An amnesiac is pursued through the wilds of west Ireland accompanied by a beautiful woman who may or may not be his friend. As flickers of memory return they only add to his confusion.
A light mystery that's more about people than puzzles. Includes 50 black & white photographs by the author.
The car was indeed just around the corner. It was also big enough to make Dope and Pally feel right at home: a deep green 1957 Buick Roadmaster. Must have been 20 feet long and half that wide. Three linebackers could sip tea in the back seat without joggling anyone's cucumber sandwiches off their lap.
"It's a sight, ain't it? Should've seen it when the boss bought it: pink and white. Yah, pink, can you imagine? Kelly green really sets off all them acres of chromium, eh?" I was in the process of missing the chromium, being shoved into the back seat about as gently as the birth of a giraffe. Pally got in beside me, and contrary to his film noir style, did not pull a gun out of his pocket. Having taken a mental inventory of my own musculature, I figured he was still safe.
I looked up at the two pairs of dress shoes, and I wondered.
The grime on the window made it difficult to tell for certain, but they looked like dress shoes; both pairs. The harsh glare of the summer sun made their shine difficult to look at, even through the aforementioned grime.
The feet shuffled; one pair, anyway, and one of them spoke. "Another not at home; looks like it's gonna be a long morning." Another voice said "The others don't look vacant, at least."
The feet turned and walked away, and I looked down at my own. More dress shoes. They were on an upside down plastic crate, the ones that say something about being the property of such-and-such a dairy and you're not supposed to keep them but everyone does.
The window was up high, which is why I was on the carton. The window was in a basement, which is why I was looking up at someone else's shoes; or had been, at least.
Turning my head slowly, I considered what I could see without moving: a furnace and the appurtenant ductwork; a neat stack of cardboard boxes, all the same size; a bicycle with one flat tire and one wheel entirely missing; a grubby mattress, half against the wall, half on the floor; various other basement-y things that didn't seem to surprise me.
I listened. Hard. Through the window (or so it seemed) came the infrequent sounds of a Los Angeles summer. A car drove by. Footsteps across the street (my visitors, perhaps?) An enormous flying bug of some kind buzzing against the window, then buzzing away.
But nothing that sounded human, other than the footsteps, and now they were quiet. And no sounds of any kind from above me, inside the house. I decided to risk stepping down off the crate. Not a smart move, but that's me sometimes.
I submitted the interior and cover files today and should be able to order a proof tomorrow.
After 5 long years, I'll finally finish this book.
And then start the sequel . . .
