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Excerpt from Chapter One
Bud Palmer slipped on his sunglasses and set off in his Ford Sunliner convertible on this balmy subtropical Satur- day morning. All the while he tried to convince himself he could get this meeting over with quickly no matter what his shady uncle Rick was up to.
Then again Bud wished he’d just hung up on him. Not put up with “Can’t tell you over the phone. I need you here in person, soon as possible.” That way he wouldn’t be driving across the MacArthur Causeway. Moreover, if his mother hadn’t asked him to look out for her kid brother while she and his dad were on their Caribbean cruise, he’d never have been reminded of Rick’s schemes such as hanging up a dual Realtor/ PI sign.
He wouldn’t be thinking of Rick Ellis at all.
As he drove on, more disconcerting images came to mind: a wiry little guy clutching a polaroid camera, hiding behind the poinsettias as some floozy snuck into a garish motel with some- one’s husband in tow.
Not that Bud himself was always straightforward. At twenty- nine, while his friends were married with kids he was still easing out of relationships the minute he was asked, “Tell me, Bud, how much does a sportswriter make?” Or, “I hear there’s a new subdivision going up in Miramar, each house with a Lanai. Perfect for raising a family.”
In comparison with Rick, however, Bud was always honest about his intentions whether it be his work or love life. In contrast, when playing tennis for instance, Rick was always looking for an angle. He’d crouch behind the net ready to pounce or cut off an opponent’s serve, always looking to throw the server off his game.
Bud crossed over onto Miami Beach, tooled around, passed the ballfield at Flamingo Park, eased by the pastel sidewalks taking him up to Ocean Drive and the fresh fruit juice stand at 10th Street Beach. He parked by a curb directly in line with the juice stand, got out and crossed the sun-dappled street.
Glancing around, he took in the cool tinge of fall blowing in from the ocean, fusing with the salty scent of the water. The sun’s rays streamed through the fluffy clouds; the waves rippled, beckoning the smattering of sunbathers to take a dip.
Everywhere Bud looked nothing had changed. Which included the sight of middle-aged women across the way in their flowery sun dresses, whiling away the hours on the patios of their pink-stucco efficiency apartments; shuffling mahjong tiles; glancing over at the white sands stretching off into the distance in hopes of spotting some lonely bachelor. It was all predictable. Even his paper, the Miami Herald and source of his livelihood, discarded on the empty green bench, seconded the motion.
There was a photo of President Eisenhower above the fold playing golf nearby at Jackie Gleeson’s country club, and a sidebar noting the U.S. was gaining in the space race with the Soviets.
Whatever Rick was champing at the bit about had to be taken with the proverbial grain of salt.
As if in agreement, a voluptuous blond in a fuchsia bikini came into view, turned on the outdoor shower a few yards away, casually washed off the salt water residue on her shoulders, and winked.
Bud smiled back, checked his watch and gazed beyond the mahjong ladies to a gap in the row of efficiency apartments at the end of the block where the weathered bungalow sat a few yards back. The one with the fading sign fronting the bamboo porch railing that read Walk-ins Welcome: Services Unlimited.
He crossed over, hurried past the row of squat apartments, pivoted by the sign, noted the rear end of the rusty Studebaker sitting in the carport, and nodded. It was all the same-old same- old promising more of the same. He bound up the steps, called out “Hello?” opened the screen door and walked right in.
And, sure enough, there Rick was ready and waiting, sporting that signature Charlie Chaplin mustache, flowered short-sleeved shirt and white linen slacks. The first worrisome signal, however, was his bleary, blood-shot eyes as he over-poured a carafe of steaming black coffee into a mug. He whipped out a handkerchief, plunked the carafe and mug on the edge of the desk in the center of the room, and mopped up the spill. At the same time, Bud took in the rest of the place and saw that it hadn’t changed a bit, starting from the girlie calendars on the walls, milk boxes full of paperbacks on the floor; the cluttered desk topped by a scuffed black rotary phone, notary stamp, and the Smith-Corona typewriter flanked by a hat stand with a random display. To complete the picture, there was the rack of glossy magazines so that Rick could keep up with the latest, plus a wooden perch that once accommodated a talking parrot on the near side of a shaded window and a sun-bleached deck chair.
Everything was the same and not at all the same.
1. Does writing energize or exhaust
you?
It actually energizes me once I’ve set up a compelling structure. Somehow links I never considered pop up and cause things to deepen or detour into new promising territory. For instance, in my last published book “Fast Times, Big City” Bud Palmer, who has spent his whole life in lazy, semi-tropical Miami of the fifties, reluctantly finds himself in madcap New York trying to skirt around organized crime in order to locate a wannabe actress and retrieve a mysterious attache` case. Following a lead, he winds up at a drama studio audition on the outskirts of Greenwich Village, is prodded to do an improv, selects a teddy bear, and for the first time ever, releases his pent-up feelings. It’s these happy accidents that fuel my writing.
2. What is your writing Kryptonite?
All my life I’ve been an incurable storyteller for various reasons probably stemming from my sense of abandonment as a child. Given the depth of my experience as an actor, director, playwright and author coupled with my development process during every project, the results invariably jump off the page. In short, I seem to have what it takes to offer readers a lively experience.
3. Do you want each book to stand on its own, or are you trying to build a body of
work with connections between each
book?
I only begin each project when I’m haunted by something I lost, something I never had, some basic assumption that is no longer true, some pressing unfinished business and the like. At the same time, the protagonist is never me and neither are the given circumstances. I did, however, write a sequel to “Moon Games” because I wanted to deepen the main character and her background, give her a pixelated sidekick from Indiana, and felt she deserved a second chance to get over her fecklessness. Take on a more challenging set of circumstances and hopefully come through.
4. What’s your favorite under-appreciated novel?
British writer Kate Atkinson’s “Case Histories.” It’s been billed as a detective story but unlike the usual attempt at a can’t-put-it-down page turner,she allows herself to just write. Because she doesn’t map things out, much of this novel takes place inside characters’ headscreating the sense that everything is character driven avoiding the usual neat patterns and solutions. As a result, there’s an amazing juxtaposition of innocence, grim reality and playfulness, with the distant past impinging on current circumstances.
In effect we have three cases -- unsolved (or unresolved) crimes from decades ago involving four sisters. Jackson Brodie--unlike stock detectives, has troubles of his own as things keep happening to him-- is hired to look into these matters. He does investigate, because something provocative has been brought to light, but does so mainly by interviewing people about what actually happened and who was responsible. However, his efforts and foibles are only part of the proceedings as the survivors' storiestake over and are that much more compelling.
To illustrate, in this passage Atkinson takes time out to playfully enter the thoughts of Olivia as a little girl before she mysteriously disappeared over twenty years before:
Olivia opened her eyes and stared contentedly at the nursery-rhyme wallpaper. Jack and Jill toiled endlessly up the hill, Jill carrying a wooden bucket for the well she was destined never to reach, while elsewhere on the same hillside Little Bo-Peep was searching for her lost sheep. Olivia wasn't too worried about the fate of the flock because she could see a pretty lamb with a blue ribbon round its neck, hiding behind a hedge.
In short, Kate Atkinson offered this reader a free-wheeling, many faceted experiencethat’s never bogged down by the dictates of genre and the same old, same old.
5. If you didn’t write, what would you do for work?
I’d go back to teaching acting and directing. But I’ve done all that for a good number of years and would rather not give up the freedom and continue to allow my imagination to run free.
6. Do you hide any secrets in your books that only a few people will find?
In the novel Shadow of the Gypsy, because I often felt like an abandoned orphan, I came up with a totally fictional set of circumstances, put the main character through the wringer, had a confrontation with my mother in another guise, and, in a sense, got it all out of my system.
7. What is your favorite childhood book?
It’s called The Tower Treasure centering on the Hardy Boys Frank and Joe. In this first case the two brothers come upon a dying man who claims to have secreted loot in a dilapidated mansion tower. I didn’t know it was written in 1927. I just appreciated the chance to get lost in a world where brothers weren’t grownups and were free to go on adventures unfettered by the demands of everyday life or the pressures of current events that I didn’t understand.
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