Charles A. Ray's Posts - CrimeSpace2024-03-28T13:39:53ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARayhttp://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/60996140?profile=RESIZE_48X48&width=48&height=48&crop=1%3A1http://crimespace.ning.com/profiles/blog/feed?user=26f9gnomlahmn&xn_auth=noNew mystery series honors seniorstag:crimespace.ning.com,2015-11-01:537324:BlogPost:4107082015-11-01T13:17:37.000ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARay
<p>Just launched a new mystery series, the Ed Lazenby Mysteries. This is a cozy mystery series, featuring amateur detectives, Ed Lazenby and Ernesto Cardoza, residents of a retirement community who can't resist sticking their noses into police matters. In the first book of the series, 'Butterfly Effect,' Ed and Ernesto set out to rescue a neighbor who is kidnapped. The book will soon be available on Amazon and other sites in paperback and for Kindle. If you want it early, though, you can get a…</p>
<p>Just launched a new mystery series, the Ed Lazenby Mysteries. This is a cozy mystery series, featuring amateur detectives, Ed Lazenby and Ernesto Cardoza, residents of a retirement community who can't resist sticking their noses into police matters. In the first book of the series, 'Butterfly Effect,' Ed and Ernesto set out to rescue a neighbor who is kidnapped. The book will soon be available on Amazon and other sites in paperback and for Kindle. If you want it early, though, you can get a paperback copy at <a href="https://www.createspace.com/5836746">https://www.createspace.com/5836746</a></p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/70765293?profile=original" target="_self"><img src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/70765293?profile=original" width="160" class="align-center"/></a></p>
<p></p>WIP: First chapter of new Al Pennyback novel, 'Deadbeat'tag:crimespace.ning.com,2014-06-23:537324:BlogPost:3925562014-06-23T01:51:55.000ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARay
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/70764756?profile=original" target="_self"><img class="align-left" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/70764756?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750"></img></a></p>
<p> A man always takes full responsibility for his actions. That’s what Uncle Buddy used to say to us boys who hung around him all the time. Uncle Buddy was something of an enigma. He never told us where he came from, but from the way he talked we knew he wasn’t from East Texas. He didn’t have that slow, sugary drawl that everyone else had, and he spoke at a faster…</p>
<p><a href="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/70764756?profile=original" target="_self"><img width="750" src="http://storage.ning.com/topology/rest/1.0/file/get/70764756?profile=RESIZE_1024x1024" width="750" class="align-left"/></a></p>
<p> A man always takes full responsibility for his actions. That’s what Uncle Buddy used to say to us boys who hung around him all the time. Uncle Buddy was something of an enigma. He never told us where he came from, but from the way he talked we knew he wasn’t from East Texas. He didn’t have that slow, sugary drawl that everyone else had, and he spoke at a faster clip. But, he knew how to bait a hook, could shoot hickory nuts out of the tree from fifty yards, and knew more stories than an adolescent boy from a small farm town ever knew existed. My buddies and I hung around him, and our parents didn’t mind, because they knew he always taught us to be responsible, and would conk or thump our noggins with his calloused index finger whenever he caught us misbehaving. This was in the 1950s before corporal punishment became taboo, and when any adult was considered responsible for any child within his or her reach.</p>
<p> Uncle Buddy wasn’t really my uncle, and his name wasn’t Buddy. I didn’t know that, of course, until just before I graduated from high school. He died that year. Just went to bed in the little two room shack that he’d built himself, and never woke up. One of his neighbors found the body when the place started to stink.</p>
<p> They had a big funeral for him. Every black person in town came, and even a few of the white farmers for whom he occasionally did odd jobs came and sat in the back of the little white frame church that was filled to capacity.</p>
<p> I remember it vividly because it was in early April, and it had already started to get hot – not hot like it gets in the summer, but hot enough that sitting in a packed building with nothing but little paper fans flapping ineffectually and moving the warm around that you’re soaking wet pretty quick. I also remember it because that was the day I discovered who Uncle Buddy really was.</p>
<p> His real name was Oscar Perlmutter. They had it printed in real fancy letters on the mimeographed program that was handed out to everyone as they entered the church. That day, sitting in a middle pew in that hot church, I finally learned his name. The program also had a blurry picture of him as a much younger man wearing a military uniform. Back home after the service, when I asked my dad about it, he told me what he knew. Oscar had originally come from St. Louis, Missouri, where he’d lived since coming home from World War II. He’d originally come from a little town in Oregon, but while in a military hospital recovering from wounds he’d sustained driving supplies across Germany for Patton’s Third Army, he’d met a black nurse, one of the few in England at the time, and when he was demobilized, he followed her to St. Louis. My dad didn’t know her name. He said Oscar would never speak it, and looked pained whenever he talked about her, which was seldom. I know he never told us kids.</p>
<p> He’d planned to marry her, though. That much he did tell my dad. He also told him why they never wed. A week before the wedding, his fiancée was coming home from the black hospital where she worked. She’d had the night shift in the ER. As she was crossing the street a block from the apartment they shared, a driver came careening around the corner in a pickup truck. She was knocked twenty feet. The paramedics pronounced her dead at the scene. The pickup driver drove away, but not before Oscar, who had been attracted by the sound of screaming - the other pedestrians who had witnessed the accident – came out of the apartment just as the truck was speeding away. He got a good look at the driver, a middle aged white man in a plaid shirt and overalls, with a frightened look on his sunburned face. He also got a good look at the vehicle’s plate number.</p>
<p> It took him a week, but he eventually found a janitor who worked nights in the Department of Motor Vehicles. The man let him in one night, and he broke into the records section and spent half the night going through filing cabinets until he found the man’s name and address. The next night he paid the man a visit. He was a farmer who lived alone on a small farm just outside the city, so it was an easy matter for Oscar to break a window in the kitchen of the run down frame house, enter and catch the man unawares in his bed. At first, he tried to put up a fight, but Oscar had thirty pounds and a lot of anger on him. He beat the man until he wasn’t moving, and left him lying still and bleeding on his bedroom floor.</p>
<p> Knowing it would just be a matter of time until the police identified him, and thinking he’d killed the man, Oscar went back to his apartment, packed what he could carry in his old army duffel bag, and hit the road. He hitchhiked and walked until he crossed the Red River and entered the back country of East Texas, an area of small towns, farms and oil derricks, crisscrossed by two lane blacktop roads and red clay dirt roads, with more dogs and wildlife than people, where people would nod and say hello, but wouldn’t engage a stranger in conversation if he didn’t want.</p>
<p> That was all I knew about Uncle Buddy aka Oscar Perlmutter. But, for reasons I could never explain, in April sometimes memories of him would pop into my mind. Maybe it was the heat. Warm weather had come early to Washington, DC, and the air conditioner in my office was straining to cool the lukewarm air. My shirt had dark half-moon stains at the armpits from sweat. It wasn’t exactly uncomfortable to me, but I knew that Heather Bunche, my assistant and partner, was sitting at her desk flapping a paper fan for all it was worth. The woman hates to sweat.</p>
<p> I suppose you’re wondering who the heck I am, right? My name is Al Pennyback – actually Alfred Einstein Pennyback, thanks to a mother who was a great fan of the German scientist, and who lived in a culture where giving your kids wacky names was all too common. By the time I was in junior high, though, no one called me Alfred Einstein. I’d become pretty good with my fists, and was big for my age, so from eighth grade, I was just Al Pennyback.</p>
<p> I’m a private investigator. Have been for more than a decade, ever since I retired from the army after my wife, Sarah, and my son, Ethan, were killed, along with the members of Ethan’s elementary school soccer team, by a truck driver who ran a stop sign and T-boned the van Sarah was driving, bringing them back from an evening soccer match in Arlington.</p>
<p> That put me in a funk for a while, but my friend Quincy Chang, a former army JAG lawyer, now a partner in a DC law firm, talked me into getting my PI license and set me up with a ten thousand buck a month retainer from his firm. The work for the firm is easy – chasing clients who fail to pay their fees, or locating lost heirs to obscure fortunes – leaving me time to take the occasional over the transom case.</p>
<p> Many of these cases are brought in by Heather. She collects people with problems the way a black dress collects lint. We charge a variable rate depending on the client’s ability to pay – and from time to time even take a case pro bono. The main criteria for me to accept the case, besides the person really needing help, is that it has to involve a puzzle. The harder the better. I can never resist a puzzle. Like some people who can’t ignore a ringing phone, I can’t ignore an unsolved puzzle.</p>
<p> My mind was moving on from Uncle Buddy to my plans for the weekend when Heather walked into my office.</p>
<p> “Hey, honey bunch,” I said, using the pet name she wouldn’t let anyone else but me use. “What’s up? Tired of sweating out there, and want to join me in here where it’s cooler?”</p>
<p> That was meant to be a joke. My office is on the west side of the building, and it was three in the afternoon, so even with the blinds almost closed, it resembled a sauna or a steam bath – I could never decide which. She didn’t laugh. She hardly ever laughs at my jokes.</p>
<p> “There’s someone here who needs to talk to you,” she said. “She wants to hire you.”</p>
<p> I gave her one of my ‘right eyebrow’ lifted looks – the one meant to convey skepticism. She ignored that just like she ignores my jokes. She was being unreadable.</p>
<p> “Heather, you know we don’t do divorce cases.”</p>
<p> “Did I say it was a divorce case?” Now, her eyebrows were arched upward. “No one said anything about a divorce case.”</p>
<p> Methinks she did protest too much. There had to be something fishy about it. I have a sense about such things. On the other hand, I had made an assumption and jumped to a conclusion with no evidence to support it, something I’d often told Heather a good investigator never does.</p>
<p> “Okay, I stand chastised,” I said. “Who is she, and what does she want to hire me for?”</p>
<p> “I think I should let her tell you that,” Heather said. She stepped aside, pushing the door open wider.</p>
<p> A woman who was almost my six-one in height, with close-cropped, jet black hair framing a cocoa-colored oval face which was dominated by a pair of the largest, darkest, and most soulful eyes I’d ever seen glided in. She was wearing a shimmery blue blouse that clung to a pair of perfect breasts that from the sway weren’t encumbered by a bra, and a matching blue skirt that stopped midway down a pair of smooth brown thighs that would cause the temperature in a meat locker to rise.</p>
<p> I stood and moved to the side of my desk, extending my hand. She grasped it with a grip that was smooth, dry, warm, and firm. Her eyes locked with mine.</p>
<p> “Mr. Pennyback, I have a problem, and Heather says you’re the man to help me solve it,” she said in a voice that was smoky and husky like an aged scotch whiskey.</p>
<p> “I have been known to solve problems,” I said. “Why don’t you have a seat and tell me what it is.”</p>
<p> I motioned for Heather to leave. Not that I needed – or wanted – to be alone with such a beautiful woman. I have all the woman I need in Sandra Winter, who has been living with me for a few years now. But, three people in my tiny office would raise the temperature to an uncomfortable level until the building air conditioning system resumed working. Besides, I only have two chairs – a scuffed leather executive chair I got at a military surplus auction that I sit in, and a wooden chair that I keep beside the desk, which I mostly use to keep files off the desk itself. It was empty. We hadn’t had much to work on for a while.</p>
<p> Heather gave me a smirk and withdrew to the outer office, closing the door as she left.</p>
<p> “I suppose I should start by telling you my name,” she said. “Candace, Candace Kaine. I work as a sales clerk at Marshalls, downtown in the National Press Building.”</p>
<p> “A pleasure meeting you, Ms. Kaine. Now, tell me your problem.”</p>
<p> “Call me Candy,” she said.</p>
<p> I held back a laugh. Candy Kaine! She did look sweet, though. “Okay, Candy,” I said. “How can I help you?”</p>
<p> “I want you to find someone for me.”</p>
<p> A missing person. That was what I did for Holcombe, Stein and Chang. Unless the person had left the country, it didn’t sound too complicated.</p>
<p> “Who is this missing person, and how long has he . . . or she . . . been missing?”</p>
<p> “<i>He</i> has been gone for three weeks now,” she said. “His name is Christopher Cross, and he’s my baby’s father.”</p>First Chapter of "Deadly Intentions," a new Al Pennyback Mysterytag:crimespace.ning.com,2011-11-06:537324:BlogPost:3213842011-11-06T07:06:52.000ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARay
<p align="center" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333399;"><strong>The following excerpt is the first chapter of an upcoming Al Pennyback mystery, <em>Deadly Intentions,</em> which will be published soon. Reader comments are welcome. Check my other titles at <a href="http://charlesaray.blogspot.com/">http://charlesaray.blogspot.com/</a></strong></span></p>
<p align="center" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333399;"><strong> …</strong></span></p>
<p align="center" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333399;"><strong>The following excerpt is the first chapter of an upcoming Al Pennyback mystery, <em>Deadly Intentions,</em> which will be published soon. Reader comments are welcome. Check my other titles at <a href="http://charlesaray.blogspot.com/">http://charlesaray.blogspot.com/</a></strong></span></p>
<p align="center" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333399;"><strong> </strong></span></p>
<p align="center" style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p align="center"> </p>
<p align="center"> </p>
<p align="center"> </p>
<p> My friends Buster and Lum and I had managed to slip away from the ladies and had made our way to a cabin near a lake in the hills for a little fishing.</p>
<p> Buster is Buster Mayweather, a detective first class with the District of Colombia Metropolitan Police, reassigned from homicide to the gang task force. A former college football player, Buster is over six feet, two hundred twenty pounds, and the way he keeps his head shaven, has that angry black man look that helps him survive the dog-eat-dog world of the streets of the District where the gangs hold sway. I met Buster when he came to my house with two uniformed cops to tell me that my wife and son had been killed in an auto accident. I was thrown into turmoil by the news, and he’d stayed with me until I came to my senses. That night, sitting together in the morgue in northern Virginia, we’d formed a bond that only became stronger with each passing year.<i> </i></p>
<p> Lum is Lum Kellum, sheriff of the West Virginia town of Middleboro. Buster and I’d met Lum when my girlfriend Sandra Winter and Buster’s wife Alma had been kidnapped by America for True Americans, a dumbass militia group that had once operated in the hills near town. He’d been instrumental in helping dismantle the group, and the three of us had been friends since. About five-eleven and portly, with fringes of brown hair on either side of a bald spot that extended from his brows to the back of his head, he looked older than his forty five years. He had faded blue eyes that had a tendency to look somewhat vacant and unfocused, and gave him the look of one of those yokel sheriffs of some backwater town you see on TV, and if you thought that you’d be fooled, because he had a sharp mind and a nearly photographic memory.</p>
<p> As for me, my name is Al Pennyback; Alfred Einstein Pennyback on my birth certificate; and, I’m a six-one, two hundred pound former Army Special Forces officer who became a private detective in Washington when I left the army after my family was killed. The people who know me well enough to know my full name, also know better than to call me anything other than Al, or Mister Pennyback if I’ve just met them; I was raised to be formal with strangers and am uncomfortable with people who start calling you by your first name as soon as they meet you. During twenty years in the army, I earned black belts in Taekwondo, Karate, and Jujitsu, and proficiency with more weapons than you could ever imagine. A botched operation in the Middle East that resulted in some innocent people being killed soured me on firearms and despite the popular image of the pistol-packing PI you see in the movies, I don’t carry or even own a gun.</p>
<p> We were sitting on a rickety wooden dock built out over the small lake in the hills above the town; had, in fact, been sitting there since sunrise, and it was just after nine in the morning. It was early March, and there was still a bit of a nip in the air. The morning mist off the surface of the lake was just clearing. We sat with our legs hanging over the edge of the dock, our feet just inches from the crystal blue water which shimmered in the morning sunlight. We hadn’t caught anything, but that hadn’t really been the objective of our fishing safari. We just wanted to get away for some male-bonding time. A cooler full of crushed ice, ham and cheese sandwiches and several cans of a local beer, Iron Mill, sat behind us, the lid ajar. We’d eaten half the sandwiches that Lum’s wife, Mary Ellen, who was also Middleboro’s mayor, had made for us, and the beer was about gone.</p>
<p> “Now, this is what life is all about,” Lum said, leaning back and fishing another can of beer from the cooler. He popped the tab and took a sip, smacking his lips, then leaned his head back and drained almost half the can. “Cold beer, and just sittin’ here fishing with friends; shucks, it don’t get no better than this.”</p>
<p> Buster took a sip of his beer. “Yeah, I guess I gotta agree with you,” he said. “I ain’t never been much for all this outdoor shit, but I gotta admit, this ain’t half bad. What about you, Al? You ain’t hardly said a word all morning.”</p>
<p> “When you’re with friends in a great environment,” I said. “There’s not really much need to say anything. It’s great just being able to sit here and not have to worry about having to deal with some scum bag who is trying to duck out on paying his bills.”</p>
<p> “Yeah, I guess you got a point,” he said. “It is kinda nice not having to worry about some gang banger trying to shiv me.” He turned to Lum. “Now, you got the perfect job. Bein’ sheriff of Mayberry here, all you got to worry about is some teenager joyriding in his daddy’s car, or the occasional lost cow.”</p>
<p> “Don’t forget,” I said. “He had that militia group up here.”</p>
<p> “Yeah, but we helped him get rid of that bunch of redneck fools,” Buster said.</p>
<p> Lum chuckled. “You fellas from the city think it’s all milk and honey out here in the sticks,” he said. ‘Well, now it is true we don’t have all the hustles and scams you have in the city, but if you think it’s all peace and quiet, I invite you to ride along with me for a week.”</p>
<p> “Aw, come on, man,” Buster said. “With that militia gone, what kinda crime you got up here in Middleboro?”</p>
<p> “You think down in the city’s the only place you gotta deal with a kid whacked out on crack or PCP?” Buster nodded in sympathy. “We get lots of break-ins,” Lum continued. “Mostly them same doped up kids trying to get money to buy the shit. Now and then, some wife gets tired of her husband coming home drunk and she conks him in the head with a skillet. Now, I know that don’t seem like much, but I’m a one-man office, and I gotta deal with it all myself.”</p>
<p> “Okay,” Buster said. “I admit, you ain’t got it all that easy either. Law enforcement is stressful even here in Mayberry. At least you ain’t gotta deal with a bunch of wanna be soldiers running ‘round scaring folks.”</p>
<p> “Well, now that you mention it,” Lum said. “I still got that problem.”</p>
<p> “I thought that group broke up when their leader died and the rest went to jail,” I said.</p>
<p> “Oh, it ain’t that America for True Americans bunch,” he said. “They were at least a bunch of local boys. No, a new group took over their property. Bunch of outsiders call themselves the True American Patriot Society. Can you believe it? TAPS, these guys got no imagination at all.”</p>
<p> “What is this bunch up to?” I asked.</p>
<p> “That’s my problem,” he said. “Like I said, they ain’t local, so there’s nobody to talk to like the ones before. All I know is the leader is some guy named Robert ‘Stonewall’ Jackson; can you believe it? He’s in a wheelchair and got a bunch of tough looking women as bodyguards; kinda like that crazy Arab guy. Hardly ever comes into town, and when they do, they never talk to nobody, and them women don’t let nobody get close to their boss.”</p>
<p> “Maybe it’s one of them cult outfits,” Buster said. “You know, some dude up in the hills with twenty or thirty wives.”</p>
<p> “I don’t think so,” Lum said. “These women don’t look like sex objects to me. They look tough and mean as snakes. I wouldn’t want to tangle with one of them, and he always travels with four of them.”</p>
<p> “So, they haven’t actually done anything?” I asked.</p>
<p> “No,” he replied. “And, that’s what worries me about them. It’s just a feeling I have about ‘em, you know. I know they’re up to somethin’, but, I don’t know what. Kinda like waiting for the other shoe to drop.”</p>
<p> “I know that feeling,” Buster said. “I don’t envy you having something like that on your doorstep. ‘Least, you ain’t havin’ to deal with dead bodies.”</p>
<p> “Not, yet, thank God,” Lum said. </p>
<p> Just then, the thrum of a car’s engine broke the morning quiet. We turned and could see a late model sedan, blue with white racing stripes, coming up the winding dirt road, kicking up a wake of dust as the driver tried to keep it in the ruts in the center.</p>
<p> “Who else would be coming up here this time on a Saturday morning?” Buster asked.</p>
<p> “I recognize that car,” Lum said. “That’s Bo Park; he’s a Korean real estate broker and lawyer. He and his brother were among the first Koreans to move up here. I think they came up from DC. Bought up a lot of vacant property and a lot of others came up after him. His brother Leonard runs most of the dry cleaning in the county. I never known him to cotton much to being outside town.”</p>
<p> “I don’t remember seeing any Koreas here,” Buster said.</p>
<p> “Oh, there weren’t any when you guys were up here before,” he said. “They’ve all arrived in the last six months or so. They pretty much stay to themselves. Built a little community on land the Parks bought. Even put up Korean signs. There’s been a little friction with the black community, especially since Cal Wilson, the leading black businessman in town, used to do all the dry cleaning, and they drove him out of business, but they sort of get along with everyone else.”</p>
<p> The car came to a halt near the little cabin, and when the dust settled, a figure emerged. Medium height, small build, the Korean man wore a dark blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. He dusted at the shoulder of his suit. He looked over to where we sitting and started our way. As he neared, I could see a scowl of anger on his face. He walked the ten feet out onto the dock and stopped facing down at Lum.</p>
<p> “Sheriff Kellum,” he said with only traces of an accent. “I went to your house looking for you. Your wife told me you were out here.”</p>
<p> Lum stood up and dusted off his trousers. “Yeah, Bo,” he said. “Me and my friends decided to do a little fishing. What causes you to be looking for me on a Saturday morning?”</p>
<p> “I must report a crime,” he said. “Someone kill my brother.”</p>A Good Mystery Doesn't Always Have to Have a Crimetag:crimespace.ning.com,2011-09-07:537324:BlogPost:3136492011-09-07T12:31:20.000ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARay
<p>I've been busy adding to the Al Pennyback series, and in those I follow the rules of mystery writing; a crime, a criminal and victim, lots of clues, and a protoganist who faces long odds but prevails in the end. A good mystery story, though, doesn't always have to be about a crime. In my latest short story, <em><a href="http://www.fictionwritersplatform.net/2011/08/sour-note/" target="_blank">Sour Note</a>,</em> a continuation of a series of stories about Louis Dumkowski, a born loser who…</p>
<p>I've been busy adding to the Al Pennyback series, and in those I follow the rules of mystery writing; a crime, a criminal and victim, lots of clues, and a protoganist who faces long odds but prevails in the end. A good mystery story, though, doesn't always have to be about a crime. In my latest short story, <em><a target="_blank" href="http://www.fictionwritersplatform.net/2011/08/sour-note/">Sour Note</a>,</em> a continuation of a series of stories about Louis Dumkowski, a born loser who finally wins in the end - or at least seems to be winning - I offered a mystery that was a crime; a missing hundred dollar bill. In a relatively short space of time, I inserted a bit of humor and local color; further developed the main characters, Louis and his best friend Cleatus Washington; gave a little background to give first time readers a sense of where they were coming from, and then at the very end, solved the mystery.</p>
<p>It was an exercise of my writing muscles; short fiction is a lot harder than novel length works; and a continuation of a series of short stories that I've come to love and that have garnered a few loyal readers if the comments I get are any guide. In addition, it won an Editor's Choice Award from <a target="_blank" href="http://www.fictionwritersplatform.net/">Fiction Writers Platform</a>, a site for those who love short fiction, and won the Monthly Theme Award - Mystery.</p>
<p>Just one more validation of a truth about the business of writing; if you give readers and editors what they want, it really doesn't matter how long it is, or even if it follows traditional rules. Good story telling is what it's all about. Anyone who happens to read it and has comments, I'd love to hear from you, either here or at my blog, <a href="http://charlesaray.blogspot.com/">http://charlesaray.blogspot.com/</a>. Cheers, and keep cranking out those mysteries.</p>Chapter One of my new Al Pennyback mystery, "A Good Day to Die"tag:crimespace.ning.com,2011-01-15:537324:BlogPost:2611682011-01-15T15:02:29.000ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARay
<p> </p>
<p><b>March 24, Oakland, CA</b></p>
<p> The sun, just rising, made the hills around San Francisco look like green jewels, and the Golden Gate Bridge gleamed in the early morning light, as the <i>Christina B</i> out of Hong Kong made her way slowly through the bay, heading for a dock at Oakland terminal.</p>
<p> Captain Chow Hung Fat, a slender Chinese with close-cropped iron gray hair, felt every one of his sixty years as he stood at the front of the wheelhouse, watching the…</p>
<p> </p>
<p><b>March 24, Oakland, CA</b></p>
<p> The sun, just rising, made the hills around San Francisco look like green jewels, and the Golden Gate Bridge gleamed in the early morning light, as the <i>Christina B</i> out of Hong Kong made her way slowly through the bay, heading for a dock at Oakland terminal.</p>
<p> Captain Chow Hung Fat, a slender Chinese with close-cropped iron gray hair, felt every one of his sixty years as he stood at the front of the wheelhouse, watching the bow of the ship gently rise and fall as it sliced through the metallic blue water. He had been at his post since well before dawn; Chow knew his helmsman was experienced, having made this same voyage at least half a dozen times in the past couple of years, but when the <i>Christina B</i> was making port, he felt that his post was in the wheel house until the ropes were secure and the ship was resting at the dock.</p>
<p> It was well past mid-morning when he was finally satisfied that all was in order, but his job was not over. While his first officer could see to the off-loading of the cargo, it was his duty as captain to be at the head of the gangway to welcome the American immigration authorities aboard. They would want to see the crew list, and he would personally present it to them. On most of his visits to the United States, there were no problems; the lists were given a cursory scan by the bored looking officer, stamped and returned; and the crew would get some much needed time ashore.</p>
<p> This voyage, however, was different. There were no special containers, with secret markings, that required special handling; a situation that usually presented few problems. The ship was sailing out of Hong Kong, but had a Singapore registry, and the American authorities seemed not to suspect that ships belonging to the city state were anything but legitimate. On occasion, money had to change hands, but unless the U.S. Coast Guard had been alerted; in which case they would intercept the ship as soon as it entered American territorial waters, and not allow it to dock; this was often just a tiresome formality. No, it was not cargo, at least not in the traditional sense of the word, that worried him. It was the crew list.</p>
<p> The crew, with the exception of one man, had been with him for more than ten voyages, and were well-known, and as well-behaved as sailors who’d been at sea for more than twenty days could be. But, that one man, whose name was buried in the middle of the list, had been added just before the ship left Hong Kong port. It was his second time on board. The last time, over a year ago, had been from American to Hong Kong, and he’d made Chow nervous then. Now, he caused the elderly captain to develop a major case of heartburn.</p>
<p> Li Jiu Long was no sailor. He’d spent the entire voyage secluded in the first officer’s cabin, causing that unfortunate fellow to have to bunk with the crew. He took his meals alone, and spoke to no one since coming aboard, except on the first day when he cavalierly informed Chow that he did not want to be disturbed during the trip.</p>
<p> If anyone thought it strange that a common seaman would get away with giving orders to the captain of a ship, especially one with Chow’s age and seniority, they wisely kept it to themselves.</p>
<p> Every man in the crew knew what and who Li was, but none would dare say it aloud. Even though <i>Christina B</i> was a Singapore-registered container vessel, and sailed from Hong Kong, all aboard knew that the real owners were a company that served as a front for the Dragon Clan, a vicious mob organization with murky ties to the Internal Security Services of Mainland China, a fact that was not apparent even if one searched the documentation of the vessel. They also knew that Li was a senior lieutenant in the Dragons, one who was called upon when the job was dangerous, or when someone had to be ‘disappeared.’ Li’s desire to be left alone was honored to a fault.</p>
<p> The immigration officers, and he noticed that on this morning there were two rather than the usual one, were just coming on board when Chow reached the boarding plank. One, a middle aged white man with large gut that hung over his belt, Chow recognized; he worked this area of the docks regularly. His companion, a young black man with medium-length, curly hair, and gray eyes that stood out vividly against his dark brown face, Chow had never seen before.</p>
<p> “Morning, Captain Chow,” the white officer said. “Welcome back to America. Bet you got lots of stuff for Americans to buy on board this trip.”</p>
<p> Chow shook hands, bowing slightly as he did so. “Yes, Mister Calhoun,” he said. “All of the containers are consumer goods and toys from Chinese factories, so your stores will be well stocked for a few days.” He eyed the black officer warily.</p>
<p> The white officer, Rory Calhoun, a 22-year veteran of the immigration service, inclined his head toward his companion. “This is Agent Leland West,” he said. “He’s been newly assigned. I’m gonna be retiring in a few months, and he’ll be taking my place.” </p>
<p> Chow shook hands with the young man. “It is my pleasure to meet you, Mr. West,” he said. He never said agent when he talked to the immigration officers; always mister. </p>
<p> “The pleasure is mine, Captain Chow,” the black man said. “Rory here says you’re a pretty regular visitor to our shores.”</p>
<p> “Yes, that is true,” Chow responded. “I make six to eight voyages a year.”</p>
<p> “Well, welcome to the United States. You have a crew list for us?”</p>
<p> Chow pulled the carefully folded list from inside his tunic. He hesitated. Calhoun was senior, but the younger agent had asked for it.</p>
<p> “That’s okay, captain,” Calhoun said. “Leland might as well start getting his feet wet.”</p>
<p> Chow handed the younger agent the list. West took it and scanned the names from top to bottom. Calhoun looked over his shoulder as he read. Chow held his breath. He could feel his heart beating so hard, he feared that the Americans would hear it.</p>
<p> After a few minutes, West took out a pen and scribbled his name at the bottom of the list. He then took a small seal from his jacket; one of the self-inking kinds, and, holding the list against his leg, stamped it.</p>
<p> “Again, captain,” he said. “Welcome to America. I hope your crew enjoys their shore leave.”</p>
<p> “And, tell them to spend lots of money,” Calhoun said.</p>
<p> Laughing, the two agents turned and left the ship. Only when they were far down the dock did Chow let out a breath. Yet again, he had delivered what he was supposed to deliver, and right under the noses of the Americans. Maybe the clan was right, he thought, the Americans are stupid. Such a thing would never happen in China. The crew list would have been checked thoroughly, and every member required to present himself for inspection. Chow seriously doubted that even the Americans would have taken Li for a seaman. Where the other men were brown from days of working on the deck in the sun, Li had the pale complexion of someone who had spent his days indoors. Even Chow himself had the reddish brown skin from exposure to sun and wind at sea.</p>
<p> Oh well, he thought, I do not know what Li and the clan are up to, and I do not want to know. Just unload the cargo, and head back to Hong Kong and my little flat where I can sip tea and watch the horse races on TV until the next voyage.</p>
<p> Li Jiu Long had been watching the exchange between the captain and the immigration officers from just inside the nearest hatchway. As Chow turned to return to the wheelhouse, Li stepped out of the shadows.</p>
<p> “That was very well done, captain,” he said. “I notice that you did not even offer them payment to expedite the paperwork.”</p>
<p> Chow bowed slightly. “That is not necessary here in America,” he said. “Unlike China, where every official expects to be paid tea money to do his job, here, they have very strict rules against such actions.”</p>
<p> “Hah,” Li said. “I know very well that on occasion money changes hands; even here.”</p>
<p> “Yes, from time to time, I have to give money to the lesser workers on the docks. But, I have never had to pay an official. At least, not directly.”</p>
<p> “Just as well,” Li said, and spit on the deck. Chow winced as the globule spattered over the polished wood that had been scrubbed only that morning. “That might have drawn unwelcome attention to me. Our masters would be most unhappy if anything interfered with my mission.”</p>
<p> “You should encounter no problems,” Chow said. “Will you require the papers from the ship in order to go ashore?”</p>
<p> “No, captain, I have all that I need.” Li patted the breast of the jacket he wore. It was thick, much thicker than the weather required, and made him look several pounds heavier than Chow knew him to be. “You have done well. I thank you for your hospitality.”</p>
<p> “Will you be returning to Hong Kong with us? We depart in ten days.”</p>
<p> “No,” Li said. “Other arrangements have been made for my departure. I do not think I will see you again, Captain Chow.”</p>
<p> Li bowed slightly to the older man and walked purposively down the gang plank and onto the docks. Chow watched him as he strode toward the canteen that was a few hundred yards from the exit. A small eating establishment, it was there for the rare sailor who did not wish to partake of the delights of Oakland and nearby San Francisco. Chow, who never went into either city, would probably venture there later in the day to sample the American version of Chinese food. He particularly liked the hamburgers and fried potatoes.</p>
<p> When Li had vanished from his view between the canteen and an adjacent building which contained a bathhouse and a small bar that sold cheap whiskey and beer, Chow turned and went back to the wheelhouse.</p>
<p> Li approached the building, but instead of going into the bar, he entered the bathhouse. Luckily, it was empty at this hour. He walked to the back and entered an empty stall, pulling the door shut behind him. He took off the heavy coat and ripped out the lining. Tucked inside the lining was a neatly folded blue suit, shirt and a red tie. He stripped off the jeans and work shirt and donned the suit.</p>
<p> He would have liked to have a better pair of shoes; something more befitting the rest of his attire, but patting the breast of the jacket, and feeling the leather folder inside, he knew that soon he would be able to buy a pair.</p>
<p> He folded the work clothes and placed them inside the jacket, and then folded it until it looked like a canvas package. </p>
<p> Brushing the dust off his shoes, he left the bathhouse and entered the bar.</p>
<p> An elderly Chinese man stood idly behind the bar.</p>
<p> “What you want to drink?” he asked</p>
<p> Li didn’t usually drink alcohol before noon, but he didn’t want to arouse the man’s suspicions. “I will have a beer,” he said. “And, do you have a telephone I can use.”</p>
<p> The bartender ducked his head toward the back, where a phone hung on the wall.</p>
<p> “You drink beer at bar, or you want table?” he asked.</p>
<p> “The bar will be fine,” Li said. “I must make a call first.” He took a ten dollar bill from his wallet and laid it on the bar. “I trust this will be enough for the beer?”</p>
<p> “Yes, enough. You need coin for phone?”</p>
<p> “That will not be necessary,” Li said. “I will use a credit card.”</p>
<p> He walked over to the corner. Taking the phone from the hook, he wiped it carefully with a handkerchief. He then took an international calling card from his wallet. Anyone troubling to check on it would find that it was registered to one Joseph Lee of Riverside, California. He also had a California driver’s license in the same name, and the address on it actually existed, a small frame house in a middle class suburb which was occupied by a Chinese-American who received a nice deposit each month to his bank account.</p>
<p> He had in his wallet other identifying documents, all in the name Joseph Li, which was close enough to his real name that he ran no risk of not responding if someone called out to him by that name. The documents, although paid for by the clan, were courtesy of his friends in the Chinese intelligence service for whom he did occasional errands during his frequent trips to the United States.</p>
<p> When he heard the dial tone, Li dialed the code for a calling card number, and then followed the recorded instructions, punching the card number and PIN. When he got the tone that told him his call was ready, he dialed the 202 area code, Washington, DC, and then a number that he knew all too well.</p>
<p> It took a few minutes for the receptionist who answered to get the person he really wanted to speak with, but when he did, the conversation was brief and to the point. He gave specific instructions and, without waiting for assent, rang off. He had no doubt that what he wanted done would be done to the letter. The penalty for failing to follow clan instructions was fatal, and the person he called knew that all too well.</p>
<p> His call finished, he returned to the bar. He picked up the bottle of beer, <i>Qing Dao</i>, he noticed, and imported. He used his handkerchief again to wipe the lip of the bottle, and drained it in a few fast gulps, something he’d learned to do after a long time visiting the states. He often impressed his colleagues back in China, none of whom had mastered the skill of chug-a-lugging beer.</p>
<p> When the bartender brought his change, he told him to keep it, and spun on his heel and left.</p>
<p> He had no problems leaving the port; a well-dressed Chinese man with all the proper papers, he was treated as if he was a local businessman at the port to check on shipments. Outside the port, he hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take him to an address not far from the center of Oakland, a used car dealer who, for cash, could expedite the paperwork.</p>
<p> He bought a blue 1984 Ford Mustang that had only 100,000 miles on the odometer. He knew that the car had been driven many more miles than that, but when he test drove it around the block, the engine purred quietly, and it didn’t make any strange noises. It also, the dealer assured him, got good gas mileage on the highway. To Li, that was important, because he had 3,000 miles of highway driving ahead of him, and only eight days to do it. </p>
<p> With the Mustang’s acceleration, and keeping to the speed limits on the Interstate highway system, he would make it with time to spare. While Li viewed most Americans with disdain, scorning them for their materialism and ignorance, he truly loved their country. He especially liked driving. In America, he thought, a person could drive for thousands of miles, and if he broke no traffic laws, could do so unmolested. Unlike China, he thought, where you were apt to be stopped a dozen times within one province by officials looking for ‘tea’ money. If only the Americans were not too stupid to appreciate what they have, he thought derisively as he pulled out of the dealer’s lot and headed east.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><b>April 2, United States Penitentiary, Lewisburg, PA</b></p>
<p> Warden Bradley Swopes was not a happy man.</p>
<p> He’d only been in charge of Lewisburg Penitentiary for two years, and since it was mainly a maximum security facility, he was accustomed to having problem cases among the inmate population, except for the adjacent camp used to house minimum security male inmates, mostly white collar criminals up for securities fraud, and only wanting to do their time quietly and be released. In the maximum security facility, though, he had the hard cases; drug traffickers, murderers, and all manner of low-life scum who had violated some federal statute.</p>
<p> None of the inmates, though, bothered him as much as the Chinese. Inmate number 251047, one Wei Li, or as he preferred to be addressed when names had to be used, Li Wei, had been sentenced to twenty years for human trafficking, and even though he never got into fights, and mostly stayed to himself rather than mixing with the other inmates, he bothered the hell out of Swopes.</p>
<p> The first thing that bugged the warden and many of the guards was Li’s occasional inability to understand English. Swope knew that the shithead could understand and speak English probably better than anyone in Lewisburg, but whenever he didn’t want to do something, he would suddenly go all Chinese on them.</p>
<p> But, what really got his goat was the fact that the US Attorney hadn’t tried to tie Li to the killing of the FBI agent by that black private investigator down in Virginia. Even though the agent was himself a crook, they could have turned him over to the state of Virginia and he would have wound up strapped to a gurney in the execution chamber, instead of being a pain in Swopes’ ass.</p>
<p> And now, he’d gotten sick, and none of the medical personnel in the prison could figure out what was wrong with him, or make him better. Prisoners died in stir all the time, but for some reason, the Justice Department took a special interest in Li, and had ordered that he be transported into the town of Lewisburg to be seen by a specialist, a Chinese-American doctor who, in addition to normal medicine, also practiced traditional Asian healing.</p>
<p> Swopes had assigned two of his best to escort Li into town; John Cochran and Leroy Adams; the two most senior of Lewisburg’s guards. They would see that he got to the doctor, and once cured, got his ass back into cell block C to spend the rest of his sentence.</p>
<p> He gazed out of his window just as the prison van was waved through the last checkpoint, and watched as it accelerated onto the highway heading into town.</p>
<p> Cochran, a tall rawboned redhead from Delaware, and Adams, a slightly shorter, but muscular brown skinned man from Baltimore, had been partners for the entire nineteen years that they’d worked as federal prison guards. They had been friends before; having bonded at Morgan State University in Baltimore, when Cochran, the only white on the college basketball team, had been befriended by Adams after the other players shunned him.</p>
<p> On the basketball court, they had become a two-man hit squad, demolishing Morgan’s opponents with Adams’s blocking players while Cochran sank shot after shot from just inside the half court line. They had learned to communicate through body language, setting up plays that the opposing teams were unable to counter. They were inseparable off court as well, and after graduation, served as best men for each other when they married their college sweethearts. As guards, they demonstrated the same uncanny ability; able to control unruly prisoners through coordinated action without speaking. Inside the walls, they were known as Salt and Pepper; just the spice you needed when things got rough and a situation needed a little seasoning.</p>
<p> They rode in silence, Cochran driving. Li Wei, dressed in a white prison jump suit and manacled hand and foot, sat sullenly in the back, staring at the backs of their heads.</p>
<p> They drove south on Robert F. Miller Drive, turned left on State Route 1018 and headed east toward the river. As they approached West Branch Highway, where they would turn right to head toward Bucknell University, south of the town of Lewisburg, and the address on a small back street where the Chinese-American doctor had his office and clinic, they could see the smoke stacks of abandoned factories along the tributary off the Susquehanna River that once served the logging and shipping industries of the area. They could also see the skeletons of old stone buildings that had probably been way stations along the Underground Railroad used before and during the Civil War by slaves escaping to the freedom of the North and Canada.</p>
<p> It was early in the morning, and there were few other vehicles on the road until they neared the university, where they encountered a few cars, probably being driven by professors or students heading to early classes.</p>
<p> They had to drive around a few minutes to find the address on Oak Street, a small stone structure set back from the street and surrounded by a low stone wall. The street was narrow, and they had to maneuver the van around an old blue Mustang that was parked about a hundred meters from the house.</p>
<p> Cochran parked the van in front of the wooden gate. Beside the gate was a white shingle sign that read, ‘Dr. Wilson Yun, MD and Traditional Healer.’ There was a drawing of some kind of plant beneath the traditional caduceus symbol just below the doctor’s name.</p>
<p> He switched off the engine and turned to his partner. “You wait here with the prisoner, Leroy, and I’ll check to make sure the place is clear,” he said.</p>
<p> “Sure thing, partner,” Adams said. He took his radio off his belt. “Give me a call when you’re ready.”</p>
<p> Cochran patted his own radio and nodded. He got out of the van and scanned the area. The only other vehicle in sight was the Mustang, but he gave it little thought. It had a temporary tag, which he couldn’t read from the distance, but in a college town, and this close to campus, this wasn’t unusual. Probably belongs to some student who hasn’t had time to get down to DMV, he thought.</p>
<p> Satisfied that the outside was clear, Cochran walked up to the door of the clinic and pushed it open.</p>
<p> The waiting room was empty; not even a receptionist. This had been one of the conditions that the warden had insisted upon; only Doctor Yun was to be present, and he was to clear all of his appointments for the morning. If he couldn’t deal with Li’s ailment alone, they would have to try something else.</p>
<p> The door at the rear of the room, behind the receptionist’s desk, opened, and a tall Asian man that Cochran estimated to be in his late thirties or early forties entered the room. He wore a white coat over dark slacks, and had a thermometer sticking out of the breast pocket. He carried a stethoscope in his left hand.</p>
<p> “Ah, good morning,” he said. “I am Doctor Yun. You must be from the prison. Where is the patient?”</p>
<p> “Good morning, doctor,” Cochran said. “I’m John Cochran. My partner and I are escorting the prisoner, er patient. He’ll be brought in as soon as I’ve checked the place out.”</p>
<p> “Of course,” the Asian said. “You will find that I have followed your instructions to the letter. There is no one here other than me, and I have no other patients scheduled until late in the afternoon, just in case I need to take extra time with, what is his name again, oh yes, Mr. Li.”</p>
<p> Cochran nodded and, after looking around the reception area, eased past the doctor. He entered a small room that contained an examination table and low cabinets along two walls with glass doors. Inside the cabinets was a mixture of medicines, some of which Cochran recognized from the labels on the vials, and jars of green and brown powders, leaves and what looked like twigs. There were two doors on the far side, one marked with the universal radiation symbol and a sign that said “X-Ray Room. Enter only with protective clothing,” while the other was unmarked. Cochran, who never liked going to the doctor, and who was deathly afraid of what radiation might do to his ability to become a father, merely looked through the thick glass window in the upper center of the door. The room was unlit, but from the illumination from his side of the door, he could only see the X-Ray machine in the back of the room. He then moved to the unmarked door and opened it. It was an exit to the outside, opening onto a small garden that was in need of weeding. The area to the rear of the building, with a service road used by garbage trucks and deliverymen, was clear.</p>
<p> “Okay, doctor,” he said. “It looks clear. Thank you for your understanding and cooperation.” He took the radio from his belt and thumbed the transmit switch, causing a burst of static. “All clear partner. You can bring him in.”</p>
<p> A few minutes later, the door to the examination room opened, and Li entered, shuffling in his manacles, followed by Leroy Adams.</p>
<p> The doctor motioned Li toward the examination table. “Is it possible for these things to be removed?” he asked, pointing at the manacles. “It will be easier for me to examine him without them.”</p>
<p> Adams looked inquiringly at his partner. “I suppose so,” Cochran said. “Go ahead and take them off.”</p>
<p> Li turned around and sat on the table, holding his hands out. Adams removed a ring of keys from his belt and bent to unlock the wrist manacles.</p>
<p> Cochran’s attention was focused on the two men, and he didn’t see the doctor dip his right hand into his pocket and pull out a switchblade knife. His first warning was when the blade made a ‘snicking’ sound as the doctor pressed the button on the handle. He turned toward the sound, and the doctor plunged the blade deep into his chest, sending waves of white-hot pain through his body before his brain shut down. As he crumpled lifelessly to the floor, with gouts of blood gushing from his mouth, Adams released his hold on the wrist manacles and spun around, his eyes going wide at the sight of his partner and friend on the floor in a widening pool of blood. He reached for his service revolver, but Li thrust his still manacled hands upward, knocking his arm aside. This gave the doctor enough time to take the two steps toward him to plunge the bloody blade into the black guard’s chest. Adams’s eyes widened in pain and he opened his mouth to scream, but the light faded from his eyes before sound could form, and he crumpled to the floor, his outstretched hand touching his friend’s lifeless hand.</p>
<p> The doctor wiped the knife blade on the white frock he was wearing, retracted it and put it into his pants pocket. He began to remove the bloody garment.</p>
<p> “Elder brother, it is good to see you,” Li said. He held up his hands. “Now, if you will get these things off me, we can find some decent clothing and we can get out of here and go home.”</p>
<p> Li Jiu Long picked the keys up from the floor where Adams had dropped them, and unlocked the wrist and ankle restraints. “Doctor Yun kept clothing here in the clinic, and I think it will fit you,” he said. “He will not need it anymore.”</p>
<p> “Why is that, brother?” Li Wei asked.</p>
<p> Li Jiu Long walked over to the door to the X-Ray room and pulled it open. Lying there in the doorway, his throat slashed, was a middle-aged Asian. The blood, which had pooled against the seal at the bottom of the door, had congealed into a sticky black mass. “We do not need to leave anyone here who can possibly identify us,” he said. “The good doctor had served his purpose.”</p>
<p> “Very well, then. Let us find some clothes and get out of here. I have missed my apartment in Hong Kong.”</p>
<p> “In good time, younger brother,” Jiu Long said. “But, before we return home, we have a mission to perform.”</p>
<p> “I never question the orders of the clan, elder brother,” Wei said. “But, what could be so important that we should delay my return home after being locked up here for so long?”</p>
<p> “We must avenge the honor of the clan and our family. The black detective who disrupted our operations and caused you to be here must die.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong>Note to readers: This is the first chapter of a work in progress. Comments and critiques are welcomed.</strong></p>I Write Pulp Fiction, And I'm Darned Proud Of Ittag:crimespace.ning.com,2010-12-25:537324:BlogPost:2591592010-12-25T22:23:01.000ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARay
<p>I cut my teeth reading pulp fiction. You know, the dime novels of the forties and fifties. Now, the term pulp fiction is often used disparangly, but these were stories that kept you turning the page. Who can ever forget Spillane's "I, the Jury" or the action stories by L. Ron Hubbard. They might not be taught in college literature classes, but people read and enjoyed them. When I started the Al Pennyback mystery series, I initially tried for a 'literary' feel, but it just didn't 'feel'…</p>
<p>I cut my teeth reading pulp fiction. You know, the dime novels of the forties and fifties. Now, the term pulp fiction is often used disparangly, but these were stories that kept you turning the page. Who can ever forget Spillane's "I, the Jury" or the action stories by L. Ron Hubbard. They might not be taught in college literature classes, but people read and enjoyed them. When I started the Al Pennyback mystery series, I initially tried for a 'literary' feel, but it just didn't 'feel' right to me. So, I scrapped the first effort, and just wrote it gritty, like I remember reading years ago. I figured that most mystery readers, like me, didn't want long, windy passages describing the weather, or the texture of cobble stones on the street; they want action, action, and more action. There's a little description - you need after all to let the reader know what time of year it is, and sometimes a description of the weather, a house, or a person, can help set the mood. But, I keep that stuff to a minimum.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm now working on number six in the series, "If I Should Die Before I Wake," and readers (I hope there are more of you out there) have probably noticed my obsession with death. Well, don't mysteries usually involve death, murder, or other nefarious things? I don't try to disguise what I write - it's pure pulp. Al Pennyback would be right at home in 1940, and I would be proud to be included in the company of the pulp writers of that day. I try to put the reader into the middle of the action as soon as possible. There's a little character development, especially Al's developing relationship with Sandra Winter, his lady of the moment, and he's still hung up over the loss of his wife and son in an accident. But, Al, despite meditation and martial arts, is no philosopher; he's a hard bitten PI with a finely tuned sense of right and wrong; and he's out to nail the bad guys.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>If you're just starting out in this game - and sometimes I think of it as a game, just one with high stakes; your ego which is on display each time you put something out there for readers to critique; don't look down on 'pulp.' I'm convinced that many, if not most, readers just want to be entertained, and when it comes to sheer entertainment, nothing has been invented to top pulp fiction. So, break out the vodka, light that pipe, and sit back and enjoy. If you haven't read "The Day the Music Died," it's available as an e-book at <a href="http://www.lebrary.com">http://www.lebrary.com</a>, and in paperback on <a href="http://www.amazon.com">http://www.amazon.com</a>. Anyone who happens to read any of them, starting with "Color Me Dead," which so far is only available as an e-book at lebrary, and who wants to comment, can buzz me here. Like most pulp writers I have a thick skin, and all comments are welcome. As Al would say, "whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ciao, and happy holidays to all you mystery buffs out there.</p>Dead, White, and Blue - Preview of Number 4 of the Al Pennyback mystery seriestag:crimespace.ning.com,2010-08-06:537324:BlogPost:2452582010-08-06T08:29:41.000ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARay
<br></br>
<br></br>
<br></br>
<br></br>
Prologue<br></br>
<br></br>
Near Lost City, West Virginia<br></br>
The autumn morning was ablaze with the orange and red of the oak and maple trees that covered the undulating hills that lined the road. A gentle breeze wafted lazily through the woods, making a soft whispering sound. Fluffy clouds dotted the light blue sky.<br></br>
Two men, dressed in green and black camouflage suits and carrying 30/30 rifles, stood idly beside the two lane blacktop road, looking back up the slope…
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Prologue<br/>
<br/>
Near Lost City, West Virginia<br/>
The autumn morning was ablaze with the orange and red of the oak and maple trees that covered the undulating hills that lined the road. A gentle breeze wafted lazily through the woods, making a soft whispering sound. Fluffy clouds dotted the light blue sky.<br/>
Two men, dressed in green and black camouflage suits and carrying 30/30 rifles, stood idly beside the two lane blacktop road, looking back up the slope through the road snaked like one of the many streams that flowed through the sparsely populated hills. They could have been any of the hundreds of hunters who could be found in the forests and hills; hunting turkey or deer in the autumn months.<br/>
They were not, though, ordinary hunters. Their prey was not fowl or four-legged fauna. They weren’t waiting for deer or turkey. They were waiting for another kind of animal; the kind that if you were not careful, could fight back, and could turn the hunter into the hunted.<br/>
Billy Bob Graystone, the older of the two, and in charge of their mission, pulled his hunting cap down over his eyes. “I wish to hell he’d come on,” he said. “I’m gittin’ tired of standing out here on this damn road.”<br/>
“He oughta be along any minute,” Buck Sawyer said. Younger by four years, Sawyer was under Graystone’s command, but in his mind, it should have been him in charge. Billy Bob just don’t have the patience for this kind of work, he thought. Sometimes he didn’t understand the commander’s insistence on older guys being in charge all the time. “We’ll be back at the compound long before lunch.”<br/>
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Graystone said. “I just don’t like standing ‘round on this road. What if somebody else comes along?”<br/>
“You know hardly anybody ever comes up here. The sheriff pretty much directs tourists up north to the hunting area, and the locals know better than to come snooping around. Quit worrying will you.”<br/>
Graystone grunted and began playing with the rim of his cap. Sawyer kept his eyes focused up the road in the direction he knew their target would be coming. <br/>
After twenty minutes of listening to Graystone grunt as he scratched his crotch, Sawyer say the silver Ford pickup come over the hill. “Hey, look alive,” he said. “Here he comes.”<br/>
“How’d you know it’s him?”<br/>
Sawyer shrugged and gave his partner a disgusted look. “Who else around here has a silver pickup with red and orange flames painted on the hood and a roll bar?” You stupid shit, he thought, you can’t find your own as without help. “Let’s get ready to flag him down.”<br/>
The two moved to the edge of the highway and began waving. The pickup slowed as it neared them. The driver, a middle-aged white man wearing a blue denim shirt and a Caterpillar cap, peered quizzically through the windshield, but pulled off the road and stopped. “What you boys doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” he asked the two.<br/>
Sawyer approached the driver’s side while his partner walked around to the passenger side. “We was waiting for you, Leyton” Sawyer said. “Got something we gotta talk to you about. It’s real important, and we didn’t want to talk in front of the other fellas.”<br/>
Leyton Caldwell was a man of middle years; a craggy face that was seldom clean shaved, and a swarthy complexion from years in the outdoors. His sky-blue eyes regarded the two men with something approaching suspicion, but then, he always had that suspicious look in his eyes.<br/>
“Okay, boys,” he said. “What is it you want to talk about?” He knew the two of them; always hanging around the fringes of the groups back at the camp. Sawyer, the younger of the two seldom talked, while Graystone was always bragging about how good he was at everything from tracking to shooting. He’d never demonstrated any of the skills he claimed, but he talked a good game.<br/>
“Why don’t you come on down out of that truck,” Sawyer said. “It ain’t easy craning my neck up to talk to you up there.”<br/>
Caldwell turned off the ignition and shoved the door open. As he alighted from the truck, Graystone walked around to the driver’s side and stood next to Sawyer. He had a half smile on his ugly face. Damn, Caldwell thought, he’s one ugly son of a bitch. Wonder what his folks look like. “Okay,” he said. “Now, what is it you boys want to talk about?”<br/>
“We want to know who you been telling about the unit,” Graystone said. There was an ugly tone in his voice. “And, we want to know what the hell you been telling ‘em.”<br/>
“What the. . .” Caldwell turned to get back in the pickup, but Sawyer grabbed his arm.<br/>
“Not so fast, Leyton,” he said. “The commander wants to know who you been talking to.”<br/>
Graystone grabbed his other arm. He found himself pinned against the door of the pickup, unable to reach the .45 colt automatic he kept in the glove compartment. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he said.<br/>
“Bullshit,” the young man snarled. “ATF intercepted our last shipment of weapons, and there was only five people who knew about it. We can account for four of them. You’re the only question mark.”<br/>
“You think I snitched to ATF? That’s a crock of shit,” Caldwell said. “You ain’t got no proof I talked to anyone.”<br/>
“You got a point,” Graystone said. “We can’t prove you were the one who told about the last shipment, but we can damn well make sure you don’t do it no more.” He pulled a hunting knife from beneath his jacket and thrust it up to the hilt in the older man’s chest.<br/>
Caldwell grunted as the blade struck home; blood gushed from his mouth and his eyes rolled up. The two men grabbed the body as it started sinking toward the ground.<br/>
“Why the hell you do that?” Sawyer asked. “The commander didn’t say nothing about killing him.”<br/>
“He said we had a leak, and he wanted it plugged,” Graystone said. “I think it’s plugged now. Let’s get him and this truck outta here before somebody comes along.”<br/>
Just at that moment they heard the sound of a car coming up the road from the town below. The tires made screeching sounds as it came to a stop about a hundred yards below them. Letting the body slide to the ground, they whirled, whipping their rifles off their shoulders.<br/>
Before they could take aim, the car sped backward, made a J turn and sped back down the mountain.<br/>
“Damn,” Sawyer said. “I bet they saw everything. Did you get a look at them?”<br/>
“Yeah,” Graystone said. “A couple of spades; a man and a woman. The car had DC plates on it.”<br/>
“What if they report it?”<br/>
“Hell,” Graystone said. “Old Lum Kellum ain’t gonna listen to no niggers. The sheriff knows who runs these hills. We put Caldwell and his truck down one of the old mine shafts, and they ain’t got nothin’.”<br/>
“Still,” Sawyer said. “We gotta tell the commander. He’ll know what to do.”<br/>
* * *<br/>
After cleaning up the blood spatters from the macadam and shoulder, the two men moved the pickup and its grisly cargo to an old abandoned mineshaft deep in the hills. They went back to the compound and quickly found themselves standing at attention before Jameson Halliburton, commander of America for True Americans (AFTA), a militia group that he’d founded. Halliburton, a beefy, red-faced, man of about fifty, was an insurance agent by trade, owner of the main insurance company in the region. As a teenager he’d joined the local KKK unit, but had become disillusioned with their lack of sophistication. In his late twenties, he’d abandoned his hooded companions and formed his own organization, devoted to returning America to its true owners, whites of northern European descent.<br/>
Normally of dour disposition, Halliburton was livid after hearing the two men’s report of the morning’s events.<br/>
He leaned his large frame forward against the big oak desk and slammed his beefy hands on the surface. The veins in his florid face pulsed in anger.<br/>
“I send you two idiots out to do a simple job, and you fuck it up? Billy Bob, I don’t expect too much from you, but Buck, I had high hopes for you.”<br/>
“But, boss,” Billy Bob Graystone said. “You said you wanted the leak plugged.”<br/>
“Shut your trap, you fucking idiot,” Halliburton said. “You couldn’t plug a leak in a kitchen sink. I didn’t fucking tell you to kill him. I wanted him brought back here so I could question him.” He stared at Sawyer.<br/>
“You’re right, sir,” Sawyer said. “We fucked it up. But, Billy Bob jabbed that pig sticker in him before I could do anything.”<br/>
“This idiot’s always too quick to use his knife instead of his brain. Worse yet, you had witnesses and you let them get away.”<br/>
“That jig drove away too fast,” Graystone said. “He drove like a. . .”<br/>
“Billy Bob,” Halliburton said. “I told you to shut up. What about shut up don’t you understand?”<br/>
“Yes sir,” Graystone said, and lapsed into a sulking silence.<br/>
“They was about a hundred yards away,” Sawyer said. “Ain’t likely they saw too much.”<br/>
“We can’t take that chance. We’re too close to the date for our most important operation, and if they cause trouble, well, let’s just say, we don’t need any more fuck ups.”<br/>
“Yes sir, what do you want me to do?” Sawyer deliberately replied as if Graystone would not be included in the assignment, and in that he was right.<br/>
“I want you to make sure that couple don’t talk to the wrong people,” Halliburton said. “And, this time, no killing. I just want them kept quiet. If they think they saw anything, they probably reported it to Lum Kellum. I’ll call him with some kind of story and get their names. You said they had DC plates, so it should be easy enough to get their address. You think you can do this?”<br/>
“Yes sir,” Sawyer said. “You can depend on me.”<br/>
“What about me, boss?” Graystone asked.<br/>
Halliburton gave him a look that would have stopped most men in their tracks. “Billy Bob, until further notice, you’re on compound detail. You ought to be able to do that without fucking up.”<br/>
“But, boss, that ain’t fair. I been a loyal member of this troop since you founded it.”<br/>
“You questioning my orders, soldier?” The menace in Halliburton’s voice was unmistakable, even to someone as dense as Graystone. “You want I should cashier you out?”<br/>
“No sir,” the chastened Graystone said. “You know I’d follow you anywhere.”<br/>
“Good. Now get the hell out of here before I decide to put you on latrine detail.”<br/>
Graystone saluted sloppily, gave Sawyer a murderous look, spun on his heels and left the office.<br/>
“When do you want me to get started, sir?” Sawyer asked.<br/>
“Soon’s I call the sheriff and get the names of the witnesses,” Halliburton said. “You think you’ll need anybody to help you, make sure they have an ounce or two more brains than that shit bird Billy Bob.”<br/>
Sawyer saluted crisply and beat a hasty retreat as Halliburton picked up the phone.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Chapter One<br/>
<br/>
Washington, DC – One Week Later<br/>
<br/>
Fall is my favorite time of the year in Washington. The weather is cool enough for a sweater, but not yet the biting cold of winter. The trees are decked in a kaleidoscope of colors; orange, yellow and red, and there’s no pollen to upset my sensitive sinuses.<br/>
In my line of work, I spend a lot of time outdoors, and I hate the way the pollen makes my sneeze and cough. Makes it hard to interview subjects, or concentrate on what they’re saying. I’m a private detective; have been for more than ten years. I run a two person office, A.E. Pennyback, Confidential Enquiries. I’m A. E. Pennyback; Albert Einstein Pennyback, but my friends just call me Al. My associate, right hand, and sometimes conscience, is Heather Bunche. We’ve been together since I opened shop. Mostly I just do leg work for the law firm of Holcombe, Stein, and Chang. My old army buddy, Quincy Chang, is one of the partners and he’s the one who talked his partners into putting me on retainer – ten thousand a month, and all I have to do is check backgrounds, and on occasion run down a client who fails to pay on time.<br/>
It was Friday, and business was slow. Heather was pecking away at her computer in the outer office, and I was playing a game of chess on the computer in my office.<br/>
I was just about to put the computer in check when the phone rang. I paused the game and picked up the receiver. “Yeah, Heather,” I said. “What is it?”<br/>
“Buster wants to talk to you,” she said. “Should I put him through, or are you occupied?” She knew I was just killing time, but it was a game she liked to play.<br/>
“Put him through,” I growled.<br/>
The phone clicked, and Buster’s gruff voice came over the line. “Hey, bro,” he said. “You busy, or do you have time for lunch?”<br/>
I looked at the gold Rolex on my wrist. It was five before eleven; a bit early for lunch for normal people, but when it comes to eating, Buster’s not normal.<br/>
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess I could do an early lunch. The usual place?”<br/>
“No, I was thinking we’d do something different,” Buster said. “You remember that Vietnamese noodle restaurant out by Seven Corners, just off Arlington Boulevard you took me to last month?”<br/>
“Yeah, but I never remember the name of the shopping center. You want to eat Pho? Funny,” I said. “I didn’t think you were too impressed.”<br/>
“Oh, I liked it okay. I just wasn’t feeling too good that day. Besides, the name is strange the way you say it. Sounds like you’re saying ‘fur’ without the ‘R’.”<br/>
“Actually, I am,” I said. “That’s the way you say it in Vietnamese.”<br/>
“Well,” he said. “Funny sound or not, it’s pretty damned good. Sort of addictive in fact, and I think it cured my hangover.”<br/>
“It does help hangovers. I know guys who swear by it,” I said. “Okay, Pho it is. I can meet you there in about an hour, okay?”<br/>
“All right, I’ll see you in an hour.”<br/>
After he rang off, I shut my computer down and told Heather I was going out for an early lunch.<br/>
“I hope it’s not a liquid lunch,” she said.<br/>
“Hey, you know better than that. I don’t usually drink before six, and Buster is probably on duty.”<br/>
“I’ve never known that to stop him,” she said. “That man can find more excuses to drink than anyone I know, and he always talks you into joining him.”<br/>
Heather knows Buster almost as well as his wife, Alma does. For that matter, she knows me all too well. “I promise, mommy,” I said. “No drinking. We’re going to that Vietnamese place over off Arlington Boulevard for noodles. I’ll probably only have a lemon soda.”<br/>
She snorted and went back to her typing, dismissing me.<br/>
The noodle restaurant is located just off Arlington Boulevard, near Seven Corners, in the Willston Shopping Center. A modest place with tables down both walls and a few in the center, it is in the center of a line of shops, mainly selling Asian products to the large Vietnamese population that lives in the area. Over the years, ownership has changed hands a number of times, and each time, the name changes. Fortunately, the food remains excellent; large bowls of the steaming traditional Pho, Spring Rolls, and other Asian delicacies.<br/>
Buster had gotten there before me, and was sitting at a table near the door, facing the inside of the place. He knows how I hate to sit with my back to an outside door, so he always takes the seat that allows me to sit so I can see the door.<br/>
I walked over and took the seat opposite him.<br/>
“You must really be hungry,” I said. “You’re not usually on time for anything.”<br/>
“I wasn’t doing much at the precinct, so after I called you, I decided to come on over and get started lubricating my stomach,” he said. He had a large bottle of “Beer 33,” the traditional Vietnamese beer familiar to generations of Vietnam War veterans, sitting in front of him. The bottle was half empty, and so was the glass in front of him.<br/>
“Good thing, the noodles will soak up the beer,” I said. “Your captain might not like having you come back on duty smelling like booze and weaving.”<br/>
“Hell, I’ve only had this one. ‘Sides, if I let you talk me into eating the same as last time, I’ll need it soak up the peppers. The damn things near ate through my stomach,” he said. “It burned my ass for two days every time I took a dump.”<br/>
I laughed. Unlike me, Buster didn’t much care for spicy food. As far as I’m concerned, the pepper is the best part of the meal. “Okay,” I said. “Today, you can skip the peppers.”<br/>
“Naw, I might as well go the whole route. I’ve already prepped my stomach.”<br/>
The waitress, a tiny Vietnamese girl who looked not much more than fourteen, came over to take our orders.<br/>
“What’ll it be today?” She spoke English without a trace of an accent. Probably born right here in Virginia, and unlike her parents, had managed to avoid an accent.<br/>
“What would you like to try?” I asked Buster.<br/>
“You’re the expert,” he said. “You decide.”<br/>
“Okay,” I said, and then to the girl. “Two large specials; and I’d like a nuoc da chanh.”<br/>
“Hey, your Vietnamese is pretty good,” she said. “Where’d you learn it?”<br/>
“I picked it up here and there,” I said. She didn’t need to know my background. Hell, even Buster didn’t know everything about me. “It’s a beautiful language, but I don’t get much opportunity to practice.”<br/>
“Not bad for just picking it up,” she said. “You want the lime juice with sparkling water or plain?”<br/>
“Plain will be fine.” The Vietnamese drink, nuoc da chanh, is concentrated lime juice mixed with water and served over ice. Next to the coffee with concentrated sweet milk, it’s the best thing with noodles.<br/>
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll bring your drinks. The Pho will take a few minutes.” She turned to Buster. “Would you like another beer?”<br/>
“No, I’m fine,” he said.<br/>
She went back to the bar in the back, made my drink and brought it, then went back to the kitchen to put our orders in.<br/>
I took a sip of the lime, letting it slide slowly down my throat.<br/>
“Okay, Buster,” I said. “You have something else on your mind besides eating. As much as you like eating, it’s not like you to pick a place like this.”<br/>
He played around with his glass, looking down at the table. For a long moment he was silent. When he finally looked up at me, he had a worried look on his brown face. “Yeah,” he said. “I do have something I want to talk to you about.”<br/>
“Well, spill it. What’s so important that you’d subject yourself to food you don’t really like? And, don’t try to tell me you’ve become addicted to Vietnamese noodles. I saw your face the last time. You looked like someone had served you dog meat.”<br/>
“Hell, man, give me a break. That was my first time, and the tripe took a little gettin’ use to,” he said. “I ain’t never eaten that stuff before. Have to admit, though, it wasn’t half bad. It kinda grows on you.”<br/>
“Okay, I’ll believe you for now. What do you want to talk about?”<br/>
“Last week, Alma and me went up to West Virginia for the weekend,” he said. “I didn’t really want to, but she wanted to look for some antiques, and wouldn’t take no for an answer.” He played with the glass again. “I ain’t too hot about being up there in cracker country. Some of them white boys up there don’t cotton too much to black folks, and they got a lot of crazy militia types runnin’ around.”<br/>
“Did you run into any?”<br/>
“I ain’t sure,” he said. “We were driving up this back country road, and I think I might have seen two dudes in cammies knife another guy. We were too far away to get a good look, but I swear that’s what it looked like.”<br/>
“What did you do?”<br/>
“What the fuck you think? I turned the car around and got the hell out of there. Them dudes had what looked like hunting rifles, and they was takin’ them off their shoulders when I split.” <br/>
“Did they shoot at you?”<br/>
“Naw, I got around the curve ‘fore they could, and didn’t let up off the gas until I got down to the town.”<br/>
“I take it you reported it to the local authorities?”<br/>
“Local authority,” he said. “Damn town only has one sheriff. Dude named Lum Kellum. Looks like he stepped out of Deliverance. He took my statement and said he’d look into it.”<br/>
“So, that’s about all you could do. You’re a DC cop with no jurisdiction or responsibility for what happens in another state. I’m sure he’ll take care of it.”<br/>
“That’s just the problem,” Buster said. “Dude was nervous when I told him where I saw the incident. I don’t think he’s gonna do jack shit.”<br/>
“Nothing you can do about that, Buster,” I said. “Hell, you have enough homicides in the District to keep you busy. Why are you worrying about a crime in West Virginia?”<br/>
“I know, you’re right, but it just bugs the hell out of me. Dude gets iced in broad daylight, and the perps just walk,” he said. “Plus, Alma’s still shook up about it, and with her being pregnant and all, it ain’t good for her to be upset.”<br/>
“Alma’s expecting? You never said anything about this before,” I said.<br/>
“Yeah,” he said. “She’s four months along. I been meaning to tell you. Just hadn’t had the chance.”<br/>
“Well, congratulations dad. Is it a boy or girl?”<br/>
“Don’t know,” he said. “Alma won’t do the sonogram. Say’s if God meant us to know what the baby was ‘fore it was born, He’d of put a window in a woman’s belly. That woman is so damn hardheaded about some things.”<br/>
“She has a point. Something to be said for the mystery of birth and all that.”<br/>
“Yeah,” he said. “Long’s it’s got all its parts in the right place and comes out healthy, I don’t really care.”<br/>
Just then, the waitress brought our noodles. We mixed in the greens and bean sprouts that came in a separate plate and ate in silence. Buster dove in with gusto; even including a couple of the fiery little peppers.<br/>
I had another lime drink, and Buster ordered another beer after we’d finished our noodles.<br/>
“Well, what’d you think?”<br/>
“Not bad,” he said. “I really do like them things. We have to come here more often. Maybe next time, we can bring the girls. Sandra likes Asian food, right?”<br/>
Sandra is Sandra Winter, the lady in my life. I hadn’t dated much after my wife and son were killed in an auto accident. Sandra, a teacher at one of Washington’s inner city schools, had been involved in a case I investigated, and you might say we were sort of thrown together. We’d almost been killed by the perp in that case, and the relationship just sort of developed after that. She and Alma Mayweather had hit it off right away and when Sandra wasn’t at school or with me, she usually hung out with Alma.<br/>
“Yeah, Sandra likes all kinds of Asian food,” I said. “What about Alma?”<br/>
“Since she got pregnant, she eats all kinds of strange stuff,” he said. “This would be right up her alley.”<br/>
“Okay, then. I’ll check with Sandra and let you know.”<br/>
“Sandra and Alma are goin’ shopping for baby clothes this weekend,” he said. “Maybe we could meet them here after.”<br/>
“Sandra knows about Alma’s pregnancy?”<br/>
“Yeah,” he said with a frown. “Hell, I think Alma told her ‘fore she even told me. You know how women can be. Always keepin’ secrets from us.”<br/>
“I know that all too well,” I said. “I’m going to have a little heart to heart talk with Sandra.” I was a bit put out that she hadn’t told me.<br/>
“I’d go careful on that if I was you,” Buster said. “We ain’t got the secret code for some things. Better to let it lie.”<br/>
Maybe I would, then again, maybe I wouldn’t.<br/>
We promised to call and arrange the weekend and Buster left, steady even after two beers. I finished my lime drink and went back to the office.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Chapter Two<br/>
<br/>
Sandra came to my place out in Maryland, an old farm just off River Road west of Potomac Village, and I cooked a simple dinner which we ate on my back porch.<br/>
I took Buster’s advice and didn’t mention Alma’s pregnancy as we ate. After finishing dinner, we put the dirty dishes in the sink, poured two glasses of red wine and went back outside.<br/>
As we sat side by side with our legs hanging over the edge of the porch, I leaned into her. “I had lunch with Buster today,” I said.<br/>
“I know. Alma told me.”<br/>
“We were thinking of taking the two of you to the same place tomorrow,” I said.<br/>
“That would be nice,” she said. “It would have to be a late lunch, though.”<br/>
“Yeah, I understand you and Alma are going shopping.”<br/>
“Yes, we thought we’d do a little Saturday morning shopping,” she said.<br/>
“For baby clothes, right?”<br/>
Maybe it was the tone of my voice; a bit tight; or the slight stiffness in my posture as I glanced around at her. She frowned and put her hand on my arm.<br/>
“Look, sweetheart,” she said. “I know you’re a bit upset with me for keeping the news from you.”<br/>
“I’m not upset,” I protested. “Well, maybe a little. I’m more disappointed, though. I thought we were going to be open with each other.”<br/>
“We are. I am,” she said. “I don’t hide anything about myself from you, and I’m convinced that except for some of your military exploits, you tell me everything. But, this wasn’t about me, and I just felt it should be up to Alma who she told and when. I’m sorry. I guess I should have told you.”<br/>
She had a point. It was Alma’s business, and I had to admit, in the same circumstances I would probably have done the same. “You’re right,” I said. “You did the right thing, and I was just being an old curmudgeon. I guess, I’ve got to get use to this relationship thing. I’m sorry if I seemed a little testy.”<br/>
“Al, baby, you don’t have anything to apologize for. Whether you know it or not, I’m actually pleased you felt that way. That means you care, and that’s all that matters.”<br/>
“So,” I said. “You’re not miffed at me?”<br/>
“I could tell you that I’m not,” she said, and a sly look crossed her face. “But, I think I’d rather show you that I’m not.”<br/>
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”<br/>
She put her wine glass down on the porch and stood. “Why don’t you give me about ten minutes and come join me in your bedroom, and I’ll show you.” She walked away, a little exaggerated wiggle in her hips. I like watching her walk. She has the body of an athlete, slim and fit, with curves in all the right places and not an ounce of excess anywhere. She had recently cut her blonde hair so it clung to the nape of her long neck and framed her oval face, setting off her eyes. She was beautiful and knew it, but didn’t flaunt it – except on occasions like the present moment when we were alone.<br/>
After she disappeared through the door, I looked at my watch, giving her fifteen minutes, and then I put my own glass down and followed her.<br/>
She was true to her word. She showed me that she wasn’t angry with me at all.<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
Chapter Three<br/>
<br/>
Sandra and I got up early on Saturday morning, showered together, went for a run in the woods, and then returned for another shower.<br/>
I fixed a big breakfast of crisp bacon, hash browns, and pancakes. We ate on the back porch, washing the food down with mango juice and freshly brewed Colombian coffee.<br/>
Sandra offered to help with the dishes, but I shooed her out for her shopping expedition with Alma. We made plans to meet at the Vietnamese restaurant at noon. She said she’d let Buster know, so I wouldn’t have to call him.<br/>
When she’d gone, I washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. With four hours to kill, I decided to go out back to the barn where I kept a set of free weights and a heavy bag to do an hour of taekwondo exercises. An hour of kicking and punching the bag, followed by drills and a few sets of bench presses got me sweaty as hell, so I took a third shower.<br/>
I put on a pair of tan chinos, a golf shirt, tan socks and my brown loafers, went back to the kitchen and poured myself another cup of coffee and went out on the back porch to enjoy the fresh breeze blowing in from the woods behind my house and the nutty aroma of the coffee.<br/>
At ten, I went out, fired up the Brown Bomber, my 1974 Volkswagen that was still running after more decades than a car ought to run, and headed for Arlington Boulevard. I arrived at the Willston Center at about ten forty. The others hadn’t arrived, but I didn’t expect them to be on time. When women shop, in my experience, it’s naïve to expect them to rush. As for Buster, he’s a crackerjack cop, but when he’s off duty, time loses its relevance.<br/>
I let the young waitress know that there’d be three other people arriving around noon and that we’d want four specials, spring rolls, and an order of goi cuon, little vegetable rolls wrapped in rice paper. I got us a table in back near the kitchen, and ordered a Beer 33.<br/>
I was about halfway through with the beer when Buster came in. He came over and sat down.<br/>
“Hey, bro,” he said, pointing at the beer. “A little early for you, ain’t it?”<br/>
“It’s never too early on the weekend,” I said. “Want to join me?”<br/>
“Might as well. Alma and Sandra ain’t likely to get here on time. Man, them women can spend more time in stores than a bank robber in a vault. Matter of fact, bank robbers can hit ten banks before they get tired of shopping.”<br/>
The waitress came over and took Buster’s order, and I asked for another. Guys I knew in the army who’d served in Vietnam said they swore the Vietnamese put formaldehyde in the ‘33’ to age it quicker, and that it gave you one hell of a headache. They got addicted to it anyway, because most of the American beer the army shipped over had rust on the cans by the time it got there, and with 3.2 percent alcohol content, tasted like watery piss anyway. The stuff the Vietnamese were exporting to the U.S. didn’t have any contaminants; it had to pass FDA and Agriculture inspection; and it didn’t taste half bad. It never gave me headaches any worse than I got from drinking American beer, and tasted a lot better with noodles.<br/>
We sipped our drinks in silence, Buster occasionally looking at his watch.<br/>
“Stop fretting,” I said. “They’ll get here sooner or later.”<br/>
“I know,” he said. “But, I like to eat on time.”<br/>
“Hell, you like to eat any time.”<br/>
“You got that right,” he said, and laughed, that booming laughter of his, that caused the few other patrons to glance at us suspiciously.<br/>
“Hey, don’t scare the customers,” I said. “They might think you’re drunk.”<br/>
He nodded and smiled. Just then, his phone rang. He took it out, looked at the screen, then flipped it open. “Mayweather here,” he said. “What’s up captain?”<br/>
As he listened, his face contorted, first in disbelief, then in a mixture of anger and pain. “Wha-, what do you mean? They were what? No, that can’t be,” he said. “Yeah, I know, okay, sorry. You know where I am, right? Yeah, I’ll wait here until you get here.”<br/>
He broke the connection and sat there looking down at his unfinished beer. I began to get a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. The look on his face; the fact that he’d gotten the call from his supervisor; it all brought to mind the first time I saw him, when he came to my door with two uniformed officers to tell me that my Sarah and Ethan had been senselessly slaughtered along with several of Ethan’s classmates by a drunken truck driver who’d run a light.<br/>
I took a deep breath, so my voice wouldn’t betray the emotions that were raging through me. “What’s up?” I asked.<br/>
He looked at me, sadness and anger in his eyes. “It’s Alma,” he said quietly. “She’s been kidnapped. Sandra was taken too.”<br/>
Now, it was my turn to feel anger.<br/>Branching out into short storiestag:crimespace.ning.com,2010-07-05:537324:BlogPost:2407042010-07-05T18:22:39.000ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARay
Having cut my teeth, so to speak, on long mystery fiction, I decided to try my hand at shorter pieces. I found a site, FictionWritersPlatform.net where short stories of all genres can be posted. My first offering, a short humor/mystery, "Dead Letter," won an Editors Choice Award, and got lots of email from people who were upset that I apparently killed the main character at the end. Bowing to popular opinion, I revived him in "Return to Sender," which also won an Editors Choice Award, and got…
Having cut my teeth, so to speak, on long mystery fiction, I decided to try my hand at shorter pieces. I found a site, FictionWritersPlatform.net where short stories of all genres can be posted. My first offering, a short humor/mystery, "Dead Letter," won an Editors Choice Award, and got lots of email from people who were upset that I apparently killed the main character at the end. Bowing to popular opinion, I revived him in "Return to Sender," which also won an Editors Choice Award, and got lots of thanks from readers who had enjoyed the first. To see these stories you can go to the following link, which will take you to :Return to Sender," and from there, you can click to the others: <a href="http://www.fictionwritersplatform.net/2010/06/return-to-sender/">http://www.fictionwritersplatform.net/2010/06/return-to-sender/</a>. I would really appreciate any feedback from the crime fiction gurus who inhabit this space.Third Al Pennyback e-Book now available.tag:crimespace.ning.com,2010-06-09:537324:BlogPost:2375752010-06-09T02:47:15.000ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARay
<p>I finally finished the third of my Al Pennyback mystery series. I've been working on this particular series for over eight years and have about ten rough drafts stored away. Every now and then, I get a call from the muse, and I take one out and begin to cut, slash, rewrite and agonize to get it into readable form. I think number three is better than the first two - "Memorial to the Dead" starts with a corpse in front of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, DC and starts our hero…</p>
<p>I finally finished the third of my Al Pennyback mystery series. I've been working on this particular series for over eight years and have about ten rough drafts stored away. Every now and then, I get a call from the muse, and I take one out and begin to cut, slash, rewrite and agonize to get it into readable form. I think number three is better than the first two - "Memorial to the Dead" starts with a corpse in front of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, DC and starts our hero on a roller coaster ride that involves rogue federal agents and Chinese mobsters.</p>
<p></p>
<p>Al has to solve the murder of a man he met only briefly, and knows not at all, in order to avoid becoming a victim himself.</p>
<p></p>
<p>Take a look at "Memorial to the Dead" at <a href="http://www.lebrary.com/view.php?id=265">http://www.lebrary.com/view.php?id=265</a>. Comments are always appreciated.</p>Promoting Your Worktag:crimespace.ning.com,2010-05-25:537324:BlogPost:2355982010-05-25T12:39:38.000ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARay
<p>Writing is hard work; but, marketing what you write is even harder. Writers are usually solitary creatures by nature, and hitting the hustings to promote their work is like a trip to the dentist. But, like that trip to the dentist, as painful as it might be it's beneficial. Nay, it's essential. You can write the best book in the world, and if it's not marketed, it will be unread - except for your long-suffering spouse or significant other.</p>
<p></p>
<p>So, how do you go about marketing…</p>
<p>Writing is hard work; but, marketing what you write is even harder. Writers are usually solitary creatures by nature, and hitting the hustings to promote their work is like a trip to the dentist. But, like that trip to the dentist, as painful as it might be it's beneficial. Nay, it's essential. You can write the best book in the world, and if it's not marketed, it will be unread - except for your long-suffering spouse or significant other.</p>
<p></p>
<p>So, how do you go about marketing your work? Before I can answer that, I have to set out a few questions you need to answer: what is the genre of your writing? what is your audience? is your book paper or electronic? These are just a few of the basic things that will determine your marketing strategy.</p>
<p></p>
<p>My first book was a paperback, POD, non-fiction on leadership - "Things I Learned From My Grandmother About Leadership and Life." It wasn't written as a mass market best seller (not that I'd scoff at that status), but as a specialty book for people interested in learning more about leadership philosophy. I set about approaching libraries (starting with my alumni associations) and organizations involved in leadership training. Given the specialized nature of the book, my local newspaper didn't show much interest. I did manage to get it in two university libraries and the library at the U.S. Department of State. I also convinced a writer friend of mine to write a review (thankfully, she liked it), which was posted on RedRoom.com. I followed the first up with a sequel, and used the inside cover of the second book to promote the first. There has been only a trickle of sales, but they have been continuous for two years.</p>
<p></p>
<p>My third book was an e-book, "Color Me Dead." a mystery, which was put up on <a href="http://www.lebrary.com">http://www.lebrary.com</a>. I used my RedRoom author page, my FaceBook page, and some internet interviews to promote it. An example of the kind of internet interview you can do can be seen at <a href="http://childfinder.us/2010/04/author-and-us-ambassador-charles-a-ray-makes-a-state-visit-to-the-child-finder-trilogy/">http://childfinder.us/2010/04/author-and-us-ambassador-charles-a-ray-makes-a-state-visit-to-the-child-finder-trilogy/</a>. I linked this interview to my FaceBook page which has generated more interest and a few sales. The interview was also used to promote my other work.</p>
<p></p>
<p>Whether you've written a non-fiction book or a mystery, traditional paper or e-book, one sure way of promoting it is by word of mouth. You are your best sales tool. Take advantage of every opportunity to tell people about your book. I keep copies in my office, and when people visit, they inevitably ask where they can get copies.</p>
<p></p>
<p>Remember if you write it, and then aggressively promote it, they will eventually come.</p>Why I chose the characters and setting for "Color Me Dead"tag:crimespace.ning.com,2010-03-06:537324:BlogPost:2291712010-03-06T10:45:17.000ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARay
Some friends of mine, after reading <em>Color Me Dead</em> asked me why, after chosing DC as a setting for the story, I didn't focus on political intrigue or espionage as do many authors who set their stories in the nation's capitol. Well, I've read many of those stories, and while they're great tales, I have always felt that the average Joes who inhabit DC get left out. The common people who make up 90% of the city are no more than background or walk-ons in most stories. Consider this, though:…
Some friends of mine, after reading <em>Color Me Dead</em> asked me why, after chosing DC as a setting for the story, I didn't focus on political intrigue or espionage as do many authors who set their stories in the nation's capitol. Well, I've read many of those stories, and while they're great tales, I have always felt that the average Joes who inhabit DC get left out. The common people who make up 90% of the city are no more than background or walk-ons in most stories. Consider this, though: the spy has to buy milk somewhere; the lobbyist gets his dry cleaning done at the local outlet; and the drug dealers and pimps get their tricked out rides repaired at the local garage. The people who work in these establishments are part of the action, and on occasion get caught up in the ingrigueNew DC mystery novel published as e-booktag:crimespace.ning.com,2010-03-02:537324:BlogPost:2287032010-03-02T04:45:07.000ZCharles A. Rayhttp://crimespace.ning.com/profile/CharlesARay
I just recently published my first full length work of fiction as an e-book. <em>Color Me Dead</em> is about a DC-based private detective, Al Pennyback, who gets caught up in a major criminal conspiracy in the course of investigating the shooting death of a Washington teen. Al, a retired army officer, is something of a loner, and not your average detective - he does not, for instance, carry a weapon. Unlike many stories with DC as a setting, there are no political conspiracies here, just a look…
I just recently published my first full length work of fiction as an e-book. <em>Color Me Dead</em> is about a DC-based private detective, Al Pennyback, who gets caught up in a major criminal conspiracy in the course of investigating the shooting death of a Washington teen. Al, a retired army officer, is something of a loner, and not your average detective - he does not, for instance, carry a weapon. Unlike many stories with DC as a setting, there are no political conspiracies here, just a look at the lives of ordinary people who get caught up in extraordinary events. The book is available at <a href="http://www.lebrary.com/">http://www.lebrary.com/</a>