# Cocaine and Blue Eyes is the best I’ve ever written …



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

In January 1978 the mystery novelist Ross Macdonald wrote, "Fred Zackel's first novel reminds me of the young Dashiell Hammett's work, not because it is an imitation, but because it is not. It is a powerful and original book made from the lives and language of the people who live in San Francisco today."

My novel Cocaine and Blue Eyes was first published in hard cover by Coward, McCann & Geoghegan in 1978.

On 28 November 1978, TIME MAGAZINE described the novel as "A spectrum of sex, aging flower children, mafia money, houseboat life in Sausalito, booze, barbituates, bitterness, incest and greed &#8230; as nerve-rattling as a full-throttle auto chase!"

Then it was published in paperback by Berkley Books in 1981 and then reissued in 1983.

Cocaine and Blue Eyes was made into a NBC television movie that first aired 2 January 1983.

A French edition was published by Editions Gallimard in Paris, France, 1986.

A Spanish edition was published in Buenos Aires by Sudamericana sometime in 1993 or 94.

Cocaine and Blue Eyes was re-issued by Point Blank Press in November 2006.

It is now available on Kindle. The price goes up to $2.99 next month.

I firmly believe that the best way to sell a book is by letting people read some of the story. Here is a two paragraph sample from the opening chapter:

"It was almost midnight Christmas, and the runt was spoiling my breakfast. We were the only two customers in the OK truckstop. He said nothing to me, just sat sniffling at the counter. He had the sniffles bad.

"His hair was tied back in a ponytail. Patched blue jeans, a workshirt without buttons, raggedy hiking boots. The California highways were filled with hundreds just like him every summer. Some were raggier, almost all were taller. Just another rammy runt with a runny nose and a shirttail always hanging out &#8230;"

Enjoy good writing tonight in the privacy of your home.

You can review me at the Kindle store, if you wish.

And thank you for reading my writings in this forum.

Best wishes,

Fred Zackel

(Check back now and then. More segments will be featured in future postings. Oh, and there is so much more back story to tell you.)











Please click here to reach Amazon, I think.


----------



## Ann in Arlington (Oct 27, 2008)

Hi Fred, (yet again!  )

Clearly, you are quite prolific! Just to dot the "i's" and cross the "t's":

We invite you to use your book cover as your avatar and have links to your book and website in your signature. Be sure to read the fine print below. Don't forget to bookmark this thread so you can update it. Although self-promotion is limited to the Book Bazaar, most of our authors have found the best way to promote their books is to be as active throughout KindleBoards as time allows. This is your target audience--book lovers with Kindles!

Thanks for being part of KindleBoards! Feel free to PM us if you have any questions.

Betsy & Ann
Book Bazaar Moderators

_The fine print:
Please add to your existing book thread when you have news about your book rather than start a new one, it helps the members who are trying to follow you. You may have a separate thread for each of your books. We recommend you bookmark your post so that you can find it in the future.  You may respond to all posts, but if there have been no member posts, we ask that you wait a week before "bumping" the thread by posting back-to-back posts of your own. And we ask that Amazon reviews not be repeated here as they are easy to find at your book link. Also, full reviews from other sites should not be posted here, but you may post a short blurb and a link to the full review instead. All this, and more, is included in our Forum Decorum. From time to time our site rules may change; be sure to check Forum Decorum (http://www.kboards.com/index.php/topic,36.0.html) for the current guidelines and rules. _


----------



## Nancy C. Johnson Author (Apr 28, 2010)

Hi, Fred

I love the way you write! And I'll definitely be buying this book and your newest. 

How lucky you are to have met some of the greatest, and most interesting writers around.

As I've talked with you before, I know how very nice, and how very humble you are about it all too. But like I said, people would be interested to know about these great experiences you've had.

Best of luck with your new book, and also with Cocaine and Blue Eyes.

Looking forward to reading more of your adventures as an author here on your thread.

My very best wishes, Nancy


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

Thank you, Nancy, for your warm wishes.

Is your book only on Kindle? I haven't one yet. (Hoping the price plummets.)

Yes, I have been writing for a while. But until Kindle & e-books, I haven't pushed my wares much.  But now I see a revolution coming, and for me this next year will help me figure out where I would like to be "Come the revolution!"

To any writer who has a backlist, as I do, e-books may be wonderful. I do so much like the royalty payments possible in this new world!

Again, thank you for your support.

Fred


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

(Here's the Time magazine review. Hey, would they lie? And you can buy it for only $1.99 at the Kindle store.)

COCAINE AND BLUE EYES 
by Fred Zackel; 
Coward McCann & Geoghegan; 
264 pages 

Drugs and thugs, a missing person and a backchatting investigator also dominate Cocaine and Blue Eyes. Fred Zackel's sprightly first novel, set mostly in the San Francisco Bay Area, combines the story of a Pacific Heights dynasty, corporate shenanigans, Chinatown gangs, a spectrum of sex, aging flower children, Mafia money and the houseboat life in Sausalito. The result is as nerve-rattling as a full-throttle auto chase from Grant Avenue to Fisherman's Wharf. 

At the outset a sleazy young dope dealer vainly attempts to hire Investigator Michael Brennen to locate blue-eyed Dani, his missing girlfriend and meal ticket. Brennen has just about decided to retire from the shamus game. However, when the dealer shows up mysteriously dead, the down-at-heels p.i. takes on the posthumous assignment. Dani, it develops, belongs to a wealthy Faulknerian family held together by booze, barbiturates, bitterness, incest and greed. Brennen finally finds the girl (also mysteriously dead) and discovers that the family business is being run by a homosexual Chinatown lawyer and his epicene "nephew." The nephew is quietly siphoning off cash to finance a cocaine-smuggling operation, and the tale moves to a bewildering but believable showdown. His publisher reports that Sausalito-based Zackel is working on a second novel, which on the evidence should be as welcome as San Francisco's cracked-crab season. 

—Michael Demarest
Time Magazine
Monday, Nov. 20, 1978 

(BTW, CINDERELLA AFTER MIDNIGHT was the second novel. It's also on Kindle.)


----------



## Nancy C. Johnson Author (Apr 28, 2010)

Fred Zackel said:


> Thank you, Nancy, for your warm wishes.
> 
> Is your book only on Kindle? I haven't one yet. (Hoping the price plummets.)
> 
> ...


Nice to see you back again, Fred! And as to your question, my book is also in paperback. Both your books are on my TBR list. Can't wait to read them!!

Nancy


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

As I said elsewhere, this book has had many lives, all of which fascinate me, the lowly author.

When C&BE was reprinted in 2006, Loren D. Estleman, the author of the Amos Walker series, including AMERICAN DETECTIVE and NICOTINE KISS said, 

"The American private eye story was in the Dumpster when Fred Zackel fished 
it out at the point of a gun. He revived the form, electrified readers and 
critics, and started the juggernaut that shoved aside the paperback romance 
to establish the mystery as the most popular category in the world. Finally, 
the generation that grew up since COCAINE AND BLUE EYES has the chance to 
meet Michael Brennan. An event like this ought to have a national holiday 
connected with it."  

Loren Estleman has written 43 novels and, in my humble opinion, is the best private eye writer alive, and I have been working in this field for a long time. 2010 marks the 30th anniversary of Amos Walker series, for instance. And he has other series, too, including Valentino, the film detective, and many wonderful western novels.  No other writer has been more consistent in his excellence than Loren. No other writer is worthy of more kudos. That he speaks so highly of my work is a treasure I am in awe of. That he and I have since become friends is even sweeter.

You don't need to buy my work. But you should check out those books of his available on Kindle. You can do no better.

Fred Zackel


----------



## Nancy C. Johnson Author (Apr 28, 2010)

I have met Loren Estleman, many years ago at a small event (maybe 30 people) for budding authors. Actually, I didn't say much to him, just hello. He was a speaker along with a friend of his. 

I don't know if he does now, but he lived in Michigan, like me. I'll have to check. 

I know he has received numerous awards. Plus he is a very prolific writer as you mentioned.

How wonderful that you are friends with him! 

And he is lucky to be your friend too...

Nancy


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

Hi Nancy,

Loren lives in the wilderness nation that's above Ann Arbor and a couple, three times a year he makes it down to Aunt Agatha's Bookstore for a reading or a signing. You should check out the bookstore's website. Lots of fine writers pop through that great ol' town.

He owns more mysteries -- both books and films -- than anyone I have ever met before.

And thank you for being my strongest supporter here. Mostly I don't know what I'm doing, but ...

I still have plenty to talk about C&BE, too.  Tom Nolan, for instance. Movie rights, too, and lunch box sales and ...

Who I met in Santa Barbaras when I was giving up all writing ...

(A famous writing instructor joke: I'll tell you everything you need to know about suspense. But before I do that, first let's talk about ...)

Best to you & yours,

Fred Zackel


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

(I firmly believe good writing & good storytelling sells the book.)

  “It’s Dani. My old lady. She left me.”

  “Get a divorce. It’ll cost you fifty bucks.”

  “This is different,” he insisted.

  “Sure.”

  “We’re not married. Just living together.”

  I made a noise in my throat. He was another sickie who had forgotten what was normal. “She walked out the door, right? Why not say goodbye and start looking for someone who wants to stick around a while?”

  “We got four years together already.”

  “Be grateful. Cut her loose.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “They’re always beautiful. If they stay.”

  He was a believer. “You know, she’s got big blue eyes.”

  “And you’re a sucker for blue eyes.”

  He shook his head. “She can’t keep her eyes closed when she’s sleeping. They’re really freaky. They’re so big, her eyelids roll back. Yeah, they roll back and she’s staring at the ceiling. They’re too small, I guess, or maybe her eyes are just too big, or something.” He stared out the window. “Really freaky.”

  He was desperate. I hoped he wasn’t dangerous. “She left willingly, right?”

  “Yeah.” His voice was small and distant.

  “If she’s so wonderful, why did she leave?”

  “That’s why I gotta talk with her.”

  Mmmmm. “Did she say why she left?”

  “She said she loved me too much to stay.”

  I marveled at that. Some guys’ll believe anything. “You don’t suppose there’s somebody else, too, and she went to him.”

  “She would’ve told me if there was.”

  I made a face in the dark.

  “It’s not that way,” he told me. “I was good for her. Real good. She was always alone until she met me. She didn’t have to stay four years. That says something.”

  I told him to forget it.

  “I can’t. She means everything to me. I just gotta get her back. I don’t know anybody else to turn to.”


----------



## Nancy C. Johnson Author (Apr 28, 2010)

Hi, Fred

I will have to check out this Aunt Agatha's bookstore if Loren Estleman makes appearances there. Ann Arbor is not very far from my home at all. 

Actually, I ride there on my bicycle several times in the summer. It's a beautiful college town, full of interesting stores and wonderful restaurants, and hosts a very popular art fair every summer. 

Thanks for all your great info.  

P.S. I enjoyed reading the above passage...  

Nancy


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

When you get to Ann Arbor, the single best breakfast joint in the entire Midwest is at the Northside Grill. I think it's on Plymouth, at the north of town. Personally their fried egg sandwiches are to die for. But the rest of their menu is every bit as wonderful. You'll recognize it because on the weekends the line in front of the restaurant is generally a half-hour long. On your way out of the restaurant, pick up one of their prepackaged bear claws. Real nut filling inside a solid pastry. Not one of these usual American puff pastries without any filling. Oh, and their best coffee is French roast. Wonderful! Well worth the bike ride.


----------



## Nancy C. Johnson Author (Apr 28, 2010)

I'm way ahead of you, Fred!

I and my bicycle group stop at the Northside Grill every time we ride in the morning to Ann Arbor. You're right. It's packed, and it's wonderful food! Just a tiny spot with lots of loyal customers!

I've never tried the bear claws. Something to think about.  

Nancy


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

Tom Nolan, author of "Ross Macdonald: A Biography," wrote that "The American private-eye novel enjoyed a resurgence in the 1970s, and Fred Zackel's "Cocaine and Blue Eyes" was a unique part of that literary blossoming. Set in the Bay Area of Northern California, this fast-moving 1978 novel speeds through an eventful Christmas and New Year's season with all the energy of a classic genre bursting with new life. From page one, it's clear the book's author is a born storyteller, one who brings a personal vision to the templates of the past.

"Cocaine and Blue Eyes" - the tough tale of a semi-pro detective hunting high and low in San Francisco society for a missing person who maybe isn't missing, on behalf of a client who is without a doubt dead - evokes some of the tone and terrain of Dashiell Hammett, some of the seductive cadences of Raymond Chandler, and some of the poetic flashes of Ross Macdonald (who enthusiastically supported its publication). What seems most Zackel's own is the sensibility of investigator-protagonist Michael Brennen: a man coming up through the underside, to find his own moral center.

Fred Zackel's novel reads today with the same raw vigor as when it was written. If some of its slang, social-sexual attitudes, and pharmacological lore now ring out of date, such jarring notes only validate the book's integrity as an honest time-machine: a beat-up-cab-ride back some 30 years to when parking-meters took pennies, cigarettes were smoked in restaurants, cocaine was thought to be neither addictive nor fatal; and when - then as now - "Only the lucky solve cases."


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

Chapter 1

It was almost midnight Christmas, and the runt was spoiling my breakfast. We were the only two customers in the OK truckstop. He said nothing to me, just sat sniffling at the counter. He had the sniffles bad.

His hair was tied back in a ponytail. Patched blue jeans, a workshirt without buttons, raggedy hiking boots. The California highways were filled with hun¬dreds just like him every summer. Some were raggier, almost all were taller. Just another rammy runt with a runny nose and a shirttail always hanging out.

He watched Kate Walker. “I knew a guy down in Berkeley,” he told her, “who drew his own Christmas cards.”

Kate was barely listening. She was busy stapling the Christmas cards that had fallen from above the win¬dows. “That’s a nice friend to have,” she conceded.

“Yeah. Maybe.” He wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve. “What he had was Santa Claus strung up on a crucifix and Jesus meditating in a full lotus at the Foot of the Cross.”

She stared. “Why would he do something like that?”

“It was a protest against commercialism.”

She went stern, then sad. “I guess Christmas means nothing to you.”

“It means a lot.” He turned away from her. “It means I gotta spend Christmas here.”

Kate had taken a couple of business courses at the local junior college. She could cope with him, but she didn’t need him. She decided she could finish stapling tomorrow and headed for the coffee pot.

The OK truckstop was tiny, even for Mendocino County. There were four stools at the counter and two tables on the floor. Generations of scrambled eggs had tarnished every fork, and the water glasses were plastic and discolored. But the eggs were ranchhouse fresh and the apple cider sparkled like California champagne. There were paper Santas on the windows, and artificial snow was swirled in Jack Frost designs on the plate glass. Opal and Kate Walker had put a lot of love in here.

The runt rubbed clean a patch on the steamed win¬dows. I don’t know what he hoped to see outside. There was nothing there. Oh, the parking lot had floodlights. Once in a while outbound semis went past us, their port and starboard running lamps like Christmas lights. The nearest town was three miles north, and redwoods went thirty miles in every direction. Even the stars weren’t out.

It was raining outside, a downpour that had been pouring down for the past week. A typical Northern California winter storm—rain without lightning or thunder, just water falling from the heavens like Chinese water torture. Dull and gray.

During the Gold Rush, murderers received lighter sentences if they killed in the rain. Juries could un¬derstand how a weeklong rain could fray a man’s nerves and turn his temper into a razor. The newspaper I had said this was already the coldest and wettest winter since the Gold Rush.

My mood was nearly as gray as all outdoors. A four hundred mile roundtrip with some second-rate presents. My youngest asking why Daddy had to drive back in the rain. Every man winches when he’s being nibbled, and today had been a real bite.

Kate brought me the pot. “How was the omelet?”

“Great.” I looked across. “I noticed that.”

Her frown was long. “I wish he’d leave.”

“Where did he come from?”

“His van broke down,” she told me. “A wheel bearing I guess. He coasted this far. With the holiday, the garage can’t get parts until Monday.” She left to turn some bacon for tomorrow’s rush.

Opal Walker came from the back room. She had stopped smiling years ago. Now she chain-smoked Pall Mall regulars. She seemed to be shrinking with the years. Her neck was bowed, she didn’t move as fast as before, and her skin was tightening with wrinkles. She claimed her hearing was going fast, and her legs seemed to hurt more with every rainy season.

She saw me and came over with a fresh pot. “You got a full cup,” she noticed. She pulled up a chair. “Then I’ll sit down.”

Opal Walker was first generation Oakie, one of the Dust Bowl babies. She and her husband had sweated and slaved and scraped to build a farm in the San Joaquin Valley. Thirty years ago, a drunk careened his pickup into a tree. Opal sold the farm, took the in¬surance settlement and her baby daughter, drove north from the Valley heat to these fog-bound coastal forests, and bought the first truckstop with a For Sale sign.

“How are the boys?” she asked.

“Real good,” I said. “I spent most of the day cleaning up after them. They had a real good time.”

“Your oldest, he comes in now and again. I always cut him an extra piece of pie.”

“You shouldn’t do that.”

She sloughed it off. “My whole life is things I shouldn’t do.” She lowered her voice. “I think she’s starving those boys.”

“She just thinks they should be lean.”

“Looks like starving to me.”

“That’s because you’re raising granddaughters. And little girls eat more than little boys. Besides, I can’t say anything. She won’t listen to me.”

She pursed her lips. “Since when?”

The runt was restless. He left the counter. He closed the front door behind him, and the paper Santa swayed. He cowered from the rain like a street urchin. He went around the building, heading for the restrooms out back.

Opal had a face that could stop a vulgar trucker. It fell when she saw the runt. She was old-fashioned and had little sympathy for snifflers. “Hope he didn’t spoil your breakfast.”

“On Christmas? How could he?”

“I knew I shouldn’t’ve opened today.”

“Throw him out into the rain.”

She was tempted, but she couldn’t. “It’s Christmas.”

“Lock the doors and turn off the lights,” I suggested. “If he keeps it up, call the CHP.”

“Michael.” Her voice was as soft as it gets. “You’re heading back when you finish. Could you . . . could you take him back with you?”


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

*Chapter 3*​
Think of an opened clam, and you've visualized the small harbor town of Sausalito.
The bottom shell is Richardson's Bay, a dogleg of San Francisco Bay north of the Golden Gateway. Richardson's Bay is filled with salt water, seagulls and sharks, buoys and yawls, dinghies and schooners, houseboats and cabin cruisers. The top shell is Wolfback Ridge, part of the California coastal range. The freeway into San Francisco is the crest of the ridge, and the slopes below it are densely wooded and dotted with expensive homes for San Francisco commuters. The hinge between the two shells is at the base of the ridge, a two-lane blacktopped road called the Bridgeway.

Downtown, the Bridgeway is lined with taverns and clothing stores, art galleries and restaurants. The drinks come watered, the seafood has been defrosted and microwaved, the clothing wears out just before the fad does, and the galleries sell watercolors of gulls and buoys.

The north end of town is further than most tourists can walk, so development there has been limited to serving the needs of residents. There are ship chandleries and marinas and yacht clubs, a couple of greasy spoons and a French laundry, a supermarket and a carryout liquor store.

The houseboats are north of downtown, too. Like all waterfront towns, Sausalito has residents whose appearances tend to frighten the tourists. Of course the houseboat dwellers say the feeling is mutual. They resent being considered tourist attractions, even if they do resemble the remark.

I drove along the Bridgeway until I found the Mohawk gas station where I had dropped Joey Crawford last week. The gravel access road alongside led down towards the boats and dead-ended at the foot of the Waldo Point boardwalk. I parked behind a weathered kiosk, rolled up my window and locked my doors, then went for a stroll on a lonely pier in the rain.

The tide was nearly gone, leaving behind a foot or so of water, and the houseboats floundered in the mud. The round-hulled crafts looked like Noah's Ark after the waters receded, and the square-hulled ones like quake victims. With thunderclouds above them and the roiled waters of a gunmetal bay beneath them, the houseboats looked like a wino's nightmare.

I stopped halfway down the boardwalk. With the tide leaving, small sea critters found themselves high and drying out, and their last gasps made the mudflats stink like rotten eggs. I didn't know which houseboat belonged to my client. I could always come back later in the day; a six-hour wait for high tide shouldn't make any difference. I retraced my steps downwind to think it over.

The kiosk had a bulletin board on its backside, flanked by a row of mailboxes. I went over each mailbox. There was no Crawford scrawled on any one, and I didn't know Dani's last name, so I set about rifling the mail inside each one. There was no mail for Joey Crawford or for any woman named Dani. Which meant I might have to wait for the afternoon delivery and repeat the whole procedure. Even that was a gamble.

The bulletin board was a good guide to the Sausalito lifestyle. There were people trying to buy houseboats, trying to sell sailboats, wanting to crew to Bora Bora.
There were rock concerts and sailing schools and organic restaurants and macramé lessons. There were psychologies and theologies, philosophies and sociologies. And a yellowed card advertising Seascape Sofas For Sale. Contact Alex Symons on board the Mal de mar.

The Mal de mar was a converted river barge jammed aft end first into a dismal little slip. The original deckhouse had been jettisoned, and a more spacious one built in its place with thick redwood beams for bracing. There was a small deck aft and a larger one forward. Large chunks of driftwood were strewn across the roof.

I went around the unpainted deckhouse and came out on the canopied forward deck. A thirtyish young man in white denims, rugby shirt and brine-soaked tennis she was sitting on a wood bench. His hands were spotted with grease, and he was having trouble rolling a joint, a can of Olympia was beside him. Through an opened window, I saw hanging ferns and a stereo speaker. Someone inside was frying liver and onions. A portable radio on the stoop played an afternoon jazz concert from Berkeley.

"Alex Symons?"

He glanced up. "What can I do you for?" His face was babyish, like a fraternity boy. He had sandy hair and shaggy eyebrows and a moustache like an undercover vice cop. His hair was styled in an early Beatle, and he wore his sideburns long. His suntan came more from exposure than the sun. With his good looks, he probably did well at the fern bars and body shops on Union Street in the city.

"I saw your card on the bulletin board."

"Oh, glad to have you aboard." He set aside his makings, rubbed greasy hands on a nearby rag and offered me his hand. He had a good grip. His hands were rough and calloused, the hands of a carpenter. "How about dousing your cigarette?"

I saw the bucket of kerosene by the bench. Scattered around were tools and pistons and casings and plugs. He had been overhauling an outboard engine. I made a move towards the port side.

"Not in the bay. Use the beer can."

I did as he wished.

He saw me eyeing his joint. "I was just about to go inside." Carelessly, he tucked it into a crumpled pack of Camels. "You here about a sofa?"

"What is a seascape sofa, anyway?"

"Driftwood with legs." He pulled a tarp from a sample and told me how he built his furniture. A friend in Oregon searched for sofa-sized driftwood along the coast, then trucked the hunks down to Sausalito, where Symons would router some space for cushions, then screw legs on both ends. A girlfriend would tie-dye swatches of muslin, sew them into cushions, then stuff with fiberfill. The price tag came last.

"How much does one run for?"

"A grand." He watched my eyes.

"Those tourists'll buy anything," I marveled.

He made an effort to control himself, then threw the tarp back on. "You didn't come about a sofa."

Please
click here to reach the Kindle Shop.


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

Chapter 5

The house was a gray Victorian mansion stuck between two African consulates. There were many leaded glass windows, and a wreath of real holly encircled a wrought-iron doorknocker. The door itself was rich mahogany, piano-width and sturdy enough to forestall the Second Coming ...

Fifteen minutes passed, and then the library door reopened. In the hallway a woman wearing tennis togs was talking with a black man in tennis whites. She wore smoke-lensed sunglasses and carried a brandy snifter with amber liquid and ice cubes. The black man, who whispered with a cultured accent, as if he had learned it overseas, fiddled with the racquet in his hand. She told him to wait for her upstairs. He glanced at me as if I were a nuisance and said something even more in¬distinct. She laughed and squeezed his forearm. She watched him disappear down the hallway towards the staircase. She came into the library, closed the door behind her, and stood facing me.

She came right to the point. "What do you want with Dani?"

I stood. "You're not her."

"I'm Catherine Anatole. Her sister."

Thirty-five-year-old blondes are an endangered species these days, and Dani's sister was a real palomino. A big-boned woman with long legs and a golden mane. She had a tan that bordered on fanaticism. She was a show horse bred by money and the best it can buy. Even if she hadn't been born rich, money would've still gravitated her way. She had the beauty money always finds irresistible. And you didn't have to be a woman to resent all she had.

"Where can I find her?"

"She lives in Sausalito."

"She's collecting food stamps from here."

She stared and didn't blink. Then she lifted her golden butt onto the edge of the desk. She set her sunglasses beside her. "Are you from the police?"

She gained a decade removing those glasses. Wrinkles were already showing up around her eyes. Like her kid sister, Catherine had blue eyes, but hers had a washed-out look to them, as if they'd been bleached by a bright sun.

I've never understood what makes blondes think sunlight is good for their skins. Most are fair-skinned, and they peel and blister easily. It takes time for a woman like Catherine Anatole to acquire such a rich tan. In order to keep her skin from drying, she had kept it greasy with lotions. Too much sun had dried and brittled her hair, and her freckles were darkening like liver spots.

"This is a private investigation," I told her.

"I'm going to call my lawyer." But she didn't move. "What do you want her for?"

"I'm trying to locate her for a client of mine."

"How did you find out about the food stamps?"

"I was at your sister's houseboat earlier." I passed the authorization card in front of her eyes, but wouldn't let her get her hands on it. It was trump only if I kept it.

She scanned it as if it were a parking ticket. Only her eyes moved. "Who wants to find her?"

"I can't divulge a client's identity."

Her eyes caught fire. "The creep!" she hissed.

"Who's the creep?"

She was so angry, she couldn't think of his name. "That clown she's living with. Was living with. He's been calling every day now for the past four weeks."

"Why do you say was?"

"She left him. He's a creep. I knew he was a creep. I told her that a hundred times. I'm glad she left him, and I hope she never sees him again."

"How does Dani feel about him?"

She tapped fingers on the desk. "She doesn't know what she thinks about him." It sounded honest.

"Why doesn't she go back with him?"

"Look, Dani's a grown woman. She makes up her own mind, and she's perfectly capable of making rational decisions. Since she's chosen to leave him, I feel it's none of my business to interfere."

"But you've interfered before."

"How would you know?"

"That's what families are for."

She shook her golden hair and snorted.

"Do you know where she is?"

"You don't know Dani. You don't understand her."

I debated the idea. "Okay. Tell me about her. Just enough so I get a feel for things. Just enough so I know what kind of person we're talking about ..."

Please
click here to reach the Kindle
Shop.








Fred Zackel

author of ...
COCAINE & BLUE EYES
CINDERELLA AFTER MIDNIGHT
CREEPIER THAN A WHOREHOUSE KISS
A DEATH IN KEY LARGO
TOUGH TOWN COLD CITY
&
MURDER IN WAIKIKI
All (and more) are available on Kindle and smashwords


----------



## Nancy C. Johnson Author (Apr 28, 2010)

Hi, Fred

Just thought I would say hi.

Hope everything is great with you!

Busy today, so only time for this short note...

Nancy


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

Hi Nancy!

Just another excerpt to whet a reader's whistle.

Chapter 11

There was a bedroom light onboard Dani's houseboat. I went down the gangplank. The tide was in, and the boat lolled at the end of its lines. A rubber hose extended from a porthole. A steady stream of water came from the hose into the bay. And a shadow flittered across the frosted bathroom glass.

I gripped a railing and pulled on the aft lines until the houseboat slipped near enough so that its tire fender rubbed against the slip. I slipped aboard without a sound. The craft drifted back to the end of its lines. Small waves played patty-cake on the hull.

I went to the front door. The hinge screws were out, but the deadbolt had been slipped. Someone didn't want to be disturbed. Not that a burglary on New Year's Eve in an uninhabited dwelling was likely to be discovered.

I still had to get inside. Maybe through the skylight.

The roof was an easy climb. The latch to the skylight was clasped inside by a clothespin. I jiggled the skylight with my fingers, and the clothespin fell to the living room carpet. The latch lifted easily, and it was a short drop down.

The living room looked like Moving Day. The stereo system sat on the floor by the door, alongside the melon crate of albums and the portable TV. The cable spool and the hatchcover table were beside them. Most plants and ferns had been taken down from the rafters, but a few still swayed like pendulums on their macramé ropes. The paperbacks were stacked in boxes, and the rug was rolled tight as a joint. The bamboo shutters were still up. They'd be the last to leave.

The night visitor was busy in the bathroom. From his heavy breathing, he was a hard worker. He sounded like an asthmatic after a mile race.

I peeked inside the bathroom. A bulkhead had been removed, and a man had his head in the bilges. His up¬per torso and both arms were wedged in the gap. The man in the bilges wore brine-soaked tennis shoes.

The bathroom was a mess. The floor was soggy with bilge water and its disgusting inhabitants. The brass towel racks were gone, and even the fuck books and the Penthouse magazines sat in a small pile by the bedroom door. A rubber hose snaked from the bedroom to the porthole, and I could hear running water. I had a hunch the waterbed was being drained.

I went and stood behind Alex Symons. He suddenly grunted success. His hand snaked up from the bulkhead and dropped a discolored plastic baggie in a water puddle. The baggie was water-tightened and filled with flowers, leaves, sticks, stems and seeds.

Joey's private stash. Maybe a pound's worth. Its ab¬sence had bothered me this morning, though I hadn't known it at the time. I'd been searching for contraband when I came up with cigarette papers.

Joey had been dealing. The CHP found none on him, which meant he'd just finished selling some wares. He had to have more. At least his own stash, if not some for future customers. Even if it were only weed, it had to be hidden somewhere.

Alex began to edge his body from the hole. I kicked a foot out from under him. He went sideways, and his other leg went off-balance. Cursing and swearing, he caught himself and tried boosting him¬self up. He wanted to know who the hell I was. "I just came back from the Arroyo Grande." I kicked his other leg out, he went the other way, and his feet churned crazily. His other reflexes worked fine. Bitching and yelling, pissing and moaning. His free hand waved the air behind him, and he tried to stand, to back out of the hole.

"You didn't say you were a musician, too."

I grabbed his heels and shoved. He went deeper into the bilges. He tried kicking me as he fell forward, but his heels swung through empty air, and he only went deeper.

"A sneak thief, that's what you are."

I grabbed an ankle and tried stuffing him in sideways. I knew it wouldn't work, but it kept him off-balance. I think his hair touched bilge water then, for he let loose a shriek the devil wouldn't touch, and his one free arm and both legs thrashed like pinwheels.

"Does your actress friend know you're a scavenger?"

He tried to shout, but it came out muffled.

I pulled him back by the belt. "I can't hear you."

"He's dead! He don't need it!"

"Dani might need it," I said.

I dunked and hauled him out a couple of more times, then took pity on the mired man and grabbed both ankles and pulled him out. He came free looking like hell. He dripped greenish salt water and small sea crit¬ters. His shirt, neck and shoulders were coated in green slime, and across his face were dirt marks where he had rubbed against the inside of the bilges.

As his feet touched ground, he tried spinning on me. I stepped aside and kicked a leg out from under him. He fell flat on his face in a puddle. When he tried getting to his knees, I planted a foot on his butt and pushed. He lurched forward, smacking his head against the bathtub. I pressed my foot on the back of his neck. He resisted, so I pressed harder.

His hand snaked around and tried to pull my other leg. I shoved down at him, then took my foot from his neck and stomped on his hand. He shrieked until the devil wouldn't have him. My foot was already back on his neck ...

Please
click here to reach the Kindle
Shop.









Fred Zackel

author of ...
COCAINE & BLUE EYES
CINDERELLA AFTER MIDNIGHT
CREEPIER THAN A WHOREHOUSE KISS
A DEATH IN KEY LARGO
TOUGH TOWN COLD CITY
&
MURDER IN WAIKIKI
All (and more) are available on Kindle and smashwords


----------



## SidneyW (Aug 6, 2010)

I remember when the movie came out noting that it was based on a novel. Glad to see it's available on Kindle. I'll put it on my wish list.


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

Geez, I hadn't realized how long it's been since I was here. I have been grading 'way too many papers! (Geez, I'd like to get my hands on that stoopid instructor who assigned so much work! He must have been nuts!)

But I would like to send folks to a site where my "Four Innuendos" is now available for perusal. "Four Innuendos" are flash fiction.

The "Four" are in 971 MENU, its October issue, 2010.

http://www.971menu.com/2010/10/zacke...innuendos.html

Please enjoy.

Fred Zackel

author of ...
COCAINE & BLUE EYES
&
MURDER IN WAIKIKI
both of which (and more) are available on Kindle and smashwords. (Soon the Nook.)


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

Hmmm. It's still the best I have ever written.

And still available.

Please enjoy.

Best wishes ...

Fred Zackel


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

It still is the best I have ever written, and I am still grateful for the tremendous support all you guys have given me and my book. Mahalo and aloha.


----------



## Fred Zackel (Apr 24, 2010)

Aloha!
I haven’t posted for a while. There have been medical reasons and my teaching job.  (As well as the new book I am trying to complete. And the novella …)

But I would like to thank everyone for their support for me.

Thank you for the reviews. Thank you for buying my writing.

Mahalo.


----------

