More about Gabe from "Brothers".

“I, I, thought you were somebody else,” Gabe said.  The bum stood silent, not saying anything for a while.  He noticed the man looked old-maybe thirty.  Even in the darkened interior of the fort he could see the bum’s skin looked dirty.  The pants were worn out at the knees and his jacket was almost in shreds.  As Gabe took a step backward, the bum followed with a step forward of his own.  He slammed the club into his hand smoothly, silkily.  There was no doubt in Gabe’s mind the man was threatening him.   

“This is my brothers’ and my fort,” Gabe stammered as he decided to stand his ground.  The man stopped slamming the club in his hand and stared at Gabe for a few seconds before he said anything.

Laying the club on the dirt floor and changing his attitude completely, the bum said, “Well, I didn’t know that.  If I had, I would never have disembarked from my train and utilized your ‘fort’ to cook my supper.  Please, if you will allow me, I will finish my dinner, clean up, and then be on my way.”  He looked expectantly at Gabe, searching for his permission.

“I, uh, think that would be okay,” Gabe finally, grudgingly muttered.  Feeling like he was now in control, he added, “If you want, you can stay here the night.  I think my mom said it was supposed to rain later on and it doesn’t look like you have anyplace to stay…later… I mean.”  

A smile broke across the bums unshaven face as he sat down on one of the many half logs the brothers had dragged into the fort.  “I appreciate that…”  Gabe remained standing as the two of them stared at each other.  “Would you like some beans?  It looks like they’re boiling now,” said the bum.

Gabe hesitated, thought of declining and leaving, but instead said, “Yeah…I’m kind of hungry.”  The bum grabbed a wooden plate, dished a couple of scoops of beans onto it, and handed the plate along with a spoon to Gabe.  Gabe accepted it and began eating as he sat upon another nearby half-log.  The bum began eating the rest of the beans out of the pot.  They regarded each other silently for a while as they downed spoonfuls of beans.

Finally, the bum said, “What’s your name?”

Between spoonfuls of beans, Gabe muttered his name, and then he paused and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Paul.”  The bum put an enormous spoonful into his mouth and resumed chewing.  More silence ensued, broken only by the animal sounds of masticating and swallowing.  As he finished and placed the empty pot on the ground near the fire pit, the bum looked around before saying, “You made a nice place here.  Anybody traveling across the country could have an easy time of it holing up for a while in your fort.  How long did it take you to finish it?”

“My brothers and I took a couple of days to get it mostly the way we wanted it, and then we gradually added some things…like the logs we’re sitting on.”

“Comfortable, better than the flatbed of a train.  I’ll say that,” said Paul.  He let his eyes travel around the interior, whistled, and slapped his hands on his thighs as he rose up from the log.  Quickly, Gabe moved back a little, startled by the crack of the man’s hands against his pants and the swiftness of the man as he got up.  “It’s ok, just getting up and stretching.  I’m not going to hurt you, Gabe.  People might call a person like me a bum, but, they don’t really know what I’m about.  Why I travel the way I do or why I…find myself in this kind of lifestyle.”

Gabe finished his plate of beans.  “Well, I, uh, should get going.  It’s okay if you stay here tonight, Paul, but my brothers and I were going to camp out here tomorrow night and I’d appreciate it if you were gone by then.”  The bum regarded him warily for a few moments with a slightly twisted turn to his lips.

“That’s fine, Gabe.  I’ll be gone in the morning-probably a train passing through then and I know where they slow down enough to jump on.  You don’t have to worry.  I’ll be gone.”  Gabe started to back out of the entrance, which was only ten feet behind him, but reconsidered and turned to walk straight out when he realized the bum might think he was afraid of him and feared an attack.  

“Gabe!”  Gabe quickly turned around to face the bum.  “Thanks for letting me stay here.  I appreciate it.”

Gabe smiled.  “No problem,” he said, and then he left.

He walked the railroad tracks until reaching the dirt road running along the western edge of the golf course.  While walking by, he passed the open dump anyone was free to visit, dump their refuse, or go through everyone else’s junk that had been dumped into the large, open pit.

Brother Gabe

Gabe cracked a smile and said, “Keep watching me and you’ll learn more, sonny.”  Jack shook his head and laughed a little, launching a wad of spittle across the narrow stream created by the spring.  A contest immediately began, to see who could spit the farthest.  Demonstrating that he wasn’t completely grown up, Gabe joined in, winning the contest by a couple of feet.

The boys resumed work on a fort they had begun several days before.  They had to put the finishing touches on the stick roof they had meticulously woven together with twine from home and smaller diameter vines they had hacked from the trees.  This was just one of many forts they had constructed over the past few years.  The grand castle of all their forts rested about a mile north of their house; a hundred yards to the east of the railroad tracks and a hundred yards north of the third hole of the golf course.  

A large, old elm tree had fallen over, creating a natural cave-like area beneath it.  There was enough room for an adult to stand up inside and branches covered the sides.  The brothers had filled in the sparsely covered sides of the natural fort with sticks they had gathered from the ground and branches they cut from saplings, completing the most beautiful structure they had ever had the fortune to discover, improve, and use. 

 In the center of the fort, they had dug a three foot diameter by six-inch deep hole and lined it with rocks found nearby, and built small fires, cooking cans of beans and roasting hotdogs they had pilfered from home.

On one of the days when Gabe had gone to the fort alone, he surprised a shabbily dressed man cooking a pot of beans over their fire pit, his pot was hanging from the sticks the brothers had dug into the ground and bent over the fire ring.  Growing up by the railroad tracks, the brothers always referred to such men as bums, because that’s what their mother and father had called them.  Driftless men crossing the country on the rails, stopping for a day here and there for a little respite from riding the trains.

Gabe had noticed smoke rising from the fort as soon as he had stepped from the railroad tracks.  He carefully made his way down the twenty foot embankment, taking care not to create any noise.  His first thought was that he was going to surprise one of the other neighborhood kids messing around within he and his brothers’ fort and make him pay a physical price for it.  Sneaking quietly, Gabe inched his way to the entrance and then burst inside.  He stopped quickly when he realized it wasn’t any kid he confronted, but a grown man holding a menacing looking club in his hands.

“Well, you want a piece of this club or not?” the bum asked in a leathery voice.

Writers conference

I attended the 11th annual Writers Festival and Book Fair on Saturday, March 22, 2014 in Bloomington, Minnesota.  It was a great experience that lead off with Nancy Carlson as the keynote speaker.  Nancy has been a very successful publisher of children's books and is well known across the  U.S.
I attended the following sessions:

The Creative Process
Every good story contains a mystery
Short and Sweet: Learning to write succinctly
How to work with Editors, agents, publishers, and booksellers.

In addition to the sessions, exhibitors were pitching books, publishing outlets, copy editing, etc.

Every one of the sessions I attended was professionally presented, entertaining, and filled with excellent tips.  The presenters were available for questioning afterwards and very willing to help answer any questions we had.

As a side note, I bought a book from two, older gentlemen who had taught at Robbinsdale, Minnesota.  They are twins who grew up in a tenement flat in Yorkville on Manhattan's ethnic Upper East Side in the 1940's, 50's, and 60's.  They later moved to Minnesota and taught grades K-University for a combined 64 years and earned doctorate degrees.
The title of the book, Yorkville Twins, caught my eye immediately because I am the father of identical twin sons, soon to be 38 years old.  While chatting with them, we compared notes of the trials and tribulations of twins and the often love/hate relationship that exists.  They're  a couple of great guys, and after I'm through reading their book I'll give it to my twins to read.

It was worth the cost of attending ($79) and very easy to find, just off 35W at the Bloomington Theatre and Art Center.

The Book Club Murders

My latest novel is finally going to be available as an e-book on Amazon, Thursday, March 20, 2014.  By the end of the week it will be available in paperback form, also on Amazon.  It will be available in book stores such as Barnes and Noble and libraries in approximately two months.  The Kindle version will sell for $2.99 and the paperback will sell for $9.95.

I hope you enjoy the book, whichever version you choose to purchase, or pick it up from a library in a couple of months.

In the meantime I am continuing to write my fourth book, Brothers.

More from "Brothers"

Jack was eleven years old in late March of 1961 and the spring flood waters were beginning to rise along with the temperatures.  His brothers and he would clamber onto the railroad bridge, walk the narrow planks and look down at the rushing waters below.  He, along with every child along the river, loved this time of year.  It was exciting as he and his brothers made a game of climbing onto the girders below the bridge, find small niches to hang onto and ride them out as a train rumbled over the tracks above while the violent waters flowed below.  They crushed together and hung on with all their might as the bridge shook for several minutes until the train finally passed completely by, bringing a halt to the earthquake like scenario.  

It was their local version of riding a roller coaster-without the safeguards.  One slip, a loosened grip on the girder or another person, and they would be gone-probably found several miles downstream as blue and dead as any corpse.  But no one ever slipped.  No one ever let go of another.  They rode it out, enjoying every moment of the delicious terror engendered by their own actions.  It was glorious, foolish, against the wishes of their parents, and also unknown by anyone but themselves.

Jack, Gabe, and Kellan loved it more than anyone else it seemed, for the southern edition kids thought they were crazy river rats for doing it-and maybe they were.  

The pitch for The Book Club Murders

A puzzling murder takes place in a small southern Minnesota town during the coldest spell of winter.  It's January, and Beth Reddy, newly certified private investigator, is hired by members of her book club to help solve the killing of one of their own.  Beth and her partner, Damien George, are supposed to be cooperating with the local authorities, but after deciding there's more to this than meets the eye, strike out on their own.

The reader is taken on a psychological journey into the minds of several suspects after the murder of another book club member occurs in a neighboring town.  Although one individual, a local odd fellow, emerges in the eyes of Beth and Damien as the main person of interest, local officials seem to be perplexed.                                                                                                   

The odd fellow possesses a mysterious past and a curious connection to the murder victims, but the logistics and motives just don't seem to add up.  The murders continue to pile up, further complicating the investigation and confirming the suspicions of some in the law enforcement community.  

Nothing is as it seems as Beth and Damien stretch the legal boundaries while desperately seeking the identity of the person eliminating members of the book club.

Some writings from, Brothers.

After stepping out of the river and onto the rocky shore, Slack asked Gabe, “Hey!  You got any cigarettes?”   They stood on the rocky shore of the river, dripping wet in their swim suits.   Slack lived a mile south of the Hula’s in the residential edition occupied by mostly packing plant workers.  He and most of the others from the edition came to the river near the Hula’s place and swam.  They usually brought cigarettes with them as well.  

Today, however, Slack was all out and stared at Gabe as he asked him the question almost accusingly.  “Well, you got any?” 

“Uh, no, Mom and Dad don’t smoke so I can’t steal any,” Gabe answered apologetically.

“Shit!  You river rats never have anything we could use.”  Slack gazed back at his buddies who had continued splashing in the river, enjoying the cool break on the ninety degree day.  Trying to be friendly again, he changed the subject and said,  “I see your dad finally got your new house done.  How do ya like it?”

“It’s great!   We’ve got a big bedroom for us three boys and Sydney gets her own bedroom with a built in make-up table and mirror,” Gabe said enthusiastically with a big smile planted on his face.  

Slack regarded him warily for a minute and then burst out laughing as he grinned and said, “God!  You sound like a damn little kid the way you talk.”  Sarcasm dripped from his lips as he said the words, “Make-up table.  Holy balls!  Did your dad build anything for the boys in the family?”   

“Well, yeah.  We’ve got dressers, a shelf, and a toy box built right in to the bedroom.”  Gabe smiled again, proud of what his dad had made for them.  Slack stood still with his hands on his hips, water dripping like a slow leak from his swimming suit.  His stare and silence caught Gabe by surprise as he had expected a little more of an excited comment about all the built-ins they had in the boys' bedroom. 

But the only thing that came out of Slack was another laugh and a derisive comment, “A toy box?"  He rolled his eyes.  “You’re ten years old and your dad built a toy box for you?  What are you a little baby?”  Secretly, Slack was jealous.  The houses in the edition he lived in were mostly small, cheaply made structures that did have indoor plumbing, but were nothing like the comparatively opulent Hula abode, and, their dads and moms hadn’t made them by themselves.

Gabe looked around, trying to spot his little brother and sister, who were still splashing in the river.  

He bit his lip and made a decision.  “I can get some cigarettes.”  Slack’s eyes widened a little.

“Okay.  What are you waiting for?  Go get ‘em.”  Gabe rushed up the  embankment and stopped just short of the neighbor’s house.  The Klippers smoked so they’d have cigarettes lying around someplace.  Sneaking toward the patio near the back door, he noticed a pack of cigarettes with matches lying on a plastic table.  He hesitated before making a quick dash to the table and scooped up the pack and matches.  His heart racing, he ran back down the embankment and showed his haul to Slack.

“Nice job, my man,” Slack said as he carefully took the pack and inspected it.

“Oh yeah.  Marlboro’s.  About as good as it gets.”  He withdrew one of the eight unfiltered cigarettes left in the pack and popped an end between his lips.  It dangled there as he stepped over to the flat rock on shore, put the pack down, and then lit his cigarette.  He drew in too much smoke and hacked out a torrent of coughs.

Gabe laughed.  “Can’t handle the good stuff, huh?”  Slack took another drag and drew his breath in even more.  This time he took care and held it in comfortably before exhaling a voluminous cloud of curly smoke into the formerly pristine air.  A big smile appeared on Slack’s face as he nodded.

“That’s how ya do it, Gabe!  Have one.”  He reached to the rock, picked up the pack along with the matches and tossed them to Gabe.  They fell at his feet.  “Don’t let them get wet!”  Gabe quickly plucked them off the rocky beach and copied Slack’s actions.  He barely inhaled after lighting the cigarette, looking back at Slack with a satisfied smile on his lips as he deftly held the cigarette between two fingers.

Slack wasn’t his real name; it was Jim, but he liked the name Slack, and told everyone to call him that.  All the kids in the edition fancied themselves as tough guys.  Slack was the coolest and toughest of all, plus he was two years older than anyone else in the edition so everyone did what he said.