrAjCWxbP6aHpEG4/s320/Apollo_and_the_Muses_-_WGA17365.jpg" width="320" height="134" /></a></div><center><i>Apollo and the Muses</i></center><br />
Second, writing is a craft, like basket weaving. Once the ideas start coming, it’s a matter of using the right words, the best words, <i>les mots justes</i>, to render my vision as accurately as possible. If I’ve succeeded, the reader experiences exactly what I experienced when the thoughts came into my head.<br />
<br />
I hope you’ll enjoy my book, <i>Listening to Ian Magick</i>, which is due out this fall. <br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-50977851282016306692016-05-19T13:25:00.000-07:002016-05-19T13:30:30.350-07:00The Introduction to a Talk I Delivered Last Summer in WalesAs I continue to work on my Tudor-era historical novel, I thought I'd post the introductory paragraph of a lecture I delivered last summer in Wales at a conference titled "Representing the Tudors." I'll be releasing the lecture soon as an ebook. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-jIpbuJx8pR54aM0UdXjZChxngRfDnLep9ensvHYtw5fkBBhBwrwYWrgYMUxDRyP5n2GFlOYGjkXYEIpaAu0Xkx_hFG5T-5iM1ZNMiuk3hzH90O6q7-8JLZND5zSTpbI2wToQb6NmCCc/s1600/henry_viii+headshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-jIpbuJx8pR54aM0UdXjZChxngRfDnLep9ensvHYtw5fkBBhBwrwYWrgYMUxDRyP5n2GFlOYGjkXYEIpaAu0Xkx_hFG5T-5iM1ZNMiuk3hzH90O6q7-8JLZND5zSTpbI2wToQb6NmCCc/s320/henry_viii+headshot.jpg" /></a> <br />
<br />
How Issues of Infertility, Illness, and Injury Affect Representations of the Characters in the Showtime TV Series The Tudors <br />
<br />
In April 2007 the British-Irish-Canadian television show The Tudors made its debut, and a year later it was referred to as the series that “viewers are eating up” (Gates, 2008). The Showtime series was enormously popular, and this popularity has continued via DVD, Blu-Ray, and streaming. As a USA Today writer observed in an article about the series during its final season, “The 16th-century English king and his Tudor clan are never going away” (Puente, 2010). The Tudors, both as a TV series and as historical figures, have a universal appeal for twenty-first-century audiences. In assessing this popularity, one perhaps thinks first of the themes of love, sex, war, and violence inherent in the series; or of the visual charm of costuming, architecture, and interior design; or possibly of the compelling nature of palace politics and intrigues. But while such representations of the Tudor era are entertaining, one may still wonder what universal elements of the human condition in The Tudors are the sparks that ignite its fire in the imaginations of twenty-first-century audiences. The answer is that problems of infertility, illness, and injury, as well as the characters’ reactions to these, are a large part of what creates the drama of The Tudors; audiences relate to these concerns because such situations create their own human dramas, and taken together these issues are a major common element between twenty-first-century viewers and the characters of The Tudors. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-91537168659372770282016-04-08T16:20:00.002-07:002016-04-08T16:46:36.902-07:00WORK IN PROGRESSOkay, I haven't written a blog entry in, like, forever.<br />
<br />
So this is to tell everyone that, inspired by last summer's 100-day trip to Britain, I'm completely changing direction.<br />
<br />
My new work-in-progress is a Tudor-era historical novel that takes place at the court of Henry VIII.<br />
<br />
Right now the novel is about 2/3 complete, and I'll tell you more about it here as I move forward. <br />
<br />
Thanks for reading this, everyone!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQvagMD70H_qG9hpbQJSLWO-oVEzGOsaG7kOdUhg9zt9Rvo84rHf-tJAXV-ARV21oLCWgiatUM8jQXJGv6r4_0LEuFNF0DRFG2XrOMmxrkwvEM-f5ZPI9tX8-M_8zBuCcQ72RAbezY3k/s1600/henry+viii.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieQvagMD70H_qG9hpbQJSLWO-oVEzGOsaG7kOdUhg9zt9Rvo84rHf-tJAXV-ARV21oLCWgiatUM8jQXJGv6r4_0LEuFNF0DRFG2XrOMmxrkwvEM-f5ZPI9tX8-M_8zBuCcQ72RAbezY3k/s320/henry+viii.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-41807776327537761462014-05-16T17:32:00.001-07:002014-07-11T11:54:39.991-07:00Screenplay Critique--aka "Coverage"<span style="color: #999999;">Many budding screenwriters pay big bucks to send their scripts out for critiques by supposed experts.</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;">The purpose is to get tips about how to improve the screenplay.</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;">However, sometimes the coverage can go beyond constructive criticism and be brutal.</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;">With this in mind, a writer friend of mine (Chris Neiman) recently sent the following message to a company called Scriptapalooza about the coverage a fellow screenwriter (not me) had received:</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;">Dear Scriptapalooza:</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;">I am sending this to explain why I did not order coverage from Scriptapalooza.</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;">I recently saw coverage that another writer received from Scriptapalooza. It's understandable and desirable that you would be negative in your coverage; no script is perfect, and it is helpful to the writer that you point out flaws to be corrected. However, this coverage went far beyond that. It was extremely negative, to the point of seeming, at worst, hostile, and at best, annoyed. There was not one word of encouragement in the coverage. The overall tone of the coverage was rude and condescending and almost angry. </span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;">It's a miracle to me that the writer who received your coverage – who is actually quite talented – went on to write another script. </span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;">I think the people who do your coverage need to be aware that writers tend to be sensitive people who can be easily hurt and easily discouraged. The writer who received your coverage apparently isn't, but I am. And because I am, I don't want to risk getting the kind of rude, discouraging, and condescending coverage that was given to this other screenwriter. I certainly don't want to pay $100 for the level of hostility and verbal abuse that I observed in that coverage document. </span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;">I hope that reading this will remind you that the people who order coverage are your customers, and that while you are certainly being paid to point out flaws, it is possible to do so and to be kind and supportive and encouraging at the same time. That's what good coverage and good customer service are about, and if your coverage writers in particular and Scriptapalooza in general are unable to do this, you should not be providing coverage.</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;">I hope this message is helpful to you.</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;">Chris Neiman</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #999999;">In fairness to Scriptapalooza, I want to add that the president, Mark Andrushko, promptly wrote a nice note to Chris, in which he said, in part, "I completely agree with you."</span><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-15090316893147540062014-02-17T12:50:00.000-08:002014-02-17T12:50:49.812-08:00Book Review: Roles of Women in Mystery and Suspense Film and Fiction<br />
Here’s a book worth reading for fans of the mystery and suspense genre: <i>Roles of Women in Mystery and Suspense Film and Fiction</i> by Kathryn Ann Ward.<br />
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As the author points out, “Raymond Chandler said, ‘Love interest . . . weakens a mystery because it [is] antagonistic to the detective’s struggle.’ Yet love stories are often seen in the mystery/suspense genre, including in The Big Sleep by Chandler himself!”<br />
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The author begins with a fascinating overview of the history of the mystery/suspense genre that reaches into the Old Testament to consider whether Cain’s slaying of his brother Abel was the world’s first murder mystery. She moves forward to medieval times to discuss the criminal Robin Hood as a “noble outlaw” character, then crosses the pond to cover Edgar Allan Poe as “the father of the modern detective story. <br />
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Having laid this groundwork in an introductory chapter, the narrative moves into the twentieth century to its main subject: an exploration of love stories in mystery/suspense works by Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and Kenneth Millar (Ross Macdonald), and in films based on these works. The conclusion surveys love stories in three mystery and suspense films that are not book adaptations: Klute, Chinatown, and a lesser-known thriller, The Late Show. <br />
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This book is not one of those feminist critiques—I hate them; they’re typically, I find, too glib or too dense for pleasant reading.<br />
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Instead, <i>Roles of Women in Mystery and Suspense Film and Fiction</i> applauds the strong, brave, and able women who people the works the authorWard discusses. Each of these characters is not just equal but superior to her male counterpart, especially when it comes to cleverness, courage, and coping skills. <br />
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<i>Roles of Women in Mystery and Suspense Film and Fiction</i> by Kathryn Ann Ward is highly recommended.<br />
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You can buy it here: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Roles-Women-Mystery-Suspense-Fiction-ebook/dp/B00CNWGDWC/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8andqid=1392667725andsr=8-3andkeywords=kathryn+ann+ward">http://www.amazon.com/Roles-Women-Mystery-Suspense-Fiction-ebook/dp/B00CNWGDWC/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8andqid=1392667725andsr=8-3andkeywords=kathryn+ann+ward</a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-2994947200277756102013-01-08T11:34:00.000-08:002014-07-11T11:30:51.044-07:00My World According to FARGO<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">[After </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">watching </i>Fargo<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one night many months ago, I sat down and wrote the following blog post. It’s perhaps the most heartfelt and personal piece I’ve ever written. I wrote it for myself, and for a long time I've kept it to myself and not put it on my blog. But now </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m posting it here to perhaps inspire all who might feel</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> as I once felt, and to show </i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them they’re not alone. I hope anyone who reads it will find it worthwhile.]</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">You know how at the end of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fargo</i>, the Frances McDormand character is driving away with the bad guy in the back of her patrol car, and she’s talking to him in a kind of sad and befuddled voice? </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">She’s saying, “So that was Mrs. Lundegaard [dead] on the floor in there. And I guess that was your accomplice in the wood chipper. And three people in Brainerd. . . . And here you are. And it’s a beautiful day. I just don’t understand it.” </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">That was how I felt about my constant stream of rejections from editors, publishers, and agents: </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">There I was. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">And it was a beautiful day. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">And I just didn’t understand it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span><span style="color: #cccccc;">I tried to do everything right. I wrote the best query letters I could possibly create. I chose agents/editors/publishers who were interested in the types of books I’d written. I used up-to-date information to be sure of having the right names and addresses. I followed directions about what to submit and how. And I spent a lot of money going to conferences so I could pitch my stuff face-to-face. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">Nothing worked. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">I couldn’t even get a short story published, let alone a novel.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">With nothing to show for all my hard work but hundreds of rejections, I tried to make excuses. My main one was this: “It’s the wrong time.” But I knew this wasn’t true. Other unknown writers got published and soared to the tops of the bestseller lists. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">I just didn’t understand it.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">I’ve my share of pain but nothing was more heartbreaking than my failure as a writer.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">Amanda Hocking writes of receiving a rejection and being tempted to destroy everything she’d ever written, and even to destroy herself.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">I totally get that. Feeling humiliated that I’d dared to try. Feeling no one understood. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">Feeling like an utter loser. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">My faith in my work never faltered, however. I know I’m not Dean Koontz or Stephen King or Elmore Leonard. But I also know my work isn’t terrible. And at the time it was a lot better than some of the other stuff on bookstore shelves.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">A handful of friends who read my work confirmed this. “Your characters are interesting. Your storylines are intriguing. You're a great writer! We don’t understand why you can’t get published,” they’d say. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">I didn’t understand it either.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">I still don’t. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">But it no longer matters.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">I took control by self-publishing my novel as an eBook, first for Kindle, then for Nook, then via Smashwords and AllRomance. And then I published another eBook, and another, and I encouraged my friends and fellow writers Destiny Drake and Nick Navarre to do the same. </span><br />
<span style="color: #cccccc;"><br /></span><span style="color: #cccccc;">And we'll all maintain control by self-publishing yet another, and another, and another, and more and more and more!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">So now I’m content. I’m no longer at the mercy of the corrupt and callous publishing industry (see a previous post to read cruel things said in rejection letters). I no longer submit my work and pray for acceptance. (By the way, think about that word: “submit.”) I no longer say to myself, “Here I am. It’s a beautiful day. And I just don’t understand.”</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">I control my own life. I don't "submit." That’s something I do understand.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #cccccc;">And right now, that’s enough. </span></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-34176826820587095452012-11-02T10:11:00.000-07:002012-11-02T10:11:07.514-07:00The Opening Scene of My Book, LISTENING TO IAN MAGICK<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">PROLOGUE<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">In the moonlight I saw the bright metallic flash of a huge-bladed dagger.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">I grabbed it, and the girl fought me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">Her eyes widened, her mouth contorted, and her long-nailed hands clawed my face.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">Then I heard his voice, and my name.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">“Chelsea. Kill her. Now!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">The knife came down.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">Blood splattered my face.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">And she no longer fought.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">She went limp and collapsed on the lawn, and her severed head rolled across the grass like a bloody volleyball. Her hair was a tangle of crimson wetness. Her wide bulging eyes stared upward at the full moon. Her mouth gaped. Gore seeped through her nostrils.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">At my feet, her headless body jerked with spasms. It seemed to be trying to sit up. The legs shook and the arms flailed as blood spurted from the neck. The red liquid splashed onto my hands and my feet. Then the body gave out a tremendous shudder, and the convulsions stopped. The corpse was motionless.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">I stared down at the knife in my hand. Blood dripped from its blade.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">I was now a killer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman','serif'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="color: white;">I had murdered someone, and I had done it for Ian Magick.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wIocwjmcvneK3gyR2prIJSsJSls5m5S3ndXMFnZXrkl-F588dsUivJoGOQ0G1IWjJPzebkM2A9bk2hgsiDBICjEauyILdB8TopxsjiTaOIlU0Q19T9XcwaVxMZll-75XlIbzCxj_VQs/s1600/Listening+to+Ian+Magick_thumb_web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" qea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1wIocwjmcvneK3gyR2prIJSsJSls5m5S3ndXMFnZXrkl-F588dsUivJoGOQ0G1IWjJPzebkM2A9bk2hgsiDBICjEauyILdB8TopxsjiTaOIlU0Q19T9XcwaVxMZll-75XlIbzCxj_VQs/s1600/Listening+to+Ian+Magick_thumb_web.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: white;">Buy this book now for Kindle: </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Listening-to-Ian-Magick-ebook/dp/B0053T2VPA/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1351876034&sr=8-2&keywords=tamworth+grice" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">LISTENING TO IAN MAGICK for Kindle</span></a><span style="color: red;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: white;">Buy this book now for Nook: </span><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/listening-to-ian-magick-tamworth-grice/1104422825?ean=2940012758224" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">LISTENING TO IAN MAGICK for Nook</span></a><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-86363513937677098742012-10-27T14:09:00.003-07:002012-10-27T14:13:19.939-07:00Guest Author William Gagliani<span style="color: white;">Guest Author's Introduction:</span><br />
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times;">SAVAGE NIGHTS, a thriller by W.D. Gagliani, the author of WOLF'S TRAP, WOLF'S GAMBIT, WOLF'S BLUFF, and WOLF'S EDGE</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times;">I wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Savage Nights</i> in 2006-07, intending it as a follow-up to my Bram Stoker Award nominated novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wolf's Trap</i>. In my mind, Nick Lupo's story was done, finished. I was moving on, writing about haunted Vietnam veteran Rich Brant and what he does when his beloved niece is kidnapped by a sex slavery ring. But my publisher asked for a sequel to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trap</i> because it had done so well, and the Nick Lupo series was born – up to four novels out there now, with a fifth underway. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times;">So as I wrote <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wolf's Gambit</i>, I had my agent shop <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Savage Nights</i> as a stand-alone thriller, but ultimately I think it was too dark. Much too dark! There were nibbles, but no takers. And then Liam Neeson's movie "Taken" was released, and I was dismayed to find that it shared some coincidental plot points with my novel – on the surface, the plot is the same, except it's the protagonist's daughter who is kidnapped. The two protagonists share some past history and experience, too, giving them "skills" they can use to get their loved one back. There is one great difference, however: in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Savage Nights</i> the protagonist and his niece also share a tenuous psychic bond that lets him know she's still alive.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times;">Well, there's another difference, and that is how much <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">darker</i> my novel was than the watered-down movie plot. I wanted to be unflinching in my portrayal of the slavery ring and how they treat the girls and women they kidnap, resulting in a novel that's closer to horror as a genre. It was probably too dark for the general thriller market, where many explicit details are routinely glossed over. Coming as I did from a horror background, that was the last thing I wanted to do.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times;">This is how I described the novel for promotional purposes:</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times;">"Tormented Vietnam veteran Rick Brant is forced to use his inconsistent and unreliable psychic ability when his beloved 19-year old niece, Kit, is kidnapped from a busy mall. Realizing that Kit has been snatched for auction by an international sexual slavery ring, Brant reconnects with his Vietnam buddies, some of them ex-cops, to help him pry her from the clutches of the ruthless Goran ("the Serb") and his gang. Her ultimate destination may be a modern harem, a brothel, a dungeon, or one of the Serb's kinky slavery clubs. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Or worse</i>. As the horror of Kit's captivity increases daily, Brant becomes rescuer, avenging angel – and executioner. In his quest, he may find redemption for his own past sins. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Savage Nights</i> is a tough, pulls-no-punches, hard-noir thriller that's not for the faint of heart."</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times;">I think I may have coined a new term there: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hard-noir</i>. I called my Wolf novels <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">North Woods Noirs</i> because they were set in Wisconsin's North Woods and they followed, in my opinion, a noir sensibility in their pacing, dialogue, and action – and in the darkness exhibited by their antagonists and even protagonists. I came up with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hard-noir</i> to describe the thriller <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Savage Nights </i>with the intention of explaining its hard-nosed qualities, which I think take it beyond traditional <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">noir</i>. The parallel story is set in the past, during the Vietnam War, and focuses on Brant's experiences as a Tunnel Rat – and shows both his psychic tendencies and his occasional forays into his own heart of darkness. All of which greatly impacts how he responds to Kit's kidnapping in the story's present…</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times;">The excerpt Tamworth Grice has graciously agreed to post is the start of that parallel story, set in the Vietnam jungle and around one of the many tunnel entrances the Rats were forced to negotiate, often with nothing but a knife and a handgun. Based on actual accounts of the Cu Chi campaign, I tried to stick to reality with only very few creations from my imagination (although there were a few). Here, then, is Chapter Two from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Savage Nights</i>, which is doing fairly well as an independent publication for the Amazon Kindle.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times;">Thanks for checking it out, and I hope you'll let me know what you think if you give it a chance. Remember, it's a very dark read. But the reviews have been mostly excellent, and I'm very proud of the way it turned out. Great thanks also to Tamworth Grice for hosting!</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times;">W.D. Gagliani</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times;">Milwaukee, WI</span></div>
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<span style="color: white; font-family: Times;">October 2012</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 14pt;"><span style="color: white;">SAVAGE NIGHTS<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">A NOVEL OF SUSPENSE<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p><span style="color: white;"><strong>By W. D. Gagliani</strong></span></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">EXCERPT<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Chapter 2<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">The jungle canopy spreads out over them like a leafy umbrella. Its sounds have stilled to occasional raucous cries that give each of them pause as they stand circling the hole, their fingers tight against the triggers of their rifles. There is Sarge, his thick eyebrows knotted over roving red-rimmed eyes. There is Smitty and Packey, standing guard against whatever might come crawling from the hole or stumble out of the jungle's darkness. The others form a small, nervous ring of guns and sweat in various poses. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">No one is more covered in sweat than he, and he feels the sheen on his skin soak his clothing all over again. He sets down the black rifle and pack and strips off his web belt. From the pack's loose flap he withdraws a Colt .38 snub-nose revolver and checks the cylinder.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Sweat droplets gather on his chin and dribble in a line to his chest, where the olive drab fabric has turned black. His hand shakes as he methodically inserts six fat cartridges into the Smith's cylinder. The brass slips between his damp fingers but he gently seats each round in its nacelle and snaps the cylinder shut. Full. Six rounds.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"Loot," drawls Sarge. "Let me lob a couple grenades in there. We got plenty." <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"You know that's not good enough, Sarge. Grenades don't do shit in Charlie's tunnels. There's only one way to flush 'im, and that's this old fashioned way. Keep an eye out for other exits, and don't shoot my fuckin' head off if I come squirtin' back."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"Kay. Smitty, Digger, fan out and watch for moving bushes."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Sarge pulls back the bolt of his M-16 and lets it snap quietly forward. The others follow suit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Loot — Lieutenant Richard Brant — shrugs out of his pack and extra gear, unsnaps his webbed belt and holster, and taps both boot knives down so they can't slide out on their own.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">He checks the opening carefully. Charlie's been known to booby-trap everything. Coke cans. C-ration tins. Fallen logs. Trapdoors are a likely booby trap, but Loot traces the edge with a finger and senses this one's clear. He can't see any wires, there's no sign of a hasty set-up or glob of plastique. His sweat trickles into his eyes and he blinks hard. Charlie might be<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>crouching just on the other side of the square door, AK in hand, bayonet fixed, ready to make a suicide strike on the first GI to face him. Maybe there's a squad past the second trapdoor, or maybe there's a hollowed out side chamber behind which Charlie lies, clutching a spear and just waiting for a pink-skinned target to ease into the square hole. Maybe—<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Loot senses he's psyched himself out. If he had just opened the trapdoor and climbed in, it would have been fine. But instead he started to play the scenarios in his head. Remembering other holes, other tunnels. He squirms as if the giant spiders were crawling on him again, as in the last tunnel, yesterday, the one that nearly reduced him to tears. He cocks the trigger of the Smith, quietly.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"Fuck this," he mutters under his breath and in one swift motion he pushes the trapdoor into the hole with one hand and reaches into the darkness with the .38 ahead of himself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">The blast blinds him and the pain is an intense lance to the<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">brain and heart, and then to his hands. He sees his bloody hands<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">writhing on the tunnel's dirt floor, one still gripping the pistol, and he screams long and hard even as he realizes that the blast wasn't all, the booby-trap wired to the back of the trapdoor also includes a small container of home-made napalm, and then he blacks out, his eyeballs melting into the skin of his face and his lips liquefying over his teeth like runny glue. His scream turns to a gurgle and then it's blessed nightfall—<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">—blessed cool nightfall and his eyes blast open but there's no light (yes there is, there it is, the nightlight) and he realizes that he can see after all and his skin feels rough but it's all there and his hands are, where are his hands? In front of his eyes, twitching and clenching, but most certainly still attached to his wrists. He can feel the pain in his wrists, but it's not his pain, it's someone else's.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Fuck, it's Strachowski. That's what happened to him. Not me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><em>Not me.</em></span></div>
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<span style="color: white;"><em>Jesus.</em></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">He remembered Strach's ravaged face, the blood, the stench. Then, for a second, Strach's face seemed to morph into someone else's. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A girl's</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">He shook his head violently to erase the image.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">The familiar sharp twitch below his neck began to throb and he twirled his head until he felt a tender snap, somewhere deep inside his upper chest near his shoulder blade. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">He rolled on his side and checked the ghostly blue display. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Another night shot to hell. It was 3:19 and he wouldn't be able to sleep until light filtered through his drapes. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">He flicked on the lamp and slid the book onto his chest. The latest Peter Straub thriller. Glasses or no glasses? He hated his bifocals. Still not quite needing them, but already beyond the point where he definitely did not need them, he always debated. He thought his sight was better without the glasses, whenever he read in bed. He could squint a little with his left eye and the words were almost crystal clear. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">He sighed. The king-size bed was too empty for him. Too empty<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">since Abby had gone away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Who was he kidding? Abby hadn't gone away. She had died, and there was no mind-fuck he could give himself to change that fact. She'd been almost a decade younger than he, and that still hadn't kept her by his side for the rest of his miserable life. Jesus, he'd been over this so often it was almost like rehearsing a comedy act in his head, except that it wasn't humorous and if he allowed it to continue he'd just cry. What was the point of that?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">He sighed again and opened his book. Sometimes the only escape was to lose himself in someone else's words, someone else's crisis, at least for a while, until the charade wore thin.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Today, it took fifteen minutes. Then he set the book aside and closed his eyes. It wasn't immediate, but the jungle's dark treeline was always there, taunting. Hiding something gruesome. He was accustomed to scanning that treeline in his mind's eye, hoping to recognize the danger in time. There was always a new place to look, a new venue to consider. A new sound to process.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">In his nightmares, Loot always saw the others have their hands, their legs, blasted off, or their bloody intestines uncurled like blood-slippery ropes. Sometimes it was him instead of them, in stark representation of the way he wore his guilt like a coat. Guilt for having survived, he assumed. Guilt for what he had done. He had spent considerable time analyzing his feelings, his dreams, and his own thought processes. The analysis kept him sane, for the most part. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">But altogether too often his clear thinking clashed with the<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">realistic visuals that accompanied his nightmares. The dark jungle, the treeline, the intense redness of arterial blood. Bone fragments and stripped skulls. Each of these imposed itself on the inerasable tablet contained in his brain like an eternal hard drive and replayed in front of his eyes when open, even in the dark, or seemingly projected onto the insides of his eyelids when he attempted to seek sleep. Almost like the Zapruder film, it unreeled over and over again, proving too much and yet leaving too many questions unanswered.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">The phone's shrill ringing jabbed through his muddled thoughts and the menacing dark treeline disappeared when he opened his eyes. He reached for the receiver blindly and pressed the Talk button, already dreading the voice at the other end.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"Yeah?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">The caller was crying. Sobbing, almost. There was a wet snort as if he'd been surprised at the fact that anyone had answered.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"Rich?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">His brother Ralph, once again victim of some sort of attack on his pampered life.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"Yeah," he said quietly, trying to sound non-judgmental. The relationship had soured years ago, but for one element. "What's wrong?" He wasn't sure he wanted to hear his brother's problems at this time of the night, but he steeled himself for one of the usual selfish whining sessions that had driven him away in the first place.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"They—" Ralph's voice stopped, suddenly interrupted by another sudden snort. "I think they've got Kit, Rich. Somebody's got Kit!"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Brant's eyes snapped open. "What? Say that again, Ralph. Who's got Kit?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">The other end of the line went silent for a second and Brant could hear sniffling, as if his brother was wiping snot from his nose with tissue and trying to clear the nasal passages so he could continue. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"Tell me!" Brant winced when he realized that he sounded imperious, commanding. He felt his heart racing, but tried to calm his voice. "What's going on, Ralph?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"I'm not sure," Ralph stammered. "I — I got a call a couple hours ago, and I can't... I don't know what to do. I've been debating... I don't know."<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"Damn it, Ralph. Who called you? What's going on with Kit?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Ralph audibly wiped his nose again and seemed to compose himself. "First I got a call from Kit's roommate, a strange call that I almost didn't believe. She sounded — weird, you know. Said Kit had disappeared. Maybe she was snatched. She used the word <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">snatched</i>. Does anybody use that word except TV news guys? Anyway, I didn't know what to do. I told her I would call the police and she said no, that she would do it. But then I called them anyway. I couldn't get them to transfer me to anyone, so I left a message for some chief of detectives, I was told to do that. This guy, he called me back and wants me to go in. Rich, he says nobody there got a call from Kit's roommate. I'm not sure exactly who or how it happened, but somebody kidnapped Kit. That's all I know. But I think there's more, this cop didn't seem to believe me though, but I don't think — it doesn't sound good. She's all I've got, Rich, you know that. She's the only thing left after... After everything and all that... I don't know what to do, Rich. Rich?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Brant had cut off his brother years before, for many reasons, but he had kept one line of communication open. Kit, Ralph's daughter. Miraculously intelligent, beautiful, level-headed, everything that Ralph was not, and he had found ways to help her, to be more than a distant uncle to her. He had become a friend and almost a father. Ralph had remained a weak link in the family chain, someone they were forced to tolerate. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Now Ralph was begging him to do something, and telling him that something had happened to Kit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Kit was the only good thing in Brant's life, too.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"Damn it, Ralph. Pull it together and give me facts." He heard his voice barking at his brother — his weak brother — but he couldn't help himself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"I can't. I don't know much. I just... Can't you come over and we'll go there together?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"Go where?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"They want us — me — at the police building downtown, central precinct, whatever. Zimm — Zimmerman or something. I can't face this alone, Rich. You love her as much as I do. You —"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Christ.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"Give me a half hour," Brant said, interrupting.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">"Okay, Rich. Please—"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Brant hung up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">The shower was necessary, the heat bringing blood singing back to his veins. He knew men who swore by cold showers, but ever since he couldn't take hot showers in the military, he'd wanted nothing but. Sometimes so hot the water threatened to cook and strip the flesh off his bones. Beyond cleansing. Perhaps he sought the ultimate cleansing. So his last therapist had suggested. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Fucking weasel was probably right. Overcharged me, but I guess he was on the right track.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Brant toweled off vigorously and watched his red skin finally return to its normal color. The scars visible in the mirror he ignored, as usual. He finished his bathroom routine in half the normal time, and in five more minutes he was dressing. A black turtleneck over dark jeans, and a leather jacket over that. Running shoes, as if he'd be running. He'd been running since the jungle.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="color: white;">Maybe the jungle was catching up.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">Guest author bio:</span><br />
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<span style="color: white;">W.D. Gagliani</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">W.D. Gagliani is also the author of the horror/crime thriller WOLF'S TRAP (Samhain Publishing), a past Bram Stoker Award nominee, as well as WOLF'S GAMBIT (47North), WOLF'S BLUFF (47North), WOLF'S EDGE (Samhain), and the upcoming WOLF'S CUT (Samhain). WOLF'S TRAP was reissued by Samhain Publishing in 2012. </span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">Gagliani is also the author of various short stories published in anthologies such as ROBERT BLOCH'S PSYCHOS, MORE MONSTERS FROM MEMPHIS, WICKED KARNIVAL HALLOWEEN HORROR, THE BLACK SPIRAL, THE MIDNIGHTERS CLUB, THE ASYLUM 2, MASTERS OF UNREALITY, DARK PASSIONS: HOT BLOOD 13, MALPRACTICE: AN ANTHOLOGY OF BEDSIDE TERROR (the last three with David Benton), and more.<br /><br />He has written book reviews, articles, and interviews that have been published (since 1986) in places such as THE MILWAUKEE JOURNAL SENTINEL, CHIZINE, CEMETERY DANCE, HORRORWORLD, PAPERBACK PARADE, CINEMA RETRO, HELLNOTES, FLESH & BLOOD, BOOKPAGE, BOOKLOVERS, THE SCREAM FACTORY, HORROR MAGAZINE, SF CHRONICLE, BARE BONES, and others. He has had nonfiction and craft articles published in the Writers Digest book ON WRITING HORROR (edited by Mort Castle), in the Edgar Award-nominated THRILLERS: THE 100 MUST READS (edited by Morrell & Wagner), and in October 2011 THE WRITER magazine published his article on writing werewolf epics.<br /><br />His interests include old and new progressive rock, synthesizers, weapons, history (and alternate history, secret history, and steampunk), military history, movies, book reviewing, and plain old reading and writing. He is an Active member of the Horror Writers Association (HWA), the International Thriller Writers (ITW), and the Authors Guild. He lives and writes in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Find him on Facebook and Twitter.</span></div>
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<span style="color: white;">Twitter: @WDGagliani</span></div>
<a href="http://www.wdgagliani.com/"><span style="color: red;">www.wdgagliani.com</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.williamdgagliani.com/"><span style="color: red;">www.williamdgagliani.com</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/wdgagliani"><span style="color: red;">www.facebook.com/wdgagliani</span></a><br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-53229200312713339762012-10-07T12:47:00.000-07:002014-08-04T13:08:10.368-07:00How to Create a Hyperlinked Table of Contents for Smashwords<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><b><span style="color: #cccccc;">How to Create a Hyperlinked Table of Contents for Smashwords</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="color: #cccccc; mso-fareast-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;">If you have multiple stories or chapters in your ebook, you’ll probably need a hyperlinked table of contents if your book formatting is to be approved for premium distribution to lucrative online sales outlets such as Apple, Sony, and Kobo on Smashwords.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9sNZlRd44oRPG9O9Z8K5-JlSWLXOanAYs6T8UV3fKWxAOcO7FzZLBf5y5PAD7sJX-QrzT5xsUdy_as18M59Op-yiH3LjJ5skbWXVHVuWH2_K8m13NHKQ0n2kPBig-DlrCd7SOYq7s7DY/s1600/Smashwords+Jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">What is a “hyperlinked table of contents”? It’s a table of contents near the beginning of your ebook where a reader can point to and click on a chapter name or story title and immediately be taken to that place in the book.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">I admit that I was intimidated by the words “hyperlinked table of contents” at first, especially by the word “hyperlinked.” It sounded like I’d have to create some kind of computer code—something I don’t know how to do.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">However, I found that creating a hyperlinked table of contents isn’t all that hard.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: TimesNewRomanPSMT;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">An expanded version of this blog entry is now available as an ebook on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Smashwords, etc. under the title <br />
"Basic Formatting & How to Create a Hyperlinked Table of Contents for Smashwords." I hope you will buy it and find it helpful! <br />
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-17313733919507560582012-09-11T23:51:00.000-07:002014-07-24T21:39:14.160-07:00June Miller<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_1660246056"></span><span id="goog_1660246057"></span>JUNE<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="color: #cccccc;">Henry Miller was a HUGE influence on me when I first discovered his works in my teens. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">The great love of Miller’s life—his inspiration and his muse—was his wife June, whom he met in 1923. Within days of that first meeting, according to Miller, June began encouraging him to pursue a career as a writer. Miller divorced his wife and married June in 1924. They went to France together in the late 1920s, and eventually Miller introduced June to his female Parisian benefactor (and lover—unknown to June), the diarist Anais Nin. Nin almost immediately became as </span><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">obsessed with June as Henry Miller was. All of this is described in detail in Henry’s and Anais’s books, as well as in the film <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Henry and June</i> in which June is played by Uma Thurman.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #cccccc; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">June is characterized by both Miller and Nin as a woman who could twist men to do her bidding. Her photos don’t do this justice, but I suspect she was like Cleopatra: not stunningly beautiful, but hauntingly charming.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62mkjO74mNXJ08vWxLFxxSHvaNe24yXylOJi3mPaQtGCT_0kF-87LaGZBUpWswKMisckrNe9LLF0Gd2HOgM5fUedGYkq1VVVfLRMOT_o_oLc21SrCoFTR0ZKLXP6xqWG6a2km1GhmBis/s1600/June.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj62mkjO74mNXJ08vWxLFxxSHvaNe24yXylOJi3mPaQtGCT_0kF-87LaGZBUpWswKMisckrNe9LLF0Gd2HOgM5fUedGYkq1VVVfLRMOT_o_oLc21SrCoFTR0ZKLXP6xqWG6a2km1GhmBis/s320/June.jpg" hea="true" height="320" width="247" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #cccccc;">June</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="color: #cccccc;">Having become, through Miller’s work, almost as infatuated with June as Henry and Anais were, you can imagine my surprise when I learned recently that June is buried less than an hour away from where I live in Northern Arizona!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: #cccccc;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br />
The rest of this blog entry has been revised and expanded into a book titled <i>My Search for the Grave of June Miller</i>, and it's now available as a Kindle ebook: <br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Search-Grave-June-Miller-Pornographic-ebook/dp/B00M3O009M/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1406261198&sr=8-2&keywords=tamworth+grice" target="_blank">http://www.amazon.com/Search-Grave-June-Miller-Pornographic-ebook/dp/B00M3O009M/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1406261198&sr=8-2&keywords=tamworth+grice</a></span></span></div><br />
and as a Nook ebook: <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1120003722?ean=2940149772902" target="_blank">http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1120003722?ean=2940149772902</a><br />
<br />
It's also available on Smashwords: <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/461169" target="_blank">https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/461169</a><br />
<br />
Please buy a copy today, and I hope you enjoy it!<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-69685963465141615152012-06-01T12:37:00.000-07:002012-06-01T12:37:05.163-07:00Indie Support Day 2012<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 13.2pt; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Friday, June 22, is Indie Support Day!<br />
<br />
The brainchild of indie writer Tamworth Grice (that's me!), this is a day to show your support for any and all independent writers, musicians, and filmmakers, and any and all other indie artists.<br />
<br />
To learn more, tweet Tamworth Grice on Twitter at www.twitter.com/TamworthGrice.<br />
<br />
Show your support for indie writers, filmmakers, musicians, and other artists on Friday, June 22nd, Indie Support Day!</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-50429200394404549242012-04-08T12:07:00.000-07:002012-04-08T12:07:30.753-07:00NASTY DISPOSITION<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWoMt9rd4lmYueVmk5Pkvx8JYTeLmurFbRrQVMXR8nxiQYCwIwOBh47I464Zn_Oh0FD3OsSYjsgzHsyk8RUnMROgHldyIdTBW_zA67Thcar7RTEdgoV-AKrozf60N7OwhoAE3svKcStKE/s1600/Nasty_Disposition+Finished+Small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWoMt9rd4lmYueVmk5Pkvx8JYTeLmurFbRrQVMXR8nxiQYCwIwOBh47I464Zn_Oh0FD3OsSYjsgzHsyk8RUnMROgHldyIdTBW_zA67Thcar7RTEdgoV-AKrozf60N7OwhoAE3svKcStKE/s320/Nasty_Disposition+Finished+Small.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">PROLOGUE</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">It was my thirteenth birthday and my best friend Iris and I were gently stroking the hands of a corpse.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Standing on opposite sides of the walnut coffin, we patted the flesh and whispered to keep from being overheard by the family and other mourners.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Cold,” Iris said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I nodded, poking at the wrist. “And waxy. Doesn’t feel like skin at all.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The corpse was Herbert Flitcraft. We’d never met him. But we knew his name from the white plastic letters on a small sign at Dillingham’s Funeral Home: “Herbert Flitcraft. Calling hours: Thursday, 10 a.m. - Noon.” We’d donned our best dresses and pedaled bikes through the bright heat of a southern California summer morning. We’d reached Dillingham’s by 11:00 o’clock, an hour when we thought we could move unnoticed among the legitimate mourners.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I looked at Iris across Mr. Flitcraft’s dead body. She grinned. Her dark eyes were as round as chocolate wafers. I couldn’t see her pupils, but I knew they were dilated from the weed we’d smoked in the bushes before parking our bikes at the front gate. Iris wore a belted navy shirtwaist with white piping. My dress was a ruffled lilac thing from St. Vincent de Paul. It was tight across the chest and seemed to have shrunk since I’d worn it to Elfrieda Mortuary with Iris a few weeks before.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">We pushed at the corpse’s skin and giggled. In our visits with the dead we never touched more than the hands. But now I wanted to run my fingers along Mr. Flitcraft’s pale cheek. As I glanced up to ask for Iris’s approval, I saw her expression change.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Shit,” she whispered, squinting over my shoulder past me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Her hands jerked out of the casket and folded themselves primly in front of her. She began to back away.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Carmen.” Someone behind me said my name. I spun around.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Framed in the doorway, like an apparition in a bad dream, was the tall, broad-shouldered, unmistakable silhouette of my twenty-one-year-old brother, Frank. He was wearing his police academy uniform. I turned back to Iris, but she’d deserted me, her dark-blue dress blending into a crowd of old women in black at the side of the room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I frowned at my pastel ruffles and squared my shoulders as Frank approached, his face a twist of confusion, embarrassment, and anger.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" /></span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">CHAPTER ONE</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">Ten Years Later</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“That’s her in the corner. With the tattoos and piercings. And the raccoon eye makeup.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The larger of the two cops said it. He had black skin, graying hair, and silver stars on his coat.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">His fellow officer was shaking his head. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was frowning.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I was in the ER waiting room at Bay Hospital. A team of med-techs had wheeled my brother Frank in from the medevac helicopter an hour earlier. The rickety metal gurney had swayed under his weight as they’d rushed him down the hall. His hair had been matted with red wetness, and his face—what was left of it—had been covered by a blood-soaked plastic mask attached to an oxygen machine.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Now the two cops strolled across the ER waiting room to where I sat in a corner on a hard plastic chair drinking bad coffee.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Carmen O’Malley?” the bigger one said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Yes?” I was so upset about Frank that I forgot my rule: never identify yourself to cops.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Come with us please.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Why?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“We need to ask you some questions.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">An hour earlier, the med-techs and ER staff had yelled back and forth and ignored me as I’d stumbled alongside the gurney demanding information. Finally one had mumbled at me, “Everything’s going to be okay.” Then a pair of metal doors marked “ER SURGERY” had swung shut behind them, and I had retreated to the waiting room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Now I rose from my chair as the cop with the stars introduced himself. “I’m Police Chief Thomas.” He held out his enormous hairy-backed hand.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I pretended not to know him. But he’d been the lieutenant in charge when I’d been booked for drag racing and driving without a license at fourteen, and for marijuana a year later.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He smiled.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><i>What a fucking charade</i>, I thought.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“This is Officer Gallo.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I was obliged to shake his pasty-white hand.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Chief Thomas said, “Officer Gallo was Frank’s partner.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“When we were both still driving patrol cars,” Gallo said. “I’m probably your brother’s best friend on the force.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“You said you need to ask me something?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Thomas nodded. “There’s a room in the other wing where we can talk.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">My impulse was to run. The door was a dozen steps away. The two cops were big men, bulky, probably slow starters. I was young and lithe and fast. But I thought about Frank, the only family I had, fighting for his life in ER surgery.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I couldn’t leave him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Chief Thomas led the way. Gallo followed close behind me. After a maze of hallways we reached a corridor ending in two huge mahogany doors. Thomas opened them without knocking, and the two men escorted me inside.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">We entered an enormous room that smelled of new carpet and fresh paint. It was furnished in leather sofas and chairs. At the far end stood a grand piano. By the door, a porcelain coffee service was centered on a marble-topped table. It was clean and fancy and elegant, and I felt out of place in my black jeans, strap-buckle boots, and faded black Marilyn Manson tee-shirt.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“This is the VIP lounge,” Thomas said. “Would you like some coffee?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I nodded and waited for him to get it for me. He stood his ground. I thought, <i>He thinks I’m a scuzzbucket so he’s not going to cater to me</i>. I poured my own coffee and added what looked like real cream from a silver pitcher.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Please sit down,” he said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I sat and sipped my coffee. It was strong, warm, and without aftertaste or bite, a far cry from the lukewarm pisswater in the waiting-room vending machine.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Chief Thomas sat on the sofa beside me.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Dropping into a chair on my other side, Gallo cleared his throat and said, “We’ve secured permission to use this room until—until Frank is out of surgery.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I’d been trying not to think about my brother. But he’d been shot. At close range. Part of his head was gone. He probably wouldn’t survive.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I began to cry.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I’m sorry to put you through this, Carmen,” Chief Thomas said in a flat tone. He passed me the tissue box from the end table. “But when a police officer like Frank is shot, it’s a—a momentous crime. If a man shoots a law officer—who’s armed and trained to fight—imagine what he’d do to the average unarmed citizen.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I dried my tears and wondered where this was going.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“We have to get as much information as we can. As quick as we can. So we’re here talking to you.” He paused. “I understand you’ve been living at Frank’s?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I nodded. “Since last week. I got here a week ago.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Officer Gallo scribbled some notes in a little spiral-topped notebook.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Got here from where?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I’ve been living back East.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Where?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Boston.” I looked directly at Chief Thomas. “What does this have to do with . . . anything?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“We’ll get to that. You came back a week ago. Why?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“An impulse,” I said. “No real reason.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Then let us help you figure it out,” Chief Thomas said, leaning toward me. “You wanted to get away from your criminal record in Massachusetts?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I winced.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">His tongue darted out as he spoke. I could tell he was enjoying this. “You wanted to get away from numerous convictions, ranging from possession of marijuana to grand theft auto.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Wait. That was—”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Not to mention drunk driving and wrongful influence of a minor.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Some of those charges were, um, dropped . . . .”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Gallo said, “So why’d you come back to Zaragoza, Carmen?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I stared at the damp tissue in my hand. “Frank’s my only family. Christmas is coming. I wanted to be in California again.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" /></span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">CHAPTER TWO</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I looked from one to the other. “Is this an interrogation?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Gallo reached out and patted my hand.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Not at all,” said Chief Thomas. “An interview. Not an interrogation. We want to get some things clear.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I jerked my hand away from Gallo. His eyes moved back to his notebook. “In the week you’ve been staying with Frank,” he said, “have you noticed anything peculiar?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Peculiar?” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Anything that struck you as odd.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">My mind wandered to Frank and how surprised he’d been when I’d knocked on his door unannounced six nights before. He’d welcomed me in. It was storming, and I’d dripped water on his cabin’s linoleum floor as I’d entered. The last time I’d seen him before that, I’d been fifteen. He’d just bailed me out of Zaragoza Juvenile Detention Center for dealing marijuana. It was raining that night, too. Next day I skipped town for Mexico, stiffing Frank for the bond money. I’d always wondered, was he glad I left? Was the lost bail a cheap price to be rid of me?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I’ve only been here a week. I don’t know his routine.” I lifted my coffee cup from the table. “I don’t know what’s odd and what isn’t. Besides, he’s never home. He’s busy with work. He gets in late. A few nights, we stayed up and talked. Other than that, I haven’t seen him much.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">For as long as I could remember, Frank had wanted to be a cop, to go to the big police academy in L.A. But he was the family breadwinner, and he’d wanted to stay in our small town of Zaragoza until I finished high school. As if that would happen. For Frank and his policemen mentors, I was an embarrassment. When I got in trouble—every other week—we’d had terrible fights. He’d try to reason with me. I’d slam doors and smash things and scream, “I HATE YOU!” He’d yell back, and Mom, drunk and passed out on the sofa, would wake up and start to cry.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Any strange calls?” Officer Gallo asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I wouldn’t know. Frank doesn’t have a land line. He uses his cell.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Any strange people dropping by?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“No.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Packages delivered?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Nope.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Any large amounts of money around, or expensive jewelry, or other valuables?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I rolled my eyes. “You said you knew Frank. He’s a major tightwad. He doesn’t own any valuables. That’s why there’s no land line. He’s too cheap. All his money is invested. And even if he had that kind of stuff, he’d have it locked in a bank vault.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The night I’d arrived, Frank had hugged me so tight I could barely breathe. When he finally let go, his face was beaming. He gave me a towel to dry off, and, corny as it sounds, fixed me a hot bowl of soup. We’d talked until 3:00 a.m., when he’d pulled out the hide-a-bed, draped it with woolly blankets, and said, “Have beautiful dreams, Carmen.” It was the good-night phrase he’d always used when I was a kid. Over the past six days, he’d never asked what I was doing there. Or how long I planned to stay. Or whether I intended to get a job and find a place of my own. He’d never even told me to wash a dish.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Why are you asking me this stuff?” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Gallo looked at Thomas, who shifted in his seat.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Tell her,” Thomas said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“There are, uh, “ Gallo cleared his throat, “rumors. In the police department. Alleging that someone’s been taking money. Bribes—”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“No.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“—and we think the shooting might have been—”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“No fucking way.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“—a suicide attempt. In remorse. Over what he was doing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Frank taking money?” I said. “You say you’re his friend but you . . . ,” my mind groped for the right word, “you slander him?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Nobody’s slandering anyone,” Chief Thomas said. “We’re telling you a theory. One of many theories. The gun that shot him was one of two .38 caliber Smith & Wessons we know he owns. We’ll test to see if he recently fired a gun.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“We’re trying to get this straightened out,” Gallo said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“In case Frank doesn’t make it,” Thomas said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I stared at the floor.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“If we establish there’s no wrongdoing, no suicide,” Thomas said, “he’ll be given a policeman’s funeral. Full honors, color guard, fallen officers’ hall of fame . . . .” His voice trailed off.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I looked up. “And if not?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Both were silent.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Oh, God, no. He’ll be buried in—in dishonor?” I was trembling. “Disgrace?” I looked from one to the other. “And what are you talking about? He’s still alive.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" /></span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">CHAPTER THREE</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The door opened at the end of the room, and Gallo and Thomas looked up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Vicky!” Officer Gallo smiled and leapt to his feet.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">A tall uniformed policewoman stood in the doorway.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Come on in,” Chief Thomas said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">As if two cops aren’t enough</i>, I thought.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">She was younger than Chief Thomas, about Frank’s age I guessed. Her police uniform didn’t reveal much of her figure, but her face was stunning: high cheekbones, straight nose, clear blue eyes, and flawless skin. She closed the door behind her. “Chief, look at you! You’re stylin’. We don’t often see you in police duds.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">His eyes moved to his uniform, with the stars on his coat, and he grinned. “I’m addressing the Cub Scouts this afternoon.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“You look like a celeb,” she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“You’re the celeb.” Gallo grinned at her. To me he added, “Our leading anti-drug spokesperson. She’s on TV every night in her uniform, which she wears pretty nice. . . . I mean it looks good on her. . . . “</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He was fawning over her. They both were. It was pathetic.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“. . . with public service announcements for the ZPD. That’s Zaragoza Police Department.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">A blond curl had escaped from the bun at the back of her head, and it bounced beside her face as she nodded at him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I know what ZPD means,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Her eyes focused on me. “Carmen?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Yeah?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Sorry, I’m Victoria Wolfe. Call me Officer Vicky. Or just Vicky.” She smiled showing perfect teeth. “You’re Frank’s sister, right?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“She’s been staying out at Frank’s for a week.” Thomas said. “We were just asking her if she’d noticed anything unusual—”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Their sudden good humor was annoying.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“No, you weren’t,” I said. “You were accusing my brother, who’s fighting for his life in surgery, of being a crook, of taking bribes.” My eyes stung as the tears welled up.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Thomas looked at Officer Vicky. “We mentioned the reports we’ve had—”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Reports or rumors?” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Not rumors. Reports, from a reliable informant, that someone in the department is on the take,” said Gallo.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Doesn’t mean it was Frank.” A full-blown crying jag was coming on, and I was too exhausted to stop it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Thomas cleared his throat. This time I didn’t get a tissue. He said, “The shooting gives us reason to believe—”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Chief,” Vicky said quietly. “You’re upsetting her.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He shot her a puzzled look.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Do we have to put her through this?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I was crying hard now, and gasping for breath between sobs.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Gallo stood up, disgusted. “I know you and him were pals, Vic. Him and me were pals, too. But there’s good reason to believe he attempted suicide.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“You don’t know that!” I screamed it out.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The three of them stopped and stared at me, frozen like deer in headlights.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Officer Vicky came around the coffee table and sat down beside me. “Carmen,” she said, draping her arm around my shoulders, “they don’t mean to upset you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">She was only about ten years older than me, but I relaxed into her, crying like a child with its mother.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">She unbuttoned her breast pocket with her free hand and took out her iPhone. She logged on, pulled up some kind of writing, and passed it to the Chief. “This just hit the Internet,” she said quietly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He slipped on a pair of reading glasses from his coat pocket and read, his lips moving as he scanned the small screen.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Curious, I sat up and dried my face. “What is it?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“A news story,” Vicky said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“About the shooting,” Thomas said, handing the iPhone to Gallo. “This is why we need information from you. Before the media screws everything up. And in case Frank—uh, in case we can’t get it from Frank.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I craned my neck and read:<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Cop Shot at Dawa Beach</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Special Report by Bob Dellachiesa</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1in; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">A jogger at Dawa Beach discovered the still-breathing body of Zaragoza police detective Frank O’Malley, 30 years old, early this morning. Shot in the head at close range while seated in his Jeep Wrangler, O’Malley was an expert on organized crime and drug trafficking. . . .</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 1in; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">My eyes brimmed with tears again. Officer Vicky spoke up. ““We want to help you,” she said. “You and Frank. We want to find out who did this terrible thing.” She patted my arm. “We’re the good guys here, Carmen. We’re just a little insensitive sometimes.” I saw her gesture with her free hand to Chief Thomas on the other side of me. I knew she was mouthing something to him behind my head. “Are you hungry? Chief, can we get some food in here for Carmen?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">She stood and reached out her hand, encouraging me to join her. We stepped over to the coffee pot while Chief Thomas took his phone back from Officer Gallo. Vicky poured me another cup.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I was turning to take it from her when the mahogany doors banged open.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I squinted as a brilliant flash lit the room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" /></span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">CHAPTER FOUR</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">A man stood in the doorway with a camera held to his face. “Hey, sister!” he said and twisted his body for a second shot.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Officer Vicky made a grab and caught him by the wrist. She bent the man’s arms up and behind his back, pretzel-style. Chief Thomas jerked the camera from its neck strap.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Bobby Cheeser,” Gallo said in recognition.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The man was scruffy and tall with disheveled black hair and a huge nose.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><i>Fourth runner-up in a Howard Stern look-alike contest</i>, I thought<i>. </i>“Who is he?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Bobby Della-Cheeser,” Chief Thomas said. “A reporter.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“It’s Dellachiesa, <i>Della-key-aysa</i>,” the man said. “You know how to pronounce it. I respect you as a black man, Chief. You could respect my Italian heritage.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I—I think I know that name?” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“He wrote that news article,” said Vicky. She released his arms and banged his elbow with her baton.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“That’s brutality!” he protested.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Chief Thomas gave the camera to Gallo, who said, “He’s our worst pain-in-the-ass. He has the police beat. If he can’t get a story, he’ll make one up.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“That’s not true and you know it,” said Bobby. “Look, you clown. Just pass me the damned thing and I’ll show you how to delete the photos.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Gallo was turning the camera over in his hands like a child investigating a foreign object.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Gallo surrendered the camera. The photographer pushed some buttons and held it up, showing a blank screen.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“You sure they’re deleted?” Gallo said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Chief Thomas’s cell phone rang. He turned his back and answered it as Vicky looked at the camera and nodded to Gallo.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I stared at the man’s eyes. “Bobby?” I said. “I think I know you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Yeah?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I used to play with your sister Melissa when we were little kids. I think we played cowboys and Indians with you one time in Cougar Canyon.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“You fell off a rock and almost drowned in the river? You’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>Carmen?” A smile spread across his pockmarked face. “Frank O’Malley’s your brother?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I nodded.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Fuck,” he said and grinned, “I’d have backed off if I’d known!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“You can back off now.” Gallo said. “Or we’ll lock you up. For interfering with an investigation. Again.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Yeah, I hear you.” Bobby’s nasally voice was grating. “And I’m like, shaking all over, dude, at the awesome power of the ZPD—”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Chief Thomas interrupted him. “That was the ER. Frank’s out of surgery. A doctor’s on his way to talk to us.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I sank down the sofa.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Vicky and Gallo were about to hustle Bobby out of the room when a silver-haired man came through the doors. He wore a starched white lab coat and a name tag: Dr. Herrera.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Carmen O’Malley?” he said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I stood up. “Is Frank—?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“He’s out of surgery.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Everyone focused on Dr. Herrera, but he ignored them and spoke to me. “Carmen, let’s talk.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He put his hand in the small of my back and guided me to the opposite end of the long room.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Bobby? Don’t leave, okay?” I said over my shoulder. Then to the three cops I added, “I want him to stay.” They frowned in response.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Let’s sit down.” Dr. Herrera gestured to a pair of chairs by the piano. From the corner of my eye, I saw the police turn their backs. Gallo grabbed Bobby’s arm, spinning him around, too, but I could tell from the tilt of his head he was straining to hear.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The man settled into the chair across from me and stretched out his hand. I shook it. “Carmen,” he said. “I’m Dr. Herrera, director of emergency surgery. How are you holding up?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“If you want the truth, I’m exhausted.” I leaned against the leather upholstery behind me, too tired to cry any more.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He nodded with an understanding smile.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“My brother. Is he going to—?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He frowned. “He suffered a gunshot to the head at close range. He’s out of surgery. He’s still unconscious. He’s in intensive care. Being a policeman, he’s getting VIP treatment. We’re doing everything we can.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“But he won’t be—?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“It’s too early to say what will or won’t be. The bullet went through the side of his face and penetrated the skull. There’s a lot of swelling. We’re trying to avoid a herniation that could compress the brain stem and compromise vital functions. . . .”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The room was warm. I was really overheated. I could feel sweat on my face, and the heat was making me dizzy.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“. . . these head wounds can surprise us by not being as bad as we think.” He peered into my face. “Have you had lunch?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">This confused me. The way he said it, it sounded like he was asking me for a date.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Because I recommend you get out of the hospital. You look pale, fatigued. Go get something to eat. Get some fresh air.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I need to let Frank’s dog out,” I said weakly.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Good idea. Go home and do it. There’s nothing you can do for him here.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“But the police want to question me!” The words came spilling out. “They have to find out whether Frank was—was doing something <i>illegal</i>. In case he dies. And he might not get a policeman’s funeral. He might be buried in . . . disgrace. It’s the worst thing they could do to him,” I could hear my own voice rising in hysteria. “The worst. I have to stay here. I have to explain. I’m being interrogated, and I have to answer questions, convince them. . . .”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">His eyebrows went up in surprise. “Interrogated? Is that what’s going on here?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I nodded and wiped my eyes with my fingers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“That will stop. Right now. You go home and rest, Carmen. And don’t you worry about your brother’s reputation.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“But the funeral—”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Carmen, Frank’s still alive,” he said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“But if I leave while he’s in still intensive care, won’t people think—”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“The hell with what people think.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He was right.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“What’s your cell number?” he asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I lost my cell phone,” I said. It had fallen out of my pocket at some gas station or other during the drive from Boston.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I’m going to give you a phone, and I promise we’ll call you on it as soon as we hear something.” He opened a cupboard behind the piano and passed me a cell phone in a clear plastic bag. It was a generic cell with no camera or extras. The phone number was written in black marker on the outside.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He withdrew a card and a small yellow envelope from his breast pocket. “My cell number’s on this card. Call me tonight if you haven’t heard from us. These are for you, too,” he said, holding out the yellow envelope. “You don’t have any allergies, do you? You’re not on any medications?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I hadn’t been high since Boston, so I shook my head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Take a tablet with food right away. Take another at seven p.m., and one before you go to bed. Then four a day, at breakfast, lunch, dinner, bedtime. They could make you drowsy, so don’t drink while you’re on them. And be careful driving. You have any side effects, call me, you understand?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I nodded. <i>Some kind of downers, </i>I thought, dropping the card and little pill envelope into the plastic bag.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He rose from his seat, saying, “Walk me to the door?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">We crossed the room in silence. Officer Vicky glanced over her shoulder at us and nudged Officer Gallo, who turned around. He opened his mouth to say something, but Dr. Herrera cut him off.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“There’s to be no more questioning of this young lady today.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Chief Thomas ran his tongue across his teeth before he spoke up. “This is official law enforcement business, Doctor. A policeman’s been shot. We—”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I said, no more questioning. Not if you want to use this VIP room and be treated politely in this hospital.” He stood with his hand on the doorknob. “Whatever you need to ask can wait until tomorrow. Good day.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The door closed behind him.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I’m out of here, too,” I said, eager to follow. “I have to go let Frank’s dog out.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Thomas stared at me. Before he could speak, Bobby spoke up. “You want me to write that you dudes harassed the injured officer’s little sister?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Thomas frowned but held up his hand to Gallo and Vicky who were about to object. “Carmen,” Thomas said, passing me his card. “I want the number of that cell phone.” His voice was flat, neither menacing nor friendly. “We need to be able to get in touch with you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Sure,” I held up the bag for him to read the number written on the outside. Gallo copied it into his notebook.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Bobby, walk me out. I need to ask you something.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Officer Vicky looked at me, her eyes wide with concern. “Are you going to be okay, Carmen?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I’m fine,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I was lying.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" /></span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: -4.5pt;">CHAPTER FIVE<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"></b></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: -4.5pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">A mob of reporters surrounded the ER entrance. Men and women with microphones and cameras pushed forward and shouted at the dark-skinned man in green scrubs who stood guard with his back to the hospital. I couldn’t see his expression, but I could read his mood from the veins that stood out on the back of his bald head.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I was glad to have Bobby as an escort.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He said, “Be cool, Carmen,” and took my hand.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">His tall frame towered over the others as we pressed through the crowd. Newsmen and women were jockeying for position and arguing with the dark-skinned man. Someone noticed us and said, “Bob, who’s the chick?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“It’s my girlfriend, you dork.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“You learn anything about O’Malley?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Nope,” he said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">A Hispanic woman in heavy make-up and a red business suit pushed toward us. A man with a television camera hovered behind her. She had a huge black bag over her shoulder and a microphone with TV call letters in her hand.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Bobby said, “Get that thing out of my face, Peggy. And tell your film jockey, he comes near me, I’ll break his fucking arm.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The man with the TV camera moved back a step.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“He was taking payoffs, wasn’t he, Bob?” she hissed. “He won’t get an officer’s funeral, right?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Bobby shrugged.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Is he dead yet?” another reporter asked. “Say something. We need to work together, here, Bob.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Dude, I told you, I don’t know anything,” he called over his shoulder as we stepped down the sidewalk away from the hospital. “Nothing to say.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">At the far end of the ER parking lot, when we’d left the media people behind, he turned to me. “Look, Carmen,” he said, staring down at the camera around his neck. “I’m real sorry about what I did in there.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“It’s nothing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Yeah it is. I shouldn’t have barged in on you. And you know what? I caused this.” He jerked his head at the reporters. “If I hadn’t written that story this morning, none of those dudes would be here.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“You were just doing your job.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Maybe. But sometimes you’ve got to know when to back off. It seems like I never do.” He kicked at some stray pieces of gravel with the toe of his dirty Nike. Then he glanced up, scanned the horizon behind me, said, “Carmen, look up there. Killer moon!”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He was trying to change the subject. We both knew it. But obligingly I turned my head, looked back over my left shoulder. It was daylight, but the moon was there—full and high up in the sky. “Yeah,” I mumbled, “the moon.” I thought about it shining down on Frank as someone shot his head half off.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">We were silent for a moment. Then he said, “Where’s your car?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“It’s that black one.” I pointed to the vintage Volkswagen camper bus I’d driven to California from Massachusetts. It was primer-black with black velvet curtains and a rainbow-colored peace sticker in the windows.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Bobby laughed. “You buy this from the Grateful Dead?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“A lesbian hippie in Cambridge.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">He walked around the van, inspecting it. Then he turned to face me. “I want to give you my numbers. And I want yours.” He opened the pocket flap of his shirt and withdrew a business card. It had three phone numbers. “The first is my office at the <i>Gazette</i>, the second’s the cellular, and the third is my home.” He copied my new cell phone number into a tiny notepad. “Be careful what you say when you call. I think my phones might be tapped.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Cops!” I rolled my eyes, dropping his card in the plastic bag with the others.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“Yeah, but don’t underestimate Chief Thomas. He’s sly as a fox, and he never lets anyone know what he’s really thinking.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“What about his brilliant suicide theory?”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“He might not really buy into that. He might just be pretending to, as some kind of trick. Anyway, call me,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other. I wondered if he had to take a leak. “I’ve got to head out, but I want to ask you some things.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">“I will.” I climbed behind the wheel. He grinned and closed the door.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I backed out, waving and watching him in the rear-view mirror, then shifted into drive. The van lurched forward.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">On the way out, I passed a gun-metal-gray limo with dark-tinted windows parked under some magnolias. Through the windshield I saw the driver, a well-groomed young Asian, straighten his tie. He watched me pass. I saw his lips move as he looked in the rearview mirror and spoke to whomever sat in back. Then he nodded in response, watching me as I drove past.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" /></span></b><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">CHAPTER SIX</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Frank’s cabin perched on a small rocky point overlooking the ocean. It was once one of four structures that had once formed a tiny fishing resort. The owners had neglected it, and Frank bought the land at auction. He tore down the other three cabins, they were uninhabitable anyway, and saved the biggest one.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The property was an overgrown tangle of trees, bushes, and weeds. Frank didn’t care. He loved raw nature. The plan was that when he retired he’d donate the land as a nature preserve.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">As I entered the cabin, Frank’s dog came to greet me—the one I’d come to let out. It was a huge, stupid-looking bloodhound. Its enormous black-and-tan bulk was stretched across the linoleum in the kitchen. It thumped its tail as I entered. <i>Swell</i>, I thought,<i> he’s glad to see me.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">His name was Flash. He’d been a tracker. Part of a federally funded program, my brother had told me, for police departments in smaller cities. Even for a bloodhound the dog had a terrific nose, and it won two citations. But funding dried up after four years, and the dog was downsized. That’s how he came to live with Frank.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I’m not a dog person. I’d left two cats behind with my neighbor in Boston. After a week at the cabin, I wondered what my brother saw in the stupid bloodhound. It slobbered. It humped your leg. It shed. It peed on the floor. It humped your leg. It begged food. It pooped on the floor. It humped your leg. It drank from the toilet. It dragged you along if you walked it on a leash.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Did I mention it humped your leg?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Now I prodded the dog to get up from the floor and I hustled it outside. Frank’s cabin was at the end of a long dirt path and isolated from the main road, so traffic wasn’t a problem when the dog had to go out. It always stayed near the cabin, anyway, taking its morning crap right where I would step in it getting in or out of my van.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The cabin door opened into a pine-paneled great room furnished in Salvation Army rejects. A huge oak table, its finish scarred by glass-rings and gouges, dominated the combination living-dining area. The table was pushed to the side and surrounded by three chairs. Against the opposite wall, flanked by floor lamps, was the lumpy hide-a-bed sofa where I slept. A snack counter jutted between this room and the kitchen. Its end sagged under the weight of a TV turned to face the sofa. The floor was linoleum throughout, with a hooked rag rug in the main room and one each in Frank’s bedroom and office. It would have been dreary, but there was a charming stone fireplace and an enormous picture window that gave a breathtaking view of the ocean.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a tomato, a jar of Miracle Whip, a Diet Coke, and four slices of bread. I made a pair of tomato sandwiches, wolfed down one, and fed the other to Flash as I opened the screen door for him. He took it between his front teeth with surprising daintiness for his hundred and fifty pounds. He raised his head, then ducked it down. The sandwich disappeared. He nosed for crumbs, ears dragging on the floor. Convinced he’d found every tidbit, he circled twice and dropped on the linoleum with a thump and a moan.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I filled his food and water dishes. He watched me with big sad eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I said aloud, “Frank will be home tomorrow.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" /></span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;">CHAPTER SEVEN</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I blinked away tears and thought about the uncertain bond with my older brother who always referred to me as “The Bride of Dracula—with a bad attitude, plus tattoos and piercings.” I swallowed one of Dr. Herrera’s pills and washed it down with Diet Coke. Then I took a steak knife from the kitchen drawer. Working it into the keyhole, I broke into Frank’s office for the second time that week. The other time I’d just stood in the center of the room and gazed at the tall, locked filing cabinets and photocopy machine. Well, okay, I’d tried to use the computer but didn’t know the password, so I’d peeked in all the desk drawers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">This time, with no fear of Frank coming home and finding me, I set about doing more lock picking. Using a paper clip from the desk, I jimmied the file cabinets and rifled through them.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Frank had a shitload of papers. They were stuffed in bulging drawers, all labeled for my convenience. One cabinet was packed with personal stuff: tax returns dating back twelve years, investment statements, canceled checks, insurance policies. Another was crammed with papers from when he’d been a cop years before in L.A. In the lowest drawer was one handgun, accessories for another, and six boxes of hollow-point bullets. The third cabinet had his Zaragoza police files. The top drawer was marked “Current Year Only.” I focused my attention there.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Thick files, neatly labeled and divided, were packed in so tightly it was hard to yank them out. Most were on organized crime. “Cosa Nostra—East Coast.” “Cosa Nostra—Midwest.” “Cosa Nostra—L.A.” There was a folder for “Russian Mafia,” one for “Colombians,” one “Chinese,” one for “Blacks,” one “Irish,” and surprisingly, one for “Norwegians.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The front half of the drawer was marked, “Current—Yakuza.”</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I carried an armload to the hide-a-bed in the next room. Settling in among tattered pillows, I flipped on the floor lamp and selected a thick folder marked “Yakuza—Background.” Seemed like a good place to start.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">It held photocopies of articles and chapters from books on criminology, sociology, and Asian studies. Nearly every page had marginal notes—Frank’s personal observations in his neatly-printed hand. I didn’t understand half of what I read. But I gathered “Yakuza” was a Japanese crime gang with the usual rackets of gambling, sex, loan-sharking, and drugs.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Frank’s notes said the Yakuza started like the Sicilian Mafia as a citizen’s protection group. Its earliest members were roving gamblers. The word Yakuza meant “loser.” A magazine article said many Japanese viewed Yakuza as heroic, honorable men. “Good PR, sim. to John Gotti,” Frank had printed in the margin. Another page said they had Mafia-like principles—a code of silence, a rule against sex with another member’s wife—and they forbid petty theft and rape.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I yawned. All this was interesting—to a college professor, maybe—but it told me nothing about Frank. I wanted to find out what cases he’d been working on.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">One folder was marked “Yakuza—Ritual and Religion.” An article in it was about “yubitsume,” which was the ritual amputation of a finger. It had photos of Asian men smiling and holding up their pinky-less hands.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><i>Loser is right</i>, I thought.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">The next page said most Yakuza were Shinto, some Japanese religion where trees and rocks had spirits. Another clipping began, “There are 207 Buddhist sects in Japan, including multiple varieties of Zen, but the Yakuza prefer the Nichiren school with its strong nationalistic overtones.” Frank had printed “See Ruby B.” beside this line in large letters.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Who the hell was Ruby B.?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Another folder was marked “Yakuza—Names.” It held a letter typed on FBI stationery with a list of about twenty names. They were all Japanese. None was “Ruby B.” There was a page of small labeled photos of Asian faces, a short list of addresses, and an organizational chart. I padded back into the office to warm up Frank’s little copy machine. I copied every sheet in the “Names” folder. The machine was old, but the copies were readable. Except the faces in the photos came out as dark ovals on the white page.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I slipped the originals back into the file, folded the copies and stuffed them in the hip pocket of my jeans. Then I tried to read some more but kept dozing off. I gave up, pulled out the bed, and fell asleep.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">When I woke it was late afternoon. My first thought was about Frank dying and having to be buried in civilian clothes, in a state of disgrace. Too restless to read any more, I bustled around the cabin, let the dog out and in, and tried to watch television but couldn’t concentrate. Besides, there were only four stations—Frank, who never watched much TV, was too cheap to have cable. I thought of calling Bobby. But I didn’t want to answer any questions. And I wasn’t sure I could trust him. I thought of calling Dr. Herrera. But I hated to bother him. Besides he’d promised to call as soon as there was news about Frank.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">Not knowing where else to go, I did what any native Southern Californian does in time of stress.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">I went to the beach.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; mso-hyphenate: none; mso-pagination: none;">----------------------------------- </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">To buy this book, go to <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Nasty-Disposition-ebook/dp/B006GULMWI/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1333911783&sr=1-5">http://www.amazon.com/Nasty-Disposition-ebook/dp/B006GULMWI/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1333911783&sr=1-5</a> for Kindle, or <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/nasty-disposition-tamworth-grice/1107838511?ean=2940013464575">http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/nasty-disposition-tamworth-grice/1107838511?ean=2940013464575</a> for Nook.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-9992183544421003192011-11-26T19:21:00.000-08:002014-07-11T11:20:34.086-07:00NaNoWriMo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Thought I'd share that this month I participated in National Novel Writing Month and finished a draft of a novel.</div>
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I recommend it to all writers, as it imposes deadlines. There's also a lot of group encouragement, if you're into that sort of thing.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-67812521732287155062011-10-27T14:28:00.000-07:002011-10-27T14:28:34.813-07:00Interview with Diamond Sam LaValerie<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><em>“Diamond Sam LaValerie” is a colorful radio personality who hosts a weekly Internet radio show on the Evil Broadcasting station each Friday night at 7:00 p.m. EST. The musical focus is indie music, particular indie metal music. He has a loyal bevy of followers, and the show features a live chat room that allows listeners to communicate with each other and with Sam. </em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><em>Here’s the text of my recent interview with Sam.</em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Tamworth Grice: How did you get started in radio? Did you ever study broadcasting or work for a radio station? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Diamond Sam: (Laughs) As in formal training? God, no. I got my start and never saw it coming. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: Can you explain?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: I met a girl online named Angel Clark. We would talk from time to time, and she told me I had a good voice and I should be on radio. It turned out that she owned a station named Distant Thunder Radio. I remember at first I didn’t really want to do it, so it took her a little while to talk me into it. And to be honest I didn’t know I wanted to do it until about 3 or 4 days after my first show.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fpy2sitSVgcUasrKcAJTyYP3CTXRnF4wddELSuVP8A7vGxIPv5CC_89ouVbeZsZSD5s3Z6GSIf3Uc-5NLNkBsQVKjc4JgadqrGKYfUdlb0NON24pPVHbQKmCsgoQNd_ijNnj0uxVQR4/s1600/sam45445.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4fpy2sitSVgcUasrKcAJTyYP3CTXRnF4wddELSuVP8A7vGxIPv5CC_89ouVbeZsZSD5s3Z6GSIf3Uc-5NLNkBsQVKjc4JgadqrGKYfUdlb0NON24pPVHbQKmCsgoQNd_ijNnj0uxVQR4/s320/sam45445.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: What’s your Evil Broadcasting show like?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: The most dissident show on the Internet. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G : Can you describe it for us?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: Not sure I can. (Laughs) I never really have a plan when I go on air. I just wing it. So it’s kinda like one big party for the people listening and especially for the people in chat.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: What do you think is the main appeal of your show? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: I think the appeal of the show is that I’m not one of those DJs who makes the show all about himself. I never really wanted a fan base; I wanted listeners and friends. Most of the people who listen to the show have my Yahoo IM. Some even have my phone number. So I think that’s the appeal: it’s more than just a show; it’s kinda like a club or--better yet--a big love affair with each other. Did that sound cheesy? </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3UaJBjsC9fr1zFWutS_TYbti7vVlK8KmaEFSy8n5JSD_BrhnMUvYRMfF3oKYWY7QsXoM6Jj_ftuS73Wxe164cGLWp17vQIwo6Jx8202y3H4zBVgACngMSgmdyb0sHP3s5AzjlaZT458M/s1600/evil+logo+%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="97" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3UaJBjsC9fr1zFWutS_TYbti7vVlK8KmaEFSy8n5JSD_BrhnMUvYRMfF3oKYWY7QsXoM6Jj_ftuS73Wxe164cGLWp17vQIwo6Jx8202y3H4zBVgACngMSgmdyb0sHP3s5AzjlaZT458M/s400/evil+logo+%25284%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: You’ve openly said that “Diamond Sam LaValerie” is a stage name. How did you choose it? “LaValerie” sounds similar to Satanic cult leader Anton LaVey’s surname. Was that a factor in your choice?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: I got the nickname “Diamond” from a bunch of wiseguy gangsters in the Bronx when I used to run to the store for them. I was like 8 years old buying beer for them while they played cards on the sidewalk. I had a knack for being in the right place at the right time, so they started calling me “Diamond” because they said I always shined. The name just stuck. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: And what about LaValerie?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NoH23tUMFeabdc34BQ7fdYyfHuJEfeNiVHquOtyeR70ncQqwwb5SsK8U5X7iPC2m1nntQs1kUSmy947MateBUUqSmgP0omPTYUTZmh2TtQSrlM-2YnXHP6Z5-b58eioXsMo7KLKGGeM/s1600/sammywings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NoH23tUMFeabdc34BQ7fdYyfHuJEfeNiVHquOtyeR70ncQqwwb5SsK8U5X7iPC2m1nntQs1kUSmy947MateBUUqSmgP0omPTYUTZmh2TtQSrlM-2YnXHP6Z5-b58eioXsMo7KLKGGeM/s320/sammywings.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: After I was done with college, I got a job tending bar for high-profile parties. My booking agent said that if I wanted more jobs and bigger jobs my name had to have more “flair.” I figured that if I was going to name myself I was going to name myself after my grandfathers, Samuel and Charles. The problem was that the 2 names are very strong-sounding, so we needed to soften them by using a female first name for my last name. At first, we tried Adrian, but I wanted to be more true to my Italian ancestry. Plus Sam C. Adrian wasn’t sitting well with me. That’s when my book agent’s daughter, Irene, came in to tell on her sister, Valerie, for doing something she wasn’t supposed to be doing. Irene had a real bad stuttering problem, so the first thing out of her mouth was, “V, Va, Va, Valerie.” I started to play with that and came up with LaValerie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYuMDkr4oFZsfNElmTJFzCx6NjfyXes4qSivhivhMEVq3M85MYd5EbNsYLktMk6Ipkc6Gu_oIF0WC7OhAHua9bDdgEMRZfSlfAj_lcMJlxGugn-Qhr-IdrHrXePzw88JBwSKRgfR76rI/s1600/diamonds.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeYuMDkr4oFZsfNElmTJFzCx6NjfyXes4qSivhivhMEVq3M85MYd5EbNsYLktMk6Ipkc6Gu_oIF0WC7OhAHua9bDdgEMRZfSlfAj_lcMJlxGugn-Qhr-IdrHrXePzw88JBwSKRgfR76rI/s1600/diamonds.JPG" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: You’re a big fan of Edgar Allan Poe. When or how did you discover Poe? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: I grew up in a part of the Bronx where he was somewhat of a hero. There was a park named after him, and he had a cottage on the Grand Concourse when he was alive. I went to kindergarten through the 2nd grade at the Edgar Allan Poe Elementary School. Back then the school had his image all over the place. I remember there was this big picture of him in the lobby that scared the living shit out of me every damn morning. (Laughs) So he was kinda like the first legend I knew of. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: What’s your favorite Poe story or poem, and why is it a favorite? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: To pick a favorite from the works he did is kinda hard. For the risk of argument I’d say “Murders in the Rue Morgue” and “The Pit and the Pendulum.” Not to mention “The Raven.” </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgKhNXy9Ny0EN4aqi8qqXS90ZzKLEGovi3vmo5ojWQBaI-nh20AvwsBn0hFmofhc_gY9w9XlkYOUQCBkISbj84tLHCLj1Ss3ebFaaJH-luwGDDFn_HUgAzb8ga7I5dPijMFC14ZSv9fEQ/s1600/edgar-allan-poe-stamp1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgKhNXy9Ny0EN4aqi8qqXS90ZzKLEGovi3vmo5ojWQBaI-nh20AvwsBn0hFmofhc_gY9w9XlkYOUQCBkISbj84tLHCLj1Ss3ebFaaJH-luwGDDFn_HUgAzb8ga7I5dPijMFC14ZSv9fEQ/s320/edgar-allan-poe-stamp1.jpg" width="202" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: You’re very supportive of indie bands. Why? Why should anyone listen to indie music instead of long-established metal bands such as, say, Black Sabbath or Metallica? Are the indie bands ever better? If so, how?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: The reason I support them is that music is an art form and just like any art form, sometimes it needs new blood. Black Sabbath and Metallica are great bands; I still listen to them. But if you wake up everyday looking at Michelangelo’s David, eventually you’re going to get tired of it and want something more, something fresh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: At the risk of playing favorites, would you be willing to name some of your favorite indie bands? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: This is going to be a long list! Killcode, Tanadra, Break 9, Fatal Kaliber, King Whack, Motorband, The Black 13, That Killed Crimson, Jean Cabbie, No One’s Mercy, Davie Reese, Big Black Novel, Black Haze, ElectroNomacon, Deathalizer, and Death and Taxes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: What is your absolute all-time favorite song, and why? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: There are way too many to list.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiehaJ5rViuLfPdZYtlJMBR8kocVu6cnmU4mTjfHbaJjCyH8zZV9JmXr3PIDGV4Sc2AEeLSLH07zN18HADsI_uw5pLRUmZozhVp31tih-A-iQKmemGITDQ9WtzVhiADApLLHIjLsk66cHE/s1600/100_9533.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiehaJ5rViuLfPdZYtlJMBR8kocVu6cnmU4mTjfHbaJjCyH8zZV9JmXr3PIDGV4Sc2AEeLSLH07zN18HADsI_uw5pLRUmZozhVp31tih-A-iQKmemGITDQ9WtzVhiADApLLHIjLsk66cHE/s320/100_9533.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: What would be your advice to indie musicians today who want to gain exposure and succeed in the music business? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: Don’t be afraid to put yourself out there. Hit every Internet radio station. Be sure the station will announce all your shows, Web sites, and CDs. Record some of your shows and stick them on YouTube. Use Facebook, Twitter, Yearbook, MySpace, ReverbNation, and any other social network you can find.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: You were present in lower Manhattan during the September 11th tragedy, and there’s been some controversy about whether you really were present. Why do you think there is this controversy? Are your detractors just looking for a way to take pot-shots at you?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: Pretty much. See, when you put yourself out there you attract 2 different kinds of people: the cool kind and the haters. The asshole who made these claims [that I wasn’t there in lower Manhattan on September 11th] was a DJ who had worked with me on another radio station. He attacked me with the hopes, I think, to get my spot. He made all kinds of claims about me.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQtw8F1W5r3VpA_EMiZVDqMsv0VZVkkPBQ4pj8uUuR3R50bYbRd9bvhSJETpABx7yLO7I1E9Ev70UZEXJnp1-zseCg1NMhyphenhypheneho5_zMz8ri5f_Hjhr37bMlJ-MTxgrC8qfXsaHGPeYhbzk/s1600/samevil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQtw8F1W5r3VpA_EMiZVDqMsv0VZVkkPBQ4pj8uUuR3R50bYbRd9bvhSJETpABx7yLO7I1E9Ev70UZEXJnp1-zseCg1NMhyphenhypheneho5_zMz8ri5f_Hjhr37bMlJ-MTxgrC8qfXsaHGPeYhbzk/s320/samevil.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: Such as?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: That I abused children, raped a bus full of nuns, killed puppies then boiled their blood and drank it. (Laughs) I ended up going down the legal avenue and contacted the police in my city and his. Then I called my attorney, who provided my insurance papers, medical records, results of my lung tests, and the booking slip for the job I had to do that day with the address, date and time on it. The FBI began looking into this jerk, and they found out that he was doing the same thing to other people. He had a history of being a cyber bully—one of those tough guys behind a computer keyboard. . . . </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: What finally happened?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: Eventually he was told that if he continued he was going to be facing some big legal problems. So after that, he backed off. But in a strange way I kinda wish he was right about his story about me--maybe it would make the nightmares of that day go away.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZDpmcEDLwM-FVgFRWHc5ryswgBJXuNNLAtriMVwXxBetatHfQK_pI85oDOA_sHVfdb5AjN2el3smHj0UaBQGroMcf5RXsGFdqODCf3rQAOqVkkAw5lqC52RyxV7PUxXA6dzIgdoRnCA/s1600/dslv3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZDpmcEDLwM-FVgFRWHc5ryswgBJXuNNLAtriMVwXxBetatHfQK_pI85oDOA_sHVfdb5AjN2el3smHj0UaBQGroMcf5RXsGFdqODCf3rQAOqVkkAw5lqC52RyxV7PUxXA6dzIgdoRnCA/s320/dslv3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: During each show, you do what fans call a “rant,” when you stop playing music and discuss an issue of personal or national importance, and this has become one of your trademarks. How did the practice of doing a “rant” get started? Was the first “rant” planned, or did it just happen by accident? What’s the importance of the “rant” to you?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: The first one started out as just a goof. It was me acting as if I was going to run for President of the United States, and I made a speech that I thought was going to be funny. But my friends and listeners found it thought-provoking. The next day I had a ton of emails asking me to do rants about this and that. The problem is that I can only do a rant if I’m passionate about an issue. If I do one that’s half-assed, my friends and listeners can tell, so I try and keep it close to home. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: Tell us something about your producer, Mistress Tara. How did you two meet, and how did she become your producer?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: We met in the Distant Thunder chat room, chatted a few times, built a friendship. And just like any good friend, when you’re in trouble your friends are there for you. I was busy with other business ventures, and I didn’t have time to get my show ready, and Tara asked if she could help. So she got the music for me, the plugs, ads, and sound bites. A few weeks later she was working for me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: You broadcast on Internet radio. Other than using a different technology, how do you think Internet radio differs from regular radio? What do you think is the future of Internet radio?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: Internet radio is just normal people having a good time. We play what people wanna hear, not what they are told to listen to. I think there is a very good future for it. With Internet radio, people can get what they want; they’re not dictated to. So for that reason I, my listeners, and my friends are happy to be a small part of it.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCN2Qlxz33OreCl1ERIABI4wLh9gPgT_-NwtP63n4jvqjxm8msX7Oo__SUrwIXENA0576IGAy35VUsEHk7vN0XNfBGfDT5uBm_HRyZzI5qm0moIQ8Ltuj6nTu_F3ftLpifvDNPfisC0Ao/s1600/Kiss+show+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCN2Qlxz33OreCl1ERIABI4wLh9gPgT_-NwtP63n4jvqjxm8msX7Oo__SUrwIXENA0576IGAy35VUsEHk7vN0XNfBGfDT5uBm_HRyZzI5qm0moIQ8Ltuj6nTu_F3ftLpifvDNPfisC0Ao/s320/Kiss+show+%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: Where and when can we hear your show? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: My show is on Fridays at 7:00 p.m. EST. To listen, go to <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.evilbroadcasting.com"><span style="color: blue;">www.evilbroadcasting.com</span></a> . </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">T.G.: Do you have any special shows coming up?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Sam: Yes. On Saturday, October 29, at 1:00 p.m. EST I’ll be hosting a Kiss tribute show that will be like no other. Over 10 hours of KISS with King Whack, No One’s Mercy, The Black 13, Careless, and Break 9.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 5pt 0in; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none;"></div></span>T.G.: See you there!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-64799935654403813942011-08-24T12:12:00.000-07:002011-08-24T12:12:25.024-07:00Interview with Gay Erotic Romance Writer Nick Navarre<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">In this blog post, I interview gay writer Nick Navarre, who writes dreamy romance fiction and steamy erotica. His books include <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Threesome at the Gym</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cowboy Up!</i> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GSgRaQy7soxcFHaIwy4kXh0KNMSGerrH0EVjTZDqTV6H6zz92WP-KUq_CcOC-PKeNthUR3RNO_HCW7YebqrMq05WTS8l4UkNDvUXpHVH7UmMYSHdChSDhWwaQYFmpERCNUtvwsgO6sU/s1600/Nick+Navarre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2GSgRaQy7soxcFHaIwy4kXh0KNMSGerrH0EVjTZDqTV6H6zz92WP-KUq_CcOC-PKeNthUR3RNO_HCW7YebqrMq05WTS8l4UkNDvUXpHVH7UmMYSHdChSDhWwaQYFmpERCNUtvwsgO6sU/s1600/Nick+Navarre.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Nick Navarre</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Tamworth Grice: What inspired you to write?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Nick Navarre: That’s a great question because I really just started writing a few weeks ago! </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">My first book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Threesome at the Gym</i>,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>was written as an exercise. My writer friend Destiny Drake wrote an M/F/F threesome erotica story. Just for fun I took that story and turned it into a gay M/M/M threesome story. Ms. Drake encouraged me to put the result up on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords as an ebook, so I did. I guess I got bitten by the “writing bug,” because I began writing a second book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cowboy Up!</i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5_0NxEUPDyHWlg0FwD2tZBY3TLKjx2hXGehFsC2jMTuouNZxL_rJupnhFWPPTMlSDD-HawQuejJtaBT9zYHyY-3FUI5XUxwr4R_ZsXZ272Z1sb4S1KmbsFTb2cIE6N0KFGivFFfCV_Y/s1600/Destiny+author+photo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><img border="0" height="320" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5_0NxEUPDyHWlg0FwD2tZBY3TLKjx2hXGehFsC2jMTuouNZxL_rJupnhFWPPTMlSDD-HawQuejJtaBT9zYHyY-3FUI5XUxwr4R_ZsXZ272Z1sb4S1KmbsFTb2cIE6N0KFGivFFfCV_Y/s320/Destiny+author+photo.jpg" width="213" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Destiny Drake</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">TG: Tell us more about these two, especially about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cowboy Up!</i></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">NN: The first book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Threesome at the Gym</i>,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>is a sexy, fun, and exciting erotica story. A peeping Tom in a gym spies on two gay men having an encounter in the shower room. When he gets caught spying, he’s invited to join in the fun. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">After that book, I wanted to write something with more psychological conflict, and something where the readers could get to know the main character a little better. I wanted to write in the romance genre. So I created <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cowboy Up!</i>, a gay erotic romance, in which Clinton, the main character, is going through a bad time in his life, and his problems are resolved in the course of the book. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZatC22HZxYFakDFV_In62kFXvBv_JvQQVZhlSeqe5Hr3-sNXQ6xh319nXQntRqw07gtbQf0imOuQdafuVogDhRcPnmFsDvaAnBOu-9jIsnjO9exz-esNHpqOzxKZxDyD2ZECc45hAPU/s1600/Gym+Navarre+%25282%2529FINAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><img border="0" height="320" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1ZatC22HZxYFakDFV_In62kFXvBv_JvQQVZhlSeqe5Hr3-sNXQ6xh319nXQntRqw07gtbQf0imOuQdafuVogDhRcPnmFsDvaAnBOu-9jIsnjO9exz-esNHpqOzxKZxDyD2ZECc45hAPU/s320/Gym+Navarre+%25282%2529FINAL.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">TG: Tell us more about the plot of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cowboy Up!</i>.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">NN: Clinton is a gay man from Boston who’s in a terrible partnership with a cheating lover named Steve. To help heal their relationship, they go off to spend a few days together at a dude ranch in Wyoming. Ironically, instead of working on improving his affair with Clinton, Steve immediately hooks up with another guest. So Clinton is sitting around feeling depressed, but then he meets Travis, a cowboy ranch hand who helps him regain his self-respect. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">TG: What inspired you to write this book?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br />
<span style="color: #f3f3f3;">NN: I think cowboys are incredibly sexy. And I think there’s been an interest in gay cowboy romances ever since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Brokeback Mountain. </i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7ypom3Ll_z4qdzzjutwvh7c2QwMVNiodSeA7JQDeP3eMDBscHm9rPxjlLYNSZNc6VwK8WuU7Y06ZpWXTJcexYzyruD4sr4WeL3nITkT6IvBcqABJ3jNcLS2dM-xnNDHFUOJEMlPoZCA/s1600/Cowboy+Up+Cover+FINAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><img border="0" height="320" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv7ypom3Ll_z4qdzzjutwvh7c2QwMVNiodSeA7JQDeP3eMDBscHm9rPxjlLYNSZNc6VwK8WuU7Y06ZpWXTJcexYzyruD4sr4WeL3nITkT6IvBcqABJ3jNcLS2dM-xnNDHFUOJEMlPoZCA/s320/Cowboy+Up+Cover+FINAL.jpg" width="216" /></span></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">TG: What are you working on now?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">NN: I’m working on another gay cowboy romance! It takes place in Nevada. One character is a rodeo rider, and the other one is a gay man from the Midwest who’s completely outside the “cowboy world.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">TG: Romance continues to be a hot genre. Lots of agents are eager to represent romance writers, and several highly successful publishers specialize in this type of book. So why did you go the self-publishing route?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">NN: As far as I was concerned, there was no other route! I mean, why even bother with agents and editors? I don’t know why any new writer would want to go through that. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">I’ve never submitted anything to an agent or a publisher, but I know how that system works. You send some agents a preliminary email about your book. And then you wait forever for the agents to respond. Next, assuming someone wants to look at the book—and usually no one does—you send the manuscript. And again you wait forever hoping for acceptance. But more often than not you’ll be rejected. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">If the agent does accept you as a client, you wait again until the twelfth of never as the agent sends the manuscript around trying to land a publisher. And maybe it’ll never find a publisher! But if it does, you grow old as you wait months and months for the publishing company to edit your book, and then to print the book, and then to get it into the stores. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">The whole process can take years, and I wasn’t willing to wait that long. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPXE1V3YF4xkGJH5aMsWcjQ5PVY-GaMc44VHfeZApcnW6ldZGpZ3IppcOtmwxLOF41fPlnAHIALkvgycifYA3ySSzk7Qf47_yl65qFMi1W4Z6xTW1PHfo2xH5RUPOszcpoeTC2lbT0J_8/s1600/waiting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;"><img border="0" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPXE1V3YF4xkGJH5aMsWcjQ5PVY-GaMc44VHfeZApcnW6ldZGpZ3IppcOtmwxLOF41fPlnAHIALkvgycifYA3ySSzk7Qf47_yl65qFMi1W4Z6xTW1PHfo2xH5RUPOszcpoeTC2lbT0J_8/s1600/waiting.jpg" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Author Waiting to Hear Back from an Agent</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Plus, at the store the book will go straight to the bottom shelf and get no publicity because you’re an unknown author. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">These days a new and unknown writer is expected to have a “platform,” a base of readers who will buy the book, and is expected to do his or her own promotion, and pay for it all. Publishers have little or no money for publicity for new writers. So why even bother with them?!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Also, ebooks are now outselling print books, so why bother with print books? You don’t need an agent and a publisher to get an ebook into the marketplace. So I decided to “take the bull by the horns” to use a cowboy metaphor [laughs], and self-publish my work in ebook form.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">TG: And your readers are glad you did. That’s all the time we have for this interview, Nick. Any final words? </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">NN: Thank you for interviewing me. And I hope all GLBT people around the world will forever be proud and happy! </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX6w-odRvXZqBaNAPMRbOdofqCNahIbIlMakT7XvkLTvaFm_guob1SSZW9ABej0_1RZhnaWWNyQ5X5Htu9JbiaJx4alAHNhipoRHQT-dVavKVb_iJsNEpe5NEuGvR6ZsUuMiMGd4Iuiw4/s1600/rainbow-pride-stars-hearts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" qaa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX6w-odRvXZqBaNAPMRbOdofqCNahIbIlMakT7XvkLTvaFm_guob1SSZW9ABej0_1RZhnaWWNyQ5X5Htu9JbiaJx4alAHNhipoRHQT-dVavKVb_iJsNEpe5NEuGvR6ZsUuMiMGd4Iuiw4/s320/rainbow-pride-stars-hearts.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em><span style="color: #f3f3f3;">Readers can buy Nick Navarre’s books on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords. </span></em></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-52231000730770639422011-08-15T00:07:00.000-07:002014-07-11T11:21:00.789-07:00Three Reasons Why I Don't Believe in Sharing My NumbersThere seems to be a trend for self-published writers to share their sales figures in blogs. <br />
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I don't care what other writers do, but for myself, I don't want to share my numbers, and here's why.<br />
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First, I value my privacy. I don't tell people on the Internet where I live, I don't give out my phone number to strangers, and I don't leave the curtains open when I get undressed. <br />
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Second, I want the interest to be focused on my books, and not on how many copies my books sell. I'd rather have people say, "That character is really compelling" than "I can't believe she sold (or only sold) x copies last month."<br />
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Third, I see only limited benefits in sharing sales figures. Yes, if my books are selling really well, this fact might inspire others. However, I think it's equally possible that if my books are selling well, this fact might discourage others whose books are not selling as well. Different people react differently to others' success. Some applaud it and some are encouraged by it; but some are depressed by it, some disdain it, and some feel a need to disparage it. In my experience, people in general--especially on the Internet--are more likely to deride someone else's success than to offer congratulations. On the other hand, if my books are selling poorly, this fact might discourage other indie writers. And it might cause potential readers to be dismissive: "If the books are so good, why aren't they selling?"<br />
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Again, I can't--and don't want to--tell other writers what to do. But for myself, I don't believe in sharing my numbers.<br />
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Of course, that might change when I've sold a million books!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3069892962182358929.post-72637878689828258352011-08-10T16:02:00.000-07:002014-07-11T11:52:36.887-07:00Smashwords Premium StatusHaving written extensively in my last post about formatting a book properly so as to achieve Smashwords' "premium status," I wanted to add some information.<br />
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"Premium status" on Smashwords means that besides being for sale at <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/">http://www.smashwords.com/</a>, a book will be listed in the Smashwords Premium Catalog. Acceptance into this catalog means Smashwords distributes the book to major online retailers such as <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/about/how_to_publish_ipad_ebooks"><span style="color: #336699;">Apple</span></a>, <a href="http://ebookstore.sony.com/"><span style="color: #336699;">Sony</span></a>, and <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/press/release/22"><span style="color: #336699;">Diesel eBook Store</span></a> (Smashwords also used to distribute to Borders and the Borders' ereader company, Kobo). These retailers require that the book conform to requirements, such as a quality cover image, a copyright notice at the beginning of the book, and an ISBN (which you can get free from Smashwords). <br />
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I've been helping a few other writers, notable Destiny Drake, format their books for Smashwords. Destiny's books have all achieved premium status. However, Destiny says that although 16% of her total sales are coming from Smashwords, not a single sale has come from outside <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/">http://www.smashwords.com/</a>. In other words, no sales from <a href="http://www.smashwords.com/about/how_to_publish_ipad_ebooks"><span style="color: #336699;">Apple</span></a>, <a href="http://ebookstore.sony.com/"><span style="color: #336699;">Sony</span></a>, <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/press/release/22"><span style="color: #336699;">Diesel eBook Store</span></a>, etc.<br />
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To me this says, "Don't waste your time trying to conform to the rigorous formatting requirements of the Smashwords Premium Catalog." And especially, don't waste your money paying someone else to do the formatting, unless you're just a perfectionist, and unless you're rich, and unless you're confident you will sell to the "major online retailers."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3