Roland Yeomans's Blog, page 130

THE DEAD Discuss NaNoWriMo_IWSG post

The ghost of Hemingway scowled at his cards.

"Bad hand?" asked the ghost of Mark Twain, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Bad season" Hemingway gruffed.  

"Damn NaNoNites are wasting a whole month vomiting out quantity not quality."

"Their choice," I said, looking at a hand full of jokers I was sure Mark had double-dealt me.


F. Scott Fitzgerald sighed and sipped his champagne.  "They are making a gimmick of an art form."


The ghost of Jung frowned at his own cards, 

and I had a suspicion that Mark had jury-rigged another hand.

Jung said, 

"Perhaps it is the herd mentality which possesses mankind.  It can be harmful if the individual gives into it unthinkingly."

I said, "It gives stimulus to many to write each day."


Hemingway chewed his cigar.  

"If you need a kick in the pants to write, you are a wannabe not a writer." 



The ghost of Roger Zelazny said, 

"I made myself write three times during each day and insisted on completing at least a page each sitting.  

Not even close to 50,000 words a month, but I wrote a good many novels.  Even won an award or two."

Hemingway snorted, "And now, you are forgotten."

Roger shook his head.  "Roland still reads me."

Hemingway scowled, "Roland doesn't count."

"You must be talking to my past dates," I smiled 

and then sighed as I drew yet another Joker for the one I discarded.



Mark ignored my dirty look and said, 

"Words realize nothing, vivify nothing to you, 

unless you have suffered in your own person the thing which your words are trying to describe.  

And to do that, you must live not chain yourself to a desk!"

He lit his own cigar, saying

"I read that NaNo electronic page.  Why they say: 'You will be writing a lot of crap. And that’s a good thing.'  

Am I the only sane person here to think 'writing a lot of crap' does not sound like a particularly fruitful way to spend an entire month, 

even if it is November?"


Mark shook his head.

"To get the right word in the right place is a rare achievement. 

Lord, to condense the diffused light of a page of thought into the luminous flash of a single sentence is worthy of a prize just by itself."

He sighed, 
"Anybody can have ideas -- the difficulty is to express them without squandering a quire of paper on an idea that ought to be reduced to one glittering paragraph."


I said, "They say that they can go back and edit ...."


Hemingway looked like he was going to slug me.  

"I have gone to their site, too.  'The world needs your novel' is their motto.  

The world does not NEED badly thought-through novels.  The world only needs to breathe, eat, and sleep."


Fitzgerald nodded,

"The joy of writing is not in deadlines and word counts, but in taking time to shape your work: 

to sit and let the ideas flow and then, when they ebb away, retreat from your keyboard 

until the next surge washes new fragments of story into your head."


Jung turned to me.  "What do you think, Roland."


"I believe writing is not a sprint but a marathon, 

a way of life for every day of each year, not just a competition for a month.  But that's just me."


Jung stroked his chin.

"I believe this competition, where word counts are paramount, forms bad writing habits. 

Habits such as overusing adjectives or bloating the pages with needless description. 

It takes 28 days to form a habit, Roland, so you can see how November can become a hothouse for writing problems."


I nodded, "Many think that NaNo made writing feel achievable."


Hemingway growled, 

"I put a gun to your child's head and say 'Write 50,000 words or I pull the trigger.'  

You will write that many words.  It is all a matter of motivation.  If you do not burn to write, you are a dreamer not a writer."


Jung frowned,

"No one convinced of the worth of this contest is going to be dissuaded by your words.  

Sad fact actually.  

You see, if their goal is to increase creativity, this contest will not help them.  Research has shown that anticipating evaluation -- 

even the mild stimulus of the Winner's Badge to pin on their electronic newsletter-- 

has a negative effect on creative performance."




Fitzgerald murmured,

"I am concerned for these NaNites. 

I’m afraid the price for doing professional work is a good deal higher than they are prepared to pay at present.

 You’ve got to sell your heart, your strongest reactions, not the little minor things that only touch you lightly, the little experiences that you might tell at dinner. 

This is especially true when you begin to write, when you have not yet developed the tricks of interesting people on paper, 

when you have none of the technique which it takes time to learn. When, in short, you have only your emotions to sell.

 This is the experience of all writers. 

It was necessary for Dickens to put into Oliver Twist the child’s passionate resentment at being abused and starved that had haunted his whole childhood. 

Ernest’s first stories ‘In Our Time’ went right down to the bottom of all that he had ever felt and known. 

In ‘This Side of Paradise’ I wrote about a love affair that was still bleeding as fresh as the skin wound on a haemophile.

And all of this takes time to distill into just the right magical words to conjure the images in the minds of the readers.  

Throwing them like dice onto the felt of the written page just will not do."




Roger nodded his head.

"Nobody ever became a writer just by wanting to be one.

 If you have anything to say, anything you feel nobody has ever said before, 

you have got to feel it so desperately that you will find some way to say it that nobody has ever found before, 

so that the thing you have to say and the way of saying it blend as one matter—as indissolubly as if they were conceived together"


Mark smiled at me.  "What do you think, Roland?"

I scowled at him.  "I think you've been dealing from a deck of 52 Jokers."

He blew a smoke ring at me.  "That's the story of life, son.  The story of life." 

MARK TWAIN'S HAWAIIAN HALLOWEEN

“We make our own monsters, then fear them for what they show us about ourselves.” – Mark Twain

 Now, children, when you think Halloween, I wager you don't think of Hawaii, or 

the Sandwich Islands as they were called when Captain Sam and I rode over their haunted beaches, jungles, and hills.



I tell you, pilgrims, those islands had the most magnificent, balmy atmosphere in the world.   

Why I swear I am surprised it did not rouse the dead from their moldy graves.




But I get ahead of myself, for that is exactly what it did.


Captain Sam and I ransacked those islands until I could not walk for the saddle sores.  

 I surf-bathed til I nearly drowned.  

 We rode by moonlight through a ghostly plain of sand strewn with human bones 

and contested there with the shades of slain warriors.  


Do the Dead Walk?
Obake is what the natives call them.  I called them Hooey until the time Halloween taught me different.




The Haleiwa Plantation looked nice enough on the outside all right.  

But the inside had the aura of decay as if it were a corpse waiting only for its final disposal and interment.





 The mistress of the place looked near to losing her wits nor did I much blame her from the tales I had heard amongst the workers ...

her jealousy of her daughter who was driven off by it ...

the subsequent abandonment by her enraged husband for her unfounded jealousy.



"You may think me mad, Captain McCord," she rasped, 

"but these islands are old, so old.  Thousands of things, sinister and dark roam the nights here.  And in this very house death waits for me."

Captain Sam sighed, "I am not an exorcist, ma'am.  Perhaps your priest might ...."

"He does not believe me!  But you, sir ... I have read lurid tales of you.  You may be my only hope!"

The poor woman had obviously read far too many Penny Dreadfuls about Captain Sam. 

I shook my head.  It was my fault actually.  I'd written most of them.

Hey, a fledgling author needs to put bread and stew on his table any way he can, don't you know?

 She wrung her hands convulsively over and over again as if she could somehow that way squeeze out the fear tormenting her soul.

 "Captain McCord, though I live on this island, I am of Celtic blood.  

This eve is the Three Spirit Night when the Door between the helpless living and the vengeful dead swings open wide."

Now, during the day, children, I am the most reasonable of men, but as the shadows lengthened, 

so did my desire to see other parts of that island -- far, far distant parts.

Captain Sam smiled sadly, 

"So you would have Sammy and me stay the night to stand in the breach of that open door between you and whatever may lie beyond the Other Side?"

"Oh, yes.  Yes!"

Inside I was going 'No! No!'  

But Captain Sam could never turn his back on any woman in need.  

Me?  I needed a drink.




 
Luckily, I had a flask in my carry-all.  Not that I needed the luggage to change into bedclothes, mind you.   Both Captain Sam and I had more sense than to be naked in a house full of haunts.  At least he did.  He had to point out how embarrassing it would be for me to face demons in my nightshirt.   After that, I even slept with my boots on, telling a smiling Captain Sam that all heroes died that way.  
So that was how we slept, awaiting the worst and fearing it would come to pass.

 The view outside our guest bedroom was as dismal as I felt.  

A be-draggled black cat mournfully looked into my eyes as I thought about switching places with him.

At least out on the roof, I might not be attacked by some native spook.

My flesh almost jumped off my skeleton as a terrible screeching pierced the silent night.  

Footsteps scurried past our door and down the stairs.

In a flash, Captain Sam was up out of his bed, his Colt drawn.  Me?

I thought about staying right where I was until it hit me:

 I would be all alone in a dark room in a haunted house. 

I decided I couldn't leave my friend to face spooks all on his own.

There was a screaming woman in a white night gown, running as if Hell itself was hot on her shapely heels ...

hey, I am a writer.  I notice details ... like how flimsy her gown really was.

Still I could see nothing behind her.

Captain Sam saw my frown, 

"Sammy, my eyes are not like yours.  There is a specter of a bloody man chasing the poor woman."

That did it.  

I swore off any more adventuring with him.  

I promptly forgot my promise when the Xanadu set sail for Paris the next year.

So sue me.  I am a man of notions.  Besides, Paris had that new Can-Can dance to oggle, ah, I mean to describe for my readers.


Captain Sam did some swearing of his own as, wouldn't you know, 

that scared witless woman scurried down into the dark basement.


"Danged females," I huffed as I ran after Captain Sam.  

"Why do they always insist on going down instead of out in situations like this?"

"She's being herded by that spirit, Sammy.  But to where and to what end?"

We both pulled up short at the answer to that question, waiting for the poor woman in the cellar.



"M-MaMa.  MaMa!  Why did you kill Step-Papa and then me?  He forced himself on me.  

Forced himself!  He was to blame.  Not me!  I was innocent.  Innocent!"

The ghoul's lips turned up in hellish glee to reveal sharp, sharp teeth. 

 "I was innocent.  But no longer.  No longer!"

With the speed of the vengeful dead, the murdered girl leapt upon her mother 

who turned to Captain Sam as her slender throat gushed bright red blood as it was gnawed by her daughter's biting teeth.

"Help me.  Help me!"

Captain Sam stiffened and stood death-still, slowly shaking his head. 

 "No.  You helped yourself to that which was not yours to take.  Now, you must pay that debt in this life ... and in whatever lays after."

He turned to me, his eyes windows into that realm waiting for the murdering mother.  

"Sammy, her mother's life may not be enough for this ghoul.  I suggest ...."

He didn't have to say another word.  We reporters are quick like that.

With the great reluctance that came with leaving the screaming woman to her grisly fate, I went up the steps ... three at a time.

WE HAVE LOST THE MAGIC

A New York Times essay recently stated that modern fiction has lost its faith ...

that Christian belief figures into literary fiction in our place and time as something 

between a dead language and a hangover.

I believe it is worse than that:  

many books seem to have lost touch with the soul, the wonder, and the magic 

without which our prose tales are shallow pursuits of sensory titillation.  

WE HAVE LOST THE MAGIC
There is a land not too far from where you sit right now.

Its velvet grasses miss the press of your feet.
The billowing clouds strain to see your body walk slowly up the rising hill.

The fragrant winds blow through the lonely tree branches, 

whispering your name as they seek some trace of you.

It is where the magic lives.

That realm is lonely, wondering where you have been.

And where have you and I been?

We have been caught up in the drudgery that writing has become. 

Burdened by life's duties and our own doubts, we have lost our way.

We have lost the magic.

Did we lose it straining for that first perfect sentence in our new novel?

Looking at the blank, impatient computer monitor did we forget the simple wonder of just writing the first simple sentence that occurred to us?

That creative power which bubbles so tingly at the beginning of our book quiets down after a time. 

The journey becomes slower and slower, the inertia of doubt steadily dragging our steps.

Do we continue doggedly on or do we stop to refresh ourselves?

The answer to that question determines whether we find our way back to the magic or not.

How do we refresh ourselves?

How do we refresh ourselves on a long wilderness walk? We stop by a stream and drink.

Drink of those poets and writers who sparked that love of the written word spoken in the lonely heart of the reader.

As a hiker takes shade under the canopy of a huge oak, 

listen to the music of those artists who stirred you to imagine images that you just had to write and make live in your own way.

Then, you shall write as a child writes ... not thinking of a result but thinking in terms of discovery as if you were hiking once again where the magic lives.

It is the Zen of writing: 

the creation takes place between your fingers and the keyboard, 

not before in a thought or afterwards in a recasting.

The magic is there waiting for you. It will come if you but get out of its way and let it in.

TO END WITH A DOUBLE-BARREL BLAST!

TO END WITH SOMETHING SPECIAL!
 http://shellysnovicewritings.blogspot.com/2016/10/beanie-bean-and-hair-ball-dont-buy-my.html
MACAK, the very unique black cat of 11 year old Nicola Tesla,visits the two pets of Shelly Arkon!


So I end this month's tour 

with visits to two lovely ladies!
MASON CANYON and SHELLY ARKON 
 And you are the true winners!

AUDIO BOOK SOON TO BE RELEASED:

For another HALLOWEEN TREAT follow me to the blog of Mason Canyon 
where others now talk about my new book,  THE NOT-SO-INNOCENTS AT LARGE!
  http://masoncanyon.blogspot.com/2016/10/dont-buy-my-book-blog-tour.html

 MIDNIGHT HAS DEMANDED EQUAL TIME!

 NOW FOR THE WINNERS OF THE MYSTERY GIFTS FOR COMMENTING ON MY GUEST POST ON J. H. MONCRIEFF's EERIE BLOG!
BIRGIT wins




Heather M. Gardner wins 


Now, get over to MASON CANYON's Blog and comment for a chance at your own prize!

HALLOWEEN TREATS

AUDIO BOOK SOON TO BE RELEASED:

For another HALLOWEEN TREAT follow me to the blog of Mason Canyon 
where others now talk about my new book, THE NOT-SO-INNOCENTS AT LARGE!
  http://masoncanyon.blogspot.com/2016/10/dont-buy-my-book-blog-tour.html

 MIDNIGHT HAS DEMANDED EQUAL TIME!

 NOW FOR THE WINNERS OF THE MYSTERY GIFTS FOR COMMENTING ON MY GUEST POST ON J. H. MONCRIEFF's EERIE BLOG!
BIRGIT wins




Heather M. Gardner wins 




Now, get over to MASON CANYON's Blog and comment for a chance at your own prize!

MONSTERS

A shocking 4 percent of ordinary people (one in twenty-five) are secretly sociopaths – 

according to a Harvard psychologist who wrote The Sociopath Next Door. 

Chilling thought, isn't it?
Join me at my next Port of Call on my DON'T BUY MY BOOK! Blog Tour 

At the blog of the lovely J. H. Moncrieff
http://www.jhmoncrieff.com/blog/
Where I discuss real-life monsters who hid behind the mask of HERO. 
Take Politicians ...
Is their ambition and ego enough to explain why they believe themselves worthy of the Oval Office or a seat in Congress?
Superficially charming, psychopaths tend to make a good first impression on others 
and often strike observers as remarkably normal. 
Yet they are self-centered, dishonest and undependable, 
and at times they engage in irresponsible behavior for no apparent reason other than the sheer fun of it. 
Largely devoid of guilt, empathy and love, they have casual and callous interpersonal and romantic relationships. 
Follow me to Holli's Blog where I reveal some true historical monsters the world still mostly believes were heroic. 

Winners of the Mystery Gifts from Diane's Blog:

JENNIFER SHIRK won:


SHELLY ARKON WINS

ON THE ROAD AGAIN!

This time my travels along the DON'T BUY MY BOOK! Blog Tour 

takes me to the fantastic blog of  L. Diane Wolfe
http://circleoffriendsbooks.blogspot.com/
Don't miss my guest post there Monday 
where I speak on how to stand out 
in an increasingly choked and swollen Indie Marketplace.

WHY YOUR BOOK ISN'T SELLING

VISBILITY of course
But outside you dating Kanye West and me dating Taylor Swift that kind of visibility isn't going to happen.

Besides some prices for success are too high to pay!

PRICE you might say
And you would be both right and wrong.  Life is like that, isn't it?

It's not how low you price your book, but how you phrase that pricing.  

Let's be realistic.  

We are all basically unknown commodities.

Why should a reader pay your price to read your book?  

Because YOU make them believe they will get their money's worth.

99.99% of your target audience has never heard of you. 

They have no idea what to expect. 

Why should they? 

They don’t understand what value you provide.


TIMES HAVE CHANGED
Even this year the tide of events and inventions is altering the world we know.

The world of reading is not the same one you grew up in.  


THERE IS SO MUCH BECKONING TO THE POTENTIAL READER TO DO BESIDES READ
We're providing entertainment.  
And there are a lot of sure-fire SOURCES of entertainment out there from FACEBOOK to NETFLIX.
Why should someone turn from them to a book from a minor author like you?
SEX
But aren't all those bare-chested covers beginning to blur on the bookshelves?
Of course I am not adverse to romance and allure in my own novels

But I insist on putting heart, humor, and supernatural allure to them as well.

Nobody NEEDS fiction. 
It doesn’t solve any of life’s problems – other than an escape from boredom.
 You have to communicate the value of your brand and make it clear what you’re delivering, 
how you’ll deliver it, and to whom. 
Who is your target audience? 
What will people “get” from reading your book? 
If this isn’t clear, readers won’t understand your product so they will not buy it ... not even at 99 cents.

PROCRASTINATORS
We have all been one a time or two or three in our lives.  
Limited-time promotions or bonuses work well for them. 
Scarcity is the key. 
Tell someone they can’t have something if they wait 
– if you’ve done your job properly, they will take action.
Now, my NOT-SO-INNOCENTS are both 99 cents ... 
but only during October's DON'T BUY MY BOOK! Blog Tour.
I have not made an issue of it because, to me, it seems like threatening my friends.
I just am offering the books at 99 cents now, and then November 1st they go up to $1.99.  
Not much of an increase -- just enough hopefully to better off-set expenses.

 https://www.amazon.com/dp/1537255339/
THE LAST FAE in paperback is now selling for $6.50 (pretty good price for a paperback, right?)

 https://www.amazon.com/dp/1539385752/
 THE NOT-SO-INNOCENTS AT LARGE in paperback goes now for $8.50 (The lowest that Createspace  will allow me to sell it.)
But come January 1st, they go up to $9.99 
because I will do a couple of Sci Fi Conventions in the New Year,
And I want to sell them at my table for $10 so I can't very well sell them cheaper on Amazon.

NOW, WHY DO YOU THINK READERS ARE NOT BUYING YOUR BOOKS?
LET'S GET A CONVERSATION GOING!

OVER 400!

{SOON TO BE RELEASED IN AUDIO!}
I have sold 402 audio books, not counting those I have given away as prizes,  since March 20, 2013 when THE BEAR WITH TWO SHADOWS lumbered onto the audio stage.

The much more affordable audio of his adventures as the Cub With No Clue followed





My most bought audio book is




followed closely by 




But the further adventures of Wolf Howl are not trailing too far behind


For some reason, Audible is charging much less for most of my 26 audio books than ever before.   Some for as low as $2!! Now is the time to try one to see if you like them! Take a gamble and make my weekend!   

WHY DO YOU WANT TO BE A CRIMINAL?

http://writewithfey.blogspot.com/
Sigmund Freud had his own views on what makes a criminal.
 Freud proposed that much deviance resulted from an excessive sense of guilt as a result of an overdeveloped superego.  
Persons with overdeveloped superegos feel guilty for no reason and 
wish to be punished in order to relieve this guilt they are feeling and committing crimes 
is a method of obtaining such desired punishment and relieving guilt. 

Do I believe that?  Not so much. 

I lived on the rough streets of Detroit as a six year old and 
as an adult on the lawless streets of New Orleans after Katrina.
As my best friend, Sandra, says: 
"Most people are only as good as their chances to do bad with impunity."

August Aichorn is probably the best known neo-Freudian in criminology. 
 Aichorn felt that there were three predisposing traits that had to be present 
before the emergence of a life of crime: 
the desire for immediate gratification,
 placing greater desire on one’s personal desires over the ability to have good relationships with other people 
 and a lack of guilt over one’s actions.

 A QUESTION I ASK IN  THE NOT-SO-INNOCENTS AT LARGE:
WHAT IF TO DO GOOD,  YOU DECIDED TO BE BAD? 

SAMUEL McCORD: TEXAS RANGER ... PIMP?
{The Infamous Barbary Coast Madam, Ah Toy}
(The Barbary Coast 1851)
Accompanied by 16 year old Sammy Clemens in the haunted saloon, Casa, 
McCord approaches the table of the second most dangerous man he knows: the Green Dragon.  
McCord is younger and ah, a bit more feisty.


I walked to his table certain he would try to kill me if he could.  It must have shown on my face.  He smiled in enjoyment.
“Ah, Běnguān,” he smiled wider.  “I should be surprised that you are still alive, but I am not.  Cockroaches are irritatingly hard to kill.”
I sighed bored,
 “When we shared common goals I never played you false.  When our goals differed, I never betrayed you to your enemies.”
His green eyes twinkled.  
 “A most naïve attitude to take which is why I should be surprised you are still alive.”
His lips pulled up in what he must have felt looked like a smile; he was wrong.   

“You never cease to amaze me, Běnguān.  You write me you wish to control all the prostitution here in this cesspool.  How the mighty have fallen.”
I motioned for Sammy to sit down beside me which the boy did, though his face was drawn and pale.   I nodded to the petite woman to my enemy’s side, taking off my Stetson and placing it on the table.  She raised an eyebrow.
I said, “I always take my hat off in the presence of a lady.”
Her tiny face darkened, and she spoke in stiff, hard-fought English.  “Now you mock me!”
“Not at all, Ma’am.  I know you poisoned your husband on the voyage from Hong Kong and seduced the Captain who became your lover and showered you with gifts and gold, enabling you to land in San Francisco with your own personal fortune.”
The woman nodded, “So you know of Ah Toy, do you?”
“No man will ever truly know you, Ma’am … or turn their back on you if they are wise.  I was taking my hat off in respect to the young girl sitting beside you.”
The young girl mentioned possessed an exquisite beauty that seemed almost ethereal as if she were visiting from a higher plane of existence.   She was taller than Ah Toy and exuded innocence like a campfire casts off heat. And speaking of heat, Sammy’s face was reddening by the heartbeat.  I smiled.  First love can hit hard like that.
I turned to my enemy.  “I asked you to introduce me to Ah Toy here, for I have a business opportunity to talk over with her.”
Ah Toy laughed like a crow.  “You want my body?”
“And the head that goes with it, as well,” I said in perfect Cantonese.
She started, and I nodded, continuing in English for Sammy’s sake.  “You are clever, strong, resilient, and you have invested your fortune wisely.  I wish to make you even richer.”
“How?”
“I want you to run my ‘boarding houses’ (which was the euphemism for brothels).”
“Your?”
“Yes, I have influence with the police and the mayor.  Enough money can work miracles.  I want you to look after the ladies in your employ with all the ingenuity and care as if they were you yourself.”
Sammy, being Sammy, just couldn’t keep from interrupting.  “Ingenuity, Captain Sam?  How did she show that?”
I smiled at the young colt of a boy and said,
 “When Ah Toy first arrived, she was one of the only Chinese ladies ... (Ah Toy snorted in derision at my use of the word) … and she used that to her advantage.”
The young girl leaned forward as if eager to learn more about the woman who owned her as I continued,
“She knew how starved Chinese men were to just be in the presence of a woman from home.  So she charged them an ounce of pure gold just for a look at her.  The price, of course, was higher if they wanted to get, ah, more frisky.”
Sammy smiled at that, and then blushed when he noticed the young girl was looking at him as if studying him to paint a portrait.
I turned in my chair to look at her and smiled, “What is your name, little miss?”
Ah Toy snapped, “That will be an ounce of gold, lawman.”
I tossed her a gold double eagle and said, “The next time you interrupt me I’ll kill you, murderer.”
She looked into my eyes and was wise enough to believe me.  Sammy swallowed hard.  I knew he believed me.  We had ridden the river together more than once.   The Green Dragon edged a bit away from her in his chair.  He had seen me mad more than once.  He believed me, too.
I turned to the very pale young girl and smiled as warmly as I could muster.  
 “So, darling, just what is your name?  You know if you don’t tell me, I’ll just call you Rachel.”
“Which is a big honor, Miss,” blurted Sammy.  “It was the name of his dearly loved sister who’s been long dead.”
She cleared her throat, looking fearfully at Ah Toy who was testing the double eagle with her teeth at the moment.  She turned to me with a timid dip of a slender shoulder.
“Since you would honor me with the name of your beloved sister, I will tell you my name.  It is Bai Chun.”
I smiled wider.  “Person of purity born in the spring.  How fitting.”
My enemy spoke to Ah Toy.  “She is a virgin as you promised?”
I glared at him, but he waved lazily at me.  “Do not look at me so, Běnguān.  I bought her from Ah Toy before you got here.”
Sammy looked gut-shot.  Bai Chun didn’t look much better.  Low thunder rumbled overhead as it only did when I was just about to unleash Hell.
“I’ll kill you where you sit, you lay one finger on her.” ***
Ah Toy rose gracefully.  “I accept your gracious invitation to run your boarding houses, Běnguān.  Just a question: what if the Tong or the police intrude into our affairs?” “I’ll kill them.”
She nodded.  “Just so.  I believe you.”
I reached into the inside pocket of my black broadcloth jacket and handed her a bank draft. 
 “For ten thousand dollars.  Consider it an Ernest for my intentions to do right by you.”
Ah Toy shook her head at me. “I have never respected a white man before.  Never.  But I believe I do now.”
She turned to Bai Chun.  “I foresee an interesting life for you.  I do not believe it will be a long one.”


30 SECONDS BEFORE  BLURB:  Blake Herro is a cop in the Cleveland Police Force.  Ever since he was a child he wanted to do right by the city he loved  by cleaning up the streets and protecting its citizens. Red, a notorious mobster, has other plans. On a bitter December night, ten police officers are drawn into a trap and killed by Red’s followers. 
Blake wants to bring down the Mob to avenge his fallen brothers and to prevent other cops from being murdered.  Except the only way he can do that is by infiltrating the Mob. Every minute he’s with these mobsters he’s in danger.  Around every corner lies the threat of coming face to face with a gun.  Will he make it out of the Mob alive or will he be their next victim? BUY LINK:  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01L5WATC0/