WORKING MY WAY THROUGH THE Es

I waved at Eddy when he drove past my house and pulled into his driveway. His truck made a screeching sound before it came to a halt. When he jumped out and ran toward me waving his hands in the air, I thought he had an emergency. I let go of the handle so my lawnmower would stop running.

          “Eddy, what’s wrong?”

          He stopped short of my mower and stared at me. “Hey man, when’s the last time you sharpened the blade on that mower?”

          I looked at the 21 inch Yard Dog I’d purchased at a flea market sale five years earlier. “The guy I bought it from told me he sharpened it.”

Eddy pointed to three or four hundred weeds sticking up all over my yard. “Your blade is so dull it can’t cut the weeds.”

That explained the strange phenomenon I had noticed this mowing season. I’d begun to think I had a fast growing variety in my yard. So fast they grew back right after I mowed over them. It was time to fess up. “Okay, you got me. How do I sharpen the blade, and where is it?”

“Hey, I’ll do it for you.”

He walked over to his truck and pulled a couple of tools out from behind the seat. He removed a long flat thing from my mower in less than 30 seconds. He used something called a bench grinder on his back porch to sharpen it. After he put it back on the mower, he started it up and made a round in my front yard. What a difference it made. There's nothing like the smell of fresh cut weeds in August, especially when someone else is doing the cutting.

He stopped the mower. “What do you think?”

“That’s great. Thanks, Eddy.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a card and handed to me.

I looked at it.

Eddy’s Lawn Mowing and Firewood Deliver Service

You grow it, we mow it.

We cut it, you burn it.

In an effort to pay down the debt he and Darla ran up by taking a Florida vacation on their credit cards, Eddy cuts firewood in the spring and sells it in the fall and winter. Now it appeared he had added a lawn service to make a little extra money during the summer months.

“That’s a pretty fancy business card.” I stuck it in my shirt pocket for reference, in case I ever sold a manuscript and made enough money to hire him to mow my yard.

“It’s was Darla’s idea. She said they’d make me look more professional.”

Eddy and Darla are both twenty-two years old. They got married two months after they graduated from high school. Darla is a teacher’s aid during the school year and a life guard at the city pool during the summer break. She’s taking classes to become a classroom teacher while Eddy works his butt off for his father-in-law down at the Co-Op, but to hear Eddy tell it, Darla’s father doesn’t think he’ll ever amount to much. Eddy’s plan is for Darla to get her college degree first, and then Eddy will go to college and get a degree in agriculture.

In an effort to give him moral support, I said, “You know, I bet Darla’s dad has changed his mind about you.”

He shrugged. “When I showed him my business cards, he said I was a regular entremanure.”

A good romance writer has to know the proper way to pronounce every word in the dictionary. Lucky for me, over the years, I had finally worked my way completely through the es.

“I think he meant entrepreneur.”

“Probably not,” Eddy said. “Darla’s dad thinks I’m full of it, and it’s looking like he always will, no matter how hard I try.”

My neighbor has a good heart and works hard. He deserved better treatment from his father-in-law. I needed to act quick before depression set in. "One day he'll surprise you and tell how lucky he is to have you as a son-in-law."
            He dusted some glass clippings off his leg. "I'm not getting my hopes up."

Eddy is one of my two beta readers. I had finished writing the first three chapters of my latest novel, Tumble Weeds and Dry Lips, my first attempt at writing a western romance novel. Maybe it would be a good time to ask him to read my first draft. I looked at my watch, and then pushed the mower under a tree. 
"It’s Friday and after five. What do you say we go hang out on my back deck and have a cold one."

Eddy nodded. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Right after we opened our first beers, I placed my hand on my young neighbor’s shoulder.

“For what’s it worth, I think you’re top notch.”

He smiled. “Thanks, but I still ain’t reading any of that mushy stuff you write.”

The Women's Annual Floral and Tea Event

You can imagine my surprise when I received an invitation in the mail to speak at the Women’s Annual Floral and Tea Event. Being literally inundated with requests to speak publicly—in my lifetime, I’ve received a total of one and this was it—I jumped at the chance.

I was especially excited to read that four of the women attending had read my newspaper column. Assuming the other women, who would be there had never heard of me, my hope was to increase my fan base by reading an excerpt from my latest attempt at a romance novel, Shipwrecked In A Dry Dock.  

In addition, the invitation specified formal attire. That stirred up visions of attractive women dressed in long beautiful flowing dresses with their eyes focused on me, so I decided to wear a tuxedo.

Then I read the postscript. The Women’s Club was offering to pay up to $50.00 to cover all of my traveling expenses. That changed my vision to one where I'd be speaking at a nursing home where none of the residents had purchased gasoline since 1964 when regular was 24 cents a gallon.

After driving two and half hours, asking for directions twice, I arrived at the address I had been given. The home of Mrs. Lillie Mae Cottingham could have been in the movie Gone With The Wind. When I was escorted to her back yard, I was shocked to see ten round tables draped with pressed white cotton linen table cloths. Eight chairs wrapped with green bows circled each table. Atop each table were fine China plates separated by silver place settings that had been polished so much the sunlight reflected off them like  streaks spewing from from a super nova. A florist could have retired on Martha’s Vineyard from the proceeds he earned from all the flowers displayed on the tables, and around the cobble stone patio.

It didn’t take me long to realize I had not arrived at a nursing home. When I was announced by the young women, Lillie Mae's granddaughter, who escorted me to the back yard, I feared Lillie Mae might have a heart attack when she saw me dressed in a purple claw-hammer tuxedo I wore when I played the character Seefer Settlemyer at the local playhouse theatre, where the entire audience, comprised of eighteen people, gave us a sitting ovation. Instead, the women in her late seventies, welcomed me to her home with a youthful looking smile.

When the time came to give my speech, Lillie Mae introduced me as the young man who wrote the obituary column for The Langley County Weekly Newspaper. She was going way back. In those days, I was sixteen and one of three employees at the antiquated newspaper office. Since no one was dying in those days, at least not in Langley County, I made up fake obituaries. Mr. Morgan, the owner and editor of the weekly newspaper, read one of them and came up with the idea for a column under my name. After the first one was published, circulation of the four page newspaper went up twelve percent, an increase of thirty-eight subscribers. My newspaper career ended at the age of 17, when Mr. Morgan died peacefully in his sleep one night. My column and the only real obituary I ever wrote were buried along with him.

I wish I could say I received a standing ovation for my speech, but the truth is I didn’t. The ladies remained seated and clapped politely. What I did receive was far more meaningful. I was invited to come back, when my book is published, if I promised not to wear that atrocious outfit I had on.   

CELEBRATING THE 4TH OF JULY IN THE HAMPTONS

After Leon and I were placed in charge of the 4^th of July celebration, things went downhill fast. Due to failing health, Wyatt and Eleanor Griffith asked the homeowner’s association to let Leon and me take over the responsibility until someone of high character could be found to replace us.

The Griffiths were both confined to wheelchairs, and Leon and I had been doing all the leg work on the celebration for the previous eight years. Leon and I rolled Wyatt and Eleanor up the ramp and through the front door of their cabin.

“We would like to thank you for that glowing recommendation,” I said.

“We hope to be able to do as good a job as you and Mr. Griffith have done all these years,” Leon added.

Since Mr. Griffith was sound asleep in his wheelchair, Eleanor replied, “It’s the least we could do.”

Leon and I stood at the doorway, preparing to leave when she decided to deliver a parting shot.

“If you two run into anything you can’t handle, Wyatt and I will be right here to guide you.”

Our first order of business was food. We depended upon our residents to cook up a bunch of it for the celebration. As an incentive, the association holds a barbeque contest with prize money for the top three winners of the Barbeque Cook Off Contest. The winners are announced right before the fireworks display begins. On the way back to our cabins, Leon and I agreed to approach last year’s contestants and make sure they were all on board again this year.

But the following day when word spread that Leon and I were in charge of the celebration, things began to get ugly.

“I ain’t participating in the contest,” Eddy said, after I asked him if he was going to cook up another one of his fabulous briskets this year.

Last summer Eddy babied a large brisket in his smoker over night only to come in fourth place, just out of the money. He couldn’t understand how a widow woman, working a minimum wage job, trying to raise four school age kids, could win the 300 dollar first place with hotdogs heated up over an open fire. Especially, when one side of the hotdogs were burned black.

Leon tapped me on the shoulder. “Let me take this. Look here, Eddy, who helped you and Darla with her tuition money?”

“You did.” Eddy looked down.

Leon placed his hand on Eddy’s shoulder. “Don’t take it personal. Everyone loved your brisket and all that praise you received from the residents should have been reward enough.”

Eddy didn’t look convinced, so I decided to give it a go. “That woman is doing everything she can to give her kids a good home, and we felt she could use a little help. Leon and I thought we were doing the right thing last year by giving her that prize money.”

He looked up at us. “When she accepted the award, she said she didn’t know she had even entered the contest. She thought she was just cooking those hotdogs for her kids.”

Leon glanced at me. “That must have been the reason she cried when we handed her that check.”

In an effort to get Eddy back on board, I said, “What if we bring in unbiased judges this year? Judges who will be fair and honest.”

That got his attention. “You mean like real judges who don’t live here.”

Leon and I both nodded.

“Okay then. I’m in.”

With the first crisis solved, Leon and I left Eddy’s house and put our plan into motion.

By the night of July 3^rd, everything was in place. A ton of fireworks, plenty of soft drinks, a little bit of beer for me and Leon, and lots and lots of great food being cooked and prepared by the residents of The Hamptons Lake Estates.

Later that evening, Eddy began smoking a brisket and two pork butts. Leon and I even helped him monitor his smokers during the night. Mainly we drank beer and watched Eddy keep the heat within the correct range.

The next day, the sky was a beautiful bright blue. By midday, the temperature hovered around ninety-three degrees. American Flags were flying all over the place. Tables were set up on the grounds. We brought in fans and placed them around the pavilion, so the older folks could stand the heat. Even Zelda, a ninety-eight-year-old retired psychic, told us we had done a good job. Rumor had it she predicted disaster when she learned Leon and I had been put in charge of this year’s event.

At ten-thirty that night, after the last fireworks were set off, people started cleaning up, and the judges were driven back into town.

Eddy, carrying his first place ribbon in the Barbeque Cook Off Contest, walked up to Leon and me.

“Congratulations, Eddy,” Leon said. “That was the best pork butt I ever ate.”

“Thanks,” Eddy replied, sticking the ribbon in his pocket.

I patted Eddy on the back. “They really liked your barbeque. I’ve never seen judges eat that much food.”

Eddy gazed at me. “You and Leon didn't fool anybody. Those judges you brought in were homeless Vietnam war veterans. They told me they go to the shelter for food.”

Leon stopped picking up empty soda cans from the ground and stood. “Yeah, Eddy. That’s right. We thought they might enjoy celebrating the 4^th with us.”
           Eddy didn't say another word about the judges nor the contest, but stayed to help us clean up.

Four days later, the association received a long letter in the mail. It was from the shelter. The veterans had all hand written an individual thank you to the association for inviting them out for the celebration. At the end of the letter, a note had been added by the shelter administrator. She wanted to give a special thanks to the young man who signed over his first place prize winning check and gave it to her to help buy food for homeless veterans.

THE TREASURE OF BIG ROCK MOUNTAIN

Rumors were flying that a retired bank robber had loot hidden up on Big Rock Mountain.  Leon and I attempted to limit the scope of that rumor to our young neighbors, Eddy and Darla, for obvious reasons. We didn’t want the Feds getting wind of it.

After loading a pick and shovel in the back of Leon’s old 1995 Ford truck, he, I, and Eddy climbed in. Eddy situated himself in the middle of the back seat looking over our shoulders. “Why did you wait so long, before digging up your loot?” Eddy asked when Leon placed the truck in gear.

Leon pressed down on the accelerator causing the rear tire to spit gravel out behind the truck as we pulled away from Eddy’s cabin. “You can’t recover stolen money until the statute-of-limitations runs its course.”

“What’s the statute of limitations?”

Praying that Leon would concentrate on his driving, while I fielded the question, I looked over my shoulder at Eddy.

            “After a certain amount of time, if you haven’t been caught, the district attorney can’t prosecute you for the crime.”

“Oh.”

It didn’t take long to get to Big Rock Mountain, because it borders the lake where the three of us live. Leon pulled the truck over, threw the shifter in park, and switched off the ignition.

“We have to walk the rest of the way,” he said opening his door, before the dust settled.

While Eddy grabbed the pick and shovel from the truck bed, I put on my backpack, which I had filled with bottled water before leaving the cabin. When Leon took off up the mountain, I grabbed the shovel from Eddy and motioned for us to follow him.

For a seventy-two year old man, Leon kept up quite a pace for awhile, but halfway to the top, he and I had sweat pouring off of us like Niagara Falls after a major flood. I didn’t want him nor me to become overheated in the ninety-seven degree heat, so I hollered at Eddy to hold up.

“Let’s take a break.”

“Good idea,” Leon said, wiping his forehead.

We found a rock ledge to sit on and I pulled three bottles of water from my backpack and passed them out.

After finishing off his bottle of water, Leon pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it.  “I better look at my map. Everything looks different since I was up here forty-four years ago.”

Eddy and I peeked over his shoulders. The map was nothing more than a pencil line drawn in the arc of a mountain, more like a giant inverted letter V with an X drawn near the top of the point.

“Spent a lot of time on that map did you, Leon?” Eddy asked. He grinned at me.

“It’s a lot more complicated than it looks. Didn’t want anyone finding the loot while I was in prison.” Leon folded the map back up and said, “Okay, I got it. We need to go up higher.”

Big Rock Mountain is made up of several hundred big rocks jutting out of the ground, twelve thousand or so trees, a bee hive in an old rotted out oak tree we passed on the way up, and at least three deer that scampered off, after we walked up on them. 

Two more bottles of water later, we reached the top of the mountain and were 1200 feet above sea level. Leon swatted at a bug circling his head. “Okay, according to the map, we’re in the right area. Start looking for a big rock with the letter X drawn on it.

Surrounded by approximately two hundred big rocks in the immediate area, Eddy and I stared at Leon. Apparently, we were thinking the same thing. That in forty plus years that letter X might have faded a bit.

“What did you use to write that X?” Eddy asked, shaking his head in disappointment. “After all this time, the chances of it still being visible are nil to none.”

“Permanent chalk,” Leon replied, walking off to our right. “They didn’t have magic markers in my day.”

I glanced at Eddy and gave him a thumbs up, like there was such a thing as permanent chalk back then.

After twenty-two seconds of exhaustive searching, Leon and I gave up and sat down to drink more water. Eddy, being only twenty-two years old and excited at the prospect of finding stolen loot, continued checking every rock in sight like a mountain lion in search of a rabbit.

Thirty-three minutes later, he yelled, “Over here, I found something.”

Leon and I picked up the shovel and pick and hurried over to where Eddy stood waving his arms in the air.

Leon knelt down and studied the rock like a man who had been in prison for twenty odd years, studies the center-fold of Playboy magazine. His face couldn’t have been more than two inches from the rock.

The big rock we were looking for, with an X drawn on it, turned out to be the size of a large shoebox. That permanent chalk must have been good stuff, because the chalk looked like it hadn’t been there more than a day or two. 

“Yep, I think that’s it,” Leon said getting back up on his feet.

Eddy put his hand on Leon’s shoulder. “You sure? You said it was a big rock.”

Leon was not about to back down. “At one time this was a big rock. Being exposed to the elements for over forty years must have taken its toll.”

That statement made it pretty clear to me that Leon had never studied geology. That rock was probably 4 million years old and forty years of wear and tear on a rock is equivalent to the wear and tear you put on a new tire pulling it off the shelf.

Eddy gazed at me and shook his head, before bending down to pick up the rock. Beneath it appeared to be freshly dug dirt. “I think somebody might’ve beat us to it.”

            “Only one way to find out.” I handed the shovel to Eddy.

He hit something right under the surface. Eddy bent down on both knees and finished digging up a jar with his bare hands. He held it up to show us it was full of coins and bills. “How much is in it, Leon?”

“Well, as I remember, the total take was six hundred thirty-four dollars and eighty-seven cents.”

“That’s all,” Eddy asked, his enthusiasm waning.

Leon shrugged. “It was a small bank.”

When we arrived back at Eddy’s cabin to drop him off, Leon handed the jar of money to him and told him to give it to Darla. It was to help pay for her schooling.

Leon and I had gotten word that Darla was trying to become a classroom teacher, but didn’t have enough money to pay for her tuition at the local community college. The amount of cash in the jar happened to be the exact amount she needed for a summer course. Eddy was beside himself and I could have sworn I saw a tear form in one of his eyes. He thanked Leon several times before letting us go on our way, which was two hundred feet farther down the road to Leon’s cabin where he had several cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer in his refrigerator.

We were almost finished with our first PBR when Darla came bounding over like a gazelle on speed. She gave Leon a big hug and kissed him on the cheek. She didn’t thank me nor kiss me on the cheek. I guess Leon had no intentions of telling her that half of that money came out of my pocket.

I did ask her if she would finish reading my latest manuscript and give me some feedback on it. She’d had it over a month. It always amazes me how long it takes my beta readers to finish reading one of my stories. Darla is the better of the two beta reader I have. Eddy has never read more than two pages of anything I’ve written. At least Darla finishes reading a whole story, occasionally. She agreed and said goodbye.

On her way to the door, she stopped and turned around. “Eddy wanted me to tell you that he may not be the brightest star in the sky, but that plastic mayonnaise jar with a use-by date on the bottom was a dead giveaway you were pulling his leg about that being stolen bank loot.”

Leon smiled. “Tell him next time I’ll use old glass jars with leaded caps on ‘em.”

“I’ll tell him.” She went through the door almost skipping.

Leon went to the kitchen and brought back two more PBRs. He handed one to me. It was so cold my hand felt like I had wrapped it around an ice cube tray.

“You sure went to a lot of trouble to give those two a helping hand. I can’t believe you went up that mountain and buried that jar just to play a prank on Eddy. Why didn’t you just give them the money and save us all that sweating and climbing in the heat today?”

Leon pulled out a drawer from the hand-me-down coffee table that was in front of his sofa and flipped it over. On the center of the drawer appeared to be a large envelope taped to the bottom.

“Want to see the real map?”

“Real map?” I asked, raising my eyebrows. “You told me the money you stole from those three banks you robbed was recovered by the authorities.”

“It was for the three bank robberies I was charged with. Once you’re caught and charged, the statute of limitations stops running for those crimes, but it sure don’t for the banks you ain’t charged with robbing.”

“Exactly how many banks did you rob, Leon?”

“Seven and I’m gonna need Eddy’s help for sure to move that big rock. I was strong as an African bull elephant when I was twenty-eight, but the other day when I was up there, I couldn’t budge the darn thing.”

I smiled at him. “When are you thinking about going back after it?”

“November, when it’s a lot cooler, and everybody around here is convinced I’m just an old fool playing games with Eddy.”

THE CASE OF THE WORST-CASE SCENARIO

After watching the ten o’clock news from a barstool, Jack knew he wouldn’t be going back to his office anytime soon. All that was left of Jack Farber’s Private Investigation Agency were pipes sticking up from the foundation and half of a toilet.

          He auto dialed his ex-partner’s number. She owed him big time; he still carried the bullet with her name on it and the scar to prove it.

“Detective Darnell,” Maggie said, sounding on edge.

“Hello, Maggie. It’s Jack.”

"Where in the hell are you? There’s an APB out on you.”

He traced his finger along the sticky bar. "Some stinking dive called The Bloody Bucket."

"Good God, what are you doing in that death trap? If you don't have a gun when you walk in, management issues you one."

"I brought my own."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"What’d they find in the rubble?"

"Fire investigators found two suspicious items: a pipe wrench lying next to a natural gas line and the charred remains of a mannequin."

"That's it?"

"What's up with the mannequin? Are you pulling our chain?"

He suspected the telephone call he’d received earlier in the day was a set up. Pulling the shades down, leaving a lamp on, and staging the dummy in his chair with its head down on the desk had worked. The threat was serious all right, and he had made a mistake that nearly cost him his life. He knew he was lucky to be alive. He pressed harder on his chest trying to keep the blood flow to a trickle.

"No. Just trying to stay alive," he replied, pressing harder on the chest wound.

A man sitting a couple of bar stools over from him looked down at the floor. "Hey, man. You're leaking blood."
      "Mind your own business,” Jack said, getting the Bartender’s attention. He pointed toward the man. “Give him a drink and put it on my tab."

The bartender poured the patron another shot. “Must be your lucky day.”

The man nodded, before downing the free drink.

“Maggie, are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m still here. Where were you when the fireworks started?"

"In the alley behind the place. A little too close. I expected a shooter, not a bomber."

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. I got a call earlier today. A man offered me five grand in cash to drop the Hamilton case. He said he'd meet me alone in my office at nine tonight."

"That's a dead end case and you know it."

"The widow Hamilton begged me to keep working it. Besides, she's got plenty of money, and who am I to turn down a case that pays the bills.

“I wasn’t being critical. I was stating a fact.” There was a long pause. “I heard you’re doing all right.”

“If things get any better, I don’t think I could stand it.”

“You know what I meant. It ripped my heart out when they took your badge.”

“Thanks for your help. Fourteen years on the force gone to hell.”

“I thought I was saving your life. You’d still be on the force if you hadn’t told the psychiatrist where he could put his therapy sessions.”

“I’ve got a better one for you. I’d still be on the force if your machine hadn’t cut off the rest of my message,” Jack said, looking at the glass of bourbon he had ordered.

“Damn you, Jack. Tell me you’re kidding!”

“If you'd gotten the whole message, you would have known I was waiting for you at The All Nite Coffee Shop. Waiting for the one person I thought I could trust with my life. The next thing I know I’m told I’m suicidal and not fit for duty.”

“Are you coming in, or are you going to make us come after you?"

After hearing the troubled tone of her voice, Jack decided not to tell her the reason he had kept that information to himself until now.

"Right after I make a phone call," he replied. "You can call off that APB.”

"You're not coming in are you?"

He had no intentions of turning himself into the police, He closed his phone and looked at his watch.  He auto dialed his secretary's number.

"Hello," she said,in a barely audible voice.

“Did I wake you?”

“No, I was just resting my eyes. Of course you woke me. Why are you calling me at this hour of the night?”

"What does my lease agreement say about building repairs?"

"Have you been drinking?"

"Not tonight, kid." He pushed the untouched glass of bourbon away from him.

"The landlord has a maximum of thirty days to fix any problem with the building."

“In that case, you better work out of your apartment for the next thirty days.”

“Why?”

“There's a natural gas leak at the office and with your sniffer, you'd complain about it before you even walked in the doorway.”

“What am I suppose to do from my apartment?”

“The same things you do at the office: paint your nails, make personal phone calls, and watch game shows.”

“Get real. I have my nails done at Phoebe’s Nail Salon, like you would ever notice. Where are you going to be?”

“I’m going to be incognito.”

“What state is that in?”

“That's a good one, Denise. I’ll get in touch, if I need you."

"Wait. Does this have anything to do with why you sent me home early today?"

"Yeah."

"Be careful."

"You can bet on it."

Seconds later, the first loud boom rattled the walls and shattered every piece of glass in the joint. Four people, at a table behind him, hit the floor. In the process of scrambling behind the bar, he opened his chest wound. Hunkered down, he placed his left hand over the wound and his right hand on his Sig Sauer automatic. The second boom was louder than the first one and resulted in hunk of metal flying through the window. Cheap Vodka and rot-gut Bourbon rained down on him when the projectile smashed six bottles of booze stacked up behind the bar. He recognized the side view mirror of his old Ford sedan when it came to rest beside him. It was time to go with Plan B.

#

Maggie looked across the street at her partner.

“Let’s go, Dan, code five."

He dumped two cups of coffee on the sidewalk and ran back to the cruiser. He slid behind the wheel and stared at her. “Where?”

“The Bloody Bucket.”

“Another shooting?”

“No, we’re picking up Jack Farber.”

Eight seconds later and a half block down the street, Dan asked, “Who gave you the tip he’s at the bar?”

“He called me.”

Dan glanced at the radio. Are you going to call it in?”

“No.”

“I heard you two were a good team.” He took a hard left and put the pedal down again when the car straightened out. “Too bad about his wife and daughter, that would bring any man to his knees.”

“Shut up and drive,” she said, staring out the window.

The cruiser’s radio came alive. EMS and fire units were in route to The Bloody Bucket. All police units in the area were ordered to respond. Maggie shook her head and mumbled, “Damn it.”

       When they arrived at the bar, Jack was gone. He’d left behind a trail of blood that led out the back door of the bar and a note he told the bartender to give to Detective Darnell.

Whatever happens, we’re even.
                   Jack

She looked at the stained napkin in her hand. Why had he left her the same message she had interpreted as a suicide message twenty-two months earlier, unless, it was to tell her, and her only, where she could find him, The All Nite Coffee Shop.

“Dan, you stay here. I’m taking the cruiser,” she said on her way to the door.

He shook his head. “That’s against procedure.”

“Stick procedure.”

#

I felt someone shaking me.

“What are you doing on the floor? Is it your chest?”

I opened my eyes and found Eddy hovering over me, dialing 911 on speaker phone.

“You’ve reached a 911 operator. What is your emergency?”

I grabbed the phone from his hand and put it to my face. “Sorry, wrong number.”

I handed the phone back to him. “I’m okay. Must have fallen asleep and rolled off the lounger.”

“Man, I thought you were having a heart attack, Eddy said, taking the phone back.”

Using my right knee and his hand for balance, I rose and sat in one the four Adirondack chairs on our back deck overlooking the lake.

 “Thanks,” I said looking at the cooler he had brought over and set between two of the chairs.

One Friday night of each month, My neighbor, Eddy and I get together and drink beer while we stare out at the water. He and his wife, Darla are my beta readers, although Eddy has yet to read more than the first couple of pages of one of my romance novels. He considers himself a man's man, rough and tough and doesn't read romance novels.

He eased into the chair next to mine and pulled two beers from the cooler. “How come you to fall off the lounger?”

“I was dreaming about a man and a woman.”

He rolled his eyes. “That must have been one wild dream. So why did you have your hand on your chest?”

Something about the grin on his face told me he thought the dream might have been the kind young men have. “Bomb blast.” I said, taking one of the beers from him.
Two birds flew overhead and landed in a tree to off to our right.
I leaned back in the chair and stretched my legs out. "Hey, Eddy, if I write an old fashioned private eye story, would you read all of it?

"Only if it doesn't have any mushy romance talk in it."

I unscrewed the top from the bottle of Samuel Adams beer and took a drink of the cold tantalizing liquid, and then lowered it, gazed at him, and smiled.

"Deal."

WATER AND WILD FLOWERS

I called her hotel room to confirm my meeting with Miss Prettywell, the Editor-in-Chief of Rose Petal Romance Publishing. Although she had rejected my pitch last fall, she offered to give me another chance at the upcoming Romance Writers Conference, but only if I would write a story that fit their romance criteria. The main characters had to be attractive, sexy, and at least somewhat likeable. All of which I thought to be reasonable on her part.

Although my first romance novel, Sir Truckalot And The Obese Maiden had gone over like a circus fat lady in a pole vaulting contest, I felt pretty good about my latest attempt at writing romance.

At 7:30 AM on the first full day of the conference, Miss Prettywell was already seated in a booth in the hotel restaurant, when I approached her holding a printout of my synopsis.

“Good morning, Miss Prettywell.”

She nodded and pointed to the empty seat across the table from her.

 I slid into the booth with the ease of butter on hot toast. The unwashed new pair of slacks I was wearing still had that slick feel to them.“Thank you for agreeing to meet me for breakfast.”

“I couldn’t turn down the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.” She smiled.

She must have noticed I knitted my brow, because she quickly added, “Having breakfast while listening to your pitch.”

“Oh.” A huge wave of relief rippled over me. For a brief moment, I thought one of her intentions might have been to kill my dream of becoming a best-selling romance author.

A waiter came to the table to take our orders. Being the gentleman I am, I took the initiative and ordered for both of us. “A bowl of fruit for the lady, and a stack of pancakes for me.” I had done my research. In a blog post she had written while in Paris, she had written she preferred to have fruit for breakfast, after reading the menu.

Miss Prettywell looked up at the waiter. “I’ll also have two eggs scrambled with toast.”

In all of my excitement about getting a second chance, I had forgotten we were in Oklahoma, not exactly the same as Paris. “So sorry.”

She waved off my comment as if no harm had been done.

Timing is everything in a pitch session so I decided to make my move.

“While we’re waiting for our food, could I interest you in reading my synopsis?” 

“Why not?” she replied with a smile that would corrupt most clergymen’s thoughts.

I pushed my twelve page synopsis across the table.

After glancing at the first page, she jerked her head up. “Water and Wild Flowers, now that is an interesting title?”

When readers are considering buying a romance novel, the title is the second most important selling factor. The most important thing, of course, is to have is a couple of half naked people on the cover.

“I thought you might like it.” I leaned back, confident I’d gotten off to a good start.

I held my breath waiting for her to get to the subtitle.”

“Love flourishes like weeds on the roadside of an interstate highway.” She stared at the sheet of paper. “Now that makes me want to dive right in.” 

Trying to contain my excitement, I said, “That’s exactly the same thing Darla said.”

“Who is Darla?”

“My neighbor, she’s one of my beta readers. Her husband, Eddy is the other one.”

One of her eyebrows ticked up a notch, before she rubbed her temples with both hands. “I take it your neighbors read your manuscript?”

When pitching to an agent or an editor, honesty is always the best policy.

“Eddy only read most of the first page, but he told me if I added a shoot out, a train derailment, and a couple of explosions, he’d finish reading the whole manuscript.”

“Your neighbor reminds me of one of my editors, Colt Johnson. He worked for a western publishing house, before he joined us at Rose Petal Romance. We nicknamed him Tombstone, because he’s buried so many writers’ dreams.”

        The waiter poured two glasses of water. “Your food will be out shortly.”
        I needed to hurry up and finish my pitch before the food arrived. It would be extremely rude to expect Miss Prettywell to continue reading while her eggs got cold. Had she struck with only the fruit bowl I wouldn’t have felt the need to rush her.

“My story is not a western romance, but I did take your advice and made both the hero and heroine attractive people. They live on a lake surrounded by a few wild flowers, but mostly weeds.” 

In any romance novel, a romantic setting is a must have. According to Eddy, you can’t get more romantic than water and wild flowers.

She appeared to read a few more lines.

“Your heroine’s name is Candy Cleavage?”

The frown on her face spelled trouble. So much for Eddy’s input on the names for the main characters. I needed to think fast. “Of course not, I use temporary names in my drafts. The actual name of the heroine is Farla Kay Smith.” It was the first thing that came to me.

She dropped the page. “Well that makes all the difference in the world. I love it.” She pulled a business card from her purse and pushed it across the table.
“Please send the complete manuscript to this address?”

After years of being a struggling writer, I had finally received a request for a full manuscript. My heart felt like a balloon tied a Helium tank with the valve turned wide open.

The waiter approached our table carrying our breakfast orders. I grabbed the card from the table and stuck it in my shirt pocket, before he placed my plate down on top of it.

The smell of hot pancakes permeated the air. I was starving and couldn’t wait to get my hands on the maple syrup and a fork.

Miss Prettywell glanced at her watch. “Breakfast has been lovely. Unfortunately, I have to run.” She stood.

I jumped to my feet. “But you haven’t eaten.”

“That’s the downside of the publishing business. One minute you have an appetite and the next minute you don’t. But please go ahead. I need to run up to my room and get ready for my first session. I was told the turnout for the conference is expected to be an all-time record.”

Admiring both her work ethic and red high-heel shoes, I watched her walk away in what could only be described as the most ladylike fast pace I’d ever seen.

In celebration of my triumph, I poured half a bottle of syrup on my stack of pancakes. I took two bites, and then remembered my wife was waiting on pins and needles. I pulled my cell phone out dialed her number.

“Hi, Honey, great news, I just got my first request for a full…yeah, I’m pretty excited about it. Would you place a copy of my manuscript in the mail today? Thanks.”

When you get a request for a full, it’s best not to delay.

“Wait. Let me give you the mailing address.”

I pulled the card from my shirt pocket and read it.

Colt Johnson, P.O. Box 3D, Deadwood, South Dakota

“Better hold up on that mailing. Looks Like I’m going to need to add a shoot out, a train derailment, and a couple of explosions.