FEATURED AUTHOR: RENEE EBERT

ABOUT THE BOOK

Late summer 1931 and twenty-seven-year-old Adelyn Crawford is lying in a hammock in Tulip Junction, Georgia. She lives on this working farm with her sons, her parents, her uncle Tyree and Aunt Grace and occasionally, these days with Garnett her husband. One afternoon she is lying in a hammock that begins to swing, and half of her feels she is asleep; the other half knows better when her former lover Innis Crawford begins to make love to her. She knows that her dead lover is back for her. She worries he is planning to stay this time.

The novel travels back to 1918. Innis’s brother, Garnett, is ever-present, a witness to their passion. When Innis dies in a suspicious auto accident, Adelyn falls into Garnett’s waiting arms. The courtship with Garnett has an equally inevitable storminess, first in New York City, then Flapper era Paris and the South of France.

Now Innis wants to come back to be with Adelyn. Who will win this battle?

Book Details
Title: Dead Eyes in Late Summer
Author: Renée Ebert
Genre: historical fiction, paranormal romance
Publisher: ‎ White Bird Publications, (October 26, 2021)
Print length: 372 pages

EXCERPT FROM DEAD EYES IN LATE SUMMER

Engagement

     “Adelyn, I hope you’re not dawdling in there.” Missus Jackson found herself once again waiting on her daughter and the last-minute adjustment of her wardrobe. She wondered how a dress without any corset, like the one Adelyn wore, could possibly take that long to put on. Ready to call out once more, and this time with authority, her daughter’s appearance in the doorway appeased Missus Jackson. Adelyn a vision in navy blue silk with jet-beaded beribboned streamers to below her knee, though the hems seemed to be climbing every year. Missus Jackson wanted to blush yet found a way to quell the emotion. After all, the girls all wore them that way.
     “At least you’re wearing dark hose.” Having made what might sound like a slight toward the wardrobe choice, she quickly covered with, “And such a good decision.” She gestured, “Turn around; let me see.”
     Adelyn obliged as she pirouetted in a circle and then back again, the glint of the diamond pin catching the light. She saw her mother’s expression. “I know; I saw it in the mirror. It does look good, doesn’t it?” She began to pull on her gloves. “I want to get to the lobby before Garnett arrives.”
     “I am certainly not the one detaining us, my dear.” Her mother held the door open for Adelyn. “Besides, it’s not always good to be on time.”
     “I think I’ve made him wait long enough, Mama.” She glanced once more in the mirror and realized how, at home, she avoided ever looking too directly at her own image. A chill caught her shoulders, but she shook it off. Her mind moved quickly in an attempt to resolve this phenomenon of shunning mirrors at home. As though someone stands behind me, always just out of sight, and my body hides them from me.
     Adelyn sensed her mother contemplated her remark about Garnett’s waiting.
They left for Delmonico’s where friends of Garnett would attend with their wives or girlfriends. Mary Jackson spoke to each of the young people in turn, about careers or the girl’s completing college like Adelyn, and about babies to the few already married. They enjoyed a festive dinner, full of sparklers placed on a celebratory cake. Her mother’s eyes filled with tears at the Christmas engagement ring, and quietly remarked how Sarah Crawford would be proud to see her son accomplishing so much. At Garnett’s insistence, the three of them drank two bottles of wine, one of them champagne. Her mother would sleep soundly.
***
They dislodged themselves from the taxi onto one of the side streets downtown. Garnett took Adelyn’s hand and led her to a door that looked like an apartment. Two sharp knocks and a peep hole opened; a man nodded, waited for the password. “Carnival season,” Garnett mumbled.
     “Where did you tell that taxi driver to take us?” Adelyn adjusted her rolled-up stockings and straightened her slinky dress. “I thought you said, ‘back room’.” Garnett put his finger to his lips to signal her to whisper.
     The peephole closed, and the door opened. Garnett entered first with Adelyn trailing behind him as he held her in a tight grip. People packed the sweaty, smoky room, sipping drinks with ice cubes out of coffee mugs. One table held at least ten men in evening formal wear who openly sipped from glasses of bubbling champagne, and the subdued lighting made it all romantic. Garnett joined a younger crowd of men in suits with young women wearing glittering dresses. Adelyn, Garnett, and his friends took turns toasting one another and soon drank their way to an alcoholic haze. The orchestra played racy, hot Dixieland jazz, then would switch to swarthy and dark slow music.
     “It’s new, isn’t it? C’mon. Let’s dance this one.” Garnett pulled her to her feet and surrounded her with his body. “It’s a tango.” He breathed heavily.         
     “I heard that Valentino danced the tango here just last week.” She said this maybe to shock him.
Adelyn never knew a more exciting evening and began to think of reasons to leave Georgia for good. Garnett’s face scowled some form of disapproval, and she whispered in his ear to further tantalize him. “You’re not the only one who keeps up with fashion.” She followed his movements; his body signaled her left and right legs as he kept no space between them. The dance lasted long and ended with her body curved down and his almost laying on top. “And, no, I wasn’t dancing with Valentino last week.” She teased him, and he let her.
     Garnett led her back to the tiny table in front of the dance floor and wiped his face with a handkerchief. “I’ll be right back.” As he left, the band went into a spirited “Clap Hands Here Comes Charlie” and the dancers crowded the floor, all the young women dancing the Charleston. Adelyn jumped to her feet and danced with them, relishing the attention of a few old, portly financial titans. At least, she thought that’s what they might be.
     Garnett came back at the finish, and she settled at their table, next to him. “Don’t you know those women are mostly prostitutes? He was angry “You can’t be up there, dancing with them.”
     For the space of a moment, she lowered her head, surprised and chastened, but then the wild something in her took possession. “I’m in New York City. I don’t see any kin, do you, Garnett? I think we’re safe from Savannah Society News.”
     She coaxed a semi-smile, and the band drew them up from their table into a slow dance. She hummed to the song, “What’ll I do when you are far away….” The words struck something deep in both of them as they danced closer, Adelyn’s imminent departure the next day, the long winter without one another made it all sad.
     They didn’t speak as the song ended, but hastily threw on their coats and left for Garnett’s hotel. They tacitly felt their movements more than spoke their intentions, as she lingered near the door of the lobby and he got his key from the night attendant. Long years of hotel work had taught the solitary man to look otherwise and not at Adelyn as the two young people took the lift to his floor.
     She thought of the times they had been together, but this time they were engaged, and she turned the pretty ring around and around her finger, watching the diamonds sparkle and savoring the true red and green of the other stones. They made love tenderly and quietly, two people who cared for each other. They fell asleep and woke to a phone call.
     “Good morning, sir. This is your three o’clock morning call.” The night attendant’s voice informed Garnett. “Okay.” He had thought to ask for a call in case this very thing had happened. Adelyn stirred and miraculously plumped up her hair to where it had been hours before.
     “Don’t worry, Garnett. Mama will be fast asleep when I get back. She has these potions she takes to sleep soundly. That, and the extra bottles of wine.” Adelyn pulled the hose up and then rolled them down to her thigh.
     He watched her sultry moves and listened to her sultry voice. “We should hurry, or I won’t be able to let you go.” He crossed in front of her where the light sparkled against something in her hair. Bending close he touched the diamond pin, asking, “What’s this?” Looking more closely, he saw the diamonds shaped like an arrow. “He gave you this. You wore it only a week after…,” but he didn’t finish, then, “a week after he had you.”
     She felt the painful tug as he plucked the pin and strands of hair from her head. “Ouch. What on earth are you doing?” She held her hand to the place where he pulled. “Are you crazy? I have no idea in heaven what you mean.” But then her mind filled with lost memories of a time when Innis had gently pinned the diamond arrow in her hair, saying to her, “Adelyn, you’ve pierced my heart.” At sixteen she had giggled self-consciously, now all of it came flooding back.
     “Four years? You expect me to remember something that happened four years ago? I was barely a woman. How dare you?” She tore at her hand and wrung her fingers till they swelled, trying to pry off the engagement ring. “I won’t do this. I won’t be a part of this.” She flung the ring at him and her coat over her shoulders.
     All the while Garnett took stock of everything, experienced it all as if he floated above it, as it all happened below him. “Don’t.” He pulled her to him as he realized what had just happened.     “Please, don’t.”
     “You go to hell.” She slammed the hotel door.
 ***
Rain turned to sleet, and Adelyn cursed the entire night as the cab took her back to her hotel. Garnett, this weather, the world. She fumbled with her gloves; thankful they covered her bare arms as she wrapped her coat around herself more firmly. The doorman rushed to her with his circus tent of an umbrella, another reason to be thankful. She steeled herself against the possibility of her mother waking as she returned, which kept her clearheaded and forced the discipline on her of dropping her emotions somewhere between Garnett’s hotel room door and the one that she now carefully opened into her hotel suite. She turned the key in the door with a shaky hand.
A small lamp emitted a dim light, enough to negotiate the room without bumping into anything large or noisy. Please God, let her sleep on, for now. Adelyn rushed to strip out of her clothes and into her nightgown; this time she hastily tied the ribbons in a bow and she did the same with her dressing gown. She eased between the silky sheets, faintly aware of the lavender scent coming from sprigs that some maid had taken the time to spread out between the sheets. The aroma had a softening effect on her jangled nerves as she lay on her back breathing the cool air from the window left open to stave off the suffocating heat of the radiators.
Though she welcomed sleep, she struggled to make sense of the evening, from beginning to end, because she could not believe that one small thing, a silver and diamond pin, would cause that explosive change in Garnett. Her mind flitted from one scene to another, dinner, dancing, the gin. Could it have been tainted liquor? Bootleg gin or Champagne in fancy bottles? Something in her said no to bad gin or bad champagne. She left all the evening behind her and somehow, gratefully, fell asleep.                                              
     Across town, Garnett sat in hazy confusion. He moved in fits and starts every time his mind came back to the two or three short events in the room that ended the evening. As each thought played out, he moved rapidly toward following her. His mind would not stay on point, however, and he sat down again on the bed to contemplate fragmented memories of the evening. Finally, he dressed, his coat on, his white silk bow tie dangling, hatless and gloveless. He rushed down in the lift, waved away the cab, and walked in the direction of Adelyn’s hotel.
     The deliberate, well-planned part of him wanted to make sense of it. He pictured her face, her body, the length of her shoulders to her back. He tried to conjure a common-sense answer to her actions, to his own. He finally hailed a lonely cab on the lonely avenue and listened to the tires on the paved road of lower Manhattan, all plans thrown out the window like so much smoke from his cigarette. He threw that out as well along with the idea to confront her again. With my ridiculous jealousy of my dead brother, Innis? He thought further back to the morning and how stolidly Adelyn had researched, took notes, became enthralled with the subject of the influenza and how it infected all those young soldiers. These thoughts just made him more furious with his own stupid lack of control, because now he recalled his jealousy-tinged remarks at lunch. He painfully recalled how he forced her to justify her actions, her feelings. Does she love me, then? And he knew she did.
***
            No one milled about the lobby of her hotel, but a few remained in the coffee shop where Garnett gravitated. He thought he recognized a man sitting alone at a table. Though his hair had turned mostly gray, he saw evidence of a young man’s face that looked familiar.
     “Can I sit with you?” Garnett waved to the waiter who bustled over, even at four o’clock in the morning. “I’ll have what he’s having.” He gestured to the man who raised his cup of coffee. The man paused until the waiter set down the cup and saucer and returned to the kitchen, then pulled a flask out of his coat pocket, dragging Garnett’s cup to himself and pouring liquor into it. “That’ll be some fine brandy, son, for that coffee.” He pushed the cup back in front of Garnett, the brandy’s aroma warm and sweet as it mingled with the hot coffee.
     “Do we know one another? I could swear….” Garnett sipped the coffee and brandy, appreciating its warmth as it rolled down his throat. The urge to drink it all filled him, and he drained the cup. Another appeared before him, and the stranger fortified it with more brandy.
“Sure do, son.” He looked kindly at Garnett and shook his head in a sad way.
     “You feel sorry for me. Why?” Garnett quaffed his refill, and he felt light-headed. “Cause you can’t possibly know. Can you? That I so thoroughly threw away my own happiness tonight?”
     “Listen, son. It’s not too late. Give in to your feelings for her. She’s yours, not your brother’s.”
     Startled that this stranger should know so much about him, Garnett sat up straighter, glancing into the mirror that lined the wall near their booth. He looked closely at his heavy-lidded and weary eyes and ran his hand along the red stubble of a beard. Looking over toward the man, he saw no image of him in the mirror. Only his own.
     “Who are you?” He framed the words as he quickly looked back at the man.
     “You’ll see my face in your mirror when you are much older and hopefully somewhat wiser, son.”
     A hard knock woke him as someone poked him in the shoulder.
     “I don’t know why I came down here. But I am certainly glad I did.” Adelyn stood over him, looking as bright as the rising sun.
     “What?” he looked around the empty coffee shop.
     “The front desk recognized you and called and thank God, Mama was still asleep. It’s almost seven o’clock.”
     Garnett stood up. “Please, please.”
     “I don’t want a scene here.” Adelyn had looked to see the coffee shop deserted and allowed his embrace. Her body stiffened, a signal against anything that might be considered questionable behavior. They took the elevator up.
     “Five, please.” He spoke to the elevator operator. He prayed she would not contradict him, and she didn’t. They got off two flights below her own. The hallway as deserted as the coffee shop had been, he embraced her again, and she let him. His lips touched her face and hovered over her lips until she tipped her head up and accepted his mouth open and on hers.
     “Just let me hold you. Don’t ever leave me. Promise.” His voice came in short sobs from a deep, deep place. He had grasped her to him and hugged and hugged. No passion, no sex, only love, and a desire to be forgiven.
     Adelyn did a curious thing—she took his face in both her hands and studied him. Her eyes scanned his brow, his cheeks, his chin, then his eyes again, for a long time, and then his lips, where she kissed him fully, this time her mouth open and sultry but loving, too. “I love you, Garnett. And I know how much you love me.” She smiled. “Let’s not waste time. Let’s have babies and a home and a wonderful life.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Long before the writing began, Renée found the power of words in books. A voracious reader from her first encounter with "Run Dick Run, and Jump Jane, Jump" she walked downhill to the nearest library and became a card carrying member of that special society that doesn't judge or descriminate. All book lovers may join.

Reading became the informant, shaping how and where her imagination would be carried. "It didn't hurt to have old movies on television that shaped images and enlarged them for me."

She felt as though she read through life with best sellers competing with classics Salinger against Austen. Who won that battle? "I did, because I quickly found that each had a place at the table, and all were winners of my special contest." That contest being each writer's ability to engage a young and developing mind.

Of the newly launched novel Dead Eyes In Late Summer, Renée says, "I got to know some about the south a while back when my husband and I engaged in a two week southern tour, Atlanta, Birmingham, Hattiesburg, Mississippi. But it was Eudora Welty who completed the picture for me. Everything I experienced on that tour, I had already learned from Ms. Welty."
 
Connect with Renée:
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Buy the book:
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FEATURED AUTHOR: KATHRYN ELIZABETH JONES

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

Have you ever felt like one of the least of these?


What do you know of the woman at the well? What led her to the well that day - the exact day Jesus would be there? What of the lepers, the blind man, the woman who dried Jesus' feet with her hair? What of the Centurion who said at the cross, "Surely this was the Son of God”?



Stories of Jesus. You have heard them since you were young. But what about the parts that you’ve never heard?



The stories that need to be told? The stories you need to hear?


Book Details 

Title: I Walked With Jesus: New Testament Stories of Faith and Healing From the Least of These

Author: Kathryn Elizabeth Jones

Genre: historical fiction

Series: book 1

Publisher: Idea Creations Press (August 30, 2021)

Print length: 177 pages

LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT WITH KATHRYN JONES

Things you need in order to write: a desk, a Sharpie, a computer, a filing rack, space.

Things that hamper your writing: a messy desk, too many papers that need filing, noise.

Things you love about where you live: the people, recently remodeled areas of my home, easy access to the store, movie theatres, restaurants.

Things that make you want to move: junky yards, low upkeep, crime.

Things you never want to run out of: tape, staples, books, toilet paper.

Things you wish you’d never bought: last minute impulse buys, stuff for the kitchen I never use like gadgets that do only one thing, except for the apple corer which I love.

Words that describe you: adventurous, dependable, likeable, happy.

Words that describe you but you wish they didn’t: unforgiving, the opposite of spontaneous.

Favorite foods: dark chocolate, shrimp.

Things that make you want to throw up: liver, sushi.

Favorite smell: lavender.

Something that makes you hold your nose: ivory soap. It reminds me of being pregnant. Don’t ask. It just does.

Something you’re really good at: decorating.

Something you’re really bad at: sports, any sports.

Something you wish you could do: fly fish.

Something you wish you’d never learned to do: weed.

Something you like to do: travel.

Something you wish you’d never done: gotten into debt.

Things you’d walk a mile for: another look at Bryce Canyon, see the sun rise or set on a mountain or on the ocean.

Things that make you want to run screaming from the room: anger, politics.

Things you always put in your books: happiness.

Things you never put in your books: horror.

Favorite things to do: walks, reading, writing.

Things you’d run through a fire wearing gasoline pants to get out of doing: cleaning out the fridge or oven.

Things that make you happy: silence, the mountains, the ocean.

Things that drive you crazy: noise, arguments, disagreements.

Proudest moment: bachelor’s degree at 45.

Most embarrassing moment: bachelor’s degree at 45; I was crying buckets!

Biggest lie you’ve ever told: I am 29 years old and holding.

A lie you wish you’d told: I am 29 years old and never age.

Best thing you’ve ever done: have children.

Biggest mistake: forgetting to listen to them.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kathryn is a lover of words and a bearer of mood swings. When she is feeling the need to inspire, she writes a Christian fiction book. If a mystery is waiting to be uncovered, she finds it. If something otherworldly is finding its way through her fingertips, she travels to it.

Kathryn has been a reader since she was a young child. Although she took classes in writing as a teen, it wasn't something she really thought would become her career until she was married. And even then, it took a few more years for something worthy enough to publish to manifest itself.

Kathryn's first book was published in 2002. Since then, many other books have found their way out of her head depending on the sort of day she is having. Kathryn is a journalist, a teacher, a mentor, an editor, a publisher, and a marketer.

Her greatest joy, other than writing her next book, is meeting with readers and authors who enjoy the craft of writing as much as she does.

Connect with Kathryn:

Website  |  Facebook  |  Twitter  |  Goodreads  |  Book trailer 

Buy the book:

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FEATURED AUTHOR: GABRIEL VALJAN

ABOUT THE BOOK



Trouble comes in threes for Shane Cleary, a former police officer and now, a PI.



Arson. A Missing Person. A cold case.



Two of his clients whom he shouldn’t trust, he does, and the third, whom he should, he can’t.



Shane is up against crooked cops, a notorious slumlord and a mafia boss who want what they want, and then there’s the good guys who may or may not be what they seem.



Praise for Symphony Road:

"The second installment in this noir series takes us on a gritty journey through mid-seventies Boston, warts and all, and presents Shane Cleary with a complex arson case that proves to be much more than our PI expected. Peppered with the right mix of period detail and sharp, spare prose, Valjan proves he's the real deal." - Edwin Hill, Edgar finalist and author of Watch Her



"Ostracized former cop turned PI Shane Cleary navigates the mean streets of Boston’s seedy underbelly in Symphony Road. A brilliant follow up to Dirty Old Town, Valjan’s literary flair and dark humor are on full display." - Bruce Robert Coffin, award-winning author of the Detective Byron Mysteries



"A private eye mystery steeped in atmosphere and attitude." - Richie Narvaez, author of Noiryorican


 

Book Details:
Title: Symphony Road
Author: Gabriel Valjan
Genre: crime fiction, procedural, noir, historical fiction
Series: Shane Cleary Mystery, book 2
Published by: Level Best Books (January 15, 2021)
Print length: 232 pages
 

TWENTY QUESTIONS/ONE ANSWER INTERVIEW WITH GABRIEL VALJAN

1.     Where is your cell phone? Charging.

2.     Your hair? Covid-19.

3.     Your workplace? Home.

4.     Your other half? Sleeping.

5.     What makes you happy? Munchkin.

6.     What makes you crazy? Excuses.

7.     Your favorite food? Tenderloin.

8.     Your favorite beverage? Cawfee.

9.     Fear? Blindness.

10.  Favorite shoes? Slippers.

11.  Favorite way to relax? Comedies.

12.  Your mood? Placid.

13.  Your home away from home? Library.

14.  Where were you last night? Home.

15.  Something that you aren’t? Pretentious.

16.  Something from your bucket list? Serenity.

17.  Wish list item? Loft.

18.  Where did you grow up? New Jersey.

19.  Last thing you did? Typed.

20.  What are wearing now? PJs.
 

EXCERPT FROM SYMPHONY ROAD

I went to cross the street when the wheels of a black Cadillac sped up and bristled over tempered glass from a recent smash-and-grab. The brake lights pulsed red, and a thick door opened. A big hulk stepped out, and the car wobbled. The man reached into his pocket. I thought this was it. My obituary was in tomorrow’s paper, written in past tense and in the smallest and dullest typeface, Helvetica, because nothing else said boring better.

Click. Click. “I can never get this fucking thing to light.”

It was Tony Two-Times, Mr. B’s no-neck side man. His nickname came from his habit of clicking his lighter twice. “Mr. B wants a word.”

“Allow me.” I grabbed the Bic. The orange flame jumped on my first try and roasted the end of his Marlboro Red. “You really oughta quit.”

“Thanks for the health advice. Get in.”

Tony nudged me into the backseat. I became the meat in the sandwich between him and Mr. B. There was no need for introductions. The chauffeur was nothing more than a back of a head and a pair of hands on the wheel. The car moved and Mr. B contemplated the night life outside the window.

“I heard you’re on your way to the police station to help your friend.”

“News travels fast on Thursday night. Did Bill tell you before or after he called me?”

“I’m here on another matter.”

The cloud of smoke made me cough. Tony Two-Times was halfway to the filter. The chauffeur cracked the window a smidge for ventilation. As I expected, the radio played Sinatra and there were plans for a detour. A string of red and green lights stared back at us through a clean windshield.

“A kid I know is missing,” Mr. B said.

“Kids go missing all the time.”

“This kid is special.”

“Has a Missing Persons Report been filed?”

The look from Mr. B prompted regret. “We do things my way. Understood?”

We stopped at a light. A long-legged working girl with a chinchilla wrap crossed the street. She approached the car to recite the menu and her prices, but one look at us and she kept walking.

“Is this kid one of your own?”

The old man’s hand strummed leather. The missing pinky unnerved me. I’ve seen my share of trauma in Vietnam: shattered bones, intestines hanging out of a man, but missing parts made me queasy. The car moved and Mr. B continued the narrative.

“Kid’s a real pain in my ass, which is what you’d expect from a teenager, but he’s not in the rackets, if that’s what you’re wondering. This should be easy money for you.”

Money never came easy. As soon as it was in my hand, it went to the landlady, or the vet, or the utilities, or inside the refrigerator. I’d allow Mr. B his slow revelation of facts. Mr. B mentioned the kid’s gender when he said “he’s not in the rackets.” This detail had already made the case easier for me. A boy was stupider, easier to find and catch. Finding a teenage girl, that took something special, like pulling the wings off of an angel.

“He’s a good kid. No troubles with the law, good in school, excellent grades and all, but his mother seems to think he needed to work off some of that rebellious energy kids get. You know how it is.”

I didn’t. The last of my teen years were spent in rice paddies, in a hundred-seventeen-degree weather—and that was before summer—trying to distinguish friendlies from enemies in a jungle on the other side of the planet. And then there were the firefights, screams, and all the dead bodies.

“Does this kid have a girlfriend?” I asked.

Mr. B said nothing.

“A boyfriend then?” That question made Mr. B twist his head and Tony Two-Times elbowed me hard. “I’ve got to ask. Kids these days. You know, drugs, sex, and rock’ n roll.”

“The kid isn’t like your friend Bill, Mr. Cleary.”

The mister before Cleary was a first. The ribs ached. I caught a flash of the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Mr. B conveyed specifics such as height and weight, build, the last known place the kid was seen, the usual hangouts and habits. This kid was All-American, too vanilla, and Mr. B had to know it. Still, this kid was vestal purity compared to Mr. B, who had run gin during Prohibition, killed his first man during the Depression, and became a made-man before Leave It to Beaver aired its first episode on television.

The car came to a stop. The driver put an emphasis on the brakes. We sat in silence. The locks shot up. Not quite the sound of a bolt-action rifle, but close. Mr. B extended his hand for a handshake. I took it. No choice there. This was B’s way of saying his word was his bond and whatever I discovered during the course of my investigation stayed between us, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.

“I’ve got to ask,” I said.

“I’ll pay you whatever you want.”

“It’s not that,” I said, feeling Tony Two-Times’ breath on the back of my neck. “Did you hire Jimmy C to do a job lately?”

“I did not.”

“And Bill called me, just like that?” I knew better than to snap my fingers. Tony would grab my hand and crush my knuckles like a bag of peanuts. A massive paw on the shoulder told me it was time to vacate the premises, but then Mr. B did the tailor’s touch, a light hand to my elbow. “Jimmy is queer like your friend, right?”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“When it comes to friends, you forgive certain habits, like I allow this idiot over here to smoke those stupid cigarettes. Capisci?”

“Yeah, I understand.”

“Good. Now, screw off.”

I climbed over Tony Two-Times to leave the car. Door handle in my grip, I leaned forward to ask one last thing, “You know about Jimmy’s predicament?”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Mr. B said.

“What is?”

“I know everything in this town, except where my grandnephew is. Now, shut the door.”

The door clapped shut. I heard bolts hammer down and lock. There was a brief sight of silhouettes behind glass before the car left the curb. I had two cases before breakfast, one in front of me, and the other one, behind me in the precinct house. There was no need for me to turn around. No need either, to read the sign overhead.

The limestone building loomed large in my memory. Two lanterns glowed and the entrance, double doors of polished brass, were as tall and heavy as I remembered them. It was late March and I wasn’t Caesar but it sure as hell felt like the Ides of March as I walked up those marble steps.

***

Excerpt from Symphony Road by Gabriel Valjan.  Copyright 2021 by Gabriel Valjan. Reproduced with permission from Gabriel Valjan. All rights reserved.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gabriel Valjan lives in Boston’s South End. He is the author of the Roma Series and Company Files (Winter Goose Publishing) and the Shane Cleary Series (Level Best Books). His second Company Files novel, The Naming Game, was a finalist for the Agatha Award for Best Historical Mystery and the Anthony Award for Best Paperback Original in 2020. Gabriel is a member of the Historical Novel Society, International Thriller Writer (ITW), and Sisters in Crime.

Connect with Gabriel:
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FEATURED AUTHOR: TIM BAGSHAW

ABOUT THE BOOK

With the Belgae defeated, and the Durotrages given their freedom, Artur casts his eyes across the sea to the ever-gathering shadows of war. Around him, there is disharmony and discord, with friends having fallen or turned against him. Before him, there is an army more powerful, and more vicious, than any the world has ever seen.

Can he make a stand where so many have fallen? Can he defy a great tide that is set to wash the Dewnan from their lands?

There is little chance for them in battle, and no choice but to fight, so he does the only thing he can do . . .

Gathering his Company, he joins the Veneti warriors in crossing the Mor Pretani. Whether he is ready yet or not, he has to put aside the suffering of his childhood so that he can confront Caesar’s forces and save his people.

Even with Morlain’s guidance and Lancelin’s blade, it might not be enough. Even with his men’s undying loyalty and the Sword of Menluit in his hand, it might not be enough. But they will stand and they will inspire the legends that will follow and, if this is to be the last page of their story, so be it. For it will be a story well told. A story to inspire. The story of the Dewnan.

Book Details: 


Title: This Sacred Land: Part 2: Fight For Freedom

Author: Tim Bagshaw


Genre: historical fiction / historical fantasy


Series: The Chronicle of the Dewnan
, book 2

Publisher: Publishing Push (March 2020)


Print length: 499 pages

LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT WITH TIM BAGSHAW

A few of your favorite things: Cornwall and the ocean! Swimming on a balmy evening in June at Lansallos Cove, the barbecue cooking on the beach . . .
Things you need to throw out: anything that gets in the way of achieving something productive. There’s too much ‘stuff’ in this life . . . 


Things you need in order to write: peace and quiet.
Things that hamper your writing: life and all its commitments— and having to pay the mortgage!


Things you love about writing: the research, the escapism, and the relationship with my characters.
Things you hate about writing: nothing, it’s all an adventure.


Things you never want to run out of: energy and optimism.
Things you wish you’d never bought: following a fad of the time we bought a futon in the early 1990s. Even now I can’t think why.  


Words that describe you: confident, supportive, emotional.
Words that describe you but you wish they didn’t: irritable, moody, irrational.

Favorite foods: I have many—but there are few things more comforting than a warm sausage sandwich (Warrens, Old Cornish for preference) on thick sliced wholemeal bread with butter and a good squirt of HP brown sauce.
Things that make you want to throw up: a few years ago, in a restaurant in Tokyo, someone gave me a raw sea urchin. I love Japanese food, but I needed a lot of green tea after tasting that!   

Favorite music: I’m a child of the 1970’s! I like a brass band as well, and a bit of opera . . .
Music that make your ears bleed: the words ‘club anthem’ would cause me to immediately leave the room.

Favorite beverage: a cup of strong tea.

Something that gives you a pickle face: anything that has Anise in it.

Something you wish you could do: be fluent in Greek.
Something you wish you’d never learned to do: paint windows!

Something you like to do: read— loads of great authors, but Patrick O’Brien, Patrick Leigh Fermor have inspired me, and I can lose myself completely in the novels of Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy.

Something you wish you’d never done: I went to see a film called Freebirds with my youngest son, quite a few years ago now, it was awful!

Things you’d walk a mile for: a pint of Doombar. It’s about a mile to the pub from my house!
Things that make you want to run screaming from the room: note comment on Club Anthems above . . .

Things you always put in your books: determined, confident characters— and characters who need to be challenged and the basis of an historical connection.

Things you never put in your books: gratuitous violence.

Favorite places you’ve been: I love southern Greece and the Peloponnese. I’ve also been to Chicago, New York, and San Francisco several times— great cities. And then we had a really good couple of days in Memphis, on Beale Street and going to Graceland . . .

Places you never want to go to again: nowhere, everywhere has it charms if you look for them.

Things that make you happy: a sunny day after the rain.

Things that drive you crazy: people who don’t remember that you should give way to the right at a roundabout!

Proudest moment: being married to my wife, and watching my sons grow up into fine young men.

Most embarrassing moment: I’m not sure I can put those here; suffice to say they are all because of one too many glasses of wine.

Best thing you’ve ever done: being married to Penny, it is the cornerstone of everything.

Biggest mistake: lots of mistakes. But perhaps in the beginning I should have stuck to my aspiration to be a journalist and not come to serious writing much later in life.

Most daring thing you’ve ever done: submitting to peer pressure and jumping into the river in the Ardeche Gorge in France from a great height (see answer below). 

Something you chickened out from doing: Anything that involves heights (except for the above).

The last thing you did for the first time: fly to the Isles of Scilly (not for the fainthearted!)

Something you’ll never do again: fall in love for the first time.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tim Bagshaw lives in Cornwall, in the United Kingdom, in the midst of the ancient land of the Dewnan.

An amateur historian and seeker of hidden truths, he is passionate about the place he lives in, and through a combination of walking, observing and living in the landscape, and a keen interest in lost and forgotten histories he has created a new take on the story of Arthur, where the legend begins far earlier, with a valiant stand against the inevitable advance of the Roman legions.


Connect with Tim:
Website  |  Facebook  |  Twitter  |  Goodreads


Buy the book:
Amazon  |   Barnes & Noble

FEATURED AUTHOR: SOREN PAUL PETREK

ABOUT THE BOOK

The Allies and the Nazis are in a deadly race to develop the ultimate weapon while supersonic V-2 rockets rain down on London. Madeleine Toche and Berthold Hartmann, the German super assassin who taught her to kill, search for the secret factory where Werner von Braun and his Gestapos masters use slave labor to build the weapons as the bodies of the innocent pile up. The Allied ground forces push towards Berlin while the German SS fight savagely for each inch of ground.

Finding the factory hidden beneath Mount Kohnstein, Hartmann contacts his old enemy, Winston Churchill and summons Madeleine to his side. While she moves to bring the mountain down on her enemies, Hartmann leads a daring escape from the dreaded Dora concentration camp to continue his revenge against the monsters who ruined his beloved Germany.

Together with the Russian Nachtlexen, the Night Witches, fearsome female pilots the race tightens as the United States and the Germans successfully carry out an atomic bomb test.

Germany installs an atom bomb in a V-2 pointed towards London, while the US delivers one to a forward base in the Pacific. The fate of the Second World War and the future of mankind hangs in the balance.

Read the first chapter at Booksie and don’t forget to give it a like!

Book Details:

Title: Wolves at Our Door


Author: Soren Paul Petrek 


Genre: Historical/Action/Adventure 

Publisher: Editions Encre Rouge/Hachette Livre (May 2, 2019) 
   

Print Length: 319 pages


On tour with: Pump Up Your Book

LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT WITH SOREN PAUL PETREK

A few of your favorite things: I like good food, time spent with family and friends, movies and of course reading books!

Things you need to throw out: a storage facility full of everything, junk, bikes, old papers . . .


Things you need in order to write: laptop for clicking away and doing research.

Things that hamper your writing: getting too busy with my day job. I’m a trial attorney.


Things you love about writing: the joy that I bring to my readers as reflected by their thoughtful reviews.

Things you hate about writing: bad reviews, but you can’t please everyone. All writers get them.

Things you love about where you live: It’s a small bungalow, in a quiet neighborhood near restaurants and entertainment
.
Things that make you want to move: Our sons grew up and have moved on. This is my last move. If I ever move again, it will be in an urn.

Favorite foods: I do the cooking at home. Anything with fresh ingredients, really good BBQ is hard to beat.

Things that make you want to throw up: Coconut is the ONLY thing I can’t stand. I tell my friends and family who love it, coconut is not a food… it’s bark.

Favorite music or song: classic rock.

Music that make your ears bleed: death metal.

Favorite beverage: Coca-Cola it’s not good for you, but sometimes only a coke will do it.

Something that gives you a pickle face: coconut water: AKA ‘Bark Juice.’

Favorite smell: Baking bread.

Something that makes you hold your nose: All things associated with waste treatment plants. Somebody light a match!

Something you’re really good at: cooking and writing.

Something you’re really bad at: everything mechanical or that involves directions.  #1 If it can’t be fixed with a sledgehammer, it can’t be fixed, #2 Never give Soren the map.


Something you like to do: zipline.

Something you wish you’d never done: Ridden any ride at a county fair.

People you consider as heroes: Winston Churchill, FDR, my parents.

People with a big L on their foreheads: Hitler, Stalin, all celebrities who came to fame through “leaked sex tapes.”



Last best thing you ate: steak.

Last thing you regret eating: coconut hidden in a cookie. Sometimes the sneaky so-and-so’s try to hide it in frosting. You can’t hide chunks of bark.

Things you always put in your books: some humor and a humanitarian reminder.

Things you never put in your books: my personal opinions. Who cares, I write fiction.  However, none of my characters like coconut . . .

Things to say to an author: don’t over-describe me, let the reader use their imagination.

Things to say to an author if you want to be fictionally killed off in their next book: You’re a hack!

Favorite places you’ve been: Provence, South of France, London. I’ve lived in both.

Places you never want to go to again: Milan (Italy).

Favorite books: All Quiet on the Western Front. The author was there fighting.

Books you would ban: None, although Mein Kompf could have a sub-title Rantings of a Lunatic.

People you’d like to invite to dinner: Steven King and his wife.

People you’d cancel dinner on: Kim Jong un.

Things that make you happy: dinner with family.

Things that drive you crazy: most government agencies.

Most daring thing you’ve ever done: write a book and send it out into the world for all to read and criticize.

Something you chickened out from doing: I kept dodging my colonoscopy, but they finally cornered me and . . .

EXCERPT FROM WOLVES AT OUR DOOR




Helga Miller shut the door to her small flat in Saint-Omer. With seagulls reeling and crying in the sunny morning sky above, she felt as though she were on vacation. She loved the quaint architecture of the homes, the small shops, and the produce market. Things were scarce, but it was late summer, and the local produce was in. Fish was always available, and she had developed a fondness for it. She could smell the sea and loved the warm sand and relaxed atmosphere at the beach. It was as if there wasn’t even a war.

I’m not on holiday, she told herself, but it’s my first time out of Germany, and I’m not going to waste it. She’d wanted to help with the war effort, and now she had her chance. Even after the invasion, everyone back home still thought Germany would win—Hitler told them so, and the propaganda films left no doubt. Why wouldn’t she believe it as well?

Smaller than some of the other women she worked with, Helga prided herself on being athletic and trim. She went for long walks and did calisthenics daily. Her long hair, which she kept tucked under her hat while on duty, was dark, as was the hair of many people from Bohemia in southern Germany. She wasn’t much interested in the men she worked with. Older and serious, they paid little attention to her except to bark orders. They bored her. She liked the young soldiers stationed in the town and at her worksite. They were exciting and fun-loving, and girls like her from home were scarce.

Helga had been recruited right out of university, and while she knew that as a non-soldier, she would never be much of a threat to anyone, she was eager to work on such an important program. The big projects had political or military applications. The project she was working on combined mining and construction. It was unique.

She was on her way to La Couple, where she worked as a mining engineer. Helga knew the fighting was close, but the enemy army was still many miles away. She didn’t think about it much, but when she did, she had to admit it was a bit thrilling. Neither did she think often of the intended use of the facility once complete. At work she concentrated, paying no attention to the fact that rockets launched from there would fall on major cities—and their civilian populations. Allied bombs were falling on German cities, targeting military installations and civilians alike. She hoped the completion of the facility would stop those raids and help Germany win the war.

 Helga walked toward the train station where she would catch the short ride to her worksite. She disliked the frumpy white coveralls she wore, but they, like everything else, were mandatory. She felt as though she were dressed in a sack. How would she ever catch a man’s eye while wearing a tent?

She turned a corner and crossed over the car park toward the train station. It was a squat wooden building consisting of dirty windows, a ticket booth, toilets, and a kiosk that sold newspapers, cigarettes, and whatever sweets were available at a given time. Helga made her way over to the short line to buy a ticket for the next train. She noticed a young woman ahead of her with a mane of curly black hair cascading down the middle of her back. She didn’t have to see the woman’s face to know that she was beautiful; the way she held herself left no doubt. Oh, to have curls like hers . . . Helga fingered the correct change in her pocket and had it ready when she got to the window. She smiled at the man behind the glass. He gave her the same indifferent look he gave all the passengers, French and German alike. She was sure he’d been there before the war and would be there when it was over. His job was simple and didn’t require any conversation.

A rush of wind announced the arrival of the train. Helga moved forward onto the platform and waited for it to come to a stop. It was a tired old commuter train that had covered the same miles of track for years. With petrol scarce, people got around on foot, bicycle, or, for longer distances, train.

After waiting her turn to board, she found an empty seat in the middle of the car. Among the passengers who brushed past her was the young woman with the beautiful hair. Helga snuck a peek at her dark and angular, almost Gypsy-like, face; the lovely girl was almost certainly from the south. She watched men steal glances as she passed. She felt a twinge of jealousy. No man had ever looked at her that way; it wasn’t fair.

The train pulled out of the station and picked up speed. The windows were down, and the warm breeze carried a hint of salt from the ocean. The smell of seaweed and surf wafted through the car, carrying out cigarette smoke and lingering smells. Helga could stay in a place like this forever. With the weekend coming, she was planning to go down to the beach with another girl from work. Two days in the sun, a chance to chat with some young men, drink some local wine, have some fun. There were always young German soldiers about, on leave.

Excerpt by Soren Paul Petrek. Copyright © 2018 by Soren Paul Petrek. Reproduced with permission from the author. All rights reserved.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Soren Petrek is a practicing criminal trial attorney, admitted to the Minnesota Bar in 1991. Married with two adult children, Soren continues to live and work in St. Paul, Minnesota.

Educated in the U.S., England and France, Soren sat his O-level examinations at the Heathland School in Hounslow, London in 1981. His undergraduate degree in Forestry is from the University of Minnesota, 1986. His law degree is from William Mitchell College of Law in St. Paul, Minnesota (1991).

Soren’s novel, Cold Lonely Courage won Fade In Magazine’s 2009 Award for Fiction. Fade In was voted the nation’s favorite movie magazine by the Washington Post and the L.A. Times in 2011 and 2012.

The French edition of Cold Lonely Courage (titled simply, Courage) was published January 2019, by Encre Rouge Editions, distributed by Hachette Livre in 60 countries. Soren’s contemporary novel, Tim will be released along with the rest of the books in the Madeleine Toche series of historical thrillers.

Tuck Magazine has published several of Soren’s poems, some of which have been included in Soren’s book of poetry, A Search for Solid Ground.


Connect with Soren:
Website  |  Facebook  |  Twitter  |  Goodreads  |  Instagram

Buy the book:
Amazon  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Kobo  |  ebook.com

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FEATURED AUTHOR: DAVID MARLETT

ABOUT THE BOOK

In American Red, as the Great American Century begins, and the modern world roars to life, Capitalists flaunt greed and seize power, Socialists and labor unions flex their violent will, and an extraordinary true story of love and sacrifice unfolds.

In his critically acclaimed debut novel, Fortunate Son, David Marlett introduced readers to a fresh take on historical fiction–the historical legal thriller—bringing alive the people and events leading to and surrounding some of the most momentous, dramatic legal trials in history. Now he returns with American Red, the story of one of the greatest domestic terrorists in American history, and the detectives, lawyers, spies, and lovers who brought him down.

The men and women of American Red are among the most fascinating in American history. When, at the dawn of the 20th century, the Idaho governor is assassinated, blame falls on “Big Bill” Haywood, the all-powerful, one-eyed boss of the Western Federation of Miners in Denver. Close by, his polio-crippled wife, Neva, struggles with her wavering faith, her love for another man, and her sister’s affair with her husband. New technologies accelerate American life, but justice lags behind. Private detectives, battling socialists and unions on behalf of wealthy capitalists, will do whatever it takes to see Haywood hanged. The scene is set for bloodshed, from Denver to Boise to San Francisco. America’s most famous attorney, Clarence Darrow, leads the defense—a philandering U.S. senator leads the prosecution—while the press, gunhands, and spies pour in. Among them are two idealists, Jack Garrett and Carla Capone—he a spy for the prosecution, she for the defense. Risking all, they discover truths about their employers, about themselves and each other, and what they’ll sacrifice for justice and honor—and for love.

Book Details:

Title: American Red

Author: David Marlett

Genre: Historical Fiction

Publisher: StoryPlant (July 2, 2019)

Print length: 528 pages

On tour with: Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours






LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT WITH DAVID MARLETT

Things you need in order to write: at least a two-hour block of time. My computer. Relative quiet.
Things that hamper your writing: stress about other things. Narrow time windows. 

Things you love about writing: depends on the type of writing, but as a novelist, I love the ability to bring characters alive, to explore their humanity, to play with language and experiment, and to connect directly to readers . . . from the keyboard to their minds is truly amazing.
Things you hate about writing: nothing that I hate, per se, but I certainly don’t like the overall decline in reading and the financial instability of the profession.

Easiest thing about being a writer: again, as a novelist writer, it is the ability to do it anywhere, anytime. To not have to chase partners, buy-in from others, etc. as one often must with screenwriting.

Hardest thing about being a writer: assuming you mean as a novelist writer, then the hardest things are the isolation . . . the lack of exercise . . . the lack of collaboration.



Things you never want to run out of: tea bags.
Things you wish you’d never bought: nothing particularly. I’m careful about what I buy.


Favorite music or song: modern folk, Celtic, U2, some jazz.
Music that make your ears bleed: I don’t prefer most rap and hip-hop.

Favorite beverage: single malt scotch.
Something that gives you a pickle face: coconut water.

Favorite smell: gardenias, petrichor, my kids.

Something that makes you hold your nose: Trump.

Something you’re really good at: graphic design.

Something you’re really bad at: cooking.

Something you wish you could do: live on a beautiful, mountain lake with all my adult kids living nearby.
Something you wish you’d never learned to do: nothing particularly. I enjoy learning new things.

Something you like to do: woodwork.

Something you wish you’d never done: we all have regrets.

Things you’d walk a mile for: only one mile? Then many things. But if you mean 500 miles, then my family.
Things that make you want to run screaming from the room: Trump.

Things you always put in your books: someone pointed out that I always include someone being seriously injured or killed by being run over by a vehicle (coach-and-six, train, automobile). Not sure why that is, but I guess I’ll have to keep it up. 

Things you never put in your books: gratuitous sex, and hopefully no anachronisms.

Things to say to an author: I recommended your book to five other people.

Things to say to an author if you want to be fictionally killed off in their next book: what’s it about? . . . I don’t like to read.

Favorite places you’ve been: Edinburgh, Puget Sound, the delivery rooms for my four kids.

Places you never want to go to again: Beijing, Buenos Aires.

People you’d like to invite to dinner: a whole assortment of people . . . I love being invited to dinner parties where there will be interesting people.
People you’d cancel dinner on: Trump and his cronies.

Most daring thing you’ve ever done: a number of things . . . but one that comes to mind is (many years ago) sneaking my car onto the at-that-time empty Indianapolis 500 track and driving it all the way around, just avoiding security.

Something you chickened out from doing: I can’t think of anything . . . as I’ll try most things. That said, there certainly are things that I wouldn’t do, were they presented as options.

EXCERPT FROM AMERICAN RED

The lawyer lobbed a verbal spear across the courtroom, piercing the young man, pinning him to the creaky witness chair and tilting the twelve jurymen forward. Their brows rose in anticipation of a gore-laden response from the witness as he clutched his bowler, his face vacant toward the wood floor beyond his shoddy boots. When the judge cleared his throat, the plaintiff's attorney, Clarence Darrow, repeated the question. "Mr. Bullock, I know this is a strain upon you to recount that tragic day when fifteen of your brothers perished at the hands of the Stratton-"

"Your Honor! Point in question," barked the flint-faced defense attorney representing the Stratton Independence Mine, a non-union gold operation near Cripple Creek, Colorado. On this warm summer afternoon in Denver, he and Darrow were the best dressed there, each wearing a three-button, vested suit over a white shirt and dull tie.

The robed judge gave a long blink, then peered at Darrow. With a chin waggle, his ruling on the objection was clear.

"Yes, certainly. My apologies, Your Honor," feigned Darrow, glancing toward the plaintiff's table where two widows sat in somber regard. Though his wheat-blonde hair and sharp, pale eyes defied his age of forty-nine, his reputation for cunning brilliance and oratory sorcery mitigated the power of his youthful appearance: it was no longer the disarming weapon it had once been. No attorney in the United States would ever presume nascence upon Clarence Darrow. Certainly not in this, his twenty-sixth trial. He continued at the witness. "Though as just a mere man, one among all …" He turned to the jury. "The emotion of this event strains even the most resolute of procedural decorum. I am, as are we all, hard-pressed to-"

"Whole strides, shall we, Mr. Darrow?" grumbled the judge.

"Yes," Darrow said, turning once again to James Bullock who seemed locked in the block ice of tragedy, having not moved a fraction since first taking the witness seat. "Mr. Bullock, we must rally ourselves, muster our strength, and for the memory of your brothers, share with these jurymen the events of that dark day. You said the ride up from the stope, the mine floor, was a swift one, and there were the sixteen of you in the cage made to hold no more than nine-is that correct?"

"Yes, Sir," Bullock replied, his voice a faint warble.

"Please continue," Darrow urged.

Bullock looked up. "We kept going, right along, but it kept slipping. We'd go a ways and slip again."

"Slipping? It was dropping?"

"Yes, Sir. Dropping down sudden like, then stopping. Cappy was yelling at us to get to the center, but there was no room. We was in tight."

"By Cappy you mean Mr. Capone, the foreman?"

"Yes, Sir. Our shift boss that day." The witness sucked his bottom lip. "He was in the cage 'long with us." He sniffed in a breath then added, "And his boy, Tony. Friend of mine. No better fella."

"My condolences," said Darrow. "What do you think was the aid in getting the men to the middle of the cage?"

"Keep it centered in the shaft, I reckon. We was all yelling." Bullock took a slow breath before continuing, "Cappy was trying to keep the men quiet, but it wasn't making much a difference. Had his arms around Tony."

A muscle in Darrow's cheek shuddered. "Please continue."

"So we was slipping, going up. Then the operator, he took us up about six feet above the collar of the shaft, then back down again."

"Which is not the usual-"

"Not rightly. No, Sir. We should've stopped at the collar and no more. But later they said the brakes failed on the control wheel."

"Mr. Bullock, let's return to what you experienced. You were near the top of the shaft, the vertical shaft that we've established was 1,631 feet deep, containing, at that time, about twenty feet of water in its base, below the lowest stope, correct?"

"Yes, Sir. Before they pumped that water to get to em."

"By ‘them' you mean the bodies of your dead companions?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Ok, you were being hoisted at over 900 feet per minute by an operator working alone on the surface—near the top of the shaft, when the platform began to slip and jump. Is that your testimony?" 

"Yes, Sir."

"That must have been terrifying."

"Yes, Sir, it was. We'd come off a tenner too."

"A ten-hour shift?"

"Yes, Sir."

Darrow rounded on the jury, throwing the next question over his shoulder. "Oh, but Sir, how could it have been a ten-hour work day when the eight-hour day is now the law of this state?"

The defense lawyer's chair squeaked as he stood. "Objection, Your Honor."

"I'll allow it," barked the judge, adding, "But gentlemen ..."

The witness shook his head. "The Stratton is a non-union, gold ore mine. Supposed to be non-union anyway. Superintendent said owners weren't obliged to that socialist law."

"Hearsay, Your-"

"Keep your seat, Counsel. You're going to wear this jury thin."

Darrow stepped closer to the witness. "Mr. Bullock, as I said, let's steer clear from what you heard others say. The facts speak for themselves: you and your friends were compelled to work an illegal ten-hour shift. Let's continue. You were near the top, but unable to get off the contraption, and it began to-"

"Yes. We'd gone shooting up, then he stopped it for a second." 

"By ‘he,' you mean the lift operator?"

"Yes, Sir. He stopped it but then it must have gotten beyond his control, cause we dropped sixty, seventy feet all the sudden. We were going quick. We said to each other we're all gone. Then he raised us about ten feet and stopped us. But then, it started again, and this time it was going fast up and we went into the sheave wheel as fast as we could go."

"To be sure we all follow, Mr. Bullock, the lift is the sole apparatus that hoisted you from the Stratton Mine, where you work?"

"Yes, Sir."

"And the sheave wheel is the giant wheel above the surface, driven by a large, thirty-year-old steam engine, run by an operator. That sheave wheel coils in the cable" he pantomimed the motion—"pulling up the 1,500-pound-load platform, or lift, carrying its limit of nine men. And it coils out the cable when the lift is lowered. But that day the lift carried sixteen men-you and fifteen others. Probably over 3,000 pounds. Twice its load limit. Correct?"

"Yes, Sir. But, to be clear, I ain't at the Stratton no more." 

"No?" asked Darrow, pleased the man had bit the lure. "No. Seeing how I was one of Cappy's men. Federation. And, now 'cause this." His voice faded.

Darrow frowned, walked a few paces toward the jury, clapped once and rubbed his hands together. "The mine owners, a thousand miles away, won't let you work because you're here-a member of the Western Federation of Miners, a union man giving his honest testimony. Is that right?"

"Yes, Sir."

Again, the defense counsel came to his feet. "Your Honor, Mr. Darrow knows Mr. Bullock's discharge wasn't—"

The judge raised a hand, took a deep breath and cocked his head toward the seasoned attorney before him. "Swift to your point, Mr. Darrow."

"Yes, Your Honor." Darrow's blue eyes returned to the witness. "Mr. Bullock, you were telling us about the sheave wheel."

"Yes. It's a big thing up there, out over the top of the shaft. You see it on your way up. We all think on it—if we was to not stop and slam right up into it—which we did that day. We all knew it'd happen. I crouched to save myself from the hard blow I knew was coming. I seen a piece of timber about one foot wide there underside the sheave, and soon as we rammed, I grabbed hold and held myself up there, and pretty soon the cage dropped from below me, and I began to holler for a ladder to get down."

"Must have been distressing, up there, holding fast to a timber, dangling 1,631 feet over an open shaft, watching your fifteen brothers fall."

Bullock choked back tears. "Yes, Sir. That's what I saw." He paused. When he resumed, his tone was empty, as if the voice of his shadow. "I heard em. Heard em go. They was screaming. They knew their end had come. I heard em till I heard em no more."

--- Excerpt from American Red by David Marlett.  Copyright 2019 by David Marlett. Reproduced with permission from The Story Plant. All rights reserved.




ABOUT THE AUTHOR





David Marlett is an award-winning storyteller and writer of historical fiction, primarily historical legal thrillers bringing alive the fascinating people and events leading to major historical trials. His first such novel, Fortunate Son, became a national bestseller in 2014, rising to #2 in all historical fiction and #3 in all literature and fiction on Amazon. The late Vincent Bugliosi—#1 New York Times bestselling author of Helter Skelter—said David is "a masterful writer of historical fact and detail, of adventure, peril and courtroom drama.” Just released is American Red which follows the extraordinary true story of a set of radical lovers, lawyers, killers, and spies who launched the Great Americn Century. Visit www.AmericanRedBook.com. He is currently writing his next historical legal thriller, Angeles Los, which continues some of the lead characters from American Red. Angeles Los is based on the true story at the 1910 intersection of the first movies made in Los Angeles, the murderous bombing of the Los Angeles Times, and eccentric Abbot Kinney's "Venice of America" kingdom. In addition, David is a professor at Pepperdine Law School, was the managing editor of OMNI Magazine, and guest-lectures on story design. He is a graduate of The University of Texas School of Law, the father of four, and lives in Manhattan Beach, California.


Connect with David:
Website  |  Book website  |  Facebook (book)  |  Facebook (personal)  |  Twitter  |  Goodreads 

Buy the book:
Amazon  |  Barnes & Noble