2 MORE OUTTAKES FROM A NEW PROSPECT

Mar 16, 2014 by Wayne Zurl

These two scenes were deleted from A NEW PROSPECT because my “Book Doctor” thought a first time novel shouldn’t shift from the prevalent first person POV to a third person narration. But he said they were very well written. So, for any fans of the 1st Sam Jenkins full-length novel, here are a couple of outtakes:

Sunday July 23, 2006

U.S. Congressman Jimmy Dillworth sat in the living room of his Washington D.C. townhouse on a warm Sunday afternoon, reading a copy of the Knoxville News-Sentinel, one already several days old. He liked to keep abreast of current events back in his congressional district of East Tennessee. After finishing an article projecting the chances of the U.T. football team in the upcoming season, Jimmy stopped reading, folded the paper and took off his glasses. He needed to think about a few things.

In less than two weeks he would close up his D.C. shop for the August break. He was looking forward to this vacation. Too many Iraq War debates, too much for a good Republican to do: support the President and the party and still make public decisions that would please a disgruntled constituency. He hoped the weather back home in the Smokies would not be as warm as in Washington, both literally and figuratively.

A telephone rang in another part of the house. Moments later, his wife walked into the living room holding the cordless receiver. She told him Minas Tipton was calling from their home town of Maryville and handed him the phone.

“Jimmy? Minas Tipton. You doin’ all right today?”

“Hello, Judge,” The congressman said, affording the older gentleman the courtesy of using his former title. “How’s everything back in Blount County?”

“Well, son, it’s a local matter I’m callin’ about, an important matter, important indeed. I’m afraid I’ll need a favor from you, Jimmy. Can you handle that?”

“Of course I can, sir. I’m sure you know what I’d be capable of doing, so tell me what you need.”

“Now, I know you keep up with the news from down here, son. You heard that my daughter’s husband was murdered yesterday?”

Dillworth thought, how did my staff miss that one? “Cecil was murdered? No, I hadn’t heard. I’m a little behind with my newspapers right now. I’m terribly sorry, Minas. Please give Miss Pearl and her children my condolences. Do the police know who killed him?”

“That’s what I’m callin’ you about, Jimmy, the murder investigation. That’s what I need in the way of a favor.”

Dillworth began to see the favor as nothing more than a phone call or two to get the cops on the stick. “Are you unhappy with the local investigation so far?”

“Let me explain this to you and bear with me now, cause I need to start at the beginnin’, the very beginnin’. The murder happened in Prospect, you know where that is.”

“Of course.”

“The former police chief, the one who got himself jammed up, Buck Webbster—useless windbag—he’s no longer there. The new chief, feller name o’ Jenkins, an ex-New York hot shot, he’s takin’ charge of the investigation. Now, Jimmy, I don’t know this Jenkins from a hole in the wall. Supposedly a good cop, but I have no idea if I can trust him. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

Jimmy Dillworth said, “Perhaps.” In reality, he had no idea what Minas Tipton was leading up to.

“Jimmy, my late son-in-law was a decadent, no account son-of-a-bitch. You know that. He lived a life any good Christian would be ashamed of. He treated my daughter with no respect. You understand?”

Dillworth said, “I’m not sure I do,” and began to fear what Tipton might tell him.

“Honestly, Jimmy, I’m not overly concerned about findin’ Cecil’s killer.”

That statement shocked Dillworth more than a little.

“Actually, son, I’m glad the bastard’s finally dead. And you’d think his demise would end Pearl’s problems, wouldn’t ya?”

Dillworth took a brief moment to consider the worst he might hear from the old man. But Minas Tipton wasn’t looking for an answer to his last question.

“But I am very concerned that word of the way Cecil lived his goddamned life may become public knowledge, Jimmy. If this Jenkins finds the killer and learns that Cecil’s drinkin’ and perversions were motives for the crime, my daughter and her children and grandchildren will be the laughin’ stock of the county.”

Jimmy breathed an audible sigh and said, “I’m sure that would be terribly embarrassing for Pearl if what you say happens in open court. I’m sorry for her, I truly am. What I don’t see, is how I can help you.” Dillworth knew more than half of Blount County already recognized Cecil Lovejoy as an oversexed, nasty old reprobate.

“Stick with me, now, Jimmy. This man Jenkins has opted to investigate this himself,” Tipton said. “He didn’t want county detectives and didn’t want the state TBI boys. Must be a cocky Yankee who thinks he’s a better cop than we got right here. If Jenkins finds the killer, and from what I’ve heard about him—back when they were interviewin’ people for that chief’s job—he probably will, Pearl will indeed be embarrassed to death.”

“Yes, sir, I understand.” Then he asked a leading question. “Do you have any idea who killed Cecil?”

Tipton must have sensed Dillworth’s apprehension and answered curtly. “I do not. My big concern is not only for Pearl’s reputation, but for her well-bein’.”

“Has she been unhealthy?”

“She’s not been well for a long time, Jimmy, a very long time indeed. Somethin’ like this could have serious effects on her. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“Let me bottom line it for you, Jimmy. I need you to exercise a little pressure for me. Make a few calls. Jenkins had the option to ask for help with the investigation—from people who we know and can trust, so to speak. He didn’t do that. Now, I need you to convince the Mayor of Prospect, Ronnie Shields, you know him?”

“I’ve met him.”

“Convince this Shields that he should turn the responsibility for this case over to the TBI—for the good of the investigation, in the interest of justice, whatever the hell you want to call it. You know, bigger agency, more resources, a better chance to find the killer. He’s the damn mayor. He can override Jenkins.”

Tipton paused for a breath. His voice had sounded strained and Dillworth wondered how the judge would handle the long-term stress of the situation.

“In reality, Jimmy, I want the state agents—the people on our side—to be damn sure that word of Cecil’s perversions never become public knowledge. I don’t care how they do it. God forgive me, but I would prefer they never found the killer. That person should get a medal for ridding me and the world of the likes of Cecil Lovejoy. Can you make that happen, Jimmy?” Tipton never gave the congressman a chance to respond. “You’re a smart boy. You’ll know just what you have to do and who you need to get to. I believe, for old time’s sake you owe me that much, don’t you, son?”

Jimmy Dillworth hesitated in answering. It was one of those times, one of those requests that he feared. But it was something that went with the territory. For many years, since he was a young attorney back in Blount County, he had been under the wing of Judge Minas Tipton. In reality, he owed the judge for the political position he now occupied. The retired judge still had more de facto power than anyone else he knew in Tennessee. Jimmy liked his job as congressman and he wanted to get reelected.

“Judge, I’ll do everything in my power to preserve your daughter’s dignity. I appreciate you trusting me to handle this for you. It’s still early. I’ll get on the phone right away and take care of this for you.” He emphasized the last two words. “Then I’ll call you back.”

“Jimmy, you’re a good friend. I will not forget this. No, indeed, I will not forget. Thank you, thank you very much. God bless you, Jimmy.”

Monday July 24, 2006

The day after Judge Minas Tipton worked his magic on Congressman Jimmy Dillworth, Dooley Barlow, the director of the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation sat at his desk staring out the window at the parking lot below. It was early on a Monday morning and he had yet to look at the morning newspaper. He thought about the phone call received on Sunday evening and said to himself, “This shit’s gonna blow up in my face.”

Barlow was a former Tennessee state trooper. He served as a sergeant for less than two years when the director’s job at TBI opened up. It was almost as if Dooley ran unopposed for the position and just breezed on in. For years, he patrolled the highways of central Tennessee doing what his supervisors and the radio dispatcher told him. He wrote traffic tickets, helped stranded motorists, and handled motor vehicle accidents. The consensus was Dooley managed to be a good cop. He wrote a good report. He was a team player, caused no trouble. And his father was a very popular state assemblyman—one endorsed by all the police unions and associations. There was another consensus, one thought by some of the people in power, but not made public, that Dooley wasn’t a crusader for truth and justice. He knew what side of his bread had the butter and as far as a detective—well, he’d never set the world on fire. Dooley knew all that, too.

Two TBI agents, one man in his mid-fifties and the other in his late-forties, walked in and took seats in front of their director’s desk. These men worked directly for the boss, no others in their chain of command. Both had been agents for a long time. They were officially known as senior investigators. Years ago they would have been referred to as a “flying squad”. Today some of their co-workers simply called them, “Dooley’s goon squad”. They did what their boss wanted and needed. They enjoyed the diversity of the work, the autonomy, and the inevitable overtime.

“Boys,” Dooley Barlow said, “I got a phone call yesterday . . . ”

The director went on to explain the situation in Blount County and how they would assume responsibility for the Lovejoy murder case. One of the agents made a few notes. He would call Prospect P.D. and ask to have all the reports faxed to them at TBI headquarters.

“I don’t need to tell y’all how much we need to keep this investigation just between the three of us,” Barlow said.

The agents nodded.

“I do need to impress upon y’all that a conviction here isn’t the prime motivator. We’re not gonna be violatin’ any laws either. What we’re gonna do, is be sure the reputations of some important, and I emphasize the word important, people do not get ruined needlessly. We need to give the appearance of a good effort—do what needs to be done. Y’all are both good, smart boys. Y’all know what I mean? Work it out and make it work.” Dooley smiled at them. “Unnerstand?”

They nodded again. One cracked a brief smile.

“Thank ya, boys. Call me if y’all need anythin’, and keep me informed.”

After the senior agents left, Dooley thought back to his comment, “Work it out and make it work.” He loved to say that. He couldn’t remember where he had originally heard it, but he just loved to use it. He thought it gave him a military sound. Dooley had never been in the service but he respected those who had been or were still serving. He even had a recruiter’s sticker, “Army of One”, on the bumper of his unmarked TBI sedan. He thought perhaps people would infer that he was a veteran.

Dooley Barlow picked up his phone and called the person with whom he spoke on Sunday, the one who had given him the assignment in Prospect. He told that person he was taking care of the situation and all would be well. Dooley wished he could believe his own rhetoric.

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RECYCLING UNUSED SCENES FROM A BOOK

Mar 15, 2014 by Wayne Zurl

Shake and Bake and Double-O Buckshot
By Wayne Zurl
This story is fabricated from an outtake which originally appeared in the award winning Sam Jenkins novel, A NEW PROSPECT. The scene was deleted prior to publication. It’s based on an actual incident which took place in New York in 1975.

At ten past five, Stanley Rose and I walked back into Prospect PD. We found Bettye Lambert sitting at her desk reading the latest Jesse Stone novel. Her blonde hair shined like a lighthouse in the mist.

I felt contented with a job well done. Stanley, the pessimist, complained all the way back from the psych ward at Blount Memorial Hospital.

“Hey,” I said to Bettye, “what are you still doing here?”

“Hey, yourself, Sammy. I’m wanted to be sure you guys were okay.”

“As Ralph Kramden said to Alice, ‘Baby, you’re the greatest.’ Thanks for waiting. We’re fine and everything went off without a hitch. The little guy who took a hostage is in a straight jacket waiting to get candled by a county shrink.”

“I’m glad,” she said, and smiled. “When I heard you tell the dispatcher you were leaving the hospital, I made a fresh pot of coffee. Want to tell me what happened?”

“Sure, and I’d love a coffee. You don’t have to get home?”

“I have to hear what happened.”

“I hope our fearless chief appreciates you,” Stan said. “Cause I was going to leave his ass at the hospital.”

Stanley dropped his 235 pounds into one of the guest chairs in front of my desk. His ebony complexion contrasted sharply with his khaki uniform shirt.

“Do I detect a note of disfavor in your voice, Sergeant Rose?” I asked.

“It’s hard enough supervising the cops here,” Stan said. “You’re gonna give me an ulcer.”

“Sam, darlin’, what have you done now?” Bettye shook her head and looked lovelier than any other desk sergeant on the planet.

“Betts, you should have seen it. Junior was pinned down behind his car. We pulled up in a hail of bullets.”

Stanley interrupted. “Anyone mind if I interject a note of reality?”

Bettye looked back at me as she poured three cups of coffee.

“Go ahead, Stanley,” I said. “I just wanted to see if she’d believe me.” I resigned myself to the truth. “You tell the story.”

Stan chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I must have snoozed through that hail of bullets. But I remember seeing Junior talking to the hostage taker through the front door. But after our ace negotiator here,” he poked his thumb at me, “talked to that Mexican in pigeon Spanish for a few minutes, the guy let his stepdaughter go.”

“You see,” I said. “He’s so judgmental. I get results.”

“After he got the results we wanted,” Stanley said, “our impatient police chief waited a whole five minutes before kicking the door in.”

I shrugged. “It wasn’t really necessary to prolong things.”

“Here ya go, boss.” Bettye handed me a cup of black coffee. “And, Stanley, here’s yours, light and sweet.”

“After he kicked the door in and we entered the trailer with our guns drawn, we found the little guy hiding under the kitchen sink,” Stan said.” He was holding a cheap steak knife for protection, but he could have had a gun.”

“The wife and the stepdaughter said he had a knife. No one knew anything about a gun and we searched the place carefully. You’re so conservative.”

“Well, I’m glad everyone is safe.” Bettye said.

“They’re all not so easy,” I said.

“No, they’re not,” Stan added.

“I remember a barricaded subject incident years ago that was anything but easy. I came close to killing a cop,” I said.

“Lord have mercy,” Bettye said. “What happened?”

I looked at Stanley. “You up for a war story?”

“Sure. The coffee’s hot and I’ll be here until midnight.”

“You two remember Shake and Bake?” I asked.

“Yeah, the stuff you put on chicken,” Stan said. “I was only a kid when they ran those commercials on TV. They still make that stuff?”

Bettye shrugged. I didn’t know either.

“Sometime back in the mid-70s when I worked a sector car in New York,” I said. “We got assigned to assist the adjoining car. ‘Man with a gun,’ the dispatcher said.
‘Possible hostage situation.’”

I raised my eyebrows. It’s the kind of call every cop hates.

“It was August—ninety or better and humid. More humidity than East Tennessee ever feels.”

I thought about the typical New York late summer weather and shook my head.

“There’s nothing like Long Island humidity, except maybe Southeast Asia.”

Stanley smiled. He’d been to the Philippines during his time in the Air Force.

“We had no A/C in the cars back then. I used a thermometer once to check—a-hundred-and-twenty-degrees around our legs. Summers were as hot as hell.”

Stanley slumped down in his chair and stretched out his long legs. Bettye took a careful sip of coffee.

“Before that call we were having a typical lousy day, one job right after another, with no time to write them up or even grab a quick lunch. Then we got the call. Cars from all the surrounding sectors pulled up near the house. As soon as everyone arrived, a road sergeant and the lieutenant deployed us around the place. I carried a shotgun in our car, so my partner and I took a spot right outside the front door. Everyone else spread around to form a perimeter.”

I blew across the top of my cup to cool the steaming coffee.

“The L.T. used a bull horn to contact the guy inside, who shouted a few words out the front window each time he heard a question. This mutt sounded whacked out—in love or more probably in lust with his fourteen-year-old stepdaughter.”

Bettye shook her head. Stan listened patiently.

“After everything was over and the dicks questioned the girl, we learned that the mother had already gone to work and during breakfast that morning stepdaddy told the kid he wanted to make love to her. But she told him he was crazy and wanted no part of the guy. Later, he came home from work around the time she got back from school and it became obvious he wasn’t a man capable of handling rejection. At gunpoint, he told her if she wouldn’t have him, he had no choice but to kill her and then kill himself.”

“And I once thought LA had a monopoly on head cases,” Stan, the former Los Angeles cop said.

I continued. “But as Robert Burns said about those best laid plans, the girl kicked him in the groin and ran for the front door. Jerko took a shot at her with his Winchester 30-30 and hit her in the ass on her way out.”

Bettye winced and Stanley said, “Ouch!”

“That girl was some gutsy kid. Even with a bullet hole in her cheek, she crawled behind a neighbor’s parked car and started screaming her head off. The neighbors called 9-1-1.”

I took a sip of coffee and could visualize the area where I used to work clearly.

“The first sector car pulled up and one of those cops dragged the girl to safety while his partner called for an ambulance and assistance. Those were all small sectors—crowded neighborhoods with little stores scattered here and there. Four cars and two supervisors arrived in no time.

At 5:00 p.m., Bettye switched over the phones and radio to the 9-1-1 center, but left our base station turned on. In the lobby, the radio crackled and the county dispatcher sent a Rockford PD car on a first aid case and one of our units to verify the recovery of a bicycle reported stolen days earlier. When the chatter ended, I continued my story.

“I believe the boss almost talked that crazy bastard into coming out when everything went silent. It seemed like five minutes went by with no action. Maybe it was less.”

I paused myself, trying to create a dramatic effect.

“Then we heard a shot. I didn’t know if the subject shot himself or took a shot at one of the cops.”

I shifted in my seat, pulled out the bottom desk drawer, and set my foot on it.

“The lieutenant screamed through the bull horn trying to get the shooter to answer. Our sergeant came over and lay down next to me. ‘You’ve got the apple on this one, Sam,’ he said. ‘If this asshole opens the door and doesn’t have his hands up, do what you gotta do.’”

Stanley turned on his Ebonics act. “Nice to put y’all in a po-sition like dat.”

I nodded. “Yeah. He was all heart. I lay there, next to a large bush, only thirty feet from the front door. My partner lay next to me, his revolver pointed at the house. My first two rounds were magnum double-O buck. The next two were slugs. At that range there was no question of the man surviving. I was ready. If he pointed a gun at us and wanted to do a Butch Cassidy, he’d be dead—no question in my mind.”

At that point we all took sips from our coffee cups.

“Five minutes more went by and we heard communication from most of the cops. Only one man didn’t answer the radio. That made me uneasy. Another cop, positioned closest to his assigned spot, low crawled there and couldn’t find him.

“The lieutenant called over the bullhorn again asking for the subject to talk to him. Nothing but silence all around. Another few moments and the front door started opening. I clicked off the safety, put the bead front sight at about lower mid-door, and put a little pressure on the trigger. Both my eyes were open looking down the barrel of that 870 Remington. I had already stopped my breathing.”

Stan drew his legs back and straightened in his chair. Bettye sat forward holding her cup tightly in her lap.

“Then the door opened a little more. I saw a blue shirt and a PD patch. I screamed. My partner screamed, ‘Don’t fire. Don’t fire!’ Then other cops picked up the chant. No one relaxed, but no one started shooting either.”

Stan blew out a silent breath. Bettye shook her head. My audience looked spellbound. Maybe I should enter one of those Appalachian storytelling contests.

“What happened was, the cop posted at the side door got antsy waiting for something to go down and decided to enter the house without telling anyone.”

“Bad move.” Stan said.

“About as bad as it gets,” Bettye said.

“Yep. That’s what everyone thought.”

Without giving me a chance to resume the story, Bettye asked, “What happened?”

“Inside, Officer Impatience found the subject sitting in a chair with a Model 94 Winchester in his mouth and the top half of his head splattered around the upper half of the kitchen.”

Stan shook his head.

Bettye said, “Oh, Lord have mercy.”

“After that cop cleared the doorway, we ran in to check the scene. What a mess. The house had no air conditioning, so with that temperature, fifteen minutes of fresh blood and brains on the floors and walls and ceiling, stunk to high heaven. I looked at that deranged bastard lying on the floor. My partner backed out, afraid to be sick from the stink. Two other cops came in with handkerchiefs over their noses and checked the rooms for other people or bodies—there were none. The sergeant patted my shoulder and gestured for me to get out. We’d leave it for the detectives and the M.E.”

Neither Bettye nor Stan commented.

“Outside,” I said, “I saw the L.T. reaming out the cop who went through the house. No question in my mind, that guy wanted a Bravery Medal. But he was lucky to get away with an ass-chewing. If we didn’t wear those big red shoulder patches, something easy for me to see, a blast of double-O buckshot would have ruined his whole day.”

I sipped more coffee. The temperature tasted just right.

“What about the Shake and Bake?” Bettye asked.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I got home a little late that night. For an hour, on the drive east, I swore I could smell the blood from that hot kitchen. You know how you smell a dry floater long after the body’s gone? I always wondered if those smells stuck to the nasal hairs.”

Stan nodded, he knew. Bettye said nothing.

“Well, Kate already had dinner ready. She made chicken that night. Chicken with the new and improved, barbeque flavor Shake and Bake. It had the same sweet smell of the spilled blood in that kitchen. I lost my appetite—she understood. Funny how some things trigger memories.”

Bettye and Stanley nodded, but still offered no comment. Some people know when it’s a time to just listen.

THE END

A NEW PROSPECT Copyright 2010, Wayne Zurl
www.waynezurlbooks.net

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PERFECT IS BORING

Feb 4, 2014 by Wayne Zurl

When I began writing police mysteries I said to myself, “Aha! This is fiction, not a documentary. I have the opportunity to make everything come out perfectly.”

I thought it would be cool to chronicle my old cases and correct any mistakes or ask the questions that never came to mind or make the clever comments I only thought of the day after. It looked like an “if only” moment—a chance for perfection.

Then it rained on my parade. The precipitation came in the form of a middle-aged man with lots of experience in publishing and some pretty good ideas. The retired editor turned book-doctor who I hired to assist me during the formative stages of A NEW PROSPECT said, “Your protagonist is perfect. He never makes a mistake. Are you nuts?”

“Huh?” I said.

“Perfect is boring,” he said. “Readers like tension. They like uncertainty. Put your character in jeopardy. Screw that perfection thing.”

“Hmm,” I replied.

I thought about the concept and remembered reading other mysteries. How many times had I said, “Jeez, a good cop would never do that?” I’d grit my teeth and wait for the ax to fall.

One of my favorite fictional cops, James Lee Burke’s Cajun detective, Dave Robicheaux, ALWAYS did something I knew a guy with his experience would NEVER do.

I’d tremble and say, “Oh, Dave, you know better.”

Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe knew he should never enter a spooky building alone. But he never used back-up. He never told anyone where he was going. He created the perfect opportunity for a hood to catch him snooping and hit him over the head.

It was a commonality throughout fiction. Writers knew perfect characters were boring. Characters who took risks (sometimes stupid risks) created tension. They invited conflict. And tension and conflict sold books.

I’ve experienced enough tension in my life to have had a liquor bill equal to the gross national product of a small banana republic. So, I’d rather read about a slick detective who does everything right. I’d look at that story as a description of an art form.

But that little voice inside my head would say, “Too bad, Wayne, you’re one of a VERY small minority of readers.”

Readers like tension. They love to grimace when their favorite characters foul up and put themselves into a situation which requires fancy footwork to get out from under the catastrophe.

Remember James Bond when Ian Fleming’s books were more famous than the movies? International thugs captured Bond so many times he qualified for frequent hostage points.

How about TV’s Jim Rockford? He never worked with a partner who watched his back. And Stephen J. Cannell arranged for him to be clubbed on the head so many times, his skull could have been called Land of a Thousand Concussions.

But we loved it . . . and them.

So, what’s the moral of my story? It’s simple. When we create a protagonist, we must build in a few flaws. Does he or she drink a little too much when they shouldn’t? Does getting buzzed at the wrong time make them miss a crucial clue or forget to duck when the bad guy swings a tire iron? Do they have an uncontrollable big mouth and always say the wrong thing to people with serious political clout? Do they trust the wrong person at the wrong time?

There are oodles of possibilities. All we have to do is dream up one or more to fit our protagonist’s personality and stick with it in numerous variations. Create that tension. Make your readers squeeze their eyes shut in anticipation. And always give your heroes a way to slither out from under the problem they created. You’ll have the makings of a good series of books or stories.

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Old west leather gear & a Sicilian recipe that will make your ears wiggle.

Feb 2, 2014 by Wayne Zurl

When Mike Rivers invited me to his blog for an author spotlight, he also asked me for a guest post article. “Oh, jeez,” I said. “I’m terrible at thinking up topics for guest essays.”

But Mike is a great host. He wouldn’t leave his visitor to hang out there floundering. “How about an interesting fact about you most people don’t know—something not in your bio?”

Originally, I thought about mentioning that for almost twenty-five years I’ve been creating reproduction pre-1900 old-west leather gear (holsters, gun belts, spur straps, etc.) for cowboy action shooters and reenactors. But after some consideration, I figured only a handful of western writers would care and I moved to something more mainstream.

Have any published authors recently not spent a day taking hours out of their lives promoting their books on Facebook, Twitter, or some other electronic media venue? What does a writer lack most? Time? What does a writer need most? Alcoholic beverages? Just kidding. Or am I? No—we need sustenance to carry us to the next day. In the words of one of those cowboy reenactors I deal with, “We need good grub, podna.”

One of the things I liked most working as a cop in New York were organized crime cases. That was back in the 1970s and without casting aspersions on any one ethnic group, these cases often took us to Italian neighborhoods—and to Italian restaurants.

I’ve often said, “If I had to live on only one type of food, it would be Mediterranean.” So, for all those overworked authors, strapped for time and in need of good grub, here’s a Sicilian recipe I got from one of my “clients” mothers. I call it Little Joe’s Momma’s Pasta and Vegetables. It’s quick and easy and if you must, everything can come from a can off the supermarket shelf. Figure twenty minutes preparation plus pasta cooking time. Please excuse the non-traditional way I present recipes.

1 humongous red onion (I’m talkin’ at least softball size) coarsely chopped. ¼” slices are okay. Then chop

1 green pepper, chopped same as the onion.

2 four (4) ounce cans of mushroom stems and pieces. Drain, then use a paper towel to squeeze out the liquid.

Fresh garlic. I use three (3) BIG cloves. You know how much garlic you like. Mince.

½ cup (or more) black olives, sliced.

Fresh basil. At least a dozen large leaves, coarsely chopped. (If you grow your own basil, freeze dry some and save to use in the winter. It’s almost as good as fresh.)

Sauté the onions and peppers in 1 tablespoon of extra virgin olive oil. When they soften a bit, add the mushrooms and olives. Cover the pan because the mushrooms tend to splatter and pop. After five (5) minutes, add the garlic and sauté another 2-3 minutes. When the vegetables look done (but not too soft) add the basil and a jar of your favorite pasta sauce. (Hint: pick one with less sodium and you’ll taste the vegetables more.) Add a little crushed red pepper flakes if you want spice, and salt to your taste, not Francesco Rinaldi’s.

For two people, 3 or 4 ounces of farfalle makes two reasonable portions of pasta. For those not familiar with the I-tralian language, farfalle is also known as bow ties.

Serve the concoction topped with grated Pecorino-Romano cheese and a bottle of Sicilian Nero D’Avola or the easier to find Tuscan Sanvgiovese. Time to mangiamo.

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My Theory on Suspension of Disbelief

Feb 2, 2014 by Wayne Zurl

It’s simple. Get the little details right and you can stretch the big issues.

Most readers of police mysteries are pretty savvy when it comes to technicalities. Run into an active-duty or retired cop and you have a real critic on your hands.

So, on what must we focus our attention? I used the word above: Technicalities—physical and procedural technicalities. And there can be many. Here are a few possibilities to open up the thought process.

If you’re writing about an established police department, know a lot about them. When you describe an officer, be accurate. Don’t say, “The New York state trooper took off his service cap and ran a hand through his sandy hair,” when New York troopers wear wide brim Stetsons.

Find out what the badges look like in the department your story revolves around. Then you can accurately say, “[New York] Detective Sam Jenkins showed the witness his gold shield.” In San Francisco they use gold stars. LAPD have large two-tone ovals.

Many mystery fans know their firearms. If you don’t, find a technical advisor to help you. Many years ago, I read all of Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels. A glaring mistake Fleming made remains with me today. In one story, he gave Bond a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson Centennial revolver with a five inch barrel. Ian’s problem: The gun was never made with a five inch barrel.

In UP COUNTRY, Nelson DeMille’s second novel featuring Army Criminal Investigator, Paul Brenner, DeMille mentions the South Vietnamese flag being yellow, red, and green. The flag was actually yellow with four red stripes. He confused the flag colors with the Vietnamese campaign ribbon issued to all US troops serving there during the war.
He also spoke of a local beer he called Ba-Ba-Ba. Vietnam vets howled over that one. A French beer brewed in the Republic of Vietnam, 33, was called Bamiba by American GIs—a corruption of ba mui ba, Vietnamese for thirty-three, certainly not Ba-Ba-Ba, as in black sheep. Shame on Nelson’s fact checker.

I know you get the idea relative to physical technicalities. Now we have procedural standards. Here are a few examples:

Contrary to popular belief on TV and in Hollywood, crime scene investigators or evidence technicians do not assume responsibility for investigating the felony scenes they process. They assist the squad detectives—provide them with the scientific forensic information they find. It would be logistically impossible for CSIs to deal with the highly technical services available today and do the gumshoe work. It’s been decades since detectives have had to do their own photography and dust for prints much less all the other scientific work.

Regardless of what we see on most of the Law & Order reruns, cops don’t arrest felons, drop them into a district attorney’s lap, and then get sent out to establish a concrete reason to justify the arrest and seek an indictment. Good cops MUST have the proper level of proof BEFORE saying, “You’re under arrest, humpo.”

My favorite television ADA, Jack McCoy, often possessed only “Reasonable Suspicion” when he told Ed Green and Lenny Briscoe, “Pick him up.” In the real world they were often one bottle short of a six pack. The Laws of Arrest say you must have “Probable Cause to Believe” prior to snapping the cuffs on a defendant.

The same applies to search warrants. Cops can’t blithely send their comrade to a judge looking for a warrant to toss a thug’s apartment. Just as in the Laws of Arrest, we’re encumbered by that pesky US Constitution. In this case, the 4th Amendment, which states: Only upon probable cause shall a warrant be granted to search a person or premises [for the item(s) thought to be on the person or in the place to be searched.] Practically speaking, that probable cause business (sometimes called reasonable cause to believe) can put a crimp in a detective’s forward motion. But the talent needed to establish the necessary PCTB is what separates Andy Sipowitz from Barney Fife.

I look at this issue just as I looked at the things the police officers I supervised had to consider back in the 1970s. I told them, “Keep your hair cut, and your leather gear shiny. That stuff will keep the boss happy so when you do something questionable, he won’t remember you as the non-conformist with the sloppy appearance.”

If we, as writers, get the little things correct, and our readers don’t lose focus on the story while bitching about messed up technicalities, they’ll cut us some slack with the big issues that fall under the usual purview of suspension of disbelief.

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