Peter Prasad's Blog: Expletives Deleted - Posts Tagged "crime-thriller"

The Ideas of March: Caesar lay bleeding out on the marble floor of the Senate and my life changed again.

It's Official: I finished a polished first draft of Sonoma Knight: The Goat-Ripper Case. 188 pages. Six weeks of Beta edit/polish next. I hope it goes well with your beach sand and suntan lotion.

My weekend get-away was to visit a water-buffalo dairy in Sonoma. Ever tasted real Mozzerella cheese? Craig makes the best. I drizzled 25-year-old vinegar on top.

A mixed herd of 30 swamp and river Asian buffalo have inspired me to do The 12 Water Buffalo of Sonoma Zen. Maybe a calendar, an itty-bitty book, and a new view on living.

Then I met a honeypot photographer with a 4X5. Meet Up! Houston, we have a shooter! Now how to get a water buffalo to smile?

Stay tuned. PeterPrasad.SF@Twitter.com

The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club by Duncan Whitehead.

Here’s a fun read that becomes a perfect storm of suspects. This rich murder pot-boiler is endearingly Miss. Marpel-esque in its pace and a Goodread’s finalist for 2013 Readers' Favorite in the humor category. I hope Dunc' wins.

English author Whitehead does crime in an off-handed character-driven was that is charming and filled with gentility. Laps around a dog-walker’s park lead to Argentina and Paris and red herrings galore. Some of the characters deserve Spanish Moss growing in their hair. So join the Club. Huzzah for Whitehead. More please. 5 Stars.

Huzzah sparkling new readers and authors.

We all have our favorite first sentences from exciting novels, noir and classic. I do too. I’m also a believer that the best first sentence often gets written last, after you know the story flow and ending. Then you write a sterling first sentence that promises at the pleasures the story contains. Even in the best and worst of times (joke).

The first sentence sets the tone. Is it a teaser? An appetizer of flavors to come? A challenge? A reminder? So I got curious.

I wanted to see the first sentence for each chapter in Sonoma Knight: Gurl-Posse Kidnap. It’s a crime thriller, the first paid case of my new PI Jake Knight, a Sonoma dairy farmer and Afghan vet.

I expect Gurl-Posse to be published as an ebook before Christmas. And I bet each first sentence tells a lot of story. Let’s see if I’m right.

C1: Ricky Serrato wheeled the transport van off the rain-slick freeway north of Santa Rosa and steered for the warehouse on the Rancheria.

C2: Wealth made Jake Knight uncomfortable.

C3: As Jake drove his faded Ford F-150 farm truck, the red rust bucket, down Hannah’s manicured drive, he dialed Colonel Harland “Hap” Hazard to debrief.

C4: The next winter storm rolled in dark and wet that evening.

C5: “Flash your lights, Mol.”

C6: “Otter” Arriba, chief field investigator of the Unified Tribes reservation constabulary heard his walkie-talkie squawk: “Shots fired.

C7: Molly roamed the back roads of the reservation in a thunderous downpour.

C8: Deep in a muddy three-acre corn field adjacent his house, Otter sketched a center line through the slop with his shovel at first light.

C9: Serrato stumbled from his cot, walked outside and unlocked the security gate at his warehouse on Sunday morning.

C10: Jake woke at dawn on Sunday morning, opened his laptop and dialed into the server at Hazard Security.

C11: Sunday morning after a shoot-out and Molly was home already – Jake couldn’t believe it.

C12: Serrato approached Jason Tambor’s house in his white Jeep Cherokee.

C13: As Jake cleared Hannah’s drive, he punched speed dial for The Colonel.

C14: Otter drove his black Escalade down the muddy road toward Tambor’s house early Monday morning.

C15: Jake turned into Hannah’s long drive past the open gates.

C16: Jake drove through the rain up the winding road to Tanya’s cottage.

C17: Serrato sat in his office drinking from a half empty bottle of tequila.

C18: Jake wheeled his truck into the gravel parking lot of the United Federation police station five minutes before ten o’clock on Tuesday morning.

C19: The next morning, Jake drove the ten miles from Tanya’s to his sheep dairy to catch up on chores.

C20: At three a.m., Molly woke from a dream and for the first time in her life could not get all the way back in her body.

C21: Valentina and her grandmother dozed in the back seat as Molly and Allie kept their heads together and their voices low.

C22: Serrato sat in darkness in his upstairs office.

C23: Jake sat in the red rust bucket outside Hannah’s house and pulled the laptop from its carrying case.

C24: Hazard had mentioned the Druids Club before.

C25: Serrato turned down Tamarack Lane toward Hannah’s mansion in the early evening twilight and cut his lights.

C26: Serrato drove through the open gate at his warehouse and parked by the door.

C27: Jake raced north on the freeway toward the reservation.

C28: Jake saw the flashing lights of the Sonoma Sheriff’s department cruiser pull into Hannah’s driveway from Molly’s upstairs bedroom window.

C29: Pitt raced his black sedan north on the freeway toward Serrato’s warehouse in the dead of night.

C30: “So what’s next?” Jake asked Pitt.

C31: Jake approached the driver of the DEA Task Force Suburban.

Still with me? Then you have perseverance. So email me for a free review copy of Sonoma Knight: Gurl-Posse Kidnap. PeterPrasad.SF@gmail.com.

And if you’d like to read the book that launched Jake’s career at a PI, find it here. http://dld.bz/cGQGK. Sonoma Knight: The Goat-Ripper Case. Thanks, readers.

I like fast paced plots with an afterjet ending for my crime thrillers. 'Cept my dainty readers want to know character, back story and how'd he get so bent. So I wrote a new opening that reads like this:

After Thanksgiving when new wine rests on the lees at bubbling ferment, family secrets tumble out in a drenching rain, blind to who gets hurt. A drug deal unravels into murder, kidnap and redemption as PI Jake Knight helps his client see the light.

CHAPTER 1

Jake settled on a stool with one boot atop the rail. He twisted to ease the ache at his beltline where a bullet scored a divot weeks earlier. Tanya sailed by, smelling like angel cake, and set down a glass of ice-water by him. He smiled. She smiled. Ever observant, she hovered an inch away from out of reach. “For your veins?” she teased.

She returned with his dinner on an oval plate. A barricade of crisp garlic fries restrained succulent juices. With knife and fork he carved into the roast beef mounded on toasted sourdough. The odor steamed up his sinuses, cleared the rain and damp from his thoughts and warmed his heart. She laughed all the way back to his elbow with a cloth napkin. He’d have felt less vulnerable had he known she delighted in the pure nurture of her man.

A quarter hit the juke box and rolled down memory lane. Dolly Parton’s voice sidled up to the guy one stool down, keen to squeeze lost love from his chill IPA. After a respectful pause for heartache, Tanya rolled another quarter Jake’s way. It was spackled with chips of red nail polish, round like a bullet hole. He punched up a classic by a local boy. Horns kicked the sky higher and bounced off a base line with a boogie beat. Huey Lewis let loose, “You don’t need no credit card to ride this train. The power of love…”

Her green eyes vaporized his heart and her shoulders shimmied with approval. His throat knotted. He wanted to clear the verbal logjam by whispering in her ear on a pillow bound for far away. A heartbeat later, Dolly’s ornery soul mate wiped a labored hand over his rough stubble, tapped his glass to signal refill and tapped Jake’s glass too. Tanya nodded and turned to the draft beer tap. “What a crock,” the guy muttered. “That singer is too drunk on what nobody serves no more.” Jake winked at Tanya and saw pure gold ore.

Once a skinny rail with pony tails, orchid tattoos now bloomed from her elbow to her sleeveless top. She’d rounded into all he held dear, his touchstone of sanity with a hint of flint. That put her at the top of his Christmas list, underlined and circled twice. And he had no idea what might express all that she deserved.

He glanced at her emerald eyes, a sparkle he’d searched the world for and only found in her. She pulled away, tawny hair tied to the side, her grin quivered into throaty chuckles, not quite a giggle. Jake laughed at himself, captivated. She floated back with a draft IPA. She stretched, looked at Jake and did the oddest thing with the tip of her tongue. He imagined a lynx on a tree limb over a game trail. He longed to be king of her jungle, oh Jesus please.

GURL-POSSE KIDNAP

A sexy romantic crime thriller set in the heart of California wine country. A drug deal turns into murder and kidnap. Then a Cartel killer comes a-knocking and PI Jake Knight helps his client, Molly Draper, see the light. “Wicked thrilling but don’t put it on Facebook,” Allie said to Molly.

Tell me your favorite Tweet from the list below and WHY to win a free author-autographed copy of GURL-POSSE KIDNAP. Please enter as a comment below. Books to mail mid-April. On'Ya, dear readers.

TWEETS
1. In a drench of Sonoma rain, family secrets tumble out in bubbling ferment.
2. “He fired a gun at me. What was I supposed to do?”
3. Is Molly Draper guilty? How guilty is she?
4. Molly Draper? Murder or self-defense? You decide.
5. Hannah Draper arched a single eyebrow in GURL-POSSE. Can you?
6. “Not one scratch on my granddaughter, Mr. Knight. Promise?”
7. Mamie-G warns Jake, “Don’t touch what you don’t understand.”
8. Basket makers rock! Mamie is looking out for you in GURL-POSSE KIDNAP.
9. “Time for you to come do your light, Mist’knight", Mamie-G said.
10. Poor Ricky Serrato. Valentina, the pure child, has his number.
11. Evil Otter Arriba and Carlos Serrato? Friends of yours maybe?
12. See what PI Jake Knight does with his jacket and three punches.
13. “Sorry, Jake. Just that you’re kinda cute is all,” Molly said.
14. “Sexual slavery? I thought this was about drugs and murder?” Jake said.
15. Football-shaped blue pills? The dance party drug in GURL-POSSE KIDNAP
16. “HOLA. Welcome to Sonoma, ladies. You’re riding with the Gurl-Posse now."
17. Does Molly Draper take a hero’s journey? Find out in GURL-POSSE KIDNAP
18. Prasad is writing modern Miwok legend in GURL-POSSE KIDNAP
19. Hey Otter? What you been doing with your Protector in that corn field?
20. Col. Hazard said, “A girl with that kind of money has a target on her back.”

Due Soon at Amazon
Gurl-Posse follows Goat-Ripper in the in the Sonoma Knight series.

Sonoma Knight: THE GOAT-RIPPER CASE 99-cents this week at Amazon to celebrate all the fallen and wounded warriors that preserve our freedom to read any book we want.
http://www.amazon.com/Goat-Ripper-Cas...

Says author D. P. Whitehead: “This book is fantastic. The writing style is easy to follow, flows and the characterization is phenomenal. Jake Knight a returned wounded veteran, finds himself involved with a wine merchant with murderous intentions. The style of this book is excellent, it is a fun read, extremely funny and witty and the author has not only created a gem of a book, he is created some wonderfully inspired characters.

Throw a sexy babe into the mix you have a book filled not only with a great story line but an insight into the wine area itself. Jake Knight is a hero for the ages and I could see easily this book transferred to TV, as a great PI series.....Excellent and highly recommended. Someone pass me the cheese....I want more! This book is a cracker!”
Author, The Gordonston Ladies Dog Walking Club.



The Sonoma Knight Series: GOAT-RIPPER, GURL-POSSE KIDNAP and GUT-CHECK GREEN (due late June). On'Ya readers and thank you for your support. Now excuse me, I have to get back to my tofu burger on the barbecue. Happy Weekend!

Chapter 10: Sunday, Father’s Day

Sunday was Father’s Day and Veda opened a bottle of vodka and cried all morning because she missed Uncle Leland so bad. It made for a miserable start to the day. Gramm had me down in the basement harvesting her magic mushrooms and stuffing them into a honey jar. I made a few peanut butter and honey sandwiches for her, then drank a sugar-free Red Bull and went upstairs to outline a campaign schedule. Some generations have to carry other generations – read history, it’s always been that way, like all those old hippies from the Sixties. Gramm was that generation. Where would we be without them? Probably at a sex rehabilitation camp quoting Bible verse and slapping away raunchy paws, afraid to do anything but Twitter like silly fools.

Indian John came by, looked in on us and fired up the barbecue grill. John had brought fresh gator tail steaks. He had a reputation as a gator man, the person to call if a gator got into your swimming pool. He must be a good butcher too, because he plunked a ten pound tail of gator meat on the barbecue. Soon after the Askaloosa brothers roared up to the house in one of their big four-wheelers, raising a dust storm off the road. I’d sent Jeeter a text, and an email, so they were invited to the picnic.

Jeeter and Dante helped Indian John spread the hot charcoals under the barbecue. Branch went off by himself and leaned up against the banyan tree with a six-pack of beers. I went over to welcome him but Jeeter waved me off. “He’s having one of his bad days. They come and go, based on what dreams he’s having about fighting in Afghanistan, or maybe Iraq,” Jeter said. I believed it might be something worse than that, but then we all have our ghosts. Branch would mutter and curse under his breath, then burst into tears. He had unspeakable issues no one wanted to penetrate.

Dante pulled out a set of magic markers with a notepad and tried his hand at drawing campaign slogans. He had an artistic streak and a natural talent for designs. After our success at the Micanopy Flag Day parade, the T-shirt design we settled on read ‘Go Veda.’ My favorite was ‘Tit for Tat Democrat’ but Aunt Veda vetoed that.

The whole time sitting there under the shade of the banyan, smelling those gator steaks sizzle up, Jeeter never took his eyes off me. He’d look at me until I had goose bumps, then I’d look up at him and he’d look away. We did that all afternoon until I was worse off than heat lightening with not a drop of rain in sight.

Veda came out to welcome everyone. I guess she’d gotten sleepy from the vodka and taken a nap. Now she was bright and chipper. I hoped her grieving was done for the day. She went back inside and helped Gramm make salad dishes in the kitchen. They brought them to the picnic table under the old banyan tree by the barbecue pit. Gramm had baked a heaping plate of her bacon-fat cornbread biscuits. Indian John thin sliced the barbecued gator tail and covered it with a ginger-garlic sauce that he’d learned to make in Thailand. I wondered if he was old enough to have served in Vietnam. I still didn’t know enough about him yet, and when I asked Veda she said he was an old friend of Uncle Leland’s and provided security for her campaign. It never dawned on me that we might need it.

Indian John sat with Branch for a while and sipped a beer, but he was unable to reach Branch either. He was deep into one of his impenetrable moods. Jeeter and Dante ignored him. They were used to his behavior. I sat beside Jeeter, nudged him with my elbow and nodded toward Branch. “He gets like that, then comes out of it in a day or two,” Jeeter explained with a sad smile. I knew the feeling, having seen Aunt Veda disappear into her sadness earlier that morning, and many a time over the last nine months.

As we sat down to eat, a car came honking up on us. It was Thorny and her uncle bouncing down our road, followed by a sleek silver Jaguar and another four-wheel drive SUV. Gramm smiled; she welcomed company. Veda went inside to check her make-up and Indian John went to greet the guests. With the new arrivals parked, Indian John led them to the picnic table.

Veda came out of the house looking better and was introduced to an elder from the Seminole tribe, Dr. Heath Baudry. He was a tall, thin man with a dignified nature who wore his grey hair in long Indian braids. His wife, Marlene, was an attractive woman ten years younger who wore her black hair in similar braids. We got to talking and she said she worked as an attorney and Indian rights advocate.

Out of the silver Jaguar stepped the sugar baron I’d seen at Veda’s first event in Gainesville. He wore a dark suit and orange tie, with his black hair slicked back and trimmed nicely. He spoke English with a Cuban accent and had wonderful, gracious manners. John introduced him as Senor Marcel Cutie, pronounced Cu-tea-a, a high-society sugar baron from Kissimmee by Lake Okeechobee. I wondered why he was coming all this way to meet Veda, but instead I went into the kitchen to fetch more plates, glasses and silverware.

Jeeter followed me in and brought out cold beers for everyone. He was behaving himself except for the one time he stood too close to me and we brushed arms. I didn’t yell at him though, and told him where he could find a tray to serve drinks like a proper gentlemen. I even got him to tuck in his shirt, but he refused to wear an apron. I didn’t want our guests to think we were country crackers living out of plastic grocery bags from Publix. Jeeter cooperated and served the beers. He even helped Mrs. Cutie pop open her pop-top can.

John hoisted up a big platter of grilled gator tail that smelled divine and went around serving folks, and ladling out his Thai ginger-garlic sauce. We passed the salads and cornbread. I sat beside Mrs. Cutie, who wore her black hair in a bun with dark Spanish combs. She was dressed in an elegant tan pants suit with an orange silk blouse that matched her husband’s tie, plus a pearl necklace and pearl earrings. She seemed so calm and elegant. I asked if she liked politics, saying I was rather new to it myself.

“Henna, I’ve been helping my husband for years since we came from Cuba. We had sugar cane estates there and lost it all to Fidel Castro. When we got to Miami, we started all over again. Now we work with politicians from both parties to look out for the interests of Cuban-Americans. My husband loves the freedoms of his adopted nation.”

Thorny sat at the other end of the table with her uncle. She had on a little too much make-up but looked cute in sandals, cut-off jeans and a Mexican peasant shirt. She ignored my looks all afternoon and we never got a chance to sneak away and gossip. I was surprised she sat so quietly. Neither she nor her uncle said much; he was an odd duck anyway, either talking too fast about farm equipment or going quiet for long periods. I could tell he and Dante didn’t get along. Maybe Dante was the better salesman. But Thorny’s uncle gave Veda a hundred dollar campaign donation before they left.

I watched Thorny walk to her uncle’s car. He had her by the elbow, like he had more important places to be. She gave me an odd look over her shoulder, then she scrunched up her face and grimaced. I gathered she would have liked to stay. I held my hand to my ear and pantomimed ‘call me.’ She nodded and smiled.

At sundown and with a good meal in her, Veda moved over to sit with Indian John, Dr. Baudry and Senor Cutie. I got up to help Gramm clear the table but Veda called me over to join her, so Jeeter stepped in to help Gramm. Veda liked me there to witness campaign business, I guessed.

Indian John began by saying that Dr. Baudry spoke for the tribe’s management committee and that Senor Cutie was a long-time supporter of the tribe, and of Democratic causes, and an important business partner. “Veda, we’re excited by your campaign and the opportunity you represent to get out voice heard in Washington. The Seminoles need friends in Washington and I think you’d be a fine friend for us and an excellent representative for the district,” Baudry began. He spoke in a deep bass voice with significant authority and crisp diction. I could tell he was a well-educated man, with hardly any cracker accent and the slow, dignified drawl of a native Floridian.

“Well, thank you, Doctor, but we both know I’m a novice when it comes to national politics. And as I remember in the last campaign you supported Earl Tugg.” Veda smiled at him but her eyes stayed sharp and keen.

“Yes, we did support him, but we’re unhappy with that decision,” Baudry explained. “We’re here on a fact-finding mission and to get a measure of your metal. This is going to be a tough race. You’re up against a tea party favorite. You have a wide range of disparate groups to corral if you’re going to win. And Tugg is not going to play fair. He has plenty of outside money and the power of incumbency. But his record leaves little to run on, except that he hates Obama and Obamacare. He wants to cut education, cut assistance for poor people and ignore our nation’s international responsibilities. The sad fact is, he went to Washington and stopped listening to the local people that put him there. Now he thinks he’s a tea party champion and all he had to do is vote no on everything. That’s no way to advance our nation or look after the interests of rural Florida.”

“I agree with you, Dr. Baudry,” Veda said. “Tugg isn’t interested in helping students, or young families, or the elderly. He doesn’t understand the expansion of human rights. He doesn’t care about immigrants or the poor. He’s not any kind of an environmentalist.” Dr. Baudry and Senor Cutie nodded in agreement.

“So what’s it going to take to win your support?” Veda asked next. She got right to the meat of the matter with that question and both men leaned back and paused to give themselves time to answer her. I looked at Senor Cutie. He sat quietly, allowing Dr. Baudry to speak for him. I guess they’d decided to play it that way in advance.

“I’m glad you asked that, Veda. We have two business strategies that we hope you will consider and see your way to support. The tribe believes that gaming casinos are an important potential revenue source for the state and for job creation. Florida is already a leader in tourism. Gaming casinos are a natural extension in that area of entertainment. As you know, Indian tribes in California and several other states are thriving with successful gaming enterprises. This allows us to grow jobs, create a stronger tax base for the state in poorer areas and contribute to like-minded political friends.”

“Providing some of the casino tax revenue is earmarked for local schools and education, I could support that,” Veda said. “What’s your other business strategy for the state?” Jeeter sat down beside me and got excited when he heard Dr. Baudry’s response.

“We look at the revenue generated by medical marijuana in California, Colorado, Oregon and Washington. More than twenty states are enacting some kind of medical marijuana legislation and we want Florida to join them. In California alone, the taxable revenue from medical marijuana is running to several hundred million dollars per year. And according to opinion polls, Floridians support legalization of marijuana by almost sixty percent.”

Instead of responding to Dr. Baudry, Veda turned to Senor Cutie. “And what’s big sugar’s interest in medical marijuana?”

Cutie cleared his throat. “As an investor.”

“Medical marijuana is grown in a controlled environment with significant banking, infrastructure and regulatory concerns, plus security, quality control and supporting laboratory services. It takes a lot of money to deliver the service and meet all the government requirements,” Baudry explained.

“As a medical initiative for cancer patients, those afflicted with chronic seizures and other related illnesses, you have my support,” Veda said. “However, as a medicine, marijuana must be carefully regulated, with education and licensing, especially for care-givers. As to a more general legalization, I’m not yet convinced it serves the people of Florida.”

“Of course,” Baudry said, “there are many regulatory concerns to work out, but it’s a beginning.”

“Some twenty-five percent of our state prisoners are incarcerated for drug offenses. So if we can reduce prison populations and get these kids a decent education, I’ll feel like I’ve done some good,” Veda added.

“Exactly,” Senor Cutie chimed in. I looked over at him and say the fire behind his eyes. I think he genuinely meant it.

“So tell me gentlemen, what did Earl Tugg say about your two strategies when you mentioned them to him?” Veda asked Baudry.

Baudry smiled. “Well, at the beginning of our conversation, Tugg claimed to be a Libertarian. But at the conversation progressed, he began to refer to our initiatives as being part of the sin business. I’m afraid he’s more Born-Again than Libertarian.”

“He’s afraid God is going to close the door to him,” Veda said, “but I can see his point. In some of the rural portions of the district, folks might be smoking pot behind the barn on Friday night but they’d never admit to it in church on Sunday morning.” Senor Cutie smiled at that.

“For lots of cracker farmers, myself included, all that some of us have is our sense of place -- our love and dedication to Florida, family and community -- and a spirit of pride of place that goes back generations to our grandfathers and deeper.” Veda gently tilted her head sideways, watching to see who understood her.

“In this election, you can’t monkey with that. All the voters need to be honored for where they are, rich or poor, urban or rural; they’re all Americans. They all pay their taxes and they contribute.” An easy smile began to spread across Dr. Baudry’s face.

“Lots of Tugg’s base feel run over by the pace of this country. They want to opt out for a simpler time, but the pace of the world won’t give it to them. So they react by saying no to everything,” Veda said.

I saw Jeeter stare at Aunt Veda when she said that. “This is our piece of earth that we want to cultivate and preserve for our next generation of family. It’s our responsibility as human beings and native Floridians,” Veda said and her voice shifted into a huskier tone, like she was a little girl whispering into Uncle Leland’s ear.

“It’s our sense of place, our place on earth. And I’ve decided that in this race I’ll show my own roots to my earth, and make this a campaign about Cracker Pride. But when I say cracker, I mean Cincinnatus, the spirit of the founding fathers in the 1780’s, the educated, self-read gentleman farmer that put down his weapons at the earliest opportunity and celebrated the land’s fertility and renewal.”

Veda plucked on my heartstring when she said that. Even I had to wipe away a tear. Veda was warmed up and rolling, and sounded like Betsy Ross telling George Washington how best to cut a star for the new American flag. Dante slipped me a piece of notepaper with an illustration of a t-shirt that read, ‘Cracker Pride, like Cincinnatus’.

“I intend to win this race and show my own roots of Cracker Pride.” Veda said, finishing up with a beatific smile. I looked over at Dr. Baudry and saw his jaw was hanging loose. Aunt Veda had found her voice. She’d be ripe and ready when it was time to get in front of folks and be ‘on message’ as the DC campaign advisory types like to say.

Veda paused and looked at Baudry, and her voice soften down a peg. “But don’t expect me to lead with your economic initiatives. You have my qualified support, but I have to get elected first.”

“Yes, we understand that and we agree with you,” Baudry said. “We’ll do what we can to get you elected first, and count on your support for these initiatives when the opportunity presents itself. We’re thinking long-term and we want a candidate that can look forward with us.”

On that note Baudry rose from the table, followed by his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Cutie. Veda shook their hands and walked with them to their cars. Indian John trailed behind and gave her a shoulder squeeze as she waved good-by.

Jeeter reached into his pocket and pulled out a marijuana spliff and started to light it. “We can seal the deal,” he said with a wicked grin that I adored. I slapped the match from his hand and grabbed the joint from his mouth, and put it in my pocket, and winked at him.
“But I want to be a ganja entrepreneur,” Jeeter argued. “Now that’s a business ripe with a future.”

I smiled; my Jeeter, has a lot to learn about politics. Veda and Indian John wandered back to the picnic table to discuss what had happened. Jeeter and I didn’t stay for that. We snuck off to smoke that joint and do some kissing. Politics makes for strange bed fellows – I’m not sure what that means, entirely, but I like to say it.

FREE TODAY: The Goat-Ripper Case

http://www.amazon.com/Goat-Ripper-Cas...

Reviews: "The bad guys are bad. The different in their badness and the interplay as they weave their mischief is magic." "WOW!! I loved this book! Prasad is an exceptional story teller!" "Characters are captivating and well developed. You will however want to whack a couple of them." "The writing style is easy to follow, flows and the characterization is phenomenal." ~ author DP Whitehead.

"Nash Bridges' daring, Steinbeck's eye and Vonnegut's heart."

A 5-Star Wine & Cheese Thriller. Who's dumping dead goats in Sonoma? Afghan vet Jake Knight comes home to heal, fall in love and convert his dairy to artisan cheese. Not yet a licensed PI, Jake races to confront a perverted wine maker with a taste for murder. He assembles a witty crew and uses genius to stop an assassination. This modern-day romantic thriller is set in California wine country.