Kenneth Atchity's Blog, page 193

Verse in Arabic Review

ENCOUNTER WITH A MASTER STORYTELLER By  Kenneth Atchity "Messiah Fan"
   
This review is from: Verse in Arabic (Paperback)
  It's been a few years since I was as delighted with a book--I think it was SHADOW OF THE WIND--that I couldn't put down. So masterful is Rasine's narrative that she guides you through the dauntingly undramatic occasion of an interview as though it were riveting drama because the mystery and intrigue are manufactured by sheer brilliance of style and sensitivity as though you were reading the best of Jorge Luis Borges. "A story should never end the conversation it starts," as she herself puts it in the afterword. By not providing an explanation for the metaphor that shapes the story she insinuates it deep into our consciousness so that we walk away as haunted by the story as she was haunted by the inciting incident that gave rise to it. I truly can't wait to read more from this provocative author whose poetically authoritative voice is worthy of the highest echelons of literature. Bravo!

Michael Avallone's The Fat Death, An Ed Noon Mystery New Story Merchant eBook

For David Prill Avallone
who is full of life The Cast of Characters …. according to their wearing apparelED NOON          Brooks BrothersALBERTA CARSTAIRS          Gloria, Inc.HUGO ORLANDO          A. SulkaJOHN FREELING          Browning KingMELISSA MERCER          Ohrbach’sTHE SLIM SAVIOUR          A Bespoke TailorCAPTAIN MONKS          S. KleinDONNA MARIE TORRONE          DiorSANDERSON, JAMES T.          Howard ClothesR. ROBERT ROBERTS          Savile RowMAX FINE          Simon AckermanCLARA          Henry Rosenfeld…. and some of them wind up in shrouds
Prologue to Murder
When The Fat Death hit New York, lots of things had already happened to grip the public’s interest. Johnson had finally got tough about civil rights down South, a rapist killer had gone berserk in one ten-block section of Manhattan and a Convair airliner out of La Guardia had ploughed up a residential street in Queens. So it took plenty for The Fat Death to catch on, hold on and keep on holding. It wasn’t easy. But The Fat Death was handled by experts.The first indication that a giant was walking among us was the leaflet invasion. One shining fall day, the skies over Manhattan rained a million leaflets. No one knows who was the first person to see the message on the square, orange streamers. But after that first one, all of New York that was out walking or leaning out of windows got the message.It was pure Barnum hokum. Grandstand technique applied to mass saturation. Madison Avenue with wings on. And it worked. God, how it worked. Like babies cried for milk, like tigers need taming, the obese and the overweight of the city, cried for the pie in the sky.Nobody saw the plane that dropped the leaflets. The Air Patrol had been caught napping. The Civil Defence, worrying about atomic attacks, couldn’t do a damn thing about one small plane unloading a ton of propaganda for a smart operator. Or operators:BEWARE THE FAT DEATHDON’T EAT YOURSELF INTO THE GRAVEYARDWATCH FOR THE SLIM SAVIOURNothing happened for a whole week. The leaflet air-raid was a four-day sensation. The wire services and network news organisations tried to track the thing down. Walter Cronkite said, “This is how it was …” and Douglas Edwards tried to level the monster with humour. But no one came forth; nobody made their purpose known. There was no follow-up to BEWARE THE FAT DEATH. No Slim Saviour came forth to capitalise on the cutest publicity stunt in decades. It was as if Heaven had opened up to deliver a message to the Earth and then forgot about it. But in all the houses on the island of Manhattan, stretching into the home-from-work kitchens of Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx and Outer Suburbia, the message was repeated. As a joke, as a curiosity, as a come-on for some secret movie about to open with a big campaign to invoke the public interest.I found a leaflet on the windowsill at my office on West 46th. Fluttered safe between the sash and the top of the air conditioner. But I would have heard about it one way or another. Everybody knew about The Fat Death in New York that week.Somewhere in the middle of all the commotion, I received a telephone call from a Miss Carstairs of Gloria, Inc., one of the most fashionable dress houses in town. No matter how interesting and bizarre The Fat Death business was, I still earn my coffee and cake as a confidential investigator.Private Eyes according to Television. Private Detectives according to truth.Still, as I took a cab downtown that bright October morning, The Fat Death was something to think about.Like the scared dames in those rich old mansions always say — had I but known.Still, there’s no sense in kidding myself. Being the kind of restless clown I am, I suppose I would have gone anyway.I always was a sucker for a mystery.
The Fashion in Flim-Flam
“You may go right in, Mr. Noon. Miss Carstairs will see you now.”The unreal receptionist behind the glass-topped desk at Gloria, Inc. looked like a movie star. Her smile was porcelain perfection, her beehive a topless tower, her eyes artfully tilted with mascara. In spite of her million dollar front, she was a flunky. The type turned out on finishing school and charm school assembly lines. Nothing she had was what she had been born with.I twirled my borsalino hat, smiled and moved through the golden door her lacquered fingernails indicated. Gloria, Inc. had a lot of golden doors. High, wide and beautiful. The word handsome just didn’t fit a Broadway layout aimed directly at rich miladies clawing to wear the latest in dress fashions.Miss Carstairs’ office seduced me. Colour without real names; hues and shades which would take seventeen kinds of paint to produce, invited a visitor to sit down and dream orgies. A square, low, golden desk looked lonesome on a wasteland of parquet flooring. There were purplish drapes on the sheer glass windows overlooking Broadway and 39th.There was also a woman behind the desk. A golden woman to match the decor. She didn’t get up when I walked in.“Thank you for being prompt. I appreciate punctuality.”I nodded, waiting for her to ask me to sit down. I was looking while I waited. What the receptionist was copying from Hollywood blueprints, Miss Carstairs had by natural design. They had broken the mould to make her.“Oh, do sit down. The butterfly is comfortable.”The butterfly was. I hung on to my hat and crossed my legs. You always do in butterfly chairs.“Miss Carstairs,” I said. “I hope you haven’t been misled by my business card.”Violet eyes frowned beneath a smooth forehead capped by a waterfall of gleaming honey. “I beg your pardon?”“Well, I handle all sorts of private investigations but you intimated on the telephone this morning that the work had something to do with Gloria, Inc. It’s only fair to tell you, skip tracing is out of my line.”A complexion that didn’t come out of a bottle dimpled faintly.“Good Lord, what an idea. Are you aware of how exclusive our patrons are?” Her eyes narrowed. “You had no qualms about the fee I mentioned.”I shrugged. “Who would? Five hundred dollars for one day’s work is not alfalfa, hay or peanuts. But I’m ready to hear your offer.”She sat back in her chair. Miss Carstairs’ face was something out of the four-colour advertising section of the Sunday Times. But it was really her nose that got me. It was ruler straight with the barest pinch of reality in the nostrils. The one touch of irregularity in all her perfection that made her surpassingly female. Like Gene Tierney’s buck teeth.“I see.” She sounded annoyed.“Do you? Fine. So please tell me what an outfit like this needs a private detective for?”She sighed. I lost interest in her nose and concentrated on the swell graduating from the base of her throat. She was a great argument for open neck dresses.“Mr. Noon, are you familiar with the fashion business at all? Perhaps if you understood the amount of money and scheming that go into a dress line you would appreciate the pitfalls and dangers that come with the operation.”“I’m willing to learn,” I suggested. I liked the way her voice caressed my short name.Her smile was so faint I almost missed it.“All right. We have such occupational hazards. Something’s come up that warrants a man like you.”“I have heard somewhere in my travels, Miss Carstairs, how you folks have to protect your designs from falling into the competition’s hands —” I let it trail off, wanting her to spell it out.“Exactly.” She sounded a little relieved I wasn’t an immigrant. “Then you will know what I mean when I say that next week, the fifteenth to be precise, Gloria is presenting its Winter Line.”“Where?”“In our showroom. There will be buyers from all over the country on hand to make selections.”“So?”“We feel we have something that may revolutionise the field. The programme has cost a fortune but we may inaugurate a trend in women’s wear that will sweep the nation. So our experts tell us.”“So?”She controlled her annoyance with my talky answers by toying with a long golden ballpoint pen between her slender figures. But the nice nostrils fumed and the golden flesh of her bosom rose slightly.“We keep our designs in a bank vault. They have to be protected at all costs. A leak of the material would ruin Gloria. Do we understand each other on that score?”“We do. Go on.”She nodded briskly. “Only two people have access to that vault. Myself and Hugo Orlando. Orlando is the designer. His designs can just not be seen by anyone until the Show. You have already indicated you understand that much at least. Surprise, novelty and the newness and daring of revolutionary design is all the advantage one wants. Anyone. Therefore, if the designs were stolen and duplicated by another company, it could ruin us —”I took out my cigarettes. “Stop stalling, Miss Carstairs.”“I beg your pardon?” shot out of her again. Her voice was no less exquisite than the rest of her. Bright, shining and polished.“You’re a chooser not a beggar, Miss Carstairs. Will you please get to the point? You’ve been trying to be polite since I walked in here but it isn’t necessary. Say what you want to say.”Sudden rage made her beauty vulnerable. Her red mouth showed some white teeth. “What do you mean by that?”I smiled and showed her my teeth. “Have the designs been stolen?”“Of course not.”“You have your own Security People? Special Guards and stuff like that?”“Yes, but —”“And the show is next week and the designs are in the vault and only you and this Orlando have the key?”“This is ridiculous,” she snapped. “Now what are you driving at, Mr. Noon?”“The simple truth, Miss Carstairs. Why don’t you just tell me that you want to check on Orlando — have him followed or something — and stop beating around the designs? Don’t be embarrassed. You’d be surprised how many business people have their colleagues-investigated.”“Really!” That was the last shot out of her. She dropped the golden ball point pen on the desk and pyramided her tapering fingers. Her eyebrows arched.“Was I that obvious?” she asked in a low voice. “I don’t mean to be disloyal to Hugo but —”I blew a small smoke ring. “Why don’t you just tell me what he’s been up to that has you imagining all sorts of terrible things?”She smiled wanly. “Are you always so direct, Mr. Noon? That technique would get you nowhere in this business. You have to learn how to lead up to your point.”“Forget about me. What about Hugo?”“Talking to you has made me feel slightly foolish. It may mean nothing at all but this show means so much to Gloria, Inc.”“Just tell me what you suspect, huh?”She sighed. “Yesterday I went to Cartier’s to price a ring. While I was waiting for a cab on Fifth Avenue to come back here, I spied Hugo on the other side of the street. He was with someone I had rather not have seen him with.”“The competition?”“Exactly. John Freeling of Freeling’s. They’re our biggest competitor. It may have been merely social. It’s a free country, of course, and Hugo may talk to whomever he likes but seeing him with Freeling a mere five days before the Show upset me. It’s like — well —”“Macy’s telling Gimbels?”That made her laugh. A low, polite chuckle. “Quite. I may be being foolish, as I say but I owe it to Gloria to cover every possibility of trouble. You understand?”“Perfectly. What do you want me to do?”“Check on Hugo.” Now that she had committed herself, she was as briskly efficient as though she were ordering sample swatches. “Between now and the Show. Or until you prove something I could confront him with. I haven’t the nerve to tell him I saw him with John Freeling.”“Why not?”She shuddered. “You don’t know these passionate Latins. He’s as gentle as a baby or as violent as a thunderstorm. Moody, talented, perverse. I just couldn’t. Not without proof of some kind.”I walked over to her desk to put out my cigarette. I stared down the front of her dress. Everything about Miss Carstairs was real. “Young guy?”Her eyes looked surprised. “Why, yes. They all are now you know. Dior turned them out in droves after the war. St. Laurents, Le Maine, Beauchamp — Hugo can’t be more than twenty-nine.”“How does he feel about you or more importantly, how do you feel about him?”Miss Carstairs stood up behind the desk. What her face and neckline had promised, the rest of her delivered. Her hips tapered smartly and sexually in a powder-blue chiffon something or other.“I’m sure these questions are necessary though I’m not quite sure why. But I asked you to come here so I’ll put up with your bluntness. Hugo Orlando eats women alive. All weights, all shapes, all sizes. He’s God’s gift to women. Black wavy hair, perfect teeth and a body like an Olympic athlete. Fortunately, we are merely business associates. I like him but he is not my cup of tea. Nor did I make the mistake of falling in love with him. A woman would go crazy with jealousy if she really cared for him. Understood?”“Understood.” We were checking each other back like invoices. I looked into the violet eyes. “You’ll have to point him out to me and I’ll take it from there —”The golden door behind me suddenly clicked open. I turned easily. Miss Carstairs lost some of her executive stability. I could see she wasn’t going to have to finger Hugo Orlando for me. He came as advertised. He was standing in the doorway with loads of charm spilling from a pure Roman face, replete with bronze, dimples and dreamy eyes. With a slight bow of door-wide shoulders encased in Ivy League-Continental charcoal grey, he began a Pinza-loaded apology.“Oh. I am so sorry. I did not know. Forgive me. Alberta, I come back later —”“Come in, Hugo. Come in. We’re all through here. Mr. Noon, meet our Mr. Orlando. Hugo, Mr. Noon is with Sloane-Regis. Guests of our Show next week —”She handled the lie so easily, Hugo Orlando and I briefly nodded to each other in passing. Our eyes met, found nothing, and Hugo Orlando swept by me in to the office. I said a meaningless good-bye to Miss Carstairs, promised to keep in touch and closed the door behind me. I had two fast impressions before I cleared out.Hugo Orlando was very worried about something. His hands were anchored into the pistol pockets of his grey trousers, throwing back the tails of his form-fitting jacket. Also, Miss Carstairs — forgive me, Alberta — was the jealous type.I walked past the unreal receptionist at the desk and found another golden door leading out. I had to plan my campaign for Hugo Orlando, kicking myself for not grabbing a retainer from Miss Alberta Carstairs first crack out of the box.There was a coffee shop on the ground floor of 1407 Broadway. I took a booth, ordered lunch, and mulled over some notions. I had a couple but they could wait until I fed the inner man.The outer man was the one who was going to have to act like a detective for the next couple of days.Nothing unusual happened in the coffee shop except that it was my day for meeting new people. I had just finished my last coffee and was reaching for my cigarettes when I felt a sudden weight against my shoe. The next thing I knew was a stream of Italian invective close to my ear. The dame who had nearly stumbled across my ankle foolishly poked into the aisle was fuming attractively above me. She must have been in a hurry. I’m sure she had lots more to tell me. In a flashing glance, I saw an amazingly shapely, pint-sized female with startling dark eyes and a bust right out of Vesuvius. A butch haircut flounced angrily at me before its owner flounced off, disappearing behind me towards the booths at the rear. I never did have time to see what she was wearing, let alone apologise.“Bestia!” she hissed, the frost of the word settling over my defenceless head before she was gone. A powerful aroma of exotic perfumes went with the chill, charging my nostrils with tingling memories.She was gone before I could even make a snappy comeback. All men are animals but they don’t like to be called one. Not to their faces, at any rate.I forgot all about her and got on with my thinking about Miss Carstairs and the new assignment.Dear Miss Alberta Carstairs. Even though the price was right, she very easily brought out the beast in me. Something about those pinched nostrils and that icy reserve.But all of this, of course, was before The Fat Death threw a shroud over my private affairs.
Does She or Doesn’t She
After lunch, which was uninspiring, I phoned Gloria, Inc. from a phone booth in the coffee shop. I was connected with the brittle voice of the unreal receptionist.She sounded even phonier, courtesy of Alexander Graham Bell. But she got Miss Carstairs on the wire for me.“Mr. Noon? I’m glad you called back —”“So am I,” I admitted. “Look. I forgot to get my retainer from you. By the way, I take it Rudolph Valentino left again?”“Oh — Hugo? Yes. He’s in the Showroom.”“Good. I’ll tell you where to mail the cheque. And while you’re taking notes, you might give me his home address. And yours. I think I shouldn’t come to the office again. I can scout around the rest of the afternoon and see you tonight.”She thought about that for a second. “Yes. I agree. Now that Hugo has seen you. Go ahead. I have my datebook before me.”I pictured that unforgettable face and those long fingers curled around the golden ball point pen. We talked no longer than was necessary. She found out where I slept and I learned that she called Sutton Place home. Hugo Orlando was bivouacked on West End in the Eighties. It figured. I was dealing with fancy clients.“How about eight o’clock, Miss Carstairs? I ought to have some poop by then.”“Eight will be fine. Till then, Mr. Noon.”Something about the way she sounded her “n’s” set a bell off in my head when she hung up. Fine. Noon. Fine — When it came to me it was a logical sequence of thought. Fine. Max Fine. Good old Max with his Ready-to Wear business just a few short blocks away. Max, with his stubby finger on the very pulse of the Garment Industry, could tell me all I might want to know about Gloria, Inc. Max could get information for me wholesale. The more I thought about it the better the notion seemed. Why go tracking down Hugo Orlando in a hurry without some other parts of the picture in focus?Max Fine was in at two o’clock. I found him sandwiched between two mountainous piles of swatch books, his spectacles sitting on his furrowed forehead. He’d been located on East 36th for as long as I’d known him. He was fat then and he was fatter now. And just as busy. When you had a conversation with Max Fine, it was as if you had opened a window in the Tower of Babel. He must have been born talking. Not even two marriages and seven children had interrupted the zest and zeal that operated Max Fine, Sportswear.“My friend the detective,” he bellowed in his horse-trading voice when his secretary, a plump blonde named Shelly, ushered me into his inner office.“Sit down, Eddie baby. Shelly, get the port. This is a drinker. And keep me off the telephone, you hear? Or nobody gets paid around here. Go on, go on. Go, go, go.”That was Max. His handshake across the swatch book pile was crushing. I made room for myself in a chair and made small small talk to clear away the debris of the eighteen months since I’d seen him. Shelly giggled, disappeared, came back with a bottle and two glasses and disappeared again. Buy Now
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SPECIAL: Remembering JFK - 50 Years - Kennedy Detail

Guest Post: Broadway, the street that gave birth to the Hollywood movie by Nancy Nigrosh

Years ago when I was the head of a talent agency’s lit department and working in Beverly Hills, I made an unusual choice by buying an architectural gem in Central L.A.’s Lafayette Square. It was there I tasted the nectar of the neighborhood’s elegant past that once included W. C. Fields, Fatty Arbuckle and the Brown Bomber… Joe Louis. Strolling around my block, I could almost hear Allen Ginsburg poetically intoning, ‘He who digs Los Angeles, is Los Angeles.’ This was an L.A. I’d seen in movies and TV shows I’d loved growing up in Boston, unforgettably etched by Chandler, Hammett, Fante and Bukowski, re-imagined by studio set design.

In 2009, I was at a crossroads in my life and landed in a loft building in downtown L.A. just as the massive adaptive re-use initiative begun in 2006 had come to a complete halt, leaving 300 foot construction cranes eerily frozen in the sunny stillness. I was determined to explore the city whose cultural future has been tied to unprecedented restoration of its extraordinary past. Downtown was the ultimate classroom and I soon learned that our freeways were originally arranged around L.A.’s Broadway in a loop. Broadway was where the city went to play. Busily bisected by the red cars, the street was the best place to shop alongside its most impressive movie theaters. Think of them as nurseries where the film medium grew up, and you get the picture.

“The real Hollywood tour starts and ends on Broadway,” I am apt to say to my industry friends innocently asking me how I am. “… Just look at the resurrection of the United Artists Building’s flamboyant Spanish Gothic/Holy Land crusade motifs that allude to the indomitable spirit of filmmakers… ”

Housed inside this dramatic edifice is an 1800 seat theater, its screen paused to glow again. ”Sure,” they exhale with a loaded thud. I go on, “… wouldn’t it be amazing if studios released films where the red carpet was invented, the way they used to?”

This conversation fades… into an instant and absolute divide. I contest the perception that only seats of power still reside in downtown to facilitate bothersome civic duty, i.e. fight a parking ticket; serve on a jury; or locate an official document. There’s this testy gulf when it comes to downtown. The streets are confusing and maddeningly one-way. Plus, downtown is still considered a scary place, not so long ago utterly abandoned by decent folk. Except movie folk. They are here all the time.







Thousands of films have been shot in downtown L.A., many of them on Broadway – Blade Runner, Harold Lloyd’s Safety Last, and of course, Chinatown. Did you know that Maude Lebowski’s loft is above Broadway’s Palace Theater? Los Angeles doubles for virtually any city you can name, even Louisville for Justified. Downtown still plays itself rather well, most recently in House of Lies and Southland. Besides classic studio films from King Kong to Vertigo, The Artist, Zero Dark Thirty, Fight Club, Collateral, Inception, Drive, Heat and countless more films have all shot on Broadway. The spot attracted world-class performers from the time of vaudeville: Will Rogers, Duke Ellington, The Marx Brothers, Judy Garland. Maroon 5, Lou Reed, Lady Gaga, The Beach Boys, and so many others, have all performed on Broadway.

Great 19th century wealth from gold, railroads and petroleum once created an urban Eden, until a mysterious force drove away the entire residential population. By the 1940’s, our unique downtown became sealed off from the massive mushrooming sprawl that fanned all around it. For a time, the studios had built impressive office digs alongside the robber barons’ Edwardian high-rises on Broadway, but found they could just as easily take their show business to the west side and thrive.

While other great American cities, including San Francisco, proudly hail their history – without Hollywood to support ours, Broadway and L.A.’s downtown core fell into haunted ruins. If not for the Iranian expats in the 1970’s who purchased architectural masterpieces for pennies, the wrecking ball might not have spared these amazing jewels.

Since 2011, things turned around once again for downtown. A half dozen busy cranes dot the horizon of downtown. Most everyone has a dog. Some buildings have pools, gardens or dog parks on their rooftops. From mine I can see all the way to Ocean Avenue.











Photos by Lynn Pelkey



The real news is that the city’s heart – Broadway — is beating once again. This busy artery once pumped out a steady stream of cinema to a hungry worldwide film audience. Broadway’s movie theaters were ‘palaces’ that nourished the glamour we associate with the film première on a street so rich in show biz lore it fairly buckles from an excess of architectural magic, conjured by the wildly happy marriage of business and art. Once upon a time there were 80 theaters within a mere few miles radius from the city’s heart. Only 12 of these unique treasures are left.

I like what Vince Lombardi said about the real glory of being knocked to your knees is fully revealed when you get up and comeback. What might happen if Hollywood were to pick up on Broadway where it left off? Downtown is in full comeback mode. That’s a story just waiting to be told.












About Nancy Nigrosh
Nancy Nigrosh is a former talent and literary agent at Innovative Artists and The Gersh Agency, who has represented many award winning writers and directors for film and television including Academy Award winner Kathryn Bigelow (The Hurt Locker) and Stuart Beattie (Collateral, Pirates Of The Caribbean). She teaches at UCLA Extension Writers’ Program and is a frequent contributor to Indiewire. Through her company, Literary Business, Nancy offers freelance developmental and consulting editing for authors and screenwriters. Follow Nancy on Twitter @nancynigrosh

LISTEN TO THIS VOA INTERVIEW: Agents Say JFK Assassination Transformed Secret Service

Gerald Blaine and Lisa McCubbin, Authors of The Kennedy Detail says weaknesses exposed by the Kennedy assassination forced a change in how the Secret Service was funded.

“So it made them realize even more how important their mission was, and they were able then to convince Congress to get more money. They had been asking for more money for years and years to get more people. They knew they couldn’t protect the president with what they had," said McCubbin.

Clint Hill stayed with the Secret Service after the assassination. He rose to Assistant Director and witnessed changes in the agency - no more travel in open automobiles, and more agents, more money, and better communication.

The Pen and Muse Interviews Kenneth Atchity

 
The Messiah Matrix
by Kenneth John Atchity
A gold coin reveals the true origins of Christianity.




Where are you from? Tell us a little about yourself!
I was born in Eunice, Louisiana, and raised in Kansas City, alternating back and forth between Missouri and Louisiana until I left for college at Georgetown. Graduate school at Yale, then professor at Occidental College for twenty years until I left to become a producer and literary manager.

How do you create your characters?
I think of someone I know well and care about, use them as a starting point, shaping them  as the story demands.

Tell us about your book? How did it get started?
In Jesuit high school, my teachers kept comparing Jesus Christ to Julius Caesar. Then I ran into research that led me further into the connections between Augustus and Christianity. The more I read, the more the story leapt out at me.

What inspires and what got your started in writing?
My mother told me I had a terrible imagination, and urged me to start writing stories as she and her south Louisiana siblings did with their front porch tales.0

Where do you write? Is there something you need in order to write (music, drinks?)
No. I write everywhere. Love writing on the plane, and in exotic locations looking out at wonderful sights like Victoria Harbor in Hong Kong, Campo dei Fiori in Rome, or the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.

How do you get your ideas for writing?
Things that intrigue me, and that I’m willing to spend a year on, are candidates for a new story. Ideas are everywhere, as omnipresent as air.

What do you like to read?
When I’m not sneaking time to re-read a classic like Don Quixote, I prefer thrillers and historical nonfiction, like William Manchester’sThe Death of a President, which I recently re-read as background for the film we’re developing, The Kennedy Detail, based on Jerry Blaine and Lisa McCubbins’ bestseller by the same name.

What would your advice to be for authors or aspiring in regards to writing?
Don’t let a single day go by without writing. Never give up. Don’t hesitate over rejection, but go out and get as many nos as you can before you get to the yes you need.

Anything else you’d like to share?
Go for it! Use yourself up, body, mind, and soul. That’s what we’re here for.


Read an excerpt:

PrologueThe three-wheeled truck, having weathered World War II and every day after, carried its battle scars proudly as it hovered on the curb of Via del Plebiscito. Its V-shaped bumper was as jagged as a saw. Behind the wheel its latest owner, Zbysek Bailin, waited patiently, as though he were long accustomed to assassination on a rainy Wednesday evening.

A red umbrella rounded the corner from the Piazza del Gesù. Zbysek took in a breath and turned the ignition key. The engine coughed to an idle, purred raggedly awaiting further command from its driver. The silver-haired man ambled toward the intersection of Via degli Astalli that flanked the rear of the massive church. Purposely leaving his headlight off, Zbysek shifted into gear and bounced into the street. His foot pressed on the reluctant accelerator, the ancient vehicle climbing all too slowly up to speed.

The man had reached the intersection, and as he passed beneath the streetlight Zbysek thought he might well be deaf—he was so lost in thought he didn’t seem to hear the rumbling truck, even as it barreled toward him at full speed.

Clutching tight to the shaky steering wheel, Zbysek was hunched forward in the cab, eyes intent on his target. All he could see was the man’s bent back, crawling up Via Astalli like a praying mantis.

In seconds the truck had jumped the curb and was upon him.

The man swung around with his books and umbrella, a look of sudden shock on his face—the smile erased. His coat fell open.

For the first time, Zbysek saw his victim clearly in the light of the street lamp—the crisp white collar and the purple piping on his black vest.

His target was a monsignor!

Zbysek hauled at the wheel—but it was too late. His head struck the roof as the vehicle jerked over the body and slammed straight into the lamppost, thrusting Zbysek into the windshield and cracking his head on the glass. He climbed clumsily out of the cab and fell to his knees beside his victim. “Forgive me, father,” Zbysek finally choked out.

The old man’s face was twisted with pain. His narrowed eyes were glistening, blood trickling from his lips. He reached his hand toward his Angel of Death. He seemed to want to speak. Zbysek lowered his head to hear. The monsignor’s final whispered words confused and frightened him, and he leapt for the three-wheeler and fled from the scene.

I/1
Unholy Thursday

Father Ryan McKeown’s mood was less than reverential as he headed for the confessional where he was to perform his priestly duties. The lines of penitents in Gesù were short today. Perhaps because there’d been no major holidays recently or any coming soon, the “occasions of sin” were easier to avoid. Just as Ryan was about to step into the polished mahogany cubicle, a bedraggled man burst into the nave. The man headed for the first confessional, and knelt briefly. Moments later he unceremoniously leapt to his feet to join a short line at the next confessional booth, causing bowed heads to look up in curiosity. Ryan was bemused. Could a man’s sins be so grave he feels the need to come clean of them to several confessors?

Ryan settled himself behind the ivory baffle and listened, in turn, to an old man cursing God because his arthritis no longer allowed him to play bocce; to a teenager who abused himself fourteen times in the past seven days, using the image of his teacher, a nun, as inspiration—Father Ryan, doing his best to repress a smile, told him to say the rosary and promise never to sin again; and to a seminarian barely out of high school who asked if having concerns about his faith meant he should quit the seminary.

“Doubts are not in themselves a sin,” he told the young man. “Thomas, though he doubted, went on to become a great apostle and martyr. Not to mention Mother Teresa, whose troublesome doubts dogged at her heels even more persistently than Calcutta’s poor. I can tell you, it’s what you do with doubt that matters.” He questioned whether his comments had been of any service, or whether he should have simply referred the seminarian to a therapist. He’d often wondered where he’d be today if he himself hadn’t rejected psychotherapy as an option.

He was removing his stole to leave when a tardy penitent thumped down on the kneeler and activated the tiny red light. Ryan slid open the grate. In the obscure light he could see only enough to determine that his supplicant was a male. “Yes, my son?”

“Are you Father Ryan?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Ryan answered, before he could consider how the penitent could know his name.

“Thank God I’ve found you.”

Ryan realized he was speaking with the lost soul who’d been playing musical confessionals. “How long has it been since your last confession?”

“I killed a priest.” Ignoring the sacramental protocol, the man blurted it out in a coarse accent that Ryan had never heard before. Then, remembering the ritual formalities, the man added, “I don’t remember my last Confession. Many years ago, in Tirana.”

So the accent was Albanian. “What do you mean you killed a priest?”

“I hit him with my truck. He was a monsignor. I tried to help him. His eyes…oh my God! I got scared and drove away.”

Ryan’s heart went out to the man on the other side of the grate. The anguish in the man’s voice was dreadful. “An accident, no matter how grievous, is not a sin,” he said. “You simply have to—”
“It wasn’t an accident,” the immigrant interrupted. “I was paid to run him down.”
Ryan fell silent. What fate had led this man to his confessional today among so many hundreds in the Holy City?
“They didn’t tell me he was a monsignor.” Now the man was choking, the guttural sound poignantly wretched. “Oh, my God, I am damned to hell for all eternity.”

“Why would you accept payment for such an act?”

“I was desperate—I am desperate. My family has no money, my children need doctors—” The man’s explanations gave way to wrenching sobs. Then he regained control. “He looked at me. He told me words I didn’t understand. But I will hear them for the rest of my life.”

Reflexively Ryan slipped into his persona as an investigative scholar. “What were his words, my son?”
The poor man’s scream echoed in the hollowness of the empty church. “No!”

“It’s all right to tell me,” Ryan said. “You’re protected by the Seal of the Confessional, Holy Mother Church’s—”

“You don’t understand! It was Holy Mother Church…that paid me!”

Savannah Guthrie Interviews Clint Hill on Today

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Guest Post: Holiday Crunch Time! How to Sell More Books Before Christmas

by  Penny C. Sansevieri

Author Marketing Experts



We'd all love to see sales soar on Black Friday or Cyber Monday, wouldn't we? But for many of us the time to market for the holidays has long since come and gone. Or has it? The key piece of this is that when it comes to holiday gifts, autographed books make great presents and are often fantastic "hostess" gifts or inspired ideas for last-minute shoppers.

When it comes to online promotion, almost everyone's emphasis is online. Banner ads, Facebook promotions, Pinterest promotions. All of these designed to drive you into a store or to shop online. But there's a lot of momentum to be had by pushing the offline markets.

There's No Place Like Home: There's a lot of truth in this very famous line. Let's take a look:

Stores and gift shops: Now I'm not talking about Barnes & Noble stores here, though of course if you can get your book into a local chain store that's always a great idea. I'm talking about your local gift shops, card shops, even coffee shops and other local retailers. Autographed books make great gifts and if you are doing some local promotion and agree to drive buyers into the local stores that's an even bigger benefit for them to carry it. Be sure to get those "Autographed by Author" stickers for the front of the book as well as a small stand for the counter or wherever you'll be displaying the books. If the store can't take books into inventory without a lot of extra work, offer to leave some on consignment. Just be sure that you leave them with an invoice or some other simple agreement so you know how many books you left and what you've agreed to pay the store per each book sale.

Local Media: Finding a holiday spin that ties in locally is another great idea. Local media loves to feature hometown authors so figuring out a good holiday spin will be a fantastic way to get booked on a show, featured in a local paper or magazine. Don't think your book has a holiday tie-in? We had an author some years ago who had a book about the benefits of humor on kids. The holiday pitch? Give your kids the gift of laughter this holiday season. We booked him like crazy. Be creative, spend some time noodling with ideas and then run them by people who can give you objective feedback.

Holiday Fairs and Events: Go onto your local town events page and see what's coming up. Most of these places probably haven't booked up if you want to get a table, share a table or get a booth.

Schools/Civic Organizations: There is always a lot going on in the school system and local organizations around the holidays. Holiday fairs, holiday events, civic events, etc. If your book ties into these, or if there's a way to participate in them, do it. It's a great way to get in front of a potential buying audience.

Strip Malls and Shopping Centers: As I mentioned above, these can be great places to leave a stack of holiday books (signed of course). If you aren't having any luck placing the books, see if the store will let you do some fun bag stuffers like bookmarks with your contact information on it: For a signed copy, please contact... Or find some other fun, creative bag stuffer you can offer. Bag stuffers can be great promo pieces and, if you buy in volume, you can get some really good pricing, too.

Airports: Many airports offer a little-known service: they'll let you rent a table in various spots to sell books. I've seen it done a few times at various airports around the country. Imagine being front and center when the holiday crowd starts to flood in. How would you organize this? Call your local airport, ask for the general information office and ask them. Or better yet, go down there and scope it out for yourself!

eBook Promotion: We've been focusing offline for much of this piece but if you have any free eBook promotion days why not schedule them just before Thanksgiving to help give your book some additional exposure and a little nudge? You'll have access to sites that let you post your book for free which is great and you can potentially get a jump start on the holiday shopping season. But, you might argue, if it's free doesn't that defeat the purpose of the sale? Well, not really. See if you offer it for a day or two days for free, you'll get in front of a lot of people (potentially) and the momentum you create from the giveaway can help push additional attention to your book so when the book is regularly priced again, you're making a sale (or several)!

Holiday sales can be great and if you're savvy about it, they don't have to involve months and months of advanced promotion. Take advantage of what's going on around you, step out and get to know some of your local vendors, local events and other regional opportunities. They could pay off for you in some big end-of-the-year results!





Reposted from Huffington Post

New Story Merchant ebook the Classic Mrs. Mike by Ben and Nancy Freedman

Ben and Nancy Freedman's classic MRS. MIKE is now live as a Story Merchant ebook on amazon

A classic tale that has enchanted millions of readers worldwide, Mrs. Mike brings the fierce, stunning landscape of the Great North to life—and masterfully evokes the tender, touching moments that bring a man and a woman together forever.

“It is the personality of Sgt. Mike blowing through this account like a clear breeze that gives it a refreshing quality. Everyone’s dream of a cop, he was also a romantic and understanding husband, the fondest of fathers; a man of honor and humor.”—New York Times

“This is a book the reader will be unable to put down until the last page is read.”—Library Journal

“Mrs. Mike…is the story of the start of young love, its growth to maturity, and its acceptance of a dangerous, hard, but enthralling life. Its level of sheer entertainment is extremely high.”—Los Angeles Herald-Express --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Former Secret Service agent recalls Kennedy assassination

By Bethany Gallimore
 Clint Hill, then Secret Service agent and special guard to the first lady, saw the back of President Kennedy’s head explode on Nov. 22, 1963.

He remembers racing from the squad car to the back of the Kennedys’ limousine to form a human shield over the president and first lady.

He remembers losing his sunglasses as the limousine ripped through the Dallas streets at over 80 miles an hour.

And the agent also remembers seeing the devastation in Jacqueline Kennedy’s eyes as her husband’s lifeless body was lifted from her lap and wheeled into Parkland Hospital.

But for most of his life, he didn’t want to remember. It was not until author Lisa McCubbin convinced him of the worth of his memories that the retired Secret Service agent opened up about his experiences and shared what his life was like as a dear member of the Kennedy family.

McCubbin and Hill appeared at A-State in a joint presentation Oct. 30 to a nearly packed Riceland Hall. The presentation marked A-State’s observation of the 50th anniversary of the Nov. 22, 1963 assassination of President John F. Kennedy.

The presentation was held in a loose interview format, similar to the method former journalist, radio personality, reporter and news anchor McCubbin used when interviewing Hill for their bestselling book “Mrs. Kennedy and Me.”

Hill was adopted into his family by Chris and Jenny Hill in 1932 and grew up wanting to teach history and become a coach. Instead, he entered the Army and was selected to participate in intelligence operations, eventually becoming one of only 269 elite United States secret servicemen.

After serving as a guard to President Dwight D. Eisenhower, Hill expected to be immediately reassigned to President Kennedy.

“Usually the new president will bring in all their own staff,” Hill said. “The one thing that stays constant is the Secret Service.”

However, the Secret Service administration had other ideas. Instead of serving as one of President Kennedy’s 35 security personnel, Hill was assigned to be one of First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy’s two security agents.

“It was like being hit in the gut,” Hill said. “I was not interested in that, I wanted to be where the action was.”

Hill remembered previous tales of First Lady Secret Servicemen being relegated to tea party security and luncheon attachés.

“She didn’t want me there, looking over her shoulder 24/7, and I didn’t want to be there,” Hill said.

But after pacing outside the delivery room for two childbirths, watching the intrepid equestrian try her hand at camelback, sheltering the sensitive diplomat from a tribal lamb sacrifice in her honor, trekking more than 50 miles on foot for the reward of a heartfelt paper medallion and touring parts of Europe and Asia alongside the cosmopolitan first lady, Hill began to see the highlights of his new posting.

“(The agents) really had this wonderful close relationship to the family,” McCubbin said.

But in exchange for his closeness to the Kennedys, Hill frequently had to sacrifice time with his own wife and children, who were only a few years removed from the Kennedy children.

“I had thought I was gone from home about 80 percent of the time, but when we sat down to write the book we figured out it was closer to 90 percent,” Hill said.

The fateful Texas visit in November of 1963 was scheduled to encompass five cities.

“The crowds along the way were large, friendly and exuberant,” Hill said. “It had gone incredibly well from a political standpoint.”

On the morning of Nov. 22, the Kennedy public relations branch had added a last-minute speech outside the Hotel Rice where the campaign party was staying in Fort Worth.

“There were over 2,500 people in that room for breakfast, so they had to move it outside,” Hill said.

Even larger crowds greeted the Kennedys in Dallas, where more than 5,000 people stood waiting behind the press line. The crowds continued to grow as the motorcade neared main street, often spilling out of the sidewalks and into the street.

“The driver tried to keep the car on the left side of the street to keep the president away from the people,” Hill said. Hill rode on the left running board of the convertible directly behind the president’s limousine.

Hill would periodically hop on the back of the limousine to be near Mrs. Kennedy if the crowd cover became too tight.

At the moment of the shooting, Hill was riding on the running board of the rear car about five to eight feet behind the limousine. “I was scanning left and front. I heard an explosive noise at our right hand shoulder,” Hill said.

The 30 seconds that followed came to define Hill’s life. He sprinted from the case car and hurled himself onto the back of the limousine, hoping only to form a human shield for the president and his wife. “I was the only agent who had the chance to do anything. I was the only one who saw,” Hill said.

Fifty years later Hill still berates himself for not seeing more.

“We failed that day,” he said.

Hill remained in his position as a Secret Service agent to the Kennedy family for one more year, leaving them in Nov. 1964. What had been a close connection to Mrs. Kennedy now withered with the tragedy.

“We never discussed the assassination. Never. We stayed as far away from that as possible,” Hill said.

Few of the Secret Service agents in action that day spoke of the event afterwards.

“We dealt with it very badly,” Hill said. “We just kept it to ourselves.”

 Hill continued to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder until 2009, when he began talking to McCubbin.

“I was still reluctant then, and she had to really dig to get the information out of me,” Hill said. “But I’m glad she did.”

 “I could see this burden being lifted off his soul. Writing the book was very cathartic,” co-author McCubbin said. “He is a true American hero.”

Hill and McCubbin were each presented with a ceremonial Key to the City of Jonesboro by Mayor Harold Perrin in recognition of their continued contributions to American historical preservation.

In two weeks the coauthors will release their second book, “Five Days in November,” a detailed account of the immediate events surrounding the Nov. 22, 1963 assassination. 


Reposted from Arkansas State University Herald