1. What is your favorite marketing task that has resulted in a sale?
Honestly, I don’t think I could point to one … I hate marketing, and, either as a result of that … or just because, I may be the world’s worst marketer.
2. What do you like about your publisher or why did you decide to Self Publish?
My original publisher got out of the fiction business … which left me in the cold … no where to go but to self-pub.
3. What do you have under your bed?
I’m afraid to look.
4. Are you a plotter or a pantser when you are writing?
Plotter, no wait, pantser … on second thought, plotter … on third thought, I don’t know.
5. Do you write in a bubble or do you prefer critique groups, writing buddies or other companionship during the process?
I’m a bubble boy.
6. When do ideas come to you and how do you capture them?
If I knew, I’d keep a net next to my desk.
7. What is your favorite word processing program and what other tools do you use, pen, notebooks, white board, index cards, finger on, fogged bathroom mirrors?
Mostly, just good ol’ WORD … now and then a paper and pencil if I’m sitting on the beach (sigh).
I was born in a log cabin on the edge of the great forest. My childhood was spent helping to maintain the subsistence life style of our humble, but loving, pioneer family. At the end of long days clearing fields and tending livestock, I taught myself to read and write by lamp light.
Eventually I was betrothed to my lovely … and, as it turned out, long-suffering … Cheryl. With our little Jennifer in the crib, I went off to toil under the corporate lash to provide gruel for the family.
Anyway, after spending what seemed like several lifetimes in cubeville … I was mercifully set out to pasture (read terminated) and finally allowed to roam into areas to which I was much more suited and comfortable … like writing and music.
And when I’m not tappity-tappity on the keyboard, I’m playing guitar with On the Loose … which means I either have too many interests OR a complete lack of focus … I don’t know, what was I talking about?
If you’re on vacation, fly coach. If you’re on business, fly first-class. If you’re on a mission, fly with Mickey.
Tony Boccaccio is after a bag of cash that he believes is his. Max Burke thinks otherwise and has hired two couriers to take the money to California.
Mickey Soto is a commercial pilot hauling freight and instructing students from a small, Florida airport. Tony hires Mickey and his airplane to go after the couriers. Mickey thought his days of flying illegal cargo were behind him, but the lure of easy money and his policy of ‘don’t ask/don’t tell’ cause him to add to his history of poor decisions.
Tony’s cousin, Gina, jumps in to help, and the three of the end up in a desperate cross-crountry race that leads to a West Coast pier and a fateful decision by Tony that impacts their lives in ways that none of them could have foreseen.
A cloud of dust followed the Cadillac as it sped along a country road west of Miami. The driver winced at every rough patch that threatened to shake the car apart. A gold chain bounced against his chest under a Hawaiian-print shirt. In spite of the air-conditioning going full-blast, his olive forehead glistened with perspiration and he ran his hand over it and through dark, slicked back pre-maturely balding hair.
Suddenly he grabbed the wheel with both hands and slammed on the brakes, his sunglasses slipping down his nose as the car skidded to a stop.
He threw the barely stopped vehicle into reverse, throwing a cloud of dust in the opposite direction. Slamming on the brakes again, he jammed the Caddy back into drive and swung it onto a barely visible two-track.
He eased the car a quarter-mile down the primitive driveway, stopping in front of a gate in a ten-foot high chain-link fence. A sign proclaimed, Rodriquez BROS. AUTO SALVAGE. He stepped out of the Caddy into the blazing Florida sun, walked to the intercom mounted on the gate and pressed a button.
A barely recognizable, “Yeah?” filtered through the static.
“It’s Tony,” he said just as two snarling Dobermans reached the gate from the inside, barking frantically and pressing at the fence to get at the sweating man. “Give me a sec to get back in my car before you …”
The gate began to slide open, the dogs nosing at the quickly widening opening.
“Sonofabitch,” Tony yelled as he scrambled back to the car and dove through the open door.
He slammed the door shut as the lead dog reached the car and leaped on the window. “Christ,” he said, breathing hard and trying to compose himself as the dogs bounced off the car, snarling and snapping. “Damn mangy hounds.”
He slipped the car into drive and pulled through the gate, flipping off the dogs as they followed, continuing their vicious attack on the car. Once inside he sped up and watched them in his mirror as they disappeared in the dust.
Bouncing another quarter mile past rusting hulks of cars and piles of parts, he pulled up to a small building, its corrugated tin roof brown and dented and weather-beaten cement-block walls flaking green paint. Stepping out of the car he shook his head in disbelief at the oppressive heat, but on hearing the dogs gaining ground up the driveway he stepped quickly to the front door.
He stepped inside to blessedly conditioned air. “Thank God,” he said, then walked down a dimly lit hallway to a grease-stained door marked LUNCH ROOM and pushed it open.
The air in the small room was surprisingly fresh, but the sunlight that filtered through dirty windows barely competed with the two bare bulbs that hung from the low ceiling. Sheldon Isaacs and Vince Jackson sat across from each other at a picnic-style table. Vince munched a sandwich while Sheldon idly flipped through the channels of a television mounted on a wall on the other side of the room.