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|  | | 1959 - In Search of Eldorado
Like most teenage boys, Jerry Killian is a raging hormone factory. However, coming of age in 1959 proves difficult. He is shackled by his era's conservatism and by his own Catholic upbringing and, oh yeah, by his deep guilt over thinking he had killed his poor senile grandma. This Catcher In The Rye/American Graffiti-like tale touches the heart and funny bone of anyone who can recall the fifties -- or their teens years -- with bittersweet memories.
CHAPTER 1
There is a certain time in your life when the intervention of fate or the choice of options dictates how your remaining days will ultimately play out.
For me, it was the year of 1959.
Over time, I have often tried to steer a different course. But the winds of destiny always blew me back to where they wanted me or, perhaps, where I’ve always been.
As I entered Pennsylvania from the south, driving northeast along Interstate 81, the events of that most memorable year played over and over in my mind.
Forty-two years wa | |  | | Dead Man's Hand
In the ten years since he began his detective agency with his wife Holly, Amos Grant never once had a client quite like little Marvin M. Maxwell.
CHAPTER 1
A puny, middle-aged stranger entered Hank’s Bar. He was soaked to the skin from head to foot, despite the bent umbrella in his right hand. He craned his thin neck and looked in my direction.
“Are you Amos Grant?”
“Yep.” I put down my drink, two shots of Jim Beam over ice.
“My name’s Marvin M. Maxwell,” he said.
His words were soft and low, somewhat like a kitten’s purr.
I figured the ill wind raging outside must have blown this little, sad-looking guy into Taterville. He didn’t look like a traveler, or someo | |  | | Naked Lies
Weekly editor Amos Grant hates his life in the Cracker town of Taterville and dreams of the day when he can escape. But everything changes when his young gay reporter is charged with the mysterious deaths of two teenage boys.
CHAPTER 1
Everyone in Taterville knew Amos Grant.
But few of the simple townsfolk understood him.
The misunderstanding was mostly his own fault. That’s what he told himself Monday morning in the red glow of his darkroom.
I enjoy playing with their little minds.
Before him, on a taut string, he studied the naked images of young Jimmy Clark, five prints in all. A deep sadness engulfed him. To shake the feeling, his mind wandered to the past—as it often did—to a time two decades earlier when he worked for the Orlando Sentinel, |
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