Tim O'Mara's Blog

Tim O’Mara reads his latest short, “Missing Person,” embodying Charles Salzberg’s mystery hero, skip tracer Henry Swann, to find an evasive historical figure.

“I knew it,” he said aloud to no one as he examined what used to be the rear passenger-side window of his car and looked at the broken glass littering the empty seat that had earlier held his laptop. “Leave something out in the open like that and it’s just a matter of time.”

He removed his cell phone from his jacket pocket, found the GPS app, and turned it on. Within thirty seconds, the GPS had locked onto the device he’d installed on his laptop for just this occasion. Whoever had it, was moving west—a blue dot—towards the Hudson River, a few avenues away from where he’d parked on a Hell’s Kitchen side street. As he walked passed the Midtown North precinct, he caught himself smiling. Sure, it would be easy enough to go inside, explain to the uniform working the front desk what had happened, and sometime within the next hour or so one of the bored cops might head over to the river and look into the matter. By that time, the laptop thief would be long gone, as would his laptop.

No, this was something he needed to take care of by himself. After all, he was the one who’d left the damn thing right out in the open. Like he’d been asking for it. He zipped up his jacket, put a glove on the hand that held the cell phone and put the other hand in his pocket.

A wintry breeze was coming off the Hudson making the already chilly air feel about ten degrees colder. The tiny park he had entered was officially called Clinton Cove, but nobody called it that. It was usually just referred to as the Hell’s Kitchen Pier. There was a group—a gaggle, he remembered—of geese hanging out on the lawn eating what was left of the brown grass and crapping all over the “No Dogs Allowed” area. Come springtime, the grass would be green again, benefitting from all that free fertilizer.

The Circle of Life.

Sitting on a bench facing the water, was a solitary figure: the blue dot was now humanized. As he got nearer, he saw it was a guy in a hoodless winter jacket. Both the guy and the jacket had seen better days. He went over to a bench about twenty yards away and sat down, slipping both hands into his pockets. He looked over after a while and saw that the guy had a bulge under his jacket. If the GPS on his phone was right, the bulge was his laptop. He took in a couple of deep breaths from the cool Hudson River air and stood up.

He walked over to the guy and took a seat on the bench next to him, careful to keep the metal armrest between them. No reason to be stupid about this. The guy didn’t acknowledge his presence or even take his eyes off the river. He seemed to be in some sort of trance. High, probably. Even in the breeze, the smell of smoke could be detected coming off the guy and it wasn’t from Marlboro Country.

“Pretty cold day to be sitting along the river, huh?” the man said. He waited thirty seconds for a response, and when none came he said, “Feels good, though. Makes you feel more alive.”

The guy slowly turned his head, careful to keep his hands in his pockets protecting the bulge. He whispered something that sounded like “Duck Soup,” but probably wasn’t. The man smiled. That was good.

“What do you got there, friend?” he asked. “Under the jacket.”

The guy blinked three times and turned back to look at the river.

“How much you get for something like that?”

“Like what?” the guy said.

“Like that.” The man motioned with his head at the bulge. “Couple of hundred?”

The guy moved his head slightly and said, “Whatta you know about it?”

“I know I just had my car broken into and my laptop was taken. It’s not a great laptop, about five years old, but it’s got some stuff on it that’s important to me.”

The guy smiled. His adult teeth were not all present and those that were needed some serious whitening. “Not sure what you’re talking about, Mister, but why would you leave something important in the backseat of your car?”

Now it was the man’s turn to smile. His teeth were perfect. “Who said it was in the backseat?”

The lesser of the smiles disappeared and was followed by those two words that were definitely not “Duck Soup.”

“So, really,” the man said. “Whatta you hope to get? Two hundred? Three?”

The guy with the bulge under his jacket made a move to stand up. The man next to him reached out and grabbed him by the wrist.

“We’re just talking here, pal,” he said. “Shooting the breeze.” The double meaning of that made the man smiled harder. Good stuff.

“You don’t wanna be touching me, man,” the guy said.

The man laughed. “What are you going to do? Call the cops?”

“Maybe.”

“With what?” the man said. “You can’t possibly have a cell phone. You broke into my car and stole a laptop from me. People like you don’t have cell phones.”

The guy shook the man’s hand off, squinted into the man’s face and said, “People like me? The hell you know about people like me?”

“I know you’ll take fifty bucks for what’s under your jacket. You’d probably take twenty, but I’m in a good mood.”

“What even makes you think it’s yours?” the guy said. “I mean, if I do have a laptop under my jacket?”

The man took his phone out, showed the map on the GPS to the guy and pointed to the blue dot. The guy looked at it as if it were the designs for a nuclear submarine. He squinted again.

“Take it out,” the man said. “I’ll show you. It’s got a short story I’m working on.”

The guy gave the man the same confused look he had just given the map on the phone. “You a writer?” He sounded close to impressed.

“Yep. Almost done with this piece. I needed a little more research.”

“Writers do research? About what?”

The man leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “In my case, about what kind of scumbag breaks into someone’s car and steals a laptop. I mean, seriously, you gotta have pretty low morals to pull something like that, right?”

“I got morals.”

“We all have morals,” the man said. “Yours are just lower than most.”

The guy wiped a wind-driven tear from his eye and said, “Just ’cause I need money don’t mean I don’t got no morals, man. It means I don’t got not money.”

“And I’m sure that’s someone else’s fault right. Not a result of any decisions you’ve made over the last few years?”

“I take what I need. No more.”

“You got healthcare?”

“Huh?”

“What do you do when you get sick?” the man asked slowly.

The guy laughed like that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “I go to the doctor, man. Plant my ass in the ER ’til someone comes to look at me.”

“And who do you think pays for that?”

“I don’t know. Jesus?”

“Me. The taxpayer pays for that. That’s just as bad as you breaking into my car and stealing what’s mine.”

The guy thought about that for a bit, looking for something to say. What he came up with was, “My parents pay taxes, so I’m just taking my inheritance early.”

That was good, too. “When’s the last time you were in jail?” the man asked.

“Hey, Mister. I do drugs, not time. I shoot junk, not bullets.”

The man smiled. This guy was great. “Okay if I steal that from you?”

“For one of your stories?”

“For this story.”

Confusion once again took over the guy’s face and he went back to squinting. “This ain’t no story, man.”

“Sure it is. I had something you wanted. Now you have something I want. The fact that it’s the same thing connects us.” He did that back and forth thing people do with their index fingers to signal making a connection. “That’s what makes this a story. Our wants are not only the same they’re in conflict. It’s beautiful.”

The guy thought about that and then allowed the laptop to slide out from under his jacket. “That mean you gonna give me two hundred for this?”

The man laughed. “I said fifty.”

“You also said you had important stuff on here.”

For a junkie, this guy was a good listener.

“Let’s make it a hundred then.” Bargaining. As if he had any real intention of paying this guy anything. The man pulled out the five twenties he had in his jacket, fanned them out, and let them flap in the breeze.

The guy was mesmerized by the five bills waving back and forth, and handed over the laptop. When he reached for the money, the man pulled it back.

The guy stood up on wobbly legs, listed slightly in the breeze and mumbled something that sounded like “Gimme the duck and money.”

The man stood also. “You’re kidding, right? You think I’d actually pay for something that’s already mine? That’s your view of how the world works?”

“You said you would. You said this was a conflict. I was helping you with your story. That’s worth something, right?”

The man nodded. “It is.” He looked around—there was no one else in the park except him and the guy—and pulled something out of his other pocket. “It’s worth this.”

The guy looked at it and said, “What’s that? A comb?”

“Hardly.” The man pressed a button and a blade appeared. “I know it’s a bit old school— always reminds me of Twelve Angry Men —but still a useful tool.”

The look on the guy’s face as he stared at the blade was one of confusion: Move forward or backward? He chose the first, as did the man with the knife. They met each other halfway and the blade sliced through the guy’s coat and entered his stomach. There was no more confusion on the guy’s face anymore. The look was now one of certainty. And dull pain.

The man twisted the knife, held it for a three count, and then pulled it out. He looked around again and found the park still empty except for the gaggle of geese and the guy. The guy fell to his knees and looked up at the man.

“Why?” the guy whispered.

The man looked down and smiled. “No, I’m done with motivation,” he said. “I just needed your help with character. The dialogue was a nice surprise. Thanks.” He took a few steps toward the railing, closed up the knife and flung it twenty feet into the Hudson River. When he turned back, the guy was lying on his side, trying desperately to stop the blood flowing out from under his coat onto the white pathway. Nice imagery.

This was good stuff.

Growing up on Long Island, I lived a five-minute walk from our public library. And my father never let his kids forget it.

Dad wasn’t a book buyer: He was a taxpayer with a library card and the only books I remember him actually owning were a collection of poems by Robert Frost and the Bible. (Both of which he kept by his bedside.) Books were to be borrowed, not purchased. He passed away a few years before I got published and I’d like to think he would have made an exception in the case of my books, but I can’t swear to it.

While promoting my first book, Sacrifice Fly, I have had the pleasure of visiting public libraries all across the country—if the country ended at Columbia, Missouri, that is. To a one, librarians have treated me as visiting royalty. I’ve seen my name on posters, flyers, websites and in local papers. I’ve appeared on local radio and TV shows to promote library events. I’ve received tote bags with library logos, pens and a coffee mug. (“Swag,” I think they call it at the Academy Awards.) I even made the front page of Missouri’s Fulton Sun after a Daniel Boone Public Library-sponsored event. It must have been a slow news day: They got one picture of me reading from the book, and another of me petting Well Read’s store cat. (Gotta get that pet crowd on your side.)

At my reading event in East Meadow—my hometown library—my old mailman showed up. I hadn’t seen him in 20 years, and I recognized him right away. He’s retired now and told me he enjoys a good mystery now and then. (I asked him where the postal clerks go when they disappear to the back. We may collaborate on that one.) I also ran into some old school friends, including a woman from my first grade class who’s now an East Meadow librarian. (She’s a woman now; in first grade she was only 7.)

Out of the blue last year I was invited by the Newport Rhode Island Public Library to read for them. I figured out the cost of travel and hotel and almost declined the offer. Then I saw that I was part of Newport’s “March is Mystery Month” and that the following week’s reader was Tess Gerritsen. I said yes. If Dr. Gerritsen could find the time with her schedule, who was I—with only a Master’s—to say I was too busy? (I also had the opportunity to visit the Newport Brewing Company with the wonderful Mary Barrett, whose taste in books is as good as her taste in beer.)

Since Sacrifice Fly came out last year, I’ve had a few friends “confess” that they did not buy the book; they took it out of the library. I find myself reminding them that libraries do buy books and also keep track of how often they’re taken out. The less time the book spends on the shelves, the more bang for the library’s buck and the more likely they are to purchase my next one. I’ve been flattered that many libraries have multiple copies of the book, and I hope they continue the trend and stack the shelves with a few copies of Crooked Numbers, my second book in the Raymond Donne series, published in October 2013 from St. Martin’s/Minotaur Books. (But, if any of my friends are reading this, go ahead and buy the book. Then you can donate it to your public library. We all win.)

Thank you to the public libraries—and their staffs—for introducing me to the wonder of books and for helping me spread the word about my own. Of all my dollars that go into paying taxes, the ones that end up buying books are among the best spent.

My dad taught me that.

“I knew it,” he said aloud to no one as he examined what used to be the rear passenger-side window of his car and looked at the broken glass littering the empty seat that had earlier held his laptop. “Leave something out in the open like that and it’s just a matter of time.”

He removed his cell phone from his jacket pocket, found the GPS app, and turned it on. Within thirty seconds, the GPS had locked onto the device he’d installed on his laptop for just this occasion. Whoever had it, was moving west—a blue dot—towards the Hudson River, a few avenues away from where he’d parked on a Hell’s Kitchen side street. As he walked passed the Midtown North precinct, he caught himself smiling. Sure, it would be easy enough to go inside, explain to the uniform working the front desk what had happened, and sometime within the next hour or so one of the bored cops might head over to the river and look into the matter. By that time, the laptop thief would be long gone, as would his laptop.

No, this was something he needed to take care of by himself. After all, he was the one who’d left the damn thing right out in the open. Like he’d been asking for it. He zipped up his jacket, put a glove on the hand that held the cell phone and put the other hand in his pocket.

•••

A wintry breeze was coming off the Hudson making the already chilly air feel about ten degrees colder. The tiny park he had entered was officially called Clinton Cove, but nobody called it that. It was usually just referred to as the Hell’s Kitchen Pier. There was a group—a gaggle, he remembered—of geese hanging out on the lawn eating what was left of the brown grass and crapping all over the “No Dogs Allowed” area. Come springtime, the grass would be green again, benefitting from all that free fertilizer.

The Circle of Life.

Sitting on a bench facing the water, was a solitary figure: the blue dot was now humanized. As he got nearer, he saw it was a guy in a hoodless winter jacket. Both the guy and the jacket had seen better days. He went over to a bench about twenty yards away and sat down, slipping both hands into his pockets. He looked over after a while and saw that the guy had a bulge under his jacket. If the GPS on his phone was right, the bulge was his laptop. He took in a couple of deep breaths from the cool Hudson River air and stood up.

He walked over to the guy and took a seat on the bench next to him, careful to keep the metal armrest between them. No reason to be stupid about this. The guy didn’t acknowledge his presence or even take his eyes off the river. He seemed to be in some sort of trance. High, probably. Even in the breeze, the smell of smoke could be detected coming off the guy and it wasn’t from Marlboro Country.

“Pretty cold day to be sitting along the river, huh?” the man said. He waited thirty seconds for a response, and when none came he said, “Feels good, though. Makes you feel more alive.”

The guy slowly turned his head, careful to keep his hands in his pockets protecting the bulge. He whispered something that sounded like “Duck Soup,” but probably wasn’t. The man smiled. That was good.

“What do you got there, friend?” he asked. “Under the jacket.”

The guy blinked three times and turned back to look at the river.

“How much you get for something like that?”

“Like what?” the guy said.

“Like that.” The man motioned with his head at the bulge. “Couple of hundred?”

The guy moved his head slightly and said, “Whatta you know about it?”

“I know I just had my car broken into and my laptop was taken. It’s not a great laptop, about five years old, but it’s got some stuff on it that’s important to me.”

The guy smiled. His adult teeth were not all present and those that were needed some serious whitening. “Not sure what you’re talking about, Mister, but why would you leave something important in the backseat of your car?”

Now it was the man’s turn to smile. His teeth were perfect. “Who said it was in the backseat?”

The lesser of the smiles disappeared and was followed by those two words that were definitely not “Duck Soup.”

“So, really,” the man said. “Whatta you hope to get? Two hundred? Three?”

The guy with the bulge under his jacket made a move to stand up. The man next to him reached out and grabbed him by the wrist.

“We’re just talking here, pal,” he said. “Shooting the breeze.” The double meaning of that made the man smiled harder. Good stuff.

“You don’t wanna be touching me, man,” the guy said.

The man laughed. “What are you going to do? Call the cops?”

“Maybe.”

“With what?” the man said. “You can’t possibly have a cell phone. You broke into my car and stole a laptop from me. People like you don’t have cell phones.”

The guy shook the man’s hand off, squinted into the man’s face and said, “People like me? The hell you know about people like me?”

“I know you’ll take fifty bucks for what’s under your jacket. You’d probably take twenty, but I’m in a good mood.”

“What even makes you think it’s yours?” the guy said. “I mean, if I do have a laptop under my jacket?”

The man took his phone out, showed the map on the GPS to the guy and pointed to the blue dot. The guy looked at it as if it were the designs for a nuclear submarine. He squinted again.

“Take it out,” the man said. “I’ll show you. It’s got a short story I’m working on.”

The guy gave the man the same confused look he had just given the map on the phone. “You a writer?” He sounded close to impressed.

“Yep. Almost done with this piece. I needed a little more research.”

“Writers do research? About what?”

The man leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “In my case, about what kind of scumbag breaks into someone’s car and steals a laptop. I mean, seriously, you gotta have pretty low morals to pull something like that, right?”

“I got morals.”

“We all have morals,” the man said. “Yours are just lower than most.”

The guy wiped a wind-driven tear from his eye and said, “Just ’cause I need money don’t mean I don’t got no morals, man. It means I don’t got not money.”

“And I’m sure that’s someone else’s fault right. Not a result of any decisions you’ve made over the last few years?”

“I take what I need. No more.”

“You got healthcare?”

“Huh?”

“What do you do when you get sick?” the man asked slowly.

The guy laughed like that was the stupidest question he’d ever heard. “I go to the doctor, man. Plant my ass in the ER ’til someone comes to look at me.”

“And who do you think pays for that?”

“I don’t know. Jesus?”

“Me. The taxpayer pays for that. That’s just as bad as you breaking into my car and stealing what’s mine.”

The guy thought about that for a bit, looking for something to say. What he came up with was, “My parents pay taxes, so I’m just taking my inheritance early.”

That was good, too. “When’s the last time you were in jail?” the man asked.

“Hey, Mister. I do drugs, not time. I shoot junk, not bullets.”

The man smiled. This guy was great. “Okay if I steal that from you?”

“For one of your stories?”

“For this story.”

Confusion once again took over the guy’s face and he went back to squinting. “This ain’t no story, man.”

“Sure it is. I had something you wanted. Now you have something I want. The fact that it’s the same thing connects us.” He did that back and forth thing people do with their index fingers to signal making a connection. “That’s what makes this a story. Our wants are not only the same they’re in conflict. It’s beautiful.”

The guy thought about that and then allowed the laptop to slide out from under his jacket. “That mean you gonna give me two hundred for this?”

The man laughed. “I said fifty.”

“You also said you had important stuff on here.”

For a junkie, this guy was a good listener.

“Let’s make it a hundred then.” Bargaining. As if he had any real intention of paying this guy anything. The man pulled out the five twenties he had in his jacket, fanned them out, and let them flap in the breeze.

The guy was mesmerized by the five bills waving back and forth, and handed over the laptop. When he reached for the money, the man pulled it back.

The guy stood up on wobbly legs, listed slightly in the breeze and mumbled something that sounded like “Gimme the duck and money.”

The man stood also. “You’re kidding, right? You think I’d actually pay for something that’s already mine? That’s your view of how the world works?”

“You said you would. You said this was a conflict. I was helping you with your story. That’s worth something, right?”

The man nodded. “It is.” He looked around—there was no one else in the park except him and the guy—and pulled something out of his other pocket. “It’s worth this.”

The guy looked at it and said, “What’s that? A comb?”

“Hardly.” The man pressed a button and a blade appeared. “I know it’s a bit old school— always reminds me of Twelve Angry Men —but still a useful tool.”

The look on the guy’s face as he stared at the blade was one of confusion: Move forward or backward? He chose the first, as did the man with the knife. They met each other halfway and the blade sliced through the guy’s coat and entered his stomach. There was no more confusion on the guy’s face anymore. The look was now one of certainty. And dull pain.

The man twisted the knife, held it for a three count, and then pulled it out. He looked around again and found the park still empty except for the gaggle of geese and the guy. The guy fell to his knees and looked up at the man.

“Why?” the guy whispered.

The man looked down and smiled. “No, I’m done with motivation,” he said. “I just needed your help with character. The dialogue was a nice surprise. Thanks.” He took a few steps toward the railing, closed up the knife and flung it twenty feet into the Hudson River. When he turned back, the guy was lying on his side, trying desperately to stop the blood flowing out from under his coat onto the white pathway. Nice imagery.

This was good stuff.

— Tim O’Mara

New York City

November 2013

This guest post originally appeared November 14, 2013 on One Bite at a Time as Part 5 of a 10-part series of post–Bouchercon (September 2013 mystery convention in Albany, New York) interviews by Dana King, himself a former public schoolteacher and author of Grind Joint , A Small Sacrifice , and many other works. 

I met Tim at the bar during the [2012] Cleveland Bouchercon, where he literally asked me for the shirt off my back.

One Bite at a Time: What made you decide to come to [the 2013 Bouchercon convention in] Albany?

Tim O’Mara: I was anxious to go to a convention where I was not a “debut author.”

OBAAT: What’s the most important aspect of Bouchercon for you? (This year, or any year?)

TO: Meeting with other writers and indie bookstore people.

OBAAT: Were you on any panels?

TO: Yes. “You May Be Right,” which was about getting the police aspect of our crime novels as accurate as possible. With a brother who’s a Sgt. in the Nassau County (LI) PD and a brother-in-law who’s an NYPD detective, I think I was a good a choice for this panel.

OBAAT: To you, what makes a good panel, from a panelist’s perspective?

TO: Panelists who were chosen because of their knowledge/expertise of the panel’s theme. I’ve actually heard panelists say things along the lines of “I’m not sure why I’m on this panel.”

OBAAT: What do you look for when deciding which panels to attend?

TO: Authors I respect or know personally and topics I’m interested in.

OBAAT: What makes a panel good for you when you’re in the audience?

TO: A moderator who allows the panelists do most of the talking and panelists who’ve thought out what they want to share with the audience.

OBAAT: Would you like to see more or fewer questions from the audience?

TO: Some panels should be longer to allow more time for Q&A.

OBAAT: What’s your favorite Bouchercon story, from this year or any past years?

TO: Last year [at Bouchercon] in Cleveland, Mystery Mike informed me that he had sold out of my debut novel, Sacrifice Fly, after I was introduced at the debut authors breakfast. He added, “We never sell out. What the hell did you say to them in there?”

##

This guest blog accompanied a giveaway of Crooked Numbers and originally posted on October 19, 2013 on Jungle Red Writers‘ blog site. In addition to generously hosting me and other newcomers, these women are extremely talented mystery writers in their own right. 

R’s had a tough life. He came to our school last year as a sixth grader, and during our very first discussion about the rules in my Math class, he gave “the look.” The look that pretty much says: You are not going to tell me what to do.

I gave him one back, I’m sure he had no idea had to interpret. This was a look I had not given a student in almost a decade. My look said, You are going to Camp.

“Camp” is where I got my start as an educator. I was kinda directionless the summer before graduating from SUNY–New Paltz, and my girlfriend was heading off to work with special-needs kids at Camp. Having nothing much on my calendar and eager to earn a few hundred dollars for four weeks of fourteen-hour days, I followed. I eventually lost the girlfriend, but found a new love: working with kids.

I’m still involved with Ramapo For Children Camp—our seventh graders go there every year for their spring trip—and I try to incorporate what I learned from my five summers there into my job as a Special Education/Math teacher at NYC’s The Computer School. R is just the kind of kid I learned from. And after knowing him for all of half an hour, I knew he needed Camp.

I spoke with his foster mom—the kind of woman who makes you feel optimistic about basic human kindness—and she told me R had previously been thrown out of two camps due to behavioral issues. I told her I knew one camp he would not get thrown out of and after months of confusing paperwork and games of phone‐tag, R went off to Camp. At the end of the session, I went to pick him up—foster mom was expecting a baby any hour—and found that he’d been a superstar for the past three weeks.

“He’s read more books than any other kid here,” his bunk counselor told me.

I didn’t know he was that into reading. When we got back to school in September, he told me that his foster mother wanted to read my book, Sacrifice Fly, whose hero, Raymond Donne, is a special education teacher who used to be a cop. The next day, I brought in a signed copy for her celebrating the birth of her son. R held it in his hands, turned it over like it was an undiscovered treasure, and I knew he’d be reading it before mom. Cool.

That was a Friday. On the following Monday, he came in and informed me he had read the entire book over the weekend.

“What’d you think?” I asked.

He got a strange look on his face and shrugged.

“What? You didn’t like it?” I didn’t even try to hide my feelings. This book was nominated for a Barry Award, and this kid was going to criticize it?

He gave me a rare humble look, squinted, and said, “I wanted more.”

The heck with the Barry nomination. R can blurb my next book and any that follow. And he’s going back to Camp next summer. We’re gonna start the paperwork earlier this year.

T is another tough kid.

Hard to reach, hard to teach, with a wall around him that would make the Chinese envious. He was in another of my math classes last year, and butting heads with him became an almost daily exercise. There were the occasional days where he let me glimpse over that wall, and what I saw was a kid who wanted to be brilliant but didn’t want the pressure that came with it. Another kid I could learn from.

Two weeks ago, T earned a one-day suspension for creative use of a belt. He spent an entire Thursday in the principal’s office. At the end of the day, the principal approached me and said that T was thinking of going to my Crooked Numbers book signing at the local Barnes & Noble. Having never said a word to me about my writing, it turned out he was perfectly comfortable telling my principal he was impressed.

“Maybe you can use that,” my boss suggested.

Maybe.

The next day, I worked with T and had a very positive—wait for the intended Math pun—session with him on adding and subtracting integers. Afterwards, I took him into the hallway and presented him with a signed copy of my book referencing a brief talk we had had the day he was suspended.

To T,

This book has a lot to do with the choices people make — including the author’s.

He looked at the book and held it in a slightly different manner as R. Almost like he was afraid to break it. He didn’t say thank you—that’s not who he is. He put it in his book bag, and we both went off to lunch.

That was a week ago. He has not said a word to me about the book since. My fantasy is that T reads it, understands the hero’s motivations and wants, and becomes a more positive, confident student. I want him to show up at tonight’s reading and sit there in the audience with a look on his face that says, “That’s my teacher, man!” I want that wall to start coming down.

In reality, I’ll settle for a small crack.

##

This endorsement first appeared on Marshal Zeringue’s blog, Writers Read on October 19, 2013. Marshal asked me what I was currently reading. So I told him.

I’m almost through with editor Otto Penzler’s latest anthology, Kwik Krimes (Thomas & Mercer; August 20, 2013). Otto got over 80 writers, none of whom were me, to submit crime stories no longer than 1,000 words in length.

Sounds gimmicky, I know, but it is a lesson in the economical use of words. Some of my new friends in the mystery world have entries: Lyndsay Faye, Jim Fusilli, Chris Grabenstein, and one by Reed Farrel Coleman that reads like a punch in the face. (In a good way.)

Were I to blurb this book, it would go something like this:

For every mystery reader who’s ever wanted a good story they could start—and finish—in the smallest room of the house and for every mystery writer who suffers from verbal diarrhea. The perfect book for those looking to poop and get off the pot!

This post originally appeared October 18, 2013 as a guest post for the talented and generous Alon Shalev on both his Elves Writer and Left Coast Voices blogs. I am extremely grateful for Alon’s support and instruction in the ways of social media. Check out his YA fantasy Wycaan Master series and his latest social justice novel,  The Accidental Activist .

“T” is one tough 7th grader.

You know the type: hard to reach, easy to annoy, always knows more than the teacher. In this case, me. The kid’s got a wall around him that would make the Chinese envious. But on those rare occasions when he lets me glimpse over that wall, the view is astounding. He can be funny, insightful and a joy to teach.

He mentioned to me last week that he knew I’d written a book, Crooked Numbers. I had given a copy to a friend of his—another of my tougher students—to celebrate a successful session at camp and the birth of his foster mom’s first child. That was pretty much all T said. He knew I wrote a book.

For most of last year, there was a bit of a buzz around school that Mr. O’Mara had published a book and that it was in bookstores and it was even available online and their parents had bought it and liked it. Some kids actually brought copies to school to have me sign, and even though I wrote it with an adult audience in mind, it seemed to strike a chord with many of my middle school students.

If T was impressed, he kept it to himself.

Just last week, T stepped into it again. He earned himself a one-day suspension for creative use of a belt and ended up spending the day in the principal’s office. Shortly after school ended that day, my boss came to me in the Teacher Center. It turns out that during a conversation with the principal, it came out that T was somewhat impressed with my accomplishment and he was even thinking about going to the reading and signing event for my second book this week.

“Maybe you can work with that,” my boss suggested.

Maybe.

The next day, I brought in a personally inscribed copy of the book. I referenced a conversation I had had with him the day of his suspension:

To T,

This story has a lot to do with the

choices people make—including the author’s.

I gave him the book immediately after a particularly positive period with him of one-on-one guidance through a quiz on integers. (Yes, pun intended.) He looked at the inscription and nodded. He didn’t say anything. I said, “You’re welcome,” and went off to do lunch duty.

When I go back to school tomorrow, it will be the first encounter with T since I gave him the book. My fantasy is that he stayed up all weekend reading the book, relating to the characters, and realizing the error of his ways. The reality is the gift of a book—my book—will more than likely not change much of anything. It has taken T thirteen years to build that wall and one present from a teacher is not going to tear it down.

What I’m hoping for is just one little crack.

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This post originally appeared on Marshal Zeringue’s blog on October 17, 2013. He asked me to give my newly released Raymond Donne mystery, Crooked Numbers, the Page 69 Test. So I did. Marshal’s research revealed:

Marshall McLuhan, the guru of The Gutenberg Galaxy (1962), recommends that the browser turn to page 69 of any book and read it. If you like that page, buy the book.

…Plus, it’s that naughty number.  So I wrote:

Somewhat paradoxically, Page 69 is where Raymond tells his romantic interest, Allison Rogers, now may not be the right time to sleep together for the first time. They’re having drinks at Raymond’s favorite bar, The LineUp.

“Why don’t you think of me as a one-night stand?” she asks Ray. To which Ray responds, “I could do that, but I’m already starting to like you.”

This scene marked the first time in the two books that I actually wanted to smack my main character upside the head. I’m sure there will be more.

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This guest blog originally posted October 15, 2013 on the publication date of Crooked Numbers , my second in the Raymond Donne series, on Marshal Zeringue’s blog. I’m not sure I can overstate how much I’d actually thought about this, but was never asked.

It took me too long to finish Sacrifice Fly to get my dream cast.

I’ve thought mostly of —Homeland—as an actor I’d love to see play Raymond. Not only is he good, but you could drop him into one of my family get-togethers (Ray looks like me) and no one would bat an eye.

 would make a wonderful Edgar, but now he’s a leading man due to the success of Boardwalk Empire.

I recently saw ’s The Conversation again and got chills when I saw the  character. He would’ve been perfect for Edgar and I can’t help but thinking he was somewhere in the back of my mind when I created the character.

As for Uncle Ray, hands down, , but since it took me so long to finish the book, Mr. D’s a bit on the older side now. Currently, I think —most recently of Treme—would do a fine job in the role.

—also of Treme and The Wire—would inhabit the role of Detective Royce.

As for Rachel, Ray’s sister, I’d go with either one of the Mara girls,  (left) or . Good actors both, easy on the eyes, and I might get some Giants tickets out of them.