Rod Lindsey's Blog, page 5

We’re on a mission from God…a new one.It’s called Troub...

We’re on a mission from God…a new one.It’s called Troubleshooter.
Check!
It’s quasi-literary crime fiction rife with salacious sex and all sorts of other lewd and lascivious behavior.  Check!And it’s FREE for three days after Christmas!  Load your Kindle at http://amzn.to/Sj5VNK



From Skyshooter - Perhaps he’d been hasty to take another...

From Skyshooter -


Perhaps he’d been hasty to take another badge so soon after turning the last one in.  Meanwhile, this Sky Marshal job was a serious job, and Hoot certainly took it seriously – how could he not here in the Age of Terrorism?  But did it hold his interest and challenge him the way Fugitive Apprehension had done when he was a USmarshal?  No…it did not.


Linda HootenA Character Study by Rod Lindsey H...

 


Linda Hooten
A Character Study by Rod Lindsey
 
Had to give Linda kudos for straightforwardness, at least.  The woman would get all over Hoot’s ass at a moment’s notice if she thought he had it coming.  Usually…he did. 
            He remembered a time when the kids were still at home, the oldest in high school, youngest in elementary.  Hoot was breaking-in a new partner named Mark Cooper, and Linda invited Cooper to dinner one Saturday night, one of those get-to-know-ya affairs.  A young deputy marshal, still new to the star, when Cooper arrived the kids were all over him, driving him crazy.  So, real smooth-like, Hoot invited his new partner to run down to Sears with him.  Do a little shopping before dinnertime.  Get away from the Wild Bunch for a while. 
“I want to pick up a new bench grinder while they’re on sale,” he’d said.  Instead, he took Cooper to a bowling alley that had a card room in back.  Cooper didn’t gamble, didn’t even know how to play cards, but he knew how to bowl, so he subbed on a league team while Hoot played poker.
            About four hours later, Cooper was long done bowling, and Linda showed up.  She was clearly pissed off.  And she walked straight over to the table where Hoot was playing.  He was up by about $500.  A big stack of chips in front of him.
“Ezra Monroe Hooten…you shit!  Get your ass up from there right now!” Linda said without a Hi, How ya doing – or anything.  Linda was a tiny, compact woman.  Hoot would one day realize that a lot of tiny women are forceful, but from the start Linda set the standard.  She could roil herself up like a Komodo dragon if she thought the occasion warranted it – and apparently this one did.
Hoot considered himself a man of keen survival instincts.  His entire adult life was testimony to that fact; that he had lived through it was evidence enough.  Now, his instincts were telling Hoot that he was in trouble with the wife.  But he’d finally broken an evening-long losing streak, was on a roll, and the devil inside didn’t want to leave.  He replied, “Just let me finish this hand, Honey.  Then I’ll go.” 
He’d been drinking pretty heavily while playing cards, and Hoot wore his most becoming, just-mellow-out-a-little-and-everything-will-be-alrightexpression spread across his face, his never-miss smile fitting as perfectly as a top hat on a tomcat.  Linda hated that look, and, without warning, she started hitting him on the head with her purse, calling him a lying bastard, demanding that he get up right now, and complaining that dinner was ruined several hours ago.
Hoot was drunk enough to think it was hilarious as hell that Linda was swatting him with her purse, so he just ducked the blows and fended her off with his free hand, trying in vain to protect his chips and his drink with the hand that held his cards. “But I’m winning Linda,” he pleaded. “I can’t just quit in the middle of a hand when I’m winning!”
“The hell you can’t!” Linda screamed, and whacked him again. 
“Now, Linda, just settle down,” Hoot said, still languidly defending his head from the battering vengeance of her purse.
“That’s mymoney you’re playing with there Hot Shot.” She said.  “So just gimme those chips!” 
And that’s when a wild fusillade with her purse knocked his pile of chips onto the floor.  “Okay!  Okay!  I think I’d better fold, guys,” he said to the other players.  Scrambled down onto his knees to gather the strewn wealth. 
Linda paced around the table, cussing him out, cussing the other players, raking him with horrible verbal broadsides, taking out his rudder and flaying his back with the purse every time she came near, her anger insatiable.
Hoot cashed-in, gave her the money, and Linda stomped out of the card room with the cash in her fist.  At the exit door she stopped in front of Agent Cooper and hissed in a stage whisper that could’ve easily reached the back row of The Met, “I don’t care where you take him, but don’t bring him home!”Hoot made Cooper drive him home in spite of Linda’s ultimatum.  Insisted that his new partner stay and eat the ruined dinner too.  Burnt pot roast, dry and stringy as charcoal-flavored beef jerky.  Withered potatoes the texture and taste of leather.  Hoot raising his voice and praising Linda’s cooking, swearing that it wasn’t burnt too badly, while she fumed in the other room, refusing to sit at the table with them.  It was awful.  But as soon as Cooper had left, soon as the dishes were done and the kids were in bed, Hoot and Linda made up and made love with significant passion.  They used to do that a lot back then…make up and make love – he missed it.


Shout it Out! A big toothy thank you to all my...

 

Shout it Out! A big toothy thank you to all my friends and followers who helped make my first free Kindle promo successful - over a thousand copies of Troubleshooter given away on Black Friday!  Read and enjoy and spread the word - Hoot everywhere...THANK YOU!!

About Rod Lindsey, Author of Troubleshooter I someti...

About Rod Lindsey, Author of Troubleshooter I sometimes get asked when and how I became a writer.  Occasionally I even get asked why.  I was a mediocre artist and photographer before I gave it all up to spend my creative energy becoming a mediocre writer.  Initially, mediocrity was an okay benchmark for me in all these endeavors because everything was done very selfishly – to please a very limited audience…mainly me.  I could always squint up my eyes and see it as I meant it to be.  Writing doesn’t work like that.  While these other creative efforts produced tangible objects that could be appreciated in passing, even if imperfect, writing was entirely different.  Like music, it must be consumed, expressed, or both.  And mediocrity ruins it for me as surely as a couple of rancid bits in the quiche.  The reason it took me so long to publish my debut novel is simply because my writing wasn’t good enough before now.            Storytelling is a skill that can be learned and I was a slow learner.  Having a worthwhile story to tell is altogether something else – it haunts you and taunts you.  I had the stories, and felt the need to express them.  But would I have started down this path of becoming a novelist if I’d known ‘worthwhile’ meant a serious commitment of time and energy for roughly 40 years of my life?  Probably.  I’m hardheaded that way.  I certainly believe that Troubleshooter was a worthwhile story – only the readers will tell.            I don’t think I became a storyteller.  I think I always was one – I simply never gave up being one.  I was the kid who laid-out and graded (with my Tonka road grader) God-only-knows how many miles of roads in my father’s long gravel driveway so the other kids in our gang could play, the one who created the virtual sheriff’s office, the card table general store; I’ve never quit being that kid at heart.  I became a writer – and that’s a long story of missteps and stumbles, and overriding determination.            My life has largely been about reinventing myself, the first time being when I walked away from a novice creative job at Hallmark Cards to join a crew of laborers on a large commercial construction site in Kansas City.  I stayed in construction for roughly 30 of the next 38 years, earning my nickname, Beamwalker, doing exactly that – walking beams.  I was a laborer, carpenter, superintendent, and contractor, ultimately becoming a vendor to the industry.  Along the way I became a freelance photojournalist and photo studio owner catering to the Capitol Hill crowd in Seattle, winning first place in Seattle’s first (and only) International Erotic Art Show.            A battle-scarred refugee of the oh-so-fickle agent-at-the-door traditional publishing skirmishes, I came into the self-publication fray precisely at the cusp of industry-wide change thanks to the meteoric ascent of e-pub.  It’s precisely the same paradigm I encountered in photography with film vs. digital, hand-colored vs. Photoshopped, and this time I’m on the train with the rest of them.  I published Troubleshooter on Kindle in April, and it’s now out in trade paperback at Amazon and select indie bookstores.

About Rod Lindsey, Author of Troubleshooter I some...

About Rod Lindsey, Author of Troubleshooter   I sometimes get asked when and how I became a writer.  Occasionally I even get asked why.  I was a mediocre artist and photographer before I gave it all up to spend my creative energy becoming a mediocre writer.  Initially, mediocrity was an okay benchmark for me in all these endeavors because everything was done very selfishly – to please a very limited audience…mainly me.  I could always squint up my eyes and see it as I meant it to be.  Writing doesn’t work like that.  While these other creative efforts produced tangible objects that could be appreciated in passing, even if imperfect, writing was entirely different.  Like music, it must be consumed, expressed, or both.  And mediocrity ruins it for me as surely as a couple of rancid bits in the quiche.  The reason it took me so long to publish my debut novel is simply because my writing wasn’t good enough before now.             Storytelling is a skill that can be learned and I was a slow learner.  Having a worthwhile story to tell is altogether something else – it haunts you and taunts you.  I had the stories, and felt the need to express them.  But would I have started down this path of becoming a novelist if I’d known ‘worthwhile’ meant a serious commitment of time and energy for roughly 40 years of my life?  Probably.  I’m hardheaded that way.  I certainly believe that Troubleshooter was a worthwhile story – only the readers will tell.             I don’t think I became a storyteller.  I think I always was one – I simply never gave up being one.  I was the kid who laid-out and graded (with my Tonka road grader) God-only-knows how many miles of roads in my father’s long gravel driveway so the other kids in our gang could play, the one who created the virtual sheriff’s office, the card table general store; I’ve never quit being that kid at heart.  I became a writer – and that’s a long story of missteps and stumbles, and overriding determination.             My life has largely been about reinventing myself, the first time being when I walked away from a novice creative job at Hallmark Cards to join a crew of laborers on a large commercial construction site in Kansas City.  I stayed in construction for roughly 30 of the next 38 years, earning my nickname, Beamwalker, doing exactly that – walking beams.  I was a laborer, carpenter, superintendent, and contractor, ultimately becoming a vendor to the industry.  Along the way I became a freelance photojournalist and photo studio owner catering to the Capitol Hill crowd in Seattle, winning first place in Seattle’s first (and only) International Erotic Art Show.             A battle-scarred refugee of the oh-so-fickle agent-at-the-door traditional publishing skirmishes, I came into the self-publication fray precisely at the cusp of industry-wide change thanks to the meteoric ascent of e-pub.  It’s precisely the same paradigm I encountered in photography with film vs. digital, hand-colored vs. Photoshopped, and this time I’m on the train with the rest of them.  I published Troubleshooter on Kindle in April, and it’s now out in trade paperback via CreateSpace. 

Uncle Hubert’s Thanksgiving Day Crow LogicHoot’s uncle Hu...

Uncle Hubert’s Thanksgiving Day Crow Logic
Hoot’s uncle Hubert suffered a stroke in his early teens that left him with a lifelong limp and a useless left hand always tucked into his trouser pocket.  Hoot remembered that Uncle Hubert drove a column-shift 1954 Ford in 1961 – the year Hoot turned twelve.  This was before the days of power-assisted steering, power brakes, power anything – and watching him execute a braking turn (including a downshift) using only his right hand to operate the steering wheel, turn signal lever, and gearshift lever while working the clutch, brake, and accelerator pedals with only his right foot was like watching a ballet of quick-draw speed and gunslinger purpose, a sight that has stayed with Hoot the past 50-plus years.

Uncle Hubert would come home from Albuquerquefor Thanksgiving and they would go crow hunting – Hoot’s father with his .22 carbine and Uncle Hubert with his sawed-off shotgun pistol, Hoot tagging along with his B-B gun.  It was a stretch, no doubt, but ‘taking the boy hunting’ for any kind of critter was the epitome of rural male bonding in the early sixties, and they made a big deal out of it including breakfast at Grandma Theo’s.

Hubert had a crow call and could bring curious birds from two pastures away in close.   Hoot remembered his uncle’s wisdom regarding crows: “Smartest of all birds,” he would say, but curiously, he had no qualms about hunting these smart creatures for the simple pleasure of having something to shoot at.  Crows were a nuisance to farmers, and weekend holiday nuisance hunters were welcome on most farms.  Hoot’s ol’ man and Uncle Hubert were careful to close gates behind them.  Ask permission beforehand.

Hoot remembered crossing a field with Uncle Hubert one Thanksgiving, a flock of crows up in the branches of the tree line ahead, Uncle Hubert called them a sizeable murder of ravens claiming that Edgar Allan Poe would have called them that.  Hoot hid his B-B gun under his coat similar to the way his uncle concealed his shotgun, assumed an exaggerated limp, and walked proudly to the fray.      

“You don’t need to hide your B-B gun,” Uncle Hubert said.  “Crows know the difference between a B-B gun and a real one.”

Hoot kept his not-so-deadly weapon hid anyhow.  Just in case…



Hooray for Hoot...check it out! Troubleshoote...

 
Hooray for Hoot...check it out! Troubleshooter, features a deeply conflicted hero and villain.  Over-the-top lewdness abounds (largely thanks to a couple of enthusiastic strippers).  There are relentless US Marshals, illicit drugs galore, and murder-for-hire – it’s all good!  Now available in trade paperback, Amazon will feature the Kindle version for FREE on Black Friday, November 23rd. 

Hooray for Hoot...check it out! My novel, Tro...

 
Hooray for Hoot...check it out! My novel, Troubleshooter, features a deeply conflicted hero and villain.  Over-the-top lewdness abounds (largely thanks to a couple of enthusiastic strippers).  There are relentless US Marshals, illicit drugs galore, and murder-for-hire – it’s all good!  Amazon will soon have it available in print version (trade paperback), and feature the Kindle version for FREE on Black Friday. 

Skyshooter, an Ezra Hooten Novel by Rod Lindsey&nb...

 Skyshooter, an Ezra Hooten Novel by Rod Lindsey It was early Saturday morning the week before Thanksgiving.  Cloudy.  Cold and wet when the plane from Seattle to Mazatlantook off three hours ago.  Sipping his fifth coffee refill, black, Air Marshal Ezra Hooten was feeling somewhat überamped on caffeine.  His pulse had quickened a bit, and he was beginning to feel a little fidgety.             Truthfully, Hoot was always a bit fidgety on a flight.  At sixty-three years-old and six-feet, four-inches tall, he was physically as well as mentally uncomfortable on a plane.              His ears popped again – a normal function, Hoot knew, eardrums constantly equalizing pressure lost or gained from altitude changes, but knowing what caused it didn’t keep him from feeling as if his head had become caught in the jaws of a vice upon takeoff, the vice ever tightening since. And the relentless sound! – the neverending background roar of massive twin jet engines mounted under wings just outside the aircraft’s thin-skinned fuselage, engines large enough to swallow entire automobiles without choking laboring to move a full load of eager passengers across a vast distance with mind-numbing speed – that roar was both amplified and contained by the pressure in Hoot's ears until it felt as if the very core nugget of his concentration was about to crack.