tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27724253036743187812024-02-20T21:54:19.511-08:00The Croixside GazetteThoughts on writing, indie publishing,and the world at large from Fred Limberg, author of FERRIS' BLUFF.Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-52254912820496994892011-11-09T07:08:00.000-08:002011-11-09T07:08:01.744-08:00The Storm Glass is out!The Storm Glass is now available through Amazon, B&N, and on Smashwords!<br />
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I'm very curious how this book will be received. It straddles the crime/thriller and sci-fi genres with an action packed story about a regular sort of guy, Wilson, who has a ring that makes him invisible and allows him to fly around a bit.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEId7ZTQmqp_G6hyphenhyphenzfVJc6FMqYRWf0pVjpQLjWd11cPsGQpue_gjMuIy6XvI_YphU19Mxkj3ywRsNDisEqwnojqSD04qH-z-xyVtNwUSvV98sP3KUsBPKH8hHRVLzWH64vELY_tfxkYC0q/s1600/Storm_Glass_front2_copy.2.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/AVvXsEiEId7ZTQmqp_G6hyphenhyphenzfVJc6FMqYRWf0pVjpQLjWd11cPsGQpue_gjMuIy6XvI_YphU19Mxkj3ywRsNDisEqwnojqSD04qH-z-xyVtNwUSvV98sP3KUsBPKH8hHRVLzWH64vELY_tfxkYC0q/s320/Storm_Glass_front2_copy.2.jpg" width="212" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Jim Wilson, a fiftyish ‘regular’ guy, is anything but. For a decade he has used an extraordinary antique ring, a trinket found in an antique store, to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feed the kitty</i>, as he likes to put it<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>Using the invisibility and ability to levitate that the ring magically allows…Wilson is, arguably, the world’s greatest sneak thief; a phantom with a sense of humor and a taste for dopers’ dollars.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">On a well-deserved vacation, a cruise the length of the Mississippi on his boat, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thief of</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hearts</i>, Jim and Iris encounter a sprightly retired admiral, Hans, and his charming wife, Millie, who are heading downstream to their home in Hannibal, Missouri.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">None of them are aware of the convoluted plot to utterly destroy a local bank, a crime involving millions of dollars and cold blooded murder. None of them suspect the portly local banker of the depravity and homicide he’s capable of, aided by a hardened thief and killer just out of prison and lusting for the biggest score of his life.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">No, Jim’s biggest worries are that Iris wants him to retire from the business and he fears that Hans, who is actually ex-CIA, may know more about the ring than Jim likes.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">But after heart-rending tragedy befalls during the robbery, Jim and Hans mount their own investigation heedless of the threats by the inept local Sheriff and the confused FBI agent in charge of the case.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">They don’t have to follow the rules and they aren’t trying to put the bad guys in jail…they’re after payback…call it justice or retribution—or the cold-blooded quest for revenge that it actually is. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">They’re bringing the bad guys down and they’re not afraid to use Jim’s ring to make that happen.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
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Get it here:<br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-Storm-Glass-ebook/dp/B00641GGPM/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1320683629&sr=1-5">http://www.amazon.com/The-Storm-Glass-ebook/dp/B00641GGPM/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1320683629&sr=1-5</a>Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-6816776928027891502011-10-11T12:39:00.000-07:002011-10-11T12:39:42.109-07:00The hits just keep on comin'<div style="margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><span style="margin-right: 5px;"><span class="swSprite s_star_5_0 " title="5.0 out of 5 stars"><span>This appeared on my amazon page recently. Thanks, K. Sozaeva, whoever you are!</span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><span style="margin-right: 5px;"><span class="swSprite s_star_5_0 " title="5.0 out of 5 stars"><span></span></span></span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><span style="margin-right: 5px;"><span class="swSprite s_star_5_0 " title="5.0 out of 5 stars"><span>5.0 out of 5 stars</span></span> </span><span style="vertical-align: middle;"><b>This book is a must read for fans of thriller/suspense, or those who like good character and plot development</b>, <nobr>October 11, 2011</nobr></span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><div><div style="float: left;">By </div><div style="float: left;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A3LF914GG87TWP/ref=cm_cr_pr_pdp"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #004b91;">K. Sozaeva "Obsessive bibliophile"</span></span></a> (Athens, GA USA) - <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/cdp/member-reviews/A3LF914GG87TWP/ref=cm_cr_pr_auth_rev?ie=UTF8&sort_by=MostRecentReview"><span style="color: #004b91;">See all my reviews</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/help/customer/display.html/ref=cm_rn_bdg_help?ie=UTF8&nodeId=14279681&pop-up=1#VN" target="AmazonHelp"><span class="cmtySprite s_BadgeVineVoice "><span>(VINE VOICE)</span></span></a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/help/customer/display.html/ref=cm_rn_bdg_help?ie=UTF8&nodeId=14279681&pop-up=1#RN" target="AmazonHelp"><span class="cmtySprite s_BadgeRealName "><span>(REAL NAME)</span></span></a> </div></div><div style="clear: both;"></div></div><div class="tiny" style="margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><b><span class="h3color tiny"><span style="color: #e47911;">This review is from: </span></span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ferris-Bluff-ebook/dp/B0058U7X4I/ref=cm_cr_pr_orig_subj"><span style="color: #004b91;">Ferris' Bluff (Kindle Edition)</span></a></b> </div>Ace has been on the run for around 4 years - ever since the Russian mafia killed his wife, his sons, his daughter and her husband, and his father in revenge for something he did while he was working for the government. He has decided to come and visit Granville "Granny" Tubbs, a man who was a friend of Ace's father, and whom Ace has known his whole life. Coming in to Ferris' Bluff, AR, Ace discovers Granny is in a critical care ward in a nursing home after a series of strokes - when Ace comes to visit, he finds out there are restrictions on who can see Granny when. Ace notices other odd things going on in town. However, he likes the town and is immediately accepted into the community; he even earns some money, because he is able to fix almost anything - which gets him in some trouble with Pink Henery, the local mechanic, who doesn't appreciate Ace horning in on his business. Then there is Annie Travers, the widowed woman from whom Ace rents a room, and her two children - Ace finds himself becoming fond of them, and of many of the people in this quirky little town with whom he is quickly becoming friends. But can he escape the men who may be continuing to search for him?<br />
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I've probably rambled on too long about the plot, but I've tried to avoid any major spoilers. I wanted to try to show something about the story - about the heart, about the action, about how it kept me engrossed and engaged not only with the main plot, but with the many interesting and unique characters with which Limberg has populated this terrific thriller. Even folks who normally aren't fans of suspense/thrillers should enjoy this book - it has plenty of action and a fast-moving plot, but it also provides wonderful character development and a strong plot. I highly recommend that you get this book and read this book - it's a terrific read.Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-31042863523868338922011-10-06T15:19:00.000-07:002011-10-06T15:19:13.236-07:00The BookSquawk review for Ferris' Bluff.<div class="post hentry uncustomized-post-template"><a href="" name="5003609596816948468"></a><h3 class="post-title entry-title"><a href="http://www.booksquawk.com/2011/10/ferris-bluff.html">FERRIS’ BLUFF</a> </h3><div class="post-header"><div class="post-header-line-1"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-5003609596816948468"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">by Fred Limberg</span><br />
Kindle Edition<br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";"></span><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">Review by Hereward L.M. Proops </span><br />
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<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">It can't be easy to write a thriller these days. The market is literally awash with action packed paperbacks with punchy three word titles like “The Crimson Mandate” or “The Octagon Vendetta”. The formula for thrillers is now so well-established that it's verging on self-parody. Misanthropic / amnesiac / alcoholic ex-cop / soldier / hitman / academic is recruited / coerced / blackmailed by enigmatic / shady businessman / mentor / former-employer to solve a murder / rescue a hostage / capture a terrorist / recover an artifact of unimaginable power. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">Our hero is normally given a monosyllabic first name and a surname that drops some none-too-subtle hints about his personality and occupation e.g. Carl Hunter or Jack Grimwind. Chances are, during the course of his adventure he'll be double-crossed, uncover a huge government conspiracy and knock socks with a female character whose tenuous link to the plot is as loose as her knicker elastic. The bad-guys get killed, the hero barely escapes with his life and the stage is set for his return in “The Velvet Calamity”.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">You know the books I mean. The supermarkets sell them at knock-down prices and the shelves of charity shops groan beneath their collective weight. Chances are, you've read more than one of them but would be hard-pressed to recall any of the finer plot details. They are the literary equivalent of a hamburger. You know what you're getting when you buy it. Even though it's not of particularly high quality, it manages to be strangely enjoyable while it lasts and instantly forgettable once you've finished with it.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">It might seem like I'm being unduly harsh towards these books – I'm not trying to run them down. I have nothing but respect for the authors who tackle the clichéd and formulaic genre head on. Who cares if the old “nuke in Washington DC” story has been told a dozen times before? If the story works and the readers enjoy themselves, it's mission accomplished as far as I'm concerned. Have you ever looked at a cheeseburger and thought “I'm not going to eat that because I've had one before and I know what it tastes like?” Of course not!</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">Having said all that, it is very exciting to come across a thriller that dares to be a little bit different. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">At first glance, “Ferris' Bluff” by Fred Limberg bears many of the hallmarks of a by-the-numbers thriller. The protagonist, Andy “Ace” Evans is a drifter with a past. He's so scarred by it, both physically and emotionally, that he doesn't allow people to get close to him. Being an ex-Navy SEAL also means that he's totally badass. Though Ace tries to keep a lid on it, his past has a habit of catching up with him. One aspect of his past that he's particularly concerned about is a group of Russian gangsters who killed his family and came close to killing him. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">So far, so familiar...</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">Where “Ferris' Bluff” differs from other thrillers is that it grounds what has the potential to be a balls-to-the-wall high-octane blockbuster by setting it in a totally believable small town. This isn't a typical fish-out-of-water scenario where our muscle-bound hero trashes the local community as he clumsily tries to adjust to civilian life. Far from it. Ace is not a cardboard cut-out action man, he's a regular guy who likes tinkering with cars and swigging beers with the boys. As far as he's concerned, his fighting days are over. Indeed, his desire to settle down and lead a regular, normal existence is one of his most endearing qualities. Sure, other thrillers have characters who we are told want to leave their past behind them, but Limberg takes a great deal of care to show his readers this. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">Much like the titular small town, the novel moves at an unhurried, almost sedate pace. A lot of time is spent establishing the characters and developing their relationships so that when the action is introduced into the story, we actually give a damn about those involved. Without wanting to give too much of the plot away, the novel centres around Ace's friendship with an old man by the name of Granville Tubbs. Ace is only in town to pay his old friend a visit but when he discovers that Tubbs is seriously ill and holed up in the Shady Oaks nursing home, he decides to stick around and see if he can help in some way. An encounter with a particularly slimy lawyer (always a great villain) leads Ace to suspect that vultures are beginning to circle before his friend has even passed on. His involvement with a beautiful widow gets the townsfolks' tongues wagging and before too long, Ace is up to his neck in intrigue. All the while, the Russian gangsters are drawing closer, endangering the lives of everyone he has grown to care about. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">Characterisation in the novel is plentiful. Limberg has obviously invested a great deal of energy in recreating the laid back lifestyle found in small town America. Sure, there's a few beer-swillin', tobacco-chewin' good ol' boys, but the majority of the inhabitants of Ferris' Bluff are so well realised that they never feel contrived or one-dimensional. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">The novel's relatively gentle pace might stretch the patience of readers more accustomed to the boom-bang-bang thrills of Andy McNab or Clive Cussler, but those who stick with it will find themselves rewarded with some fantastic scenes of action. As an ex-Navy SEAL, Ace's approach to combat is swift and unflinchingly brutal. Limberg's prose when describing fist-fights or gun battles is similarly uncomplicated, direct and effective. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">“<span id="goog_585458129"></span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/"><span style="color: #0066cc;">Ferris' Bluff<span id="goog_585458130"></span></span></a>” is an accomplished, highly enjoyable thriller that places more emphasis on believable characterisation than on fancy gadgets and things blowing up. With an immensely likeable cast of characters and an entertaining plot, Limberg's novel shows us that thrillers don't have to stick rigidly to the formula to be successful. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">Read the Booksquawk author interview <a href="http://www.booksquawk.com/2011/10/author-interview.html"><span style="color: #32527a;">here</span></a>.</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif";">Hereward L.M. Proops </span></div><div style="clear: both;"></div></div><div class="post-footer"><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1"><span class="post-author vcard">Posted by <span class="fn">Melissa Conway</span> </span><span class="post-timestamp">at <a class="timestamp-link" href="http://www.booksquawk.com/2011/10/ferris-bluff.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link"><abbr class="published" title="2011-10-06T07:55:00-07:00"><span style="color: #32527a;">7:55 AM</span></abbr></a> </span><span class="reaction-buttons"></span><span class="star-ratings"></span><span class="post-comment-link"><a class="comment-link" href="http://www.booksquawk.com/2011/10/ferris-bluff.html#comments"><span style="color: #32527a;">0 comments</span></a> </span><span class="post-backlinks post-comment-link"></span><span class="post-icons"><span class="item-action"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=1110039268234101685&postID=5003609596816948468" title="Email Post"><img alt="" class="icon-action" height="13" src="http://img1.blogblog.com/img/icon18_email.gif" width="18" /><span style="color: #32527a;"> </span></a></span><span class="item-control blog-admin pid-683882300"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=1110039268234101685&postID=5003609596816948468&from=pencil" title="Edit Post"><span style="color: #32527a;"><img alt="" class="icon-action" height="18" src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/icon18_edit_allbkg.gif" width="18" /> </span></a></span></span><div class="post-share-buttons goog-inline-block"><span style="color: #32527a;"></span></div></div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-2"><span class="post-labels">Labels: <a href="http://www.booksquawk.com/search/label/Hereward%20L.%20M.%20Proops" rel="tag"><span style="color: #32527a;">Hereward L. M. Proops</span></a> </span></div><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-3"><span class="post-location"></span></div></div></div>Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-24896939442792871922011-09-15T07:28:00.000-07:002011-09-15T07:28:09.852-07:00The latest review of Ferris' Bluff on Amazon<div style="margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><span style="margin-right: 5px;"><span class="swSprite s_star_5_0 " title="5.0 out of 5 stars"><span>5.0 out of 5 stars</span></span> </span><span style="vertical-align: middle;"><b>Delighted, Delightful, Delicious, un-putdownable</b>, <nobr>September 13, 2011</nobr></span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><div><div style="float: left;">By </div><div style="float: left;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/pdp/profile/A2KWGO13OQR4SB/ref=cm_cr_pr_pdp"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #004b91;">Reb in the West</span></span></a> (Mountain West) - <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/cdp/member-reviews/A2KWGO13OQR4SB/ref=cm_cr_pr_auth_rev?ie=UTF8&sort_by=MostRecentReview"><span style="color: #004b91;">See all my reviews</span></a></div></div><div style="clear: both;"><span style="color: #004b91;"></span></div></div><div class="tiny" style="margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><b><span class="h3color tiny"><span style="color: #e47911;">This review is from: </span></span>Ferris' Bluff (Paperback)</b> </div>I was surprised by how much I enjoyed this book. Wasn't sure I would, because it's not my usual type of read. Not sure what it's labeled as, a thriller, a mystery, or a vignette, but I usually read fantasy and historical stuff, & hardly ever modern-day settings. Nevertheless, I gave it a try and I'm so glad. <br />
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Ferris' Bluff is filled with quirky, likeable characters, each and every one fleshed out so that I felt connected to them. In that way, it sort of reminded me of "Fried Green Tomatoes." There's Drunk Reena and her evil husband Harlan, Pink, (ugh) gap-toothed Dicky, Leets, Granny Tubbs, Chaz, Val, Art Drury, Jeff Davis the ineffective cop, Frenchy and her devoted boyfriend Leon, Just To Name A Few. There's also Imported Michelob and "lots of wheelchairs, all filled with crooked wrinkled white people." And Annie Travers, with the "nearly-perfect" butt and other intriguing qualities. Oh, I nearly forgot Ace. Ace Evans. Tall, dark and handsome. Ace is on the run. We don't know from what, exactly. But finding out left me alternately laughing and profoundly moved. <br />
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Ace is an "ex-Navy Seal." He's alone now, no home, no credit cards, no tracking, and something in his past won't leave him alone. Ferris' Bluff is just what he needs, although he doesn't realize it right off. <br />
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The book offers many wonderful lines, such as "The moonshine cut through the crud on Ace's tongue like a stripper on old paint." And here's one of my favorites: "Sumbitch!" We also get meatloaf sandwiches. Yum! <br />
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"Voice" is something that is always being stressed to writers. This author has "voice" in spades. <br />
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I learned a lot from Ferris' Bluff. One thing I learned? Man, it's hard trying to keep a tail with one car. At 2.99, this book is a steal. I know I'll enjoy reading it repeatedly.Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-54227187209934060652011-09-01T08:21:00.000-07:002011-09-01T08:21:27.017-07:00Stories I'll never write...<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">I kill people for a living.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Sorta’…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Kinda’…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">My name is Fred Limberg and I write thrillers and mysteries. In every book I’ve written to date, with the exception of a foray into the YA genre last year, I’ve been killing off bad guys, the occasional good guy or gal, unlucky bystanders, and innocent victims for six years—give or take.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">I’ve shot ‘em, stabbed ‘em, garotted ‘em, run them over, set them afire, dropped them off cliffs, drowned them, drugged them—you name it—I’ve done it to ‘em.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Yeah, me and Death are old pals. Death is a BFF with pretty much anyone who writes in these genres, and more than an acquaintance with writers in other genres. You can count on Death to add sizzle and mystery to a story. Death will kick start your plot, rev up the action, and get your reader's hearts racing.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Death is the anchor of virtually every whodunit ever written and ever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to</i> be written. As a writer you use Death; you manipulate the circumstances, you glorify and goreify it, you tease with it and toy with it. Yeah, as a writer, you got Death working for you…got it in the palm of your hand. It’s putty. Death is clay. Death is what-if on steroids waiting for a plot twist.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Until it’s a real death…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">This past month I’ve had to confront real death instead of writing about it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">First…my damn dog died. Actually, we had the poor old guy ‘put to sleep’ after a decade and a half of loyal friendship and service. It wasn’t preceded by a car chase, though there had been a few of them over the many years. There was no misadventure, though we enjoyed several episodes involving squirrels and raccoons and timid neighbor kids. He simply grew old.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Not much of a story in that. Nothing thrilling or heroic there. All Charlie did was help us raise two wonderful kids who are now having kids of their own. It was foretold just shy of fifteen years ago when he was born. Life and death. There are no surprise endings when it’s a real death.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">I’ll never be able to write that story.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Then…my damn friend died. I’ve known Chad for thirty years. He was the son of my oldest and best friend. I’ve known him since he was 10 years old, watched him struggle through his teens and twenties trying to figure out what he was supposed to be when he grew up. I took mental notes. It helped me be a better father than I might have been.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">It turns out that what he was supposed to be was a great guy, a loving husband and a doting father, proud to bursting of his two young sons and his family. He was a gentle giant—six foot way-bigger than me, 230 pounds, played with swords and martial arts—who was studying nursing so he could further his career with cutting edge heart-monitoring technology that was saving lives. He grew up to be all that and more.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Diagnosed with cancer in November, he died in August.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">No mystery there—I saw the scans. Cancer is the yellow, orange, and scarlet blood-red of Doppler radar tornadoes. There was no basement to hide in.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Instead of a thriller it was more like a war story— an unrelenting Blitzkreig…the cancer advancing and invading, conquering organs and systems almost at will. And Chad—fighting back with at first conventional treatments and then more experimental and controversial tactics…never had a chance.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">There was no mystery there, and the only suspense was the fervent hope we all had for any sign of remission. There was no gunplay. The experienced swordsman never got to have it out with his formidable foe—fighting and slashing toe to toe with his cowardly enemy. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Chad was murdered by an assassin; the most heartless, ruthless assassin the world has ever known—Code name….Cancer.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">That’s another story I’ll never be able to write.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Will <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> death and the memory of the incredible sadness I have felt recently make a difference in future stories…the mysteries and thrillers yet to come? I don’t think there’s any question that it will, although I have no idea how the sadness and hopelessness and feelings of loss and anger will manifest themselves.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">All I know is…I will NEVER be able to write the dog story or chronicle the valiant young husband’s battle with terminal cancer. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">I can’t see the screen through the tears. </div>Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-13039486014224096262011-07-18T06:57:00.000-07:002011-07-18T15:52:00.577-07:00Woodworking...Wordworking...CraftsmanshipI got into a short conversation the other day about how crafting a story is a lot like woodworking, or for that matter, virtually any artistic pursuit. I'm going to stick with woodworking because I'm familiar with the process...and I'm pretty darn good at it.<br />
<br />
I'm a pretty good writer too.<br />
<br />
The parallels are incredible. When I get the tingle that there's a story to be told...a book to be written...the ideas begin to form, jumbled and raw, scattered about like so many trees felled and awaiting their fate.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9qToYBARaXYqVKxL82CgK6K0p__i9kbtwsUsRh6IlNPSvxcN3urWbyZPSpn2A4sq5X37tpmGe9NTub_Vq38znnBDSyEUZ4XId6LY_grhXjaEbWUp2wLNPRczOXMnbDcFZrt8R_UPdgCEd/s1600/IMG5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9qToYBARaXYqVKxL82CgK6K0p__i9kbtwsUsRh6IlNPSvxcN3urWbyZPSpn2A4sq5X37tpmGe9NTub_Vq38znnBDSyEUZ4XId6LY_grhXjaEbWUp2wLNPRczOXMnbDcFZrt8R_UPdgCEd/s320/IMG5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>And like the jumble of oak or walnut or pine I need to let the raw logs season a bit. I need to sort and organize and select.<br />
<br />
And I need some help. I need someone to bounce ideas off of, often in <em>what-if</em> conversations or <em>I've-</em> <em>been-thinking</em> conversations. I need someone to saw the logs into raw lumber so I can see what might be worth using and what might well become firewood and eventually...ashes.<br />
<br />
Finally the raw lumber is seasoned, the ideas are mature enough to be useful, and the project begins to take shape.<br />
<br />
Being a plotter is, to me, crucial in both wordworking and woodworking. It is very important to have the basics laid out just so or the story will lack structure and integrity, or at the very least will waste my valuable time and energy as it wanders off in useless directions. With woodworking, the boards from the stack must be inspected closely for color and grain as well as size. The craftsman hates to waste valuable stock. There is method to the madness.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5MPylo1JQ3CmYSCFfQGmyiEj4xRSgl57kx2H1DLOFem49acJMat4VZoqmWZUtaFOUcE-RlAH9-eVrXKd6ZOi_vH6cStCIaknzzcU2wDCte64sfYiggyGmPxvGfnVBmrLhclc1KVKvfNqW/s1600/005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5MPylo1JQ3CmYSCFfQGmyiEj4xRSgl57kx2H1DLOFem49acJMat4VZoqmWZUtaFOUcE-RlAH9-eVrXKd6ZOi_vH6cStCIaknzzcU2wDCte64sfYiggyGmPxvGfnVBmrLhclc1KVKvfNqW/s200/005.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>There is no shame in having a plan to begin with. An outline. A schematic. A blueprint.<br />
<br />
There is also no shame in veering from the plan. Perhaps a bit of cherry as an accent might look striking against the dark moodiness of the black walnut. Perhaps the slats of the chair would look good just a bit taller or just a bit thinner than the original plan.<br />
<br />
The rough cuts are made. The writing begins. You'd better have your tools sharp and at hand.<br />
<br />
I do not believe there is any place for liquor in either the woodshop or the wordshop until the day's work is done and the dangerous maiming tools are put away. Nothing can send your story to near irrepairable places than a couple of beers or a toddy.<br />
<br />
Now, standing back and admiring the days cuts...the dadoes, the tenons and mortices, the first sense of the construction...that can call for a contemplative drink or two. Reading over the day's work is much the same. But resist the urge to turn on the tablesaw or the router. Resist the urge to make major changes in the story at this point. The results can be bloody.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL2d5z0lRNvwySH3vUSXX4AwIUKxeHjkHG1awykCTDtsivL8meKPy4sLWwTdXWT3fqF0ZKGJHN_hjmuJibG8YlUjidpwxaHCL0XBIur8bm5BgMQ274j5kVuSNl7rxl9dc_R3mOQ31E0VX2/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL2d5z0lRNvwySH3vUSXX4AwIUKxeHjkHG1awykCTDtsivL8meKPy4sLWwTdXWT3fqF0ZKGJHN_hjmuJibG8YlUjidpwxaHCL0XBIur8bm5BgMQ274j5kVuSNl7rxl9dc_R3mOQ31E0VX2/s200/001.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>The story begins to actually take shape, to make sense, to have a soul and a direction. The project begins to look like something other that bits of wood and flecks of sawdust.<br />
<br />
This can be a very dark time. Decisions made now can affect the rest of the story. A variation from the plan can make make the chair wobbly or lopsided.<br />
<br />
Early mistakes can be caught as well. A mortise cut on the wrong side of the leg can be fixed by recutting a rail and moving the tenon to match the mortise. <br />
<br />
A character flaw can be fixed. Tension can be introduced and heightened. A side arc that isn't working out can be shaved off. This is the stuff of the craft, the very essence of building and writing. It is exciting and gratifying...messy and tedious...and you wouldn't want it any other way!<br />
<br />
There becomes, often, a temptation now to hurry things along at this point. That urge must be supressed in both the woodshop and the workshop, I think. Hurrying makes it much more likely that you will make a mistake, and at this point, with so much time and effort put into the creation, do you really want to chance making a mis-cut? Do you want to cut a board that's been through a half dozen processes so far--seasoning, planing, thicknessing, rough sizing, test fitting--do you really want to cut that board a half inch too short?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIB5oppULxZi___z9KCRS4fZg6Xow5V2569n-Twv4IhWKUkPJ3VyZb6IPCo9qo0ozA2-5rUuwfm-m3-ds-s43PnRCnw9ES6w2Q6tR6zPeTwj2aLzSAACVePR_gesWF-6udQFe8EFpkb4tq/s1600/002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIB5oppULxZi___z9KCRS4fZg6Xow5V2569n-Twv4IhWKUkPJ3VyZb6IPCo9qo0ozA2-5rUuwfm-m3-ds-s43PnRCnw9ES6w2Q6tR6zPeTwj2aLzSAACVePR_gesWF-6udQFe8EFpkb4tq/s200/002.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>When I get the urge to hurry toward the end in my writing I have taught myself to set it aside for a time and remember that this is a novel. I'm not on any sort of deadline. I tell myself to try to turn the urgency and excitement into a sort of dogged determination. I take a break. I find something else to do, like a visit to the shop to make a little sawdust and splatter a little glue.<br />
<br />
When you write, you have to use all of your tools. When you do a lamination, you regret not buying those clamps that were on sale last week or month. When you are crafting a novel, you regret not having a broader vocabulary and knowledge of punctuation. Thank you, internet and spell check and online thesaurus. Thank you.<br />
<br />
<br />
And finally, the thing is finished...sort of. The book is written. The chair is carefully glued together over a period of days. It's a living breathing thing now. You feel a great sense of accomplishment. You feel freaking GREAT!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgn8Xk0gCpUIzrrhEZkjk-NwxLqnZE52nwGLeZP4HhEn9wqJbAmqoGfYsyBV09lWFMfB7I1pQkpkHX16O707cmsr-_9mKAVJOSqjmBHLaCBKbM3qFDhjnzCS7boCuUc6g0LoZlN7XV2kim/s1600/003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgn8Xk0gCpUIzrrhEZkjk-NwxLqnZE52nwGLeZP4HhEn9wqJbAmqoGfYsyBV09lWFMfB7I1pQkpkHX16O707cmsr-_9mKAVJOSqjmBHLaCBKbM3qFDhjnzCS7boCuUc6g0LoZlN7XV2kim/s200/003.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>And then you realize that you are far from finished. You feel lousy, at least for a while. There are still things to do. The chair needs the rockers attached and the seat upholstered. Sure , it's a real live chair and solid as a rock, but it isn't quite done yet.<br />
<br />
The story needs attention too. An awkward chapter needs revising. You discover that one of the characters has been acting out of character for the last 30 pages and needs to be disciplined. Your main character has picked something up and never put it back down again...<br />
<br />
So you begin to edit. Slowly...carefully...thoroughly...you begin to edit. You attach the rockers to the chair. You hand sand the rails and slats with finer and finer abrasive until the wood is as smooth as a baby's butt.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHkM5f1yOmNy2Ww4shRm4diO2c7K-O8RcYou1KcEmC_Zc5H7-ZBv2ER1P4RhkJLuDSUIVgk6XakjxIr3Gjf_tca5qOM2GvDodsr8Qi5AmkTE40Mm8FJB7Yjq6c3wjekID-yWfl4Bpo1sa/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHkM5f1yOmNy2Ww4shRm4diO2c7K-O8RcYou1KcEmC_Zc5H7-ZBv2ER1P4RhkJLuDSUIVgk6XakjxIr3Gjf_tca5qOM2GvDodsr8Qi5AmkTE40Mm8FJB7Yjq6c3wjekID-yWfl4Bpo1sa/s200/001.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>Now you're done. Now the chair can be sat in. The book can be read. The chair rocks. You think the book rocks too, but sadly, you don't count, now. <br />
<br />
It's time for the book to be read. I hope you have a group of readers that will review your book and give you an honest critique. It's almost as important as the craftsman having a sharp chisel and a well tuned saw. You might have to go so far as to pay someone to do that...an editor. There's no shame in it, and if you can afford it, I would recommend doing just that.<br />
<br />
Another observation I've made is that when you are doing those very last final copy edits...do not get sucked into the story! It's so easy to do, but do not get sucked into the story. Find and kill the bad commas. Make the parentheses behave. But do NOT get sucked into the book.<br />
<br />
Finally! The end! Time for the rocking chair to go to its new home...the first grandchild's bedroom. You hope the hours spent crafting the chair will bring comfort and joy to the rock-er and the rock-ee. You hope it will bring nothing but sweet dreams and comfort..<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbekHdhg2WZ1AabbB1hPPU079XKjXbIeSVNU82PYyZELJH40bbldCDCNVohA9AR2cKIcuyHh6drU3aSsZZ5ydsEye_qwD057DPCLVFfLYEoEHrrR2kQfafPhb7vjhkQHtC7x5lzkQ7CDH6/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbekHdhg2WZ1AabbB1hPPU079XKjXbIeSVNU82PYyZELJH40bbldCDCNVohA9AR2cKIcuyHh6drU3aSsZZ5ydsEye_qwD057DPCLVFfLYEoEHrrR2kQfafPhb7vjhkQHtC7x5lzkQ7CDH6/s320/004.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
And finally the book is done. It's time for it to go to new homes, to be read and enjoyed by all. It occurs to you that if it makes people laugh, you too are pleased. If it makes them think, you are proud. If it makes them cry, even just a little bit...you are humbled.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQjnYcsejNadiCYHdqSqzqOH7XDUjl8rxdyKq1UT0OiDmWylR6JTG2E7xfq4h_yMHKE5VM6Lt0gahdx7HY7Pax6nuQYvi9Leordv30uc4_fN296Uoa34llMLO0HJCl5U9ak1WtsxM8KPl6/s1600/Ferris_Bluff_Final_w_copy_v19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQjnYcsejNadiCYHdqSqzqOH7XDUjl8rxdyKq1UT0OiDmWylR6JTG2E7xfq4h_yMHKE5VM6Lt0gahdx7HY7Pax6nuQYvi9Leordv30uc4_fN296Uoa34llMLO0HJCl5U9ak1WtsxM8KPl6/s320/Ferris_Bluff_Final_w_copy_v19.jpg" width="230" /></a></div><br />
I can think of no finer compliment to recieve than to be considered a craftsman, whether you are talking about my woodworking skills...or my word-working skills.<br />
<br />
Thank you, most humbly, for your kind words these past few weeks.<br />
<br />
Fred Limberg<br />
<br />
Please click on the link below. It will take you to the Ferris' Bluff page on Amazon.com. You can read the reviews and buy the e-book. Thanks again, Fred<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0in 0in 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Ferris-Bluff-ebook/dp/B0058U7X4I/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1309527424&sr=1-1">http://www.amazon.com/Ferris-Bluff-ebook/dp/B0058U7X4I/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1309527424&sr=1-1</a><span class="MsoHyperlink"></span></div></div>Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-77310823992629171972011-07-11T13:25:00.000-07:002011-07-11T13:25:44.748-07:00The all-important Back Cover!<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">While Evan is slaving away on the graphic for the back cover of <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ferris’ Bluff</b> for the actual book, it’s becoming critical that I decide on what to have printed there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, it would be easy to work up a witty blurb enticing readers to check the book out, but what I really need are some quotes—you know—some of those witty snippets you see on all the popular books.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">But since I don’t know any of those famous people or have much of a track record, I guess I’ll just have to make some up. Hell, most of them sound made up anyway.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ferris’ Bluff</b>—a better thriller than<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I</i></b> ever wrote”— Michael Connerly—bestselling author</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ferris’ Bluff</b> is a damn fine thriller, even if it isn’t set in Florida and doesn’t have a single fish in it”—Randy Wayne Whight—author of lots of books</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“I could pronounce every name in that book! Good job, Mr. Limberg, and welcome to the club”—John Lescroart, award winning author</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ferris’ Bluff</b>, a thriller that will keep you on the edge of your seat, unless you’re reading in bed. Then, not so much” Woodly Allen, author, filmmaker and clarinetist</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“I really liked Fer…Fersh…Fairest…$#!t. I really liked Fershist Buff…Ferliss…Fersh…f^#&! Read Fershish Bu…Blush…$#!T!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What the bleedin’ f*%k! <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">SHARON</b>???”—Ozzy Ozbourne— Rock God</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“At first I thought the f&%#er had ripped off my main character, the capable loner with a sense of duty, but no…he invented his own, and it’s a damn good one”—Lee Childs—thriller writer extraordinaire</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Great story, great characters, villainous villains, and even a neat romantic arc, but dude…you definitely need more guns in a story like this. Granted the Hi-Power and the PSG-1 are both really cool guns, but you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> more guns”—Steven Hunter, bestselling author and respected movie critic</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Ferris’ Bluff is the kind of book that you can’t put down, like a lot of mine are” John Stanford—bestselling author</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Stunningly brilliant! Brilliantly Stunning! A tour de force! Riveting! Smashing! A debut worthy of Broadway and the red carpet! Absolutely Smashingly Brilliant and Stunning!”—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Book Blurb</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Generator</i>—used by dozens of real authors who haven’t got time to actually read the frigging book</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“If you buy one book this summer, buy mine—but if you buy two, buy <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ferris’ Bluff</b> after you’ve bought mine”—Tom Glancy, the king of techno-thrillers and really long novels</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">“Layered well thought-out plot, characters that come to life as soon as you meet them, and an ending that leaves your ears ringing…<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Ferris’ Bluff</b> has it all” Diane Grobenstein (one of James Paterson’s hundreds of co-authors and soon to be on the best seller lists)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Hope you got a chuckle out of this. I did. That’s kind of sad and telling isn’t it…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">Please feel free to add your own back cover blurbs in the comments section—I mean, c’mon, a guy can’t have too many brilliantly smashing reviews, can he?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><br />
</div>Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-10113147580537633462011-07-11T11:38:00.000-07:002011-07-11T11:38:05.150-07:00From my pal, Lilian<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt -0.75pt; mso-list: l0 level2 lfo1; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; tab-stops: list 1.0in; text-indent: -0.25in; vertical-align: top;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-size: 8.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Courier New";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">o<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Tahoma", "sans-serif"; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">If you’re a fan of thrillers, adventures and chases and stuff,<br />
Then do yourself a favour – invest in “Ferris’ Bluff”.<br />
Once you’ve started reading, you’ll be rooted to the spot<br />
As the action just keeps going and the pursuit is getting hot.<br />
There’s even a little sweetener for those who like romance<br />
But I won’t give it all away –buy the book and take a chance.<br />
<br />
<br />
“Ferris’ Bluff” by Fred Limberg, as recommended by Lilian (Verse_Artiste) Kendrick</span></span></span></div>Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-36009631997812460212011-07-10T07:34:00.000-07:002011-07-10T07:34:46.939-07:00Yesterday...no, not the Beatles song<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfaA_zs7Z-8R6K9foPPoWmcs_evcuwmwYiw8MS7MpyA2Gy6FOhQFc9Hve4r5HeAzgsbbe3rqeMIWyhITTmbU_yZQMJ9k7L6OwvZEtOMO94hjJ4vDcO-p3lJujeyY9BkXqSyIIwHv0V-X9/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfaA_zs7Z-8R6K9foPPoWmcs_evcuwmwYiw8MS7MpyA2Gy6FOhQFc9Hve4r5HeAzgsbbe3rqeMIWyhITTmbU_yZQMJ9k7L6OwvZEtOMO94hjJ4vDcO-p3lJujeyY9BkXqSyIIwHv0V-X9/s320/001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Yesterday I was just hanging out on my boat in the marina, sipping an icy Negra Modelo (or 2) and listening to a ballgame on the radio.<br />
<br />
Bliss.<br />
<br />
I felt like I was taking a break from work, believe it or not. If you've got an e-book recently published online you know what I'm talking about. Hours of bouncing from link to link, forum to forum, trying to get a handle on just where the readers are lurking so you can give them an e-pitch...<br />
<br />
It's kind of fun and interesting, for sure...but draining. And you never know if it's working. Short term, a couple of sales overnight feels like a victory, though maybe a small one given the hours you were clicking away. <br />
<br />
Long term? Who the hell knows.<br />
<br />
Back in the day, when I was starting up the plumbing company, I was the master of what was called <br />
Guerilla Marketing--you know...non-traditional ways to advertise. What are the non-traditional ways to promote on the internets? For cryin' out loud, what are the <em>traditional</em> ways to advertise?<br />
<br />
Also back in the day, the <u>best</u> advertising was 'word-of-mouth'. I have no doubt the same is true here in The Matrix...no doubt at all. I just need some mouths, I guess, which brings the conundrum full circle.<br />
<br />
But it beats waiting for a rejection letter or e-mail for a book you KNOW kicks ass by a mile...and gives you a perfectly good reason to open another icy beer...Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-21926723558287450702011-07-09T06:32:00.000-07:002011-07-09T06:35:35.660-07:00The "VALUE" of your workI got into a discussion yesterday about pricing and the value (or lack of it) of a book. It got me thinking about all sorts of things, business related and ego related.<br />
<br />
When a new product is launched the maker has to entice and encourage others to try it, and thus choose that product over another that might be similar. Let's use crackers as an example, because as we all know, most writers are a little bit crackers.<br />
<br />
There are lots of different crackers already on the market. Some are salty, some cheezy, some good for you, some wholesome, some not so wholesome. Your new cracker is similar to the others of it's kind, comes in a similar sized well-designed package, and should have a similar shelf price to the Ritzy ones and the Elvin ones. Eventually, you'll get that price because you've produced a really good cracker but when it's introduced you need to nudge the buyer into choosing your new cracker over an established brand.<br />
<br />
You could offer a money back guarantee, but in truth...that's implied and available with every sale, anyway.<br />
<br />
You could pack 20% more crackers in the box for the same price, and with crackers, that is a good incentive.<br />
<br />
Or you could have a sale. You price your new crackers at 20 or 30 or even 50% less than the other crackers on the shelf. People notice! They say,"what the heck, I'm gonna give these a try!" and they buy a box.<br />
<br />
You don't make any money on that sale (not with crackers, anyway) but lo and behold--the customer liked your crackers! They served them at a party! They mentioned them to a person or two or three.<br />
<br />
Suddenly you get a call from the market that they are out of your crackers and they want to order more!<br />
<br />
And this new batch is priced at or near(er) the price point of the Ritzys and the Elfies!<br />
<br />
The VALUE of the product didn't change, merely the cost. So it is , I think with e-books. <br />
<br />
I see nothing wrong with pricing <strong>Ferris' Bluff</strong> at 99 cents, other than the fact that my ego takes a hit with every sale! It's not going to be that price forever, and as it gains an audience and continued 5 star reviews, a price of $2.99 or whatever the market will<u> both bear and allow</u> (think about that one!) is not out of the question.<br />
<br />
Oh, I forgot to mention that when the crackers went on sale the Ritzy's and the Elfies were a little pissed off cause, see, that strategy cost them some sales in the short term...<em>and</em> if the quality of MY crackers remains high, it will cost them market share in the long run.<br />
<br />
Hey, that's business.<br />
<br />
Enjoy reading <strong>Ferris' Bluff</strong> at a bargain price. Choose to spend your precious reading time with MY book, not somebody else's. <br />
<br />
Just don't read it in bed...the crumbs, you know....<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0058U7X4I" target="_blank"><span style="color: blue;">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B0058U7X4I</span></a></div></div>Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-17440543034344116612011-07-07T14:24:00.000-07:002011-07-07T14:24:17.700-07:00From Amazon.com/UK<div style="margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><span style="margin-right: 5px;"><span class="swSprite s_star_5_0 " title="5.0 out of 5 stars"><span>5.0 out of 5 stars</span></span> </span><span style="vertical-align: middle;"><b>This is so good.</b>, <nobr>6 July 2011</nobr></span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><div><div style="float: left;">By </div><div style="float: left;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/pdp/profile/A1Q3OLOJZFFDZV/ref=cm_cr_pr_pdp"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #004b91;">I bite</span></span></a> - <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/cdp/member-reviews/A1Q3OLOJZFFDZV/ref=cm_cr_pr_auth_rev?ie=UTF8&sort_by=MostRecentReview"><span style="color: #004b91;">See all my reviews</span></a></div></div><div style="clear: both;"><span style="color: #004b91;"></span></div></div><div class="tiny" style="margin-bottom: 0.5em;"><b><span class="h3color tiny"><span style="color: #e47911;">This review is from: </span></span>Ferris' Bluff (Kindle Edition)</b> </div>My first taste of a Kindle book and, wow, this one blew me away. Fred Limberg puts together a story as carefully as a brain surgeon, wielding words like a laser scapel, sharp, insightful and pin-point accurate. The prose is a joy to read and the plot builds like the layers of a well-constructed pyramid. And don't think the apostrophe in the title is misplaced; it's not, as becomes apparent as the story unfolds. It's a variation of the stranger-comes-to-town genre. Ace soon falls foul of the town's 'Boss-hog' and soon uncovers enough hidden chicanery, murder and greed to satisfy the most ardent thrill-seeker. Ace puts himself on the line bringing his past to town with a final satisfying scene where good whups evil. <br />
Great characters in Ace, Annie and Leets, great action throughout, keeping the reader glued to the screen. Love and tenderness has a place too with two wounded souls finding each other in the mayhem of a small town in Arkansas. At the price, you get much more of a bang for less than a buck. Buy it, read it, love it.Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-27753781648363911232011-07-07T08:35:00.000-07:002011-07-07T08:35:54.428-07:00Wouldn't it be nice...Wouldn't it be nice if there was a place on the big honking internet where a person who likes to read thrillers could log on and see what's new and tempting?<br />
<br />
Just, you know...thrillers.<br />
<br />
Oh, wait, there are about a thousand of them...damn it! And that's not counting the 800 pound gorilla that is Amazon, the 600 pound orangutang that is B&N, and the pesky chimp that is Smashwords!<br />
<br />
With <strong>Ferris' Bluff</strong> out there now my thoughts are turning to promotion and trying to think of ways to get people to notice the book and maybe buy it. I'm not close to worrying. Panic isn't even on the radar, but a guy has to wonder.<br />
<br />
Oh, I'm sure there are any number of people who, for a reasonable fee, will tell me everything they think I need to know about promoting my book on the internets. I'd even consider hiring one if they would agree to take their fee on a per-book-sold basis. I don't think that's gonna happen. <br />
<br />
I'm learning about the kindleboards and forums. That's kind of interesting but time consuming (what isn't?). I've found a listing of e-book reviewers to submit the book to. That's interesting too, but it immediately made me think of the bad old days of querying and querying and querying. I'll be doing it, though, because that seems to be what's done.<br />
<br />
And no, I ain't worried about getting a bad review...not one bit!<br />
<br />
For the first time since I sold my business (almost 6 years ago, now) I'm having to think about time management and prioritizing tasks. That sounds like work! It is work! This was not in the handout! Writing is supposed to be storytelling and communing with your muse and coming up with witty shit and quirky characters...not scheduling your day.<br />
<br />
When's a guy supposed to write?<br />
I got editing to do. When am I supposed to work on <strong>Dodge</strong> or <strong>First Murder</strong>?<br />
How many hours should I spend on forums and blogs?<br />
How often should I blog?<br />
How many times can I pimp Ferris' Bluff on Facebook before people start hating me? (and how many books can I truly expect to sell there?)<br />
Should I be tweeting? Tweeting sounds stupid. I don't tweet. Should I be tweeting?<br />
What the hell is a blog tour?<br />
I gotta make the final decisions about the design of Ferris' Bluff for the POD.<br />
Back cover art...can't forget about that.<br />
The lawn needs mowing. Can I strap my laptop to the John Deere and musti-task? Will the wireless internet thingy reach that far?<br />
When's a guy supposed to actually write?<br />
<br />
Well, I signed up for this so I guess the best I can do is just keep learning and plugging away and calling on 30 years of business skills (dusty, but not forgotten) to help me get it all done.<br />
<br />
And maybe hire a kid to mow the grass...Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-63935402775131804282011-07-02T06:29:00.000-07:002011-07-02T06:47:47.376-07:003 FOR 3!!!! Ferris' Bluff is out there folks!Stage one is now complete! <br />
<br />
<strong>Ferris' Bluff</strong> is available on Amazon (for Kindle only at present), through B&N (for the Nook), and through Smashwords for just about anything else you can read a book on. <br />
<br />
I can't say enough good about my team--yeah, I consider them a team--Team Freddie!<br />
<br />
Amy and Tina at 52 Novels are great to work with. Through a hail of gunfire, even, they tweaked <strong>Ferris' Bluff</strong> so it works on all the e-platforms and looks GREAT!<br />
<br />
We had a little trouble getting the damn thing up on Smashwords, and we still aren't real sure why things just started working this morning, but it's up and available for sale. I have no doubts that it was my fault it got glitchy, but Tina sorted it out. If you are looking for folks to help you format your work I highly recommend them.<br />
<br />
Props to my illustrator, Evan Simonet, for the cover art too. He's amazing. See, I had this picture I found somewhere--it's the one I used on Authonomy and have associated with Ferris' Bluff for a couple of years now. Well, I didn't own the rights to it. Evan turned it into a graphic, added Ace and Annie and the other stuff (I helped!...with suggestions only...) and came up with the complete cover. You can track him down at esimonet(at)hotmaildotcom if you think his cover art style would work for your book.<br />
<br />
<em>Some</em> people have commented that it looks a little cartoonish. I guess <em>some</em> people think all book covers should fit some kind of photo-mosaic mold. I think its cool. I hope to hell it helps sell some books!<br />
<br />
Kelley, my wife (aka the Sainted One), is also part of Team Freddie. She's become a pretty good critic over the years and gives me good advice early on now as I write these stories.<br />
<br />
I've set the price for <strong>Ferris' Bluff</strong> at $2.99 for now on all three platforms, but if you buy it on Smashwords this weekend use the coupon code SK73M and it's only .99(why isn't there a cents sign on this stupid computer?).<br />
<br />
What the hell...as soon as I post this blog I'm going to hop over and set the Kindle and Nook prices at .99(still no cents sign, damnit!) for the holiday weekend and into next week too! And be sure to leave a review when you're done.<br />
<br />
Happy reading and have a wonderful 4th of July. I'm heading out on the St. Croix later today for a bit of boat floating, maybe a bit of fishin', and a couple of frosty adult beverages to celebrate!<br />
<br />
<strong><span style="color: red;"> FERRIS' BLUFF...ONLY .99 CENTS!</span></strong><br />
<br />
Okay, it might take a little time for the price changes to show up on Amazon and B&N, I just found out. Hang in there!<br />
Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-46869846904589251122011-06-30T15:27:00.000-07:002011-06-30T15:27:05.997-07:002 out of 3 ain't bad...right?Today's uploading marathon started out smoothly. I gotta tell ya', it's pretty exciting seeing your book cover pop up on Amazon. Maybe tomorrow it'll even actually be available for sale! I'm going Corvette shopping!<br />
<br />
Kindle lapped my book up like a kitten slurping cream. B&N sucked it right up too. I had to jigger the cover size for them, but even techno-boob me managed to figure out how to do it.<br />
<br />
And then came Smashwords. Curse you, Smashwords!<br />
<br />
For the life of me I can't figure out where I went wrong, and ever-helpful Tina over at 52 Novels...she got the file loaded in a test upload just fine. No problemo. Not for Tina.<br />
<br />
Well, I guess I'll try again tomorrow. Maybe I'll use an alias so they won't know it's ME trying to upload the damn manuscript. Yeah, that might work. I'll pretend to be Tina! I'll pretend to be knowing what I'm doing! All your internets will belong to me! BWAHAHAHA...<br />
<br />
But 2 out of 3 ain't too bad...and I know my team will dive in and make it happen.<br />
<br />
Join me in a cocktail to celebrate! Freddie got his book out!Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-4092164191243751922011-06-30T05:42:00.000-07:002011-06-30T05:42:06.533-07:00Today's the day!Today's the day!<br />
<br />
The gang at 52 Books have expertly formatted Ferris' Bluff for Kindle, Nook, and Smashwords. Today is the day I begin the uploading procedure. Having never tried this before, and with an admittedly poor understanding of all things html, as soon as I log off here I shall begin the procedure(s).<br />
<br />
Great story? Check!<br />
<br />
Great cover? I think so...so Check!<br />
<br />
Edited to within an inch of it's little life? Check!<br />
<br />
Properly formatted? I sure as hell hope so!<br />
<br />
Well then...we're off.Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-3893065314702447742011-06-28T07:03:00.000-07:002011-06-28T07:03:17.074-07:00Off in a new direction!As you may have noticed I've renamed the blog. The (new) Croixside Gazette will be more focused on writing and indie publishing as I have decided to make the leap and self-publish. There's just too much new and exciting happening in the reading world to keep flogging away with queries and slush piles.<br />
<br />
In the coming months I'll be releasing several books that I've written, edited, re-edited, re-re-edited, queried, had rejected, had sample chaps submitted of, had sample manuscripts submitted of, and ultimately have gone nowhere in regards to the big time publishers.<br />
<br />
First up will be Ferris' Bluff. One of my babies. It's been an interesting journey.<br />
<br />
I completed the rough draft a couple of years ago. It made it to #16 on Authonomy before I abandoned the site for a number of reasons. I kept making revisions and tweaking it and began submitting it to literary agents.<br />
<br />
In 2009.<br />
<br />
At the low ebb of the financial mess here in America.<br />
<br />
I got very little joy from that excercise--a couple of comments that if things were rosier in Pub-Land the agent would look at taking it on, but first time authors and plague carriers were riding the same rail car at the time, it seems.<br />
<br />
I put it away and started working on a YA novel last winter (you'll be seeing that one in the future, no doubt about it!). At the same time I kept reading all sorts of interesting articles, many of them posted on Facebook by Pete Morin (bless his sharky lawyer heart). The Kindle and the Nook and the i-Pad were, as reading platforms, kicking paper's ass, and the shame and stigma of being a self published writer was disappearing faster than a cold beer on a hot afternoon in the bass boat!<br />
<br />
As I write this, the fine folks at 52 Novels are putting the finishing touches on the Kindle and E-pub reformatting (I don't do code--hell, I can hardly speel!). I'll be Kindling and Nooking and Smashwording in no time, and yes, you'll hear about it when it happens. I'm even going for the dead tree book option with Create Space.<br />
<br />
I may have wholly embraced the e-book, but I want to hold one in my hands, too. <br />
<br />
So check back often. As the journey continues I'll be writing about the trials and tribulations of indie publishing and keeping you all up to date on other projects.<br />
<br />
It's a great time to be a writer!Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-40200243350188124662011-01-27T07:58:00.000-08:002011-01-27T07:58:39.498-08:003 Strikes...and a disturbing trend<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjyg40mLPcs5nSB4ecAb11O-XRfk5n_OH4U38AC931IbfrwBnqIn29BUSqYifg9qOtFHxC_4CECmOFO2YAhiq-kW472mQHwIV1q1EAH72QriNClU7jE-6qP-Q9Zw1Gwnw6IXmw0N_PxifG/s1600/Picture+016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" s5="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjyg40mLPcs5nSB4ecAb11O-XRfk5n_OH4U38AC931IbfrwBnqIn29BUSqYifg9qOtFHxC_4CECmOFO2YAhiq-kW472mQHwIV1q1EAH72QriNClU7jE-6qP-Q9Zw1Gwnw6IXmw0N_PxifG/s320/Picture+016.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<br />
True to my only New Year's resolution I am dutifully reporting on the latest book I've read this year. I'm a big fan of Robert Crais. I've read all of his books. I like his two main characters, Elvis Cole and Joe Pike, a lot.<br />
<br />
So I buy THE SENTRY this last weekend and read it in one sitting. I thought the story was okay at first. A typical Crais storyline but featuring Joe Pike in this book--entertaining--a nice way to waste a Sunday afternoon---<br />
<br />
But then I got to thinking...the driving motivation in the main story arc, that Joe Pike was falling for the girl and was duty bound to protect her at any cost, was absolutely moronic! The chick was a fraud! She was simply using him to stay a step ahead of the bad guys and Pike discovers this with over a third of the book to go.<br />
<br />
B as in B. S as in S. The Joe Pike I know isn't dumb, but this story kind of is.<br />
<br />
And then I thought some more over the next few days. The first book I read this year, DEAD ZERO by Stephen Hunter was a pretty good read, but there were gaps in logic and too many coincidences--some of them utterly ridiculous. Sure, some of that is expected in thriller-dillers, but it seemed kind of cheap--like Hunter just didn't work hard enough on the story.<br />
<br />
The second book this year was DAMAGE by John Lescroart. same deal--one of my favorite writers, I love his characters yadda yadda--but he did the same thing. He stretched a major motivation in the main story arc to an entirely unrealistic level. The murderous bad guy gets out of prison on appeal because his victim's supporters wore buttons during the trial with the victims picture on them.<br />
<br />
No freaking way is this going to happen...not in a high profile rape/murder case in San Francisco. It just ain't gonna happen. Plus he gets a former defense attorney elected to the head DA's post. Again, the writer is asking me to believe just a little too much so he can write this story.<br />
<br />
So I'm calling it 3 Strikes! The first three books I've read this year have all assumed I'd overlook huge logic gaps, that I'd overlook lazy storytelling just because I'm a fan of all three writers, and that I'd cough up the dough for the books.<br />
<br />
They got me! And you know what? I blame it on the publishers as much as I blame the writers. All three of these guys have huge multi-book contracts, and they're not alone. The big publishers want their "sure things", and not just from these guys. They give a few proven writers long term/huge dollar conracts for a book a year in the series and you know what? The writing is getting worse...not better!<br />
<br />
I blame part of it on deadlines. Assembly line writing...and someone sped up the assembly line! Or something like that. <br />
<br />
I think this degradation of storylines is going to come back to bite both the writers and their publishers in the ass. If Tom Cruise or Cameron Diaz or Angelina or Brad are in a couple of clunker movies in a row their stock is going to drop, their careers will suffer, and the studios (much like the big publishers desperate for blockbuster after blockbuster) won't use them.<br />
<br />
They call them 'has-beens' in the movies. Is the same thing going to happen to some of the perennial best selling authors in the big publishing house's 'stables'? I don't know. I ain't that smart. But if <em><strong>I'm</strong></em> noticing the dumbing down of writing by a number of authors someone else is too.<br />
<br />
And is this dumbing down contributing to the rising popularity of E-publishing and self publishing? I think it could be for a couple of reasons. <br />
<br />
The big boys are contractually joined at the hip with their proven stable of bestselling writers for a long long time.They are demonstrating that they haven't got the balls or the money to foster new talent. The growing number of options for e-publishing and self publishing are exploding and the big houses keep trying to force the established bookselling model down our throats. Good determined writers are finding ways of getting their work out there.<br />
<br />
Combined with the fact that the writers themselves are putting out...not an inferior product...but a less than stellar product--I think it opens the e-pub and self-pub doors open a little more each time.<br />
<br />
What do you think?Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-72968719158364096182011-01-20T12:04:00.000-08:002011-01-20T12:04:14.784-08:00DamageLast week I read DAMAGE by John Lescroart on my shine new Kindle.<br />
<br />
Not his best book, but it was a good enough read to get me through another pain in the ass January weekend. I think he tried too hard to make the release of the bad guy from prison plausible in a legal sense, and I figured out the OTHER killer way early in the book.<br />
<br />
I give it a 72.Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-56534761454095885992011-01-07T06:35:00.000-08:002011-01-07T06:38:22.196-08:00Anxiety<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrdJsXf19-HCJPlVSugXWtC0f1dsDC5CdwOFsNw5b2piHXYHlb-YFxjMsIF0gticeEUChtYIL4YzZx-yhI1Qavlsk7bYOx3fF6fJvHajcr-znNzLux8F5ZubQp41wk_epczuw1575m8v9/s1600/cover+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrdJsXf19-HCJPlVSugXWtC0f1dsDC5CdwOFsNw5b2piHXYHlb-YFxjMsIF0gticeEUChtYIL4YzZx-yhI1Qavlsk7bYOx3fF6fJvHajcr-znNzLux8F5ZubQp41wk_epczuw1575m8v9/s1600/cover+2.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Yeah, I'm a little anxious now. Not worried so much...just anxious. See, I recently queried North Star Press about publishing my nifty little mystery, FIRST MURDER. <br />
<br />
I haven't queried since blasting FERRIS BLUFF out last year and getting soundly rejected. (Note to self: do NOT query in the midst of a crippling recession) Still, I've been aware of this publisher for a while and FIRST MURDER seems to be a good fit for their catalog.<br />
<br />
What has me anxious beyond the usual writer's submission doubts is that (without giving too much away) the main story arc involves internet porn. That's right...no little-miss-goody-two-shoes in this book, no siree! Think <em>Real Desperate Housewives of St. Paul </em>in<em> XXX </em>Pay-Per-View full color streaming video.<br />
<br />
Okay, maybe not that intense...<br />
<br />
I worry that even touching on the subject of porn in Minnesota is the french kiss of death. This is the land of Minnesota <em>Nice</em>, not Minnesota <em>Vice</em>. And what will people think of ME...knowing I had to do the required research. I'm not proud of what I had to do, but research is research, damn it. I took one for the team (or looked at one for the team...whatever).<br />
<br />
I learned a few things along the way. For instance, did you know that it was internet porn that led to advancements in video streaming technology that now lead the way in making satellite dishes and cable TV obsolete? Within 5 years you'll be streaming all of your movies and TV shows...no porn required (thank God). Netflix is almost there with Amazon On-Demand and Hulu and a hundred others right behind. <br />
<br />
And did you know that internet porn has discovered the fountain of youth? They say <em>Teen Porn</em>--I see thirty year olds. Want to knock a few years off--do a little porn.<br />
<br />
I also discovered that to become '<em>HOT</em>', apparently all you have to do is have big ol' jiggly jugs of silicone implanted in your bazooms. The Bigger the Hotter! And you don't even have to be all that good looking.<br />
<br />
Yes my friends,the power of the internet is immense. Apparently I'm not, though. Right after my research into the sordid world of pay-per-view porn the internet discovered that I am lacking. I mean, how do <em>they</em> know I need penile enhancement? <br />
<br />
I always thought I was...you know...you know...doin' alright. But somehow they know, and they're on a mission to see things set straight. Why, even a year after my research they still send me emails. They even send 2-for-1 offers. Penile enhancement cream and Viagra--package deals! (ba-dump-bump...thank you and good night...I'll be here all week)<br />
<br />
Good thing my computer has a pop-up blocker.<br />
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Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-75400974610763299982011-01-01T13:05:00.000-08:002011-01-01T13:05:10.701-08:00First book of the yearOkay, I cheated a bit...just a bit. I downloaded the book to my wonderful Kindle yesterday so I had a bit of a head start, but I finished it today, so it's going into the tally for 2011.<br />
<br />
The book: <strong>Dead Zero</strong> by Stephen Hunter<br />
<br />
Once again Bob Lee Swagger is called upon to defend the country and out-think the bad guys. I'm not giving any spoilers out, but if you like twists and turns and military speak and especially gun-speak, you'll like this book.<br />
<br />
I've read all of White's books--a few of them twice--and rank him as one of my favorites. He writes 'guy books'. By that I mean, you won't find a lot of huggy kissy stuff in them. My wife would, for the most part, hate them. But so what. I wouldn't read better than half of what she reads anyhoo.<br />
<br />
Many of White's books deal with the sniper culture and the Marine Corps. This one takes place in Afghanistan and around Washington DC and the surrounding area. <br />
<br />
Okay, in the last few weeks I've read three different books where 'thermobaric' explosives have played a prominent enough role to mention. are they the new cool thing? And ain't it funny that three books coming out within a couple of months of each other feature a specific explosive?<br />
<br />
At least he didn't have stolen nukes in it. Sheesh. is that an overdone thing or what?<br />
<br />
Ah well, just something I've noticed.<br />
<br />
I give <strong>Dead Zero</strong> a score of <strong>87</strong>. The plot is ingenious, the language very readable and entertaining, and the end mostly satisfying. It loses points for White's reaching for a rather far fetched and entirely too coincidental way of introducing a new character to the Swagger lineage and for amateurishly concealing a tricky bit by Bob Lee that could have been played better.<br />
<br />
Can't wait for his next book, though. <strong>87'</strong>s pretty good.Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-65958264975426795172010-12-31T16:46:00.000-08:002010-12-31T16:46:16.656-08:00New Year's EveI'm not much for new year resolutions. Hell, I've never been able to follow through on one...not a single solitary one. Maybe this year will break the curse.<br />
<br />
<strong>I solemnly resolve</strong> to log every book I read this year on this blog. I further solemnly resolve to to give each book a review, though I reserve the right to limit reviews to a one word minimum. I shall also rate each book I read this year on a scale of 0 to 100--0 being unreadable--100 being the best book I've ever read.<br />
<br />
I shall now go forth, grill a couple of filet mignons (in spite of the fact that it's freaking cold outside and sleeting) and will most likely doze off well before midnight...<br />
<br />
Happy New Year!Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-91586087304443414402010-12-30T16:37:00.000-08:002010-12-30T16:37:20.095-08:00New Year's Eve EveI'll be happy to say goodbye to 2010. <br />
<br />
It wasn't a shitty year, but it wasn't one of the great ones. <br />
<br />
And it's going out with the sound of water dripping into pails from where the 2 feet of melting snow on the roof and the ice dams have converged on a spot RIGHT BEHIND MY WRITING DESK ON THE PORCH!!! to sneak between the walls and a window frame.<br />
<br />
And a thundertorm just blew through--yes a thunderstorm.<br />
<br />
The thermometer hovers right at the freezing mark, and it's barely evening.<br />
<br />
I'll be happy to see 2010 go away.Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-61743709221004417112010-12-29T08:10:00.000-08:002010-12-29T08:10:57.633-08:00A little help from my friendsI've mentioned before that I'm meeting with Chuck Logan (author of South of Shiloh, Vapor Trail, and a number of thrillers featuring Phil Broker) sometime in January. He's graciously agreed to look over one of my manuscripts and if he thinks its got a chance he's going to pitch it to his former editor, who is now very successful literary agent in NYC.<br />
<br />
But...I've got FIVE finished books under the bed. He's only got the time and energy to look into ONE. <br />
<br />
I've narrowed it down to two selections. It's between <em>Ferris' Bluff </em>and <em>The Storm Glass</em>.<br />
<br />
I'm pasting the opening chapters of each below in hopes that you will read them and let me know which one you think might have a better shot.<br />
<br />
<strong>The Storm Glass</strong><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Chapter One</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="ms__id279" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">A muffled bump from the stern roused Wilson from a light sleep to wary alertness late in the middle of a breathless summer night. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thief of Hearts</i>, his forty-two foot Chris Craft Commander,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>swung at anchor in a quiet backwater north of Stillwater on the St. Croix River.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">What the hell?</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="ms__id280" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">He felt the boat shift slightly, down by the port quarter. Fully awake now, he thought he felt another bump and heard quiet fierce whispers. The rearward pitch steepened ever so slightly.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id281" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mmmph.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Iris, startled awake and wide-eyed in the dark, struggled briefly with the strong hand covering her mouth. Wilson leaned close.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id282" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s just me. Quiet now. Someone’s on the boat.” He moved his hand away and took a second to brush his fingers through her short gray-blond hair. Iris turned her head. Her ice-blue eyes reflected pale light from the three quarter moon, low now in the sky, streaming through the stateroom window. The eyes asked a question.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id283" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilson sat up in the bed. “Damn funny time for visitors,” he said, his gravelly voice barely audible. He rubbed a hand over his face and squinted at the door, then shifted feet to floor, away from Iris, and snatched his discarded cargo shorts from the floor. Jim felt her hand on his back as he leaned toward the headboard and groped for the pistol in the hideout holster taped behind it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id284" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He flipped the cylinder open, checked that all six chambers of the stubby .32 caliber Colt were loaded and carefully snapped it back in place. The boat sagged further down by the port quarter.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id285" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m gonna see what’s up.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wilson moved to the foot of the bed and pointed to the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Get down here. Get under the bed if you can.” He turned the center dial of the big silver ring on his left hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Iris blinked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It never ceased to amaze her when he disappeared.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id286" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She watched the stateroom door open, heard the click of the lock being engaged, and tracked it as it closed. Maybe it’s just one of Jim’s friends playing a prank, she thought. It wouldn’t be his friend, Streak. Alain Landrieu knew better than to play night games with Jim Wilson. Maybe it was someone else, one of his drinking pals about to get a scare of his own. Then the word ‘pirate’ came to mind. Iris slid under the bed.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id287" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The gangway, a hall running the length of the cabin, was darker than the stateroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wilson sensed whispers and motion as several people moved about the aft deck. Instead of heading toward the stern to confront them he made his way forward, past the head and the front stateroom, to the bow hatch. Moonlight guided him to the domed Plexiglas skylight, the access to the front deck. It opened with a whisper.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id288" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilson drifted up and over the fly bridge, thankful again that the ring allowed him to levitate as well as make him invisible. Peering down on the aft deck he could make out shapes—several men, all black haired and Asian looking. Their whispers seemed to be in Vietnamese or Hmong or something.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id289" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He caught a glint of steel in the moon light. One of them held a large chrome handgun at his side. The others looked to be armed too. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Amateurs</i>, he sneered to himself, shaking his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What kind of stupid son-of-a-bitch brings a shiny gun on a night op</i>?</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id347" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was enough light from the three quarter moon that Wilson could tell there were four of them. Their faces were lined, sharp and hard looking—definitely not kids, but not old men either. Three of them were rail thin. All of them were dressed in black. All of them looked dangerous.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="ms__id348" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The fourth one looked to be the oldest. He was short like the others, but heftier. A ragged scar creased one cheek and his face fell away abruptly from his lower lip. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No Chin</i>. Obviously the leader.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="ms__id336" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">No Chin whispered directions, pointing into the darkened salon beyond the locked sliding doors. They looked like they’d done this before.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilson’s raspy baritone boomed through the darkness. “GET THE FUCK OFF OF MY BOAT!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>RIGHT NOW!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id290" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Four heads snapped up, wide-eyed, probing the empty fly bridge in unison—deer in the headlights—all searching for where the shout came from. Four oriental faces and the shiny handgun pointed to where he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">should</i> have been. Wilson drifted up another ten feet and out past the boat behind them. No Chin shoved one of them toward the ladder, barked an order at him that Wilson thought sounded like ordering Chinese take-out or maybe a ricochet in a TV cartoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bing din pow gong pew ding</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The raider reached the fly bridge, turned, and started barking back to the others. </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: VI; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">C</span></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="VI" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: VI; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">ó là</span></i><span lang="VI" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: VI; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="VI" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-ansi-language: VI; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">không có ai ở đây</span></i><span style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';">. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">There’s nobody up here!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id337" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No Chin dispatched the other two to either side of the beamy yacht. They shimmied along the narrow walkway to the sloping front deck, one on each side. Jim silently drifted toward the starboard rail.</span><span lang="VI" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: VI; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id291" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The first one he knocked in the water couldn’t swim—at all. The Asian pirate kicked and splashed, floundered, cursing and spitting in his tinkly language. The second one he booted overboard could swim…sort of. The raider surrendered his shiny pistol to the river and got both hands paddling. The splashing and noise from the starboard side subsided. Wilson drifted back over. The man was gone. A trickle of bubbles surfaced and drifted downstream, winking in the low moonlight.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilson sighed and shook his head.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id292" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No Chin clutched at the clothes of the paddler and dragged him onto the swim platform next to an old fiberglass runabout tied there. The one on the fly bridge whipped his head left to right and back again still searching for the unseen voice, frantic, looking over the side, calling out to his drowned companion. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Next up.</i></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="ms__id293" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The butt of Wilson’s stubby Colt smacked into the Asian’s face—dead center—straight on—nose high. He’d learned long ago not to hit someone in the head with a bare fist if he could help it. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The pirate’s pistol clattered to the deck, his hands now clutching his bloody broken-nosed face. Wilson booted him hard in the ass, sent him flying, and winced when the flailing body landed squarely on the drink cart on the aft deck. He didn’t give a damn about the thief, but the cart was a present from Iris…and well stocked. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id349" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">The Asian didn’t move. Defeated and bleeding, he lay twisted amid the broken glass and</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">expensive liquor puddles. A pained moan escaped his blood frothed lips.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Two down</i>.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id294" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No Chin roughly dragged the dog-paddler along to help him. Jim sensed the pirate’s mission had changed in the last couple of minutes. He guessed it might have morphed from robbery to, what…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">survival maybe</i>? While No Chin and the sopping wet paddler dragged their bloody friend toward the back of the boat Wilson took a moment to catch his breath and think about the situation.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id295" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’d had some run-ins with Asian gangs over the years, but not nearly as many as he’d had with the Mexicans on the west side and the black bangers in Minneapolis. It was unlikely that they were after him specifically—hell, it was impossible. No one knew that he had preyed on the drug dealers for years, a sneak thief with a taste for dope dollars. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No one but Iris</i>. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="ms__id296" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">No, these mutts were pirates. No Chin, guessing that a lonely yacht anchored out of the main channel of the St. Croix over a mile from town would be easy pickings, had rounded up some toughs to help him pick it clean of expensive electronics and whatever else they could find—an easy score—right? </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Wrong. You picked the wrong boat, dumbass.</span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id297" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The bloodied pirate gave a loud sad groan when his partners dumped him in the runabout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wilson watched No Chin look back toward the sliding doors to the salon and up again to the fly </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id350" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">bridge. He said something to the dog paddler. Jim caught a glimpse of savage grin on No Chin’s face and frowned. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id298" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When No Chin started moving toward the engine hatch Wilson knew what he had in mind. He moved in fast to stop the Asian raider from destroying his beautiful boat.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id299" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No Chin had to use both hands to raise the heavy hatch cover to get at the exposed gas lines feeding the big twin Volvo engines. He had his legs spread against the weight. Wilson launched a field-goal kick into the Asian’s crotch from behind. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id338" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No Chin’s scream echoed across the glass like river, pitiful and pain shrill. He curled in a ball on the aft deck, knees welded defensively to his chest, rocking slightly. Wilson shot a quick glance toward the runabout when the engine coughed and caught. The dog paddler, fearful now and near panic, looked back toward No Chin. Wilson kicked No Chin’s pistol away, leaned over, and grabbed the man’s coarse black hair. With a savage yank he hissed into his ear, “I told you to get off my boat.” </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The sharp bark of the .32 drifted over the river, lost in No Chin’s new pain-wail, his kneecap shattered by the bullet. Jim glanced toward the cabin, saw Iris silhouetted in the salon behind the sliding doors, hugging herself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damn it</i>, he thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wish she hadn’t seen that.</i></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilson twisted the inner band of the ring and popped into view, visible now for the first time. The dog paddler was round eyed and open mouthed. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id300" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Come get this asshole,” Wilson growled, giving No Chin a vicious kick in the ribs. He turned his back and headed for the sliding doors. His face was set and grim, looking at Iris through the glass. Her arm came up fast, pointing in the direction of the speedboat, her warning cry muffled by the glass door.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id301" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jim whirled and saw the pirate’s pistol—brought his own up before the raider could take aim and fired rapidly three times. At least one shot was on target. The Asian flipped over the speedboat’s gunwale. Wilson walked over to the yacht’s transom and looked out over the river. There was a slash of black-red and pink in the water by the man’s head. The body drifted downstream in the current, arms and legs splayed. In a short minute it rolled, then slid below the surface trailing bubbles.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Iris whisked the door open, ready to rush out. Wilson held up his hand, shouted, “NO!”, and went back over to No Chin, still curled in a ball and leaking blood from his ruined knee on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thief’s </i>aft deck. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id302" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Get off my boat.” Wilson pointed the revolver at the squat ugly face. No Chin nodded once.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="ms__id339" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Wilson watched from the doorway to the cabin, arms across his bristly graying chest, the little Colt still in hand and ready. No Chin dragged himself across the aft deck, across the swim platform, and into the old runabout.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As it struggled onto plane No Chin turned and raised a defiant finger toward Wilson and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thief of Hearts</i>. Jim leveled the Colt and fired the last two rounds.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jim!” Iris shouted, scolding.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He held the gun up and shrugged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s only got a two-inch barrel. No way I hit him. I just wanted to make a point.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="ms__id303" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Iris looked out over the aft deck at the smashed bar cart and the blood stains there and by the engine housing. She sighed and shook her head. “What a mess.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id304" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the distance they both heard the outboard revving, screaming in a full power whine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jim climbed to the fly bridge, wondering if he could see where it would put in. Iris followed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The quaint old river town was still asleep, all of the windows dark. White hulls gently bobbed in the Yacht Club’s marina. A red light flashed over the lift bridge sign. The old runabout weaved in a sweeping left arc, then a right as if No Chin was having trouble steering.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe I did hit something,” Jim said and reached for the binoculars stowed nearby.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id305" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He watched in stunned silence when the old fiberglass boat hit the bridge pier straight on at full speed—close to thirty knots. A fireball erupted—a round blossom of yellow and orange gasoline fed inferno engulfed the small bridge tender’s shack. The wooden lift schedule sign</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id306" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">ignited. Sparks drained from the tin shack as the drawbridge’s controls burned. Iris looked up into Jim’s face. Scrunched in a tight wince, eyes nearly closed, his head was turned to one side as if he didn’t want to watch. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hoo boy.” Jim let out a deep breath, still adrenalin pumped and tense.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id331" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"> *****</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id307" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The quiet river town of Stillwater woke early that morning. Jim and Iris filled trash bags and mopped, scrubbed, and hosed. They heard the sirens; saw the flashing blue and red lights in the darkness converging on the dying flames. They watched boats launching from the downtown ramp, guessed it was the Sheriff or the DNR rescue boat, maybe even the Coast Guard.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id308" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sun finally peeked over the trees. Iris, a nurse, knew how to get rid of the blood stains on the fiberglass deck. The swim platform’s teak was a bit troublesome but there wasn’t as much on it. Jim hated to do it, but he wrapped the bloody broken glass and the wreckage of the bar cart in an old sheet, tossed in a pair of barbells for extra weight, and slipped the debris from the pirate’s failed attack over the side in thirty feet of water.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His last chore was to empty the spent cartridges from the little Colt and toss them over the side, followed by the pistol. Best not to leave any evidence lying around. Just in case.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id309" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jim built a pair of Bloody Marys before joining Iris on the aft deck. He knew it was just a matter of time before the Sheriff’s patrol boat stopped by.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id310" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Had to be done,” he said, looking downriver, not ready to meet her gaze. They had done the cleanup work in silence, save for chore talk.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id311" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Doesn’t it bother you?” she asked. Iris and Jim, together since she’d nursed him after he was wounded in a gang battle that was still being talked about in the Twin Cities, were still learning about each other. She loved him, but she didn’t understand him yet. And then there was that damn ring.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="ms__id312" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Jim thought for a minute before answering. Was she asking about the killing? Was she asking about covering up the…what, the scene of the crime? It wasn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> crime. He was just protecting Iris and the boat. Self defense. Plain and simple. It wasn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> fault the one guy couldn’t swim. And he was pissed about the little brass bar cart…and the pistol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="ms__id313" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And who would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> have thought that a little .32 caliber pop-gun with a two inch barrel would shoot true enough to hit the mark on a fast moving target in the dark? Still, he knew what she needed to hear.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id314" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It bothers me a lot, hon. A lot.” He turned to her, settling deeper in the chair and sipping on the spicy drink before continuing. “At least this time I wasn’t looking for trouble. I mean, it’s not like one of my deals gone sour.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id315" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“One of your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">deals</i>?” Iris said. The familiar bite was there. Iris wanted Jim to get out of the business. She wanted him to quit using the damned ring and exploiting the invisibility and levitation to steal drug money to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">feed the kitty</i>. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id316" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know, I don’t think you need to look for trouble. I think it looks for you. Maybe that damned ring just attracts it.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s cursed.” He waggled his left hand and tried a chuckle.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t make a joke about it, Jim.” </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id317" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chastised for the remark but not ready to cave, he said, “We’d have been in a world of hurt without it. You have to admit...”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id330" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You had a gun. Hell, there’re guns hidden all over this boat, and I’m not too happy with that either.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It was four to one.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know what I mean.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id318" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jim put his drink down and stood. Looking down-river he saw the patrol boat cruising toward them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If we get involved it could wreck the trip. I mean, there’s no doubt it was self defense, and those were some really nasty guys. I don’t want anything to wreck the trip.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Me either, but…”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id319" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If we get involved it will mean testifying and debriefing. It’ll be hours and days and weeks of bullshit and interrogation—that’s what we’d be sucked into. And they might not see it for what it was.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sometimes you’re a hard man, Jim.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id351" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sometimes I have to be,” he said as the patrol boat edged alongside.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id320" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Wilson shifted a couple of bumpers and tied off a line to a cleat before tossing it to the deputy. He preferred they stay along-side rather than come aboard. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Thief of Hearts</i> was cleaned up but he didn’t want to invite any more trouble than he had to.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mornin’,” Wilson said, smiling. “Hey what’s goin’ on at the bridge?”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id329" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You folks been out here all night?” There were two deputies in the Boston Whaler. One was in the bow with the line, tending the boat. The other leaned against the light bar that ran over the center console.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yup. All night.” </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The two deputies shared a look. “Did you folks hear a boat come past about three hours ago, about four?”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We were asleep.” Wilson hooked a thumb toward the cabin. “Had the generator running and the air on. What happened? Somebody wreck?”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id321" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The one in the bow answered, “Someone plowed into the lift bridge. Older boat. Must have hit it wide open.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ouch.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You didn’t hear the explosion?”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id323" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jim looked over toward Iris. “Is that what that was?”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id322" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I told you I heard something, honey.” She smiled at the deputies. “I told him I heard something.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id324" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Uh huh.” The deputy by the light bar looked downstream. “It was pretty loud, ma’am.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Iris rolled her eyes. “So is he.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id328" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jim put a hurt look on his face, thinking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">atta girl</i>. “Hey, I’m not that bad.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id325" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Iris snorted. The deputies smiled.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id327" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hit it full blast, huh?” Wilson wanted to keep them going, just for a bit, to see what they would let slip.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We’ve got boats working all the way up from Bayport picking up wreckage. It fire-balled when it exploded. The tender’s shack is totaled and the electronics for the lift are fried.”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Any bodies?”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id340" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just one. Looks like an Asian guy. Well…what’s left of him.” The deputy in the bow got a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">shut up</i> look from his partner. </span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id326" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sorry we can’t help you guys. Wish I’d have seen it.” Wilson forced a grimace, playing for the Academy Award. “Ah jeez, I mean…ah jeez. A guy died, huh? Guess I’m glad I didn’t see anything. Know what I mean?”</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span id="ms__id334" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The deputy in the bow tossed the line to Jim and pushed off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Thanks for your time folks. Stay safe now.” The deputy in the cockpit cracked the throttle and they headed off.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span id="ms__id333" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">“You think they bought it?” Jim asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Iris nodded.</span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span id="ms__id332" style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><strong>Ferris' Bluff</strong> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">Chapter One</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id342" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The drive through the Ouachita Mountains, scenic as all hell, had been a brutal thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id341" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was a two lane twisty no-shoulder road. Sweeping vistas, regiments of towering deep green pines slashed through with scarred gray-white granite wounds, and a near mystical fog shrouding the mountainsides begged for his attention. Dark shadowed valley views beckoned. It was like a siren’s song; beautiful…haunting…and damn near deadly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id343" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’d barely survived the life-or-death battle between the lure of the views and the sudden switchbacks of cliff-side curves. Shaggy big eared deer played chicken with him. That was exciting, in an adrenaline spiked, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">holy-shit</i>, gravel slinging kind of way. The race-car mommies hauling ass in mini-vans full of kids, hell-bent for somewhere, weren’t scared a bit by the cliffs or the deer or anything. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id352" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He pulled up to a pair of gas pumps in front of a ramshackle building. Leets Store sat out on the highway about a quarter mile from the small, tidy downtown all by itself. It looked deserted but a half-curled plastic <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Open</i> sign dangled inside the glass front door. Ace shut down his pickup and looked over his shoulder at the mountain he’d just come down. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not a car in sight. Nobody following him. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Good</i>.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id344" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>While he fiddled with the old lever pump handles he tried to recall the last time anyone had been following him for sure. Except for the gray car in St. Louis a while back, and he wasn’t all that certain about that one, it had been almost a year. Still, he checked constantly. It had become habit, and he was still alive.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id353" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He twisted the lever on the side of the pump and watched the numbers twirl to zero, savoring a sound he hadn’t heard since he was a kid, the click-whirl of a mechanical gas pump, the sturdy clanks as the numbers stopped at zero. The nozzle was dead in his hand, though, and he hung it back up before heading toward the store. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id345" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ace looked over at two rickety wooden rocking chairs sitting out front and imagined a couple of old guys sitting out there spending afternoons watching cars go by, waving to neighbors and friends, jawing about the war or the price of soybeans. Ferris’ Bluff, Arkansas…small town America. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Quiet. Familiar. Anonymous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A rare smile on his face, Ace pulled the squeaky door open.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Raack!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shraack!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id354" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He jerked at the sound of a pump shotgun’s slide, gaped dumbly at the twelve bore muzzle aimed at his face for a split second, then dove left, right hand yanking the .45 Hi-Power from the back of his jeans mid-air. His thumb found the safety and flicked it off. Ace landed</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">no-roll hard and slid on the linoleum behind a row of shelves. Crinkly bags of pork rinds and cracklins exploded. The mangled metal skeleton of a display rack clattered beside him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ace heard voices, hollering and cussing, but not footsteps approaching.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh shit, mister!”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You damn fool.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I didn’t see him coming.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You okay fella?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey mister, you okay?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aw shit-fer-sure.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id355" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ace crawled through the burst bags, crunching his way through the cellophane and chips for a quick peek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He held the pistol held back out of sight. They didn’t sound like killers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id356" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Two old guys, sixties maybe--seventies maybe, both looked shocked and flustered. They were behind a long counter facing the door. One was big and red cheeked with wild wispy white hair. He had on faded denim coveralls and a once red tee shirt. The other one looked kind of like a ferret. Pointy-faced, his brownish gray hair was plastered down in a sparse greasy comb over and his bony shoulders hangered a wrinkled plaid shirt. Neither one looked like much of a threat. An old Remington 870 shotgun lay sideways on the counter.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You okay, bud?” The big white haired man wrestled past the ferret faced one. Ace tucked the Hi-Power back in his jeans under his shirt and sat back, listening. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I sure didn’t mean to scare ya’ like that. We was just messin’ with this old gun Dicky brought in.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id357" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ace stretched, testing his joints. The two old guys danced behind the counter, apologizing over and over. His shoulder hurt like hell and he had a small cut on his left arm. Pork rinds and corn chips were ground into the knees of his jeans, his backside, the elbows of his shirt, and the heels of his hands.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id358" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m okay,” Ace finally said from behind the shelves when he caught a break in the old guys’ chattering. He got to his feet slowly, sure there would be a bruise on his left knee in a few minutes, and limped around the shelves about the time the big man cleared the end of the counter.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I am so sorry, mister,” the white haired man said and held his hand out. “Del Leets.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They shook. Leets gestured over his shoulder. “And that there’s Dicky Stover. Man-oh-man, you sure you’re all right? Way you throwed yourself over like that?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, I’m fine. Andy Evans, but everyone calls me Ace.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Leets looked down at the debris. He toed at the pork rind dust and ruined bags, frowning. “What a dang mess.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dicky shuffled over with a broom and a waste basket. “The Frito lady gonna be right pleased, Leets. That’s more chips ‘n you sold in the last six months,” he cackled.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Look, I guess I can pay for the damage,” Ace said, mentally checking his wallet.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Naw,” Leets grumbled. “This one’s on me an’ Dicky.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Me?” Dicky waltzed his broom around. “Me?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wull you brought the durn gun in here.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wull you was the one pointin’ the durn thing at the fella here.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id359" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ace was pretty sure the argument would have gone on for the rest of the afternoon but a car pulled up to the pump. The woman behind the wheel honked the horn twice and the door of an immaculate burnt-orange ‘72 Olds Cutlass convertible swung open. She waved at the front door. Leets and Dicky went stone silent.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ace could see where the woman might get this pair of geezers to shut up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bottle-blonde hair peeked out from a headscarf and a pretty--pouty face was half hidden behind over-sized white framed sunglasses. The woman challenged a tight low-cut striped top and amply filled a pair of yellow Capri pants that she had to have used pliers to zip up. She wasn’t Dolly Parton busty but Ace figured she wasn’t too far from it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Reena,” Dicky whispered, leering with a gap toothed grin.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, that’s our Reena all right,” Leets echoed. He was frowning.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You gonna turn on the pump?” Dicky asked.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” Leets grumbled, shuffling off.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s Reena,” Dicky said, nudging his elbow into Ace’s side. “Lawyer Tre-mont’s wife.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Leets trundled back over to watch her fill the car. Ace noticed she had an impressive backside too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ever-thing wiggles but her toes,” Dicky snickered.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ace stepped back and rubbed his face with one hand. Big mistake. There were still greasy crumbs of corn chips and cracklins stuck on them. He smelled like pork rinds. Leets and Dicky scurried back behind the counter and ditched the pump gun when Reena hung up the hose. Ace stepped over to the end of the counter and watched her walk across the store. Dicky wasn’t far from right…pretty much <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever-thing</i> wiggled.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Miss Reena.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Delmon. Richard.” She nodded at the two old men. Ace could tell she enjoyed the power she had over them…well, Dicky at least. Leets didn’t seem impressed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She turned and gave him the once-over. Her furrowed brow hinted at curiosity and maybe a tinge of worry. She frowned and looked back to Leets. “Any problem gettin’ a couple to go, Delmon?” She jinked her head towards Ace. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id360" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Leets pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow, like he was pondering something important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“No. No problem, Reena.” He stepped through a door behind the counter and came back with two Budweiser tall-boys and slipped them in a bag. Reena settled up. The bag clutched firmly to her chest, she gave Ace a flirty, knowing smile, and all three men watched her jiggle out of the store, her high-heeled sandals clacking on the linoleum.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Afraid you’d check her ID?” Ace joked. Reena looked to him to be on the downhill side of her thirties despite some truly valiant efforts with makeup.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dry county,” Leets said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id361" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No problem,” Ace assured him. “So you boys always play with shotguns?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Naw,” Dicky grumbled. “I took the thing in the other day over t’ my place and it don’t work.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dicky runs the Book-N-Pawn when he ain’t over here botherin’ me,” Leets explained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Durn thing won’t e-ject the shells.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mind if I have a look?” Ace asked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Both of the old guys watched Ace fiddle and poke at the gun. He took out a Leatherman tool, dug around inside the shell port and asked Leets for some oil or WD-40. After a couple of minutes he fed three shells into the loading port and said to Leets, “Catch.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ace racked the slide three times fast. All three shells eluded Leets’ grasp.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sumbitch!” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks, Ace.” Dicky clapped him on the back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Leets found a rag for him. While Ace was wiping his hands he told him he guessed he should get back to gassing up and get going.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just passin’ through?” Leets asked and waved off the twenty Ace held out. “You go on and fill ‘er up. I’ll put it on Dicky’s tab.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dicky sputtered and cussed until Leets asked Ace what he was gonna charge for fixing up that old 870.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Actually, I’m here to see someone. An old friend,” Ace said. The look Leets and Dicky gave him made it clear he wasn’t getting out of there without telling them who. “Granville Tubbs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Know him?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Leets winced and Dicky looked down at the floor. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, we know ‘im,” Leets muttered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s over ‘t the Shady Oaks death house.” Dicky jerked a thumb toward the highway.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Death house?</i> Ace knew he’d heard him right.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t mind dick head here. Shady Oaks is the old folk’s home.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t no-one come out alive, though. It’s a death house.” Dicky argued. “And don’t be callin’ me dick head.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How long’s he been in there?” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id362" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ace hadn’t talked or written to Tubbs in over three years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hadn’t talked or written to anyone from the old days in that time. He’d been leaving as faint a footprint as he could. Had to. It was the best way he could figure to stay alive, but he was tired of the road and lonesome for a familiar voice. He just hoped it had been long enough--that they’d forgotten about him. He was counting on it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Near a month.” Leets voice yanked Ace out of his thoughts and back into the store. “Had some spells ‘a some kind and ain’t been the same since.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s in a purty bad way.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So much for crashing in Tubbs’ spare room, Ace thought. “I might be around a day or two. You got a decent motel in town? Decent meaning cheap.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There’s just the Travel-Aire other side ‘a town out on 84 but it ain’t what anyone ’ud call decent.” Dicky rolled his eyes. “That’s about it.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Annie Travers is rentin’ out rooms,” Leets chimed in. “She’s got this big ol’ house over on Pecan Street. Been rentin’ out since her husband died. I hear she’s a durn good cook too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meals go with the rooms is what I hear.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, thanks for the tips, boys.” Ace shook hands with both of the old men. “I’ll probably be seein’ you around.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id363" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sorry agin’ for that mis-understandin’ with the pump gun,” Leets shouted as Ace headed out the door to gas up the truck and go look for the Travel-Aire Motel out on 84, wherever the hell that was. The last thing he needed was a room in some widow woman’s house that probably smelled of lilac sachets and boiled cabbage and old lady. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id364" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ace found the motel. The Travel-Aire looked to be right out of central casting, circa 1952, with its flat roof, turquoise stucco, and rounded white trim. The office guarded a central court surrounded by ten or so tiny bungalows hidden from the highway. He paid for three nights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The old biddy behind the counter gave him a deal. Some deal. Ninety-five bucks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id365" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When he pulled into the courtyard the first thing he saw was Reena’s orange Cutlass parked half behind an overgrown shrub on the end. Ace shook his head and pulled up to unit number three.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was a screen door, the old galvanized mesh torn and rusty in half a dozen places, and no window air conditioner that Ace could see. June in Arkansas is damn hot. Well, maybe the walls are thick, he thought. Maybe there would a breeze.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id366" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When Ace pushed the door open the first thing that hit him was the smell. Ace didn’t mind smokers. He’d enjoy a stogie himself now and then, but forty years of used cigarettes slept in the carpets and threadbare upholstery, clinging to the peeling paint of unit number three. When he flicked on the light a platoon of roaches skittered away.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He took one look at the bed, a sway backed double with a trough so deep he knew if he lay down in there he’d never get out. Ace closed the door and drove back to the office. He tossed the key on the counter and told the biddy he wanted his money back. She put up a pretty good fight but when Ace growled at her she grabbed the cash from the till and threw it on the counter. Well, ninety bucks, anyway.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ace fired up the truck and went in search of Pecan Street and old lady Travers’ place.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id367" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The house on Pecan Street didn’t look like a spinster’s white elephant or a tumbledown rooming house. No sir. Three stories tall with a screened front porch flanked by blazing red flowering shrubs, it looked like something out of a Rockwell painting. Witch-hat roofed turrets soared two stories and there was a railed open porch between them. It was painted white with green and blue accents highlighting intricate scrollwork under the eaves.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id368" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He approached the house at a loss, wondering about the proper etiquette for knocking on the front door when there was a porch. Should he knock on the screen door? He looked for a bell or a buzzer. Should he just barge onto the porch and knock?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had his hand on the screen knob when the front door opened. A trim, pretty, blonde woman in her late thirties or so stepped out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mr. Evans?” she said, opening the screen door and extending a slender hand. “I’m Annie Travers. Del called and said you might be stopping by.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id369" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hello Ferris’ Bluff</i>, Ace thought, taking her cool hand in his. “Andy Evans. Most folks call me Ace.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ace it is. Come in. Come in.” Annie held the door wide. Ace stepped into the house and a hundred years back in time. To his right he saw a large living room filled with old expensive looking furniture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gleaming wood smelled of lemon oil. The lampshades had dangly things at the bottom. There were doilies everywhere. The sofa arms were snarling lion’s heads. To the left a stately dining room was filled with a polished walnut table that would easily seat twelve surrounded by buffets and sideboard tables covered with silver bowls and tea services.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wow,” Ace said, afraid his meager funds weren’t going to be enough to stay more than a night or two.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id370" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I dust, therefore I am,” Annie laughed easily. Ace smiled for the second time that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Del said you were in town to see Granny Tubbs. He’s such a sweet old guy.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id371" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ace kept the smile on but inside he was churning worries. These people, strangers, already knew more about him than he had let out in years. And calling Tubbs a sweet old guy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They didn’t know much about Master Chief Granville Tubbs. Something bumped behind him. Ace turned toward the noise.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This is my daughter, Valerie…Val.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A serious looking twelve year old looked up at Ace from her wheelchair. She had long straight blonde hair and piercing green eyes that looked too old on her, too wise for her innocent unlined face. “Hello.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m Ace.” He offered his hand, which she took lightly in hers. “Nice to meet you, Val.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why do they call you Ace?” She asked, tilting her head to the side, still not smiling.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My initials. Andrew Christopher Evans,” he explained. What he didn’t tell her was that the name, Ace, was his own creation. His father had saddled him with the name Arleigh Chester, after two of the old man’s heroes, and his real last name was Evenson.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Ace’ had been created in about the third grade and it was the last thing he really had from his old life. He always crafted his alias around those initials. Val was looking at him so intently he wondered if she had just read his thoughts.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id372" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You kind of look like an Ace,” she said, then wheeled her chair around and disappeared into the back of the house.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id373" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m sorry,” Annie apologized. “Val’s a little, um, outspoken sometimes…when she says anything at all.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s no problem.” Ace shrugged.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id374" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Since the accident, since the chair, she’s a little abrupt with people.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not to worry.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, let me show you the rest of the place and your room.” Annie started to turn toward the back of the house.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ace felt embarrassed but he had to ask. He’d be more embarrassed if he couldn’t afford it. “How much, exactly, is the room?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When Annie turned to look at him he studied her face. Her green eyes had laugh lines at the corners, and a sprinkle of faint freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. Val had gotten her blonde hair from her mom, it seemed, but Annie’s was cut short. She wasn’t wearing any makeup as far as Ace could tell, a far cry from Miss Reena earlier, and didn’t need to.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thirty dollars?” She said it like a question, like she was embarrassed too. “And that includes breakfast if you’re around and dinner too, if you don’t mind eating with all of us.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id375" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thirty sounds really fair. This is a great house.” Ace could afford to stay in the great house for about five nights if he needed to, he calculated. It would depend on Tubbs’ circumstances. A door banged in the back followed by a voice echoing down the hall, “Mom, I’m home.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My son.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A rangy brown haired kid in baggy cargo shorts and a Tony Hawk t-shirt came striding down the hall with a Mountain Dew can in his hand. “Who’s this?” The kid asked, hooking a thumb in Ace’s direction.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before Annie could answer Ace stuck out his hand. “Ace Evans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ugly roomer.” </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The kid screwed up his face, not getting the joke his mother was laughing at. He eyed Ace’s hand and finally gave a limp shake.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Chaz.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Charles.” Annie corrected him. The kid rolled his eyes.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is it okay if I go with Chaz?” Ace asked. He knew what it was like to have a dorky name and he didn’t want to alienate the kid.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay. Sure.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Chaz squeezed past them in the hall and bounded up the steps. When Ace and Annie turned to head for the kitchen a voice drifted down the stairwell. “Ugly roomer. I get it now. Ha Ha.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s fifteen,” she explained.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey, at least he got it,” Ace said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span id="ms__id335" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When he followed her toward the kitchen Ace couldn’t help but notice that Annie Travers had a very nice figure and a nearly perfect…and then quickly stuffed the thought away, deep into the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">can’t-go-there</i> locker in his mind. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Can’t go there.</i> He’d check on Tubbs, visit a bit if the old guy was up to it and then head back out on the blue highways. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was what he had to do. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">So which one do you think I should take to the party?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;">And MANY THANKS in advance for taking the time to read and comment.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span id="ms__id346" style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></div><div align="left" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="line-height: 200%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><br />
</div></span></span>Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-31116493888014646192010-12-28T12:59:00.000-08:002010-12-28T12:59:01.069-08:00what to do...what to doAs the new year approaches and I think about writing and publishing I find myself wondering what to do.<br />
<br />
Well, I need to write, of course. My WIP, <em>Dodge</em>, is sort of stalled right now. Oh, I know where it needs to go next--I'm just avoiding it. I can't find the excitement I've had when in the midst of writing any of my other books. Maybe it's just the busy holiday season finally coming to a close. <br />
<br />
Maybe it's the anticipation of meeting up with Logan after the New Year arrives and possibly getting some help with one of my finished books. That would be nice--very nice in fact. I'm not holding my breath, nor am I expecting anything other than an enjoyable session or two discussing books and agents and publishers--hopefully getting some tangible feedback. <br />
<br />
I'm pretty discouraged on the query front. Check that...I'm <em>real </em>discouraged with how the querying has gone thus far. The slushpile thing ain't working out for me, that's for damn sure. I know I should go to conferences and actually meet some of these people but that just isn't going to happen in the near future.<br />
<br />
It makes me think maybe I suck at this writing thing. Except I don't...not really...but it gets under a guy's skin, you know...<br />
<br />
And...I'm becoming more and more intrigued with the idea of self publishing some of my work as e-books. Smashwords seems to have a very accessible platform and their e-distribution format looks like they've got most if not all of the bases covered.<br />
<br />
But do I have the grit to learn all of the promotional stuff and stick with it? The only things I've ever sold on the internet were on e-Bay!<br />
<br />
What would you pay for a copy of <em>Ferris' Bluff</em> or <em>The Storm Glass</em> or <em>First Murder</em>? <br />
<br />
And what about...if I do dive into the e-book ocean...what about having real printed copies for all the folks who haven't embraced the Kindle or the Nook, or any of a half dozen other e-readers I saw in the stores before Christmas--not to mention the I-Pad! Apple is projecting sales of 34 MILLION I-Pads in 2011. Granted it's not a dedicated e-reading platform, but it beats being hunched over a computer monitor.<br />
<br />
Are we at the cusp of a true paradigm shift in writing and publishing? I think so...but I don't KNOW so.<br />
<br />
What to do. What to do.Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2772425303674318781.post-54238587275801369412010-12-20T07:25:00.000-08:002010-12-20T07:25:01.023-08:00I can't stands no more!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAqrE-TX44id44X-cwAzuZnoKsx9WQqSWycliohV736PTNwmm2-TBFOUDsVa6t4WK2zE7m1_1dDYLAJb_OwaRy7iL6XHMcWyWQ9kRD_ttAzdZhxWIXae95hhPNnvzoDMwq7seKjhWHA_DY/s1600/P1010001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAqrE-TX44id44X-cwAzuZnoKsx9WQqSWycliohV736PTNwmm2-TBFOUDsVa6t4WK2zE7m1_1dDYLAJb_OwaRy7iL6XHMcWyWQ9kRD_ttAzdZhxWIXae95hhPNnvzoDMwq7seKjhWHA_DY/s320/P1010001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
What with a couple of feet of snow on the ground and another 8" due tonight and tomorrow, I thought I'd share a soothing summery picture. Croixside, where I live, is actually on the side of the St. Croix River and smack dab in the middle of a national park. <br />
<br />
We endure the winters so that we can enjoy this in the summer. Now, time for a deep calming breath.Fred Limberghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16014492895798758734noreply@blogger.com0