The Cutie-Pie Murders, Another Look

dontravis.com blog post #490

 

Can you believe it? April is right around the corner, meaning two things: A quarter of this new year (which commenced only yesterday—or so it seems—has raced past. It also means that The Cutie-Pie Murders will be released by Dreamspinner. Looking forward to the event. In preparing this post, I ran across a note one of Dreamspinner’s editors sent me after reviewing the book Thought it was interesting, so I’ve included it below:

 I really enjoyed this story, for its own sake and as an addition to the series! These mysteries remain some of my all-time favorite procedurals, and this story delivered just as satisfactory a mystery and resolution as the others, which can be hard to do in a longer running series. I’ve loved how the relationship between BJ and Paul has remained strong and faithful—it adds to the satisfaction of seeing them work together as a team as well as balancing the evil of humanity (the murders/crimes) with the goodness, so I loved that there was plenty of that this time. I’ve also loved throughout the series (and seeing in this one also) how BJ works with the police; again, it balances the darkness being investigated to see the good/helpful dynamic between BJ and the others. In addition, I really appreciated how this mystery was more about obtaining proof after identifying the murderer, rather than the twist/surprise, since it made for a refreshing change of the usual mystery formula… the tension of the strong suspicion made for some good tension escalation as they worked to prevent him from killing.  All nicely done!

Not a bad compliment. Thanks, AZ.

 Today, I want to give you another look at the upcoming novel. The following scene comes early in Chapter 3. BJ returns home after making arrangements with APD Detectives to keep an appointment with an individual who’s sent an invitation for a meet to the murdered call boy, Matt Zapata. The scene is designed to give you a look at BJ’s and Paul’s domestic relationship and Paul’s rising interest in the new case. Enjoy.

 ****

THE CUTIE-PIE MURDERS

 Our plans complete, I headed home, salivating over Paul’s announcement this morning he intended to fix a pot of his delicious green chili stew for our dinner. The love of my life was home and still seated before his computer in our shared home office, but the savory aroma of the promised repast hung heavy in the air.

He rose to give me a smile and a hug after I plopped my attaché case on my desk. “Hungry?” he asked.

“In more ways than one.” My first glimpse of him after a day’s absence always rocked me on my heels, reminding me how fortunate I was to have such a handsome and hunky mate to share my life. His lopsided grin went straight to my heart. His right eyebrow rose slightly.

“We’ll take your appetites in order.”

I showered and changed to casual clothes while he finished an article on the Albuquerque Isotopes baseball team. Paul was a freelance journalist, and his articles on last year’s Voxlightner Scandal case had been well received, giving his career a boost. Although I made no financial demands on him, he insisted on carrying his share of the household expenses. What he couldn’t contribute in dollars, he supplemented with sweat labor. The red-brick, cross-gabled house I’d inherited from my folks at 5229 Post Oak Drive in northwest Albuquerque hadn’t looked so spiffy—inside and out—since my mom took care of the interior and my dad puttered around the outside.

I emerged from the bedroom as Paul hit a key and gave a satisfied “Done.” I took that to mean he’d emailed his article to the target magazine.

We ate at the kitchenette table where, as usual, Paul’s tasty, piquant stew slaked one craving while his bronzed arms and admirable pecs excited another.

He brought me back to the moment by asking about the Zapata murder.

“The case has a name now. Matt was the third young man killed and discarded naked in some public place. The police are calling them the cutie-pie murders.”

“Cutie-pie? Who came up with such a lame name? Nobody’s used ‘cutie-pie’ in ages.”

I went for my attaché case and brought back three photographs.

“Wow!” he said after looking at them. “They are hotties. Cutie-pie fits, I guess. Any leads to who killed them?”

“Someone who’s not afraid to leave clues. All three of the victims were covered in semen. Their own and someone else’s. And the someone else doesn’t happen to have sperm in his semen.”

“So no DNA, huh? But if the vic’s own cum was on him, he must have been a willing partner.”

“Not a valid assumption,” I said. “Sexual excitement can be stimulated even when you don’t particularly want to participate. But at this point, there’s no reason to assume the three victims didn’t voluntarily participate.”

“Any connection between the three dead guys?”

“Matt and Hubbard were both students at UNM.”

“Hubbard?”

“The black youngster. But they were in different disciplines, so there’s no apparent connection. I suspect the fact they were both students is coincidental since Greene, the other one, was a street kid.”

“Were they call boys like we believe Matt was?”

I shook my head. “As I say, Dustin Greene lived on the streets—literally. Last known address was a downtown alley. It wouldn’t surprise me if he occasionally covered his meals offering himself to some guy. I’m willing to bet Hubbard wasn’t.”

“Do you think Hubbard was gay?”

“No indication of it.”

“So Matt was the only gay guy in the bunch.”

“And I think he was more of a bi. Or maybe a pansexual.”

“Since they had cum on them, it probably wasn’t robbery,” Paul said.

“Given the semen and the fact they were found naked, this was likely purely sexual. But I think it’s a psychological thing.” I described the circumstances surrounding all three deaths.

“Some looney doesn’t like pretty boys,” Paul suggested.

“Then why become sexually active with them?”

He shrugged. “Maybe he wants it, but when he gets it, he’s disgusted by what he’s done. We’ve both known guys like that.”

“True. But they’re usually disgusted with themselves.”

Paul wagged his head from side to side. “For the most part. But sometimes they take it out on their partners.”

****

I suspect Paul’s last suggestion rings true for many of us. Let me know what you think of the scene.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

Here's a link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Ludicrous Jones

 dontravis.com blog post #489

Photo Courtesy of Ludicrous Stock Vector (Royalty Free), shutterstock.com:

Thanks to Don Morgan for the guest post of his novel The Eagle’s Claw. I hope my readers appreciated the glimpse he gave us.

 

Perhaps I’m back in the saddle since I was able to create a brand-new piece of flash fiction for this week. Hope you enjoy it.

 

****

LUDICROUS JONES

Ludicrous P. Jones. How’s that for a name? Well, it’s my cross to bear. As soon as I’m emancipated, I’ll change it legally, but I just turned eighteen, so I’ve got three more years to carry the load.

My parents deny it, but I think they were drunk or high on something when it came time to christen their son and heir. They’re kinda retro hippies, and that might be the explanation for the nonsensical name. Mostly, I go by Lud or Luddy—as in “Lood” or “Loody.” That wasn’t so bad when I was a little kid, in fact, Luddy was sort of cute. But once I hit adolescence it just wasn’t manly enough. Lud wasn’t so bad, except it’s too close to “lewd,” which is what I saw in the expressions on all adults who heard it for the first time. I tried to assign myself a nickname, but somehow Rod or Bart or Brick just didn’t stick.

I thought about using my middle name, except it’s just an initial. My driver’s license actually reads Ludicrous P. (only) Jones. So if I use P as a name, people—especially the guys—hesitate between the initial and the last name so that it sorta comes out as an order: “Pee, Jones.”

And last year, I asked my track coach something, and he unthinkingly responded, “Don’t be ludicrous, Jones.” For the rest of the term, that became the stock answer when someone asked a dumbass question. “Don’t be Ludicrous Jones. “Embarrassing.

When first asked about the source of the name, I joked that when my parents first took a gander at their naked newborn, they were shocked at the size of the equipment he carried. And, I claimed, since that hadn’t changed as time went by, the name was still appropriate. Of course, the guys in gym class knew that wasn’t true, but the story hung on and became a school legend. I’d gotten used to surreptitious glances “down there,” even got over being embarrassed by them.

My teachers handled things in their own way. In shop and gym, I was “Jones.” Most of the rest of the teachers either called me “You there,” or “What do you say, Mr. Jones?’ or sometimes Lud or Luddy. One resorted to calling me by my initials, but LP, which brought a rose blush to her cheeks when someone wisecracked “Long Playing.”  Apparently, she equated that with carnal stamina and thereafter adopted the gym teacher’s moniker for me of “Jones”

At any rate, I blamed my name for everything that came later.

The first thing that happened was Bessie Sue Quigley talked me out of my pants to satisfy her curiosity. While she expressed a bit of disappointment, she later said she’d confirm the LP appellation if I wanted her to. I insisted we had to try it a few more times before she could be sure. After two months of Bessie’s auditions, we both moved on to other things.

The next thing that happened was a new guy transferred in and apparently heard the original thesis about my name. Luis—that was his moniker—made no bones about studying my crotch. Once when I caught him at it, he met my gaze and arched an eyebrow. Because I didn’t know how to handle that, I just nodded and rushed on to my next class.

That same afternoon as I closed my locker and prepared to go home, Luis suddenly appeared at my elbow.

“When and where?” he asked.

“When and where what?”

He seemed taken aback. “You nodded, so I assumed you accepted my invitation.”

“What invitation? I was beginning to sound like an idiot. In this matter, I probably was.

“I let my eyebrow ask a question?”

“Wh—”

“Are you really that naïve?”

“Apparently so.”

“You have a rep, you know.”

“I know what they say my name means, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“Definitely.”

“So what’s your question?” I asked.

“I wanna see for myself.”

“Uh….”

Luis laughed, and I noticed how handsome he was. I’d never considered it before, but as he stood chuckling over my reaction, I fixed on that. A guy’s looks had never mattered before but, somehow, now it did. What was going on?

“Well, I gotta go to the bathroom before I head out.”

Luis shook his head, sending curly, black locks flying. “Nah. Too public. I gotta get a good look before I render judgment.”

“J-judgment? What’s going on?”

He shrugged. “Simple. I wanna see for myself if what they say about you’s for real.”

Flummoxed, I blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Under the bleachers at the football field.”

He nodded. “When?”

“How about now… I guess.”

“Gotta stow my books. Meet you there in five minutes.”

I felt like a fish caught on a hook. “Sure. Okay.”

And that’s how Luis talked me out of my pants.

 

****

Can you use your imagination to complete the story? Be interesting to see how you think it came out. Drop me a line.

 

My mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 Now a link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

The Eagle’s Claw, A Guest Post

dontravis.com blog post #487

Sorry I’m overindulging in reposts and guest posts, but I’m having a little trouble coping with the death of my older son on January 22 of this year from sepsis. He died in a Texarkana, Texas hospital, and all I could do was tell him goodbye as a nurse held a phone to his ear. She said he was nonresponsive, but I like to believe he heard me.

At any rate, Don Morgan came to my rescue. Here’s a repost of Donald T. Morgan’s The Eagle’s Claw which appeared on July 15, 2015. I hope you like it. Personally, I think it’s great.

****

THE EAGLE’S CLAW

By Don Travis

 PROLOGUE

 

The Edge of Mountain Apache Reservation, Southern New Mexico, June 1946

Sleep brought a restless dream. Rather, it was the stitching together of a memory by the boy’s subconscious from scraps collected and then forgotten over the years. There was a man in the dream, a tall Indah with brown hair and sad, gray eyes. A small, tawny woman with long, black hair and a beautiful smile was in it, as well. The izdan, well past school age, yearned to be able to read and write. The man, who taught at the Indian school, helped her learn. They were together often. They talked and laughed and grew toward one another.

They left the reservation and were married in the white man’s way. The woman often returned to her mother’s wickiup, but the schoolteacher never came. This was good because a man gazing upon his mother-in-law risked blindness. The young wife blossomed with health and happiness and child. Strength and pride replaced the longing in the man’s eyes.

One day, more Indah brought a rodeo to the reservation. The Tinneh loved a rodeo. It was great fun to watch the gaunt, pale men flop around on bucking horses. Some of the People rode, too. The crowd cheered whenever a cowboy rolled in the dust, no matter he was white or tribesman.

Then a hush fell over the stands. A magnificent roan pranced into the arena. A devil horse with fire-eyes and a black mane writhing like a nest of serpents. Its great hooves struck sparks from the earth.

No one could ride him, hooted the rodeo hands. No one ever had. No one ever would. They offered the bribe of money to any who succeeded. The Apache men stirred restlessly, but advised by diyi—the shamans among them—they refused the challenge even though the prize was hefty.

One man stepped forward. The white man with gray eyes. A teacher didn’t make much money, and he had a family on the way. He would claim the reward.

Death stalked the arena. Evil corrupted the air. The cowboys’ flesh turned green from it. The roan danced in savage glee. The smell of horse sweat and manure and hot dogs and dust hung heavy over the crowd. Invisible owls screeched. Whippoorwills cried, and coyotes cackled.

From the uneasy safety of his dream, the boy watched the man mount the haughty horse. The chute gate flew open. The roan shot out, bucking and whirling in a frenzy. The Indah rode him! He rode the wicked beast.

Enraged by the humiliation, the roan flung himself against the fence. The man was hurt. His fingers loosened. The animal twisted savagely, and the rider fell. The demon horse wheeled.

The woman with the beautiful smile ran into the arena, waving her arms to turn the frothy beast away. The horse charged on, driven insane by talons of monster owls buried in his withers.

The man was dead. The dreamer thought the woman was, too, but she moved. Her body strained in birth even as she died.

And he knew he had seen himself born.

 

CHAPTER 1

After foraging what seemed half the reservation, Román came up with only six empties: three strawberry, two Grapette, and a Coke with a chip in it. If only someone would pay for the beer bottles littering the ground, he’d be full of food and candy all the time. Booze wasn’t allowed on the reservation, but that didn’t stop the bootleggers. He picked up a long-necked beer bottle and put an eye to the amber mouth. Pretty. He shoved his tongue into the opening and sucked noisily. It was as dry as Barranca Seca in June. He tossed the bottle aside.

The store in White Pine wasn’t open yet, so he played in the mud puddle beneath a faucet for a quarter of an hour before it occurred to him to wash his face and hands. When the place finally opened, he swapped the empties for a full bottle of strawberry. Like he figured, the man refused to pay for the nicked Coke bottle.

He collected his scrawny pony and rode deep into Dead Scout Canyon where the mare could graze while he nursed his drink. It was no longer cold, but he didn’t mind. Warm soda pop made him burp, and he liked to burp. The bubbly water filled an empty belly better than anything. And red strawberry was the best of all. A man would never be hungry if he could buy four bottles a day.

For no reason other than his thoughts were so bent, he belched loudly, once in each cardinal direction, beginning in the east as all things begin and proceeding as the hands of a white man’s clock move. The ritual complete, he drained the bottle and dropped it on a rock.

The noise flushed a woolly spider from beneath the flat stone. Román nudged the creature with his toe. It scooted sideways on eight hairy legs and then froze. Cane-Woman said that if you killed a spider, its relatives would try to kill you. And his grandmother knew about such things. He hesitated, his foot suspended above the tiny animal. Abruptly, he dropped his heel.

“The white man at the Agency did it. The one with fuzzy hair that’s falling out on top,” he lied to the dead spider and all its kin. For emphasis, he nodded in the direction of the Indian Affairs Office in the settlement. There. That should fool the spiders. They weren’t very smart.

When he began moving again, he sensed he was not alone in the canyon. The hair on the back of his neck and the faint clink of stone from the deep shadows told him so. In that moment, he felt a kinship with ancestors who lived when danger covered the earth like a blanket. He decided to stay…even though the image of a huge Grandfather Spider bent on revenge crawled across his mind.

After tying the mare to a piñon, he headed for an outcrop where he could hide. Maybe the presence was other than natural. For years, he’d listened to tales of the Mana, the Great-Power-Flooding-the-Universe, and of the ga’an, the Mountain Spirits of his grandmother’s winter stories. Everybody said Cane-Woman knew Eagle, and that he gave her great power, although Román wasn’t exactly sure how that worked. But things might not be the same anymore. Was this world the same as when the Old Way prevailed? He frowned as he recognized the words of Miss Marshall, his last year’s teacher. Did his mind belong to the Indah woman now?

The mare whinnied and danced at the end of her reins. Whatever shared the canyon was near. His eyes raked the tufa above him. He saw nothing that didn’t belong. Ashamed of cowering behind rocks, he rose and poked his head over the boulder. Below him, he saw his “presence.” No supernatural shared the canyon with him. It was only Clarence Wolf sneaking up on his pony. He didn’t like Clarence very much. A year older and almost twice Román’s size, Clare-Ass wasn’t just a dumbo. He was a bully, to boot.

Feeling cheated his interloper was merely human—and an inferior one, at that—he scooped up a handful of stones and ran down the hill raining missiles upon his enemy. The bigger youngster retreated before the barrage to a more sheltered place. They settled down to throwing rocks at one another with only sporadic accuracy until the morning failed and his stomach began growling again. The sport gone from the half-serious game, he reclaimed the mare and wandered off, leaving his enemy to hurl obscenities at his back.

Abandoning the high canyon to his foe, Román ranged down from the Capuchas onto the edge of the desert. The noise in his gut grew stronger. Chewing a wad of sap from a wounded piñon provided a little relief. He eyed a colony of prairie dogs, but they were such wary little creatures he didn’t even unwind the slingshot tied around his waist.

He rode the mare down the steep side of Split Nose Gulch and came up out of the gully hungrier than ever. He reined in and listened. Had he heard something? No, it was just his head playing tricks on him. His head must be hungry, too.

Then from far away, so faint the wind must have whispered in his ear, he heard a voice. He scouted and found nothing. Perhaps the ga’an toyed with him. Or was it the One-Great-God-Who-Was-Three they talked about at the settlement church? Weird. Three was such a strange number. He preferred four. Four was good and natural. Four was the ritual number of his people.

There it was again. Closer now. A cry for help. He skirted a clump of juniper and cut the trail of a horse. Curiosity set him to following the tracks. The hoof prints made straight for Blind Man’s Arroyo, an enormous ditch snaking down the foothills that carried the spring runoff to the distant river. He dismounted, stepped to the brink, and peered over the edge.

****

You can only get the book through Amazon Kindle, but I believe it’s a tome worth reading. I say “tome” because it is longer than the usual novel. Thanks, Don, for letting me post the piece again.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 Now a link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

He Only Came Alive… ( A Repost)

 

dontravis.com blog post #487

 Photo Courtesy of depositphotos.com

The short story that follows is a repost from February 20, 2014, some seven years ago. I wonder how many remember it? Shout out if you do.

****

                        HE ONLY CAME ALIVE …

         “He only came alive when she was in the room.”

That line was the only part of a long-forgotten book that stuck with me. But stuck, it had. Every once in awhile it would pop unbidden into my head, usually when I was bored and in need of distraction.

Like now in Professor Stood’s American Lit class. That’s Stood with O’s as in too, not as in wood. If the old windbag had the brains to spell it S-t-u-u-d, he wouldn’t have to correct everyone all the time. At the moment he was discussing the minimalist quality of Earnest Hemmingway’s writings. That was definitely boring. The only thing of Papa’s I liked was For Whom the Bell Tolls. The rest were just so many black ink marks sullying pristine paper. A Farewell to Arms fit particularly well into the latter category, so far as I was concerned.

So naturally, my eyes were playing the endless game of “Is-She-the-One?” I regarded Sara Tillingham across the room, her sharp chin resting in the palm of one hand, eyes (brown, I believe) fixed on the rotund instructor. She’d be wearing something that smelled of roses. Attractive but studious. Imagining her future conjured only images of ivy-covered buildings and classrooms. A teacher. No, a professor. A tenured professor regaling her students in a high, thin voice. Her spare time would be spent penning romances under a nom de plume.

Sorry, but I couldn’t imagine her illuminating my life.

Winsome Williams, two rows behind Sara, was something else. Her aroma would be lavender. Definitely lavender. I shifted in my seat for a better look. From her appearance, you wouldn’t think she came from money, but I knew she did. Blonde, blue-eyed, pert, pug-nosed, and so packed with curves they verged on the vulgar, she was expensive trashy … by design. No classrooms in her future. More likely bedrooms. The picture of an expensive madam with a low, silky voice leapt to mind. Would she brighten my life?

Nah.

Beth Hughes, just a row over and two seats ahead of me. Compact, wiry, a strong alto with lots of vibrato. A tennis phenom at the U, she always smelled of Wind Song … sometimes woody, sometimes floral. Pretty in a jock sort of way. It wasn’t hard to visualize her future: US Open, Wimbledon. Endless tennis courts… clay, grass, concrete. Keeping up with her would be demanding, and probably exciting at times.

Too much of a competitor.

Everyone made ready to leave when Stood dismissed the class. I rose, stretched, and turned to grab my backpack hanging over the desk chair.

“Well, did you pick one?”

I glanced up to see Ricardo Alban grinning at me.

“Saw you checking out the gals during the lecture.”

The smoldering, sloe-eyed stare of the tall young man with a throaty baritone, a hint of Brut… the Essence of Man… always clinging to him made me pause. As I took in the smooth olive skin and wavy black hair, my stomach dropped. My blood sang.

“Wanna grab a beer at the Student Union?” His left eyebrow arched. “Or I have a couple of beers in the fridge at my room.”

“R-room… uh, beer,” I stuttered.

Maybe I’d have to alter that sentence from the long-forgotten book ever so slightly.

****

Can self-awareness really come in a flash like that? There’s no question in my mind our protagonist knew exactly what Ricardo was suggesting, yet he didn’t hesitate a second. Does this remind you of an incident in your own life? If so, let me know.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 Now a link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 

See you next Thursday.

 Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Sty Wardlow, A short-short story

 dontravis.com blog post #486

Photo courtesy of the spruceeats.com 

Last week, I mentioned that my son Clai’s ashes were to be delivered Wednesday of that week. I was out when they tried to deliver the package so I had to go to the post office to claim it. I thought I was mentally prepared, and handled it all right… until I walked from the car to my apartment and realized I was carrying my adult son in my arms just as I did when he was an infant. Have to admit, that got to me some. But enough of that.

 Hope you enjoyed a look at The Cutie-Pie Murders last week Am anxious for the novel to be out. But today, I want to give you another short story. In some quarters “Sty Wardlow” would be considered flash fiction, although it runs more than the 500 words some people use as a measure. At any rate, I hope you enjoy the tale.

 ****

STY WARDLOW

Sty Wardlow—birth name, Stanley, and actual nickname, Pig Sty—was usually as neat as a pin and as clean as a recently laundered T-shirt. He didn’t come by his nickname from slovenly habits; he earned it because of where his mind dwelt. Or so his peers claimed. Only eighteen, he was sex obsessed. He’d never had any, but he rarely thought about anything else. He looked at a banana and saw a penis. A grapefruit and observed a ripe breast. A…. well, you get the idea.

So he was floored one day when he spotted an unfamiliar face moving down the hall between classes amid a flood of other students. Tall for a girl, but it was the most beautiful face he’d ever seen. Way better than Libby Sneldon, Drake High’s football queen, prom queen, and everything else that had a queen. Wonder if the new chick had a figure like Libby’s. Sty hadn’t been able to see anything through the crowd of moving, chattering students except that beautiful face and a head of black, black hair. Neither short nor long. He earned irritated mutters when he came to a stop and turned around to watch that magnificent mane of hair disappear around the corner. His body reacted in a way that made him think of a banana.

Sty got the shock of his life when he reported for tennis that afternoon. He spotted the same face atop a slender but muscled male form. He tried to keep from staring as he shook hands with the new guy in school named Ransom Wellerby. The guy had a prominent Adam’s apple, so he was definitely a dude.

“Call me Ran,” the stranger said. His shake was firm. Not crushing and not a dishrag… just right.

He’d bet anything they called this guy Handsome Ransom at his last school. Smart. Cut it down to “Ran” straight off the bat.

“You wanna hit the court for a set of singles?” the new boy asked in a voice that registered somewhere between a baritone and a bass.

“Why not?” Sty answered, deepening his voice somewhat.

Maybe he was distracted or maybe Ran was a better player than he was, but whatever the cause, the new kid whipped him four ways to Sunday… six games straight.

“Okay, I surrender,” Sty said, after Ran put away the final shot of the set. “You’re better than I am.”

“Not really,” Ran said.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve seen that look before.”

“Explain.”

“I’m an air force brat. We’ve moved around a lot. First time somebody sees me, they get discombobulated. Doesn’t take long for that to wear off.”

“Discombobulated by what?” Sty asked.

“They look at my face and figure I ought to be a girl. We get on the court, and they find out I’m not. Am I right?”

“No… yes. Well, maybe. I gotta admit you’re one good-looking dude. I could probably squint my eyes and see you as a chick.”

“Except I’m not.” Ran halted on their way to the boy’s locker. “Sty. What is that? Short for Stuyvesant? I heard your name was Wardlow.”

“It is. Sty’s a nickname.”

“For what?”

“Long story.”

“I got time. This was my last class.”

“Okay,” Sty said, his ears flaming. “It’s short for Pig Sty.”

Ran’s chocolate brown eyes scanned his frame. “Look clean enough to me. A little sweaty, but who isn’t after six hard-fought games of tennis.”

“It… It’s not my appearance. It’s well…. It’s just that I think about sex a lot, so the girls started calling me Pig Sty. It stuck. Hell, even my folks call me Sty now, even though they don’t know exactly why.”

Ran laughed, sending chills up Sty’s back. The image of a banana popped into his head.

“That’s rich,” Ran said, moving on toward the locker room. He shot Sty a hooded look. “Sex, huh? Who doesn’t think about it? But I guess it’s the doing of it that counts, right?”

Sty figured his ears would have lighted the darkest corner of the blackest closet. “Yeah. Right.”

“You ever done it?”

“Uh….” His whole face burned.

“You haven’t have you?”

“Guess not.”

“Guess not? Don’t you know?”

“Well, of course I know. And the answer is no.”

Ran halted and looked straight into Sty’s eyes. “You’re one good-looking dude too. Wanna try it?”

****

Apparently the new boy at Drake High doesn’t fool around. Well, it looks as though he “fools around” okay, and he does it on an accelerated basis. Any thoughts on whether Sty took him up on his offer or not. I have my own ideas about it… but wouldn’t want them influencing your own.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 Now a link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

The Cutie-Pie Murders

 

dontravis.com blog post #485

 

Thanks to my readers for giving me a pass last Thursday, and thanks to Mark Wildyr for guest posting that day. Can’t say that I’ve recovered from the death of my older son Clai as yet,, but at least I’m functioning… sort of. I preparing this coming blog post on Tuesday night because my son’s “cremains” are arriving tomorrow, and I’m sure that will occasion something emotional, although I have no idea what that will be Nonetheless, wanted to get the post set up just in case.

 

Dreamspinner Prtess has advised of a publication date for the seventh BJ Vinson mystery of April 2021. They likely gave me the exact day, but it eludes me at the moment. At any rate, I wanted to show you the cover and give you some more of the book Those who read my earlier blogs on the book will recall that BJ and his companion Paul have been drawn into the investigation of the death of a handsome young man who was found naked and strangled on Albuquerue’s West Mesa. It appears the youth was a novice call boy who made a date with the wrong individual.

 

In the scene that follows, BJ is questioning Ma Flanagan, the longtime owner and operator of an old fashioned telephone service. Ma knew BJ’s parents, which makes her a little hard to handle.

 

****

THE CUTIE-PIE MURDERS

Ma Flanagan gave me a motherly look through her rimless granny glasses, and for a moment I thought she was going to say “tsk-tsk.” We sat in the tiny office of her small house on Roma NW. So far as I knew, she’d lived there for most of her seventy years.

“Now, BJ, you know I can’t divulge such information. My business is built on confidentiality… as is yours, I’m sure. My goodness, I can’t get over how much you look like your mother. She was a beautiful soul, as well as an attractive woman.”

“That she was, Ma.” Ernestine Flanagan insisted everyone call her Ma. “But the owner of the account I’m asking about is dead. Brutally murdered, and I’m trying to find out who killed him.”

“Like those two delightful APD detectives I talked to. They made an attractive couple.”

“You do realize they’re a professional couple, not a romantic one.”

“Are they married? To other people, I mean?”

“Not so far as I know.”

“Well, you just wait. They’ll wake up to the fact they’re compatible… quite compatible.”

“Maybe, but I need—”

“Yes, I know. You always were such an impatient young man. Always in a hurry. Take it from someone who knows, one day you’ll discover how much you missed in your rush through life.”

“Yes, ma’am, I probably will.” Like the time I’m wasting now. “But at the moment, I’m trying to catch a killer. Someone who’s murdered three young men and deprived them of the rest of their lives.”

A hand flew to her chest. “Three? Oh my goodness. That’s why the nice detective couple asked if I had accounts for those other two names.”

“Did you?”

She hesitated a beat before revealing how sharp she really was. “No, just for young Mr. Zapata. I had nothing for Mr. Greene or Mr. Hubbard.”

“So explain to me how Mr. Zapata’s account worked. Let’s say I wanted to leave a message for him. Would I need to give you my name?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Most people identify themselves, but not all. Some merely leave a message for Mr. Zapata to return a call to a certain phone number. So my operators take down the number and leave a message on the client’s personal voicemail or forward a text to Mr. Zapata’s telephone.”

“Is it always a request for a phone number?”

“Sometimes it’s to confirm a meeting time and place.”

“So I could merely call and leave a certain hour and a specific address.”

She nodded her head without dislodging a single strand of gray hair held in a bun by a huge tortoiseshell comb. “Exactly.”

“But would I have to leave my name and phone number?”

“Most do, but sometimes prior arrangements have been made, and the pertinent information is all that is given.” She smiled and shook her head. “And I can see your father in you too. Robert was as handsome as Frances was beautiful. You have good genes, BJ.”

“Thank you. Do you—”

“What a tragedy. How long have they been gone now?”

“January 2003. Do—”

“Nine years now. Seems like yesterday I heard the news about their automobile accident.”

“Ma, I’m taking up too much of your valuable time. I have a couple more questions and then—”

“Oh pshaw. My operators handle most of the calls. Did you know I have a male operator now? Can you believe it? First time in forty years, but you can’t discriminate, you know. Name’s Robert, like your father. Such a nice young man.”

My skin crawled, but I kept at it, refusing to believe Ernestine Flanagan was going dotty. This was her way of evading my questions.

“Ernestine, cut out the old lady act, and let’s get down to business.”

“Why, Burleigh J. Vinson, I can’t believe you were so rude to me.” The words were prim, but there was a smile hiding in the pastel-blue eyes. “Your mother would give you a smack on the back of the hand.”

“You may do so in her stead, but, Ma, this is serious. Someone is murdering handsome young men after—” I fought for an acceptable word. “—debauching them.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? What do you want to know?”

“Are there recordings of the calls?”

“Goodness, no!” She apparently rethought her vehement answer. “It’s not like in the old days, BJ. Now you can call me on my cell and leave me a message. When I opened this business, there was no such convenience. And when it came along, I had to adjust my way of doing things to stay in business. Most of my clients are medics or medical services who need a human to discern what is an emergency and what is not.” She paused again. “In order to survive, I had to accept other customers. I’m certain some of my clients arrange trysts, for example.”

“Why not use email or Skype or something similar?”

“Do you know what I believe it comes down to?”

I shook my head.

“The authorities are watching for that sort of thing on the internet because it’s become so prevalent. My clients want to be a bit more discreet.”

“Okay, you don’t record the calls. Do you log them?”

“Oh yes. Otherwise I couldn’t bill my clients. You see, they get a certain amount of traffic for a blanket fee, but—”

I held up a hand. “I understand. May I have a copy of the log for Mateo Zapata’s account? And the three text messages?” I saw her internal battle and added, “The police already have them.”

She surrendered gracefully. “Do you want a copy of the calls and texts that came in after the young man died?”

My eyes widened involuntarily. “Absolutely. How many were there?”

“If memory serves, three more phone calls and one text message. I see no reason why you shouldn’t have the information.” Her eyes sharpened. “Providing you can tell me who engaged your services.”

She probably thought she had me over a barrel, but I fooled her. “The family engaged me, Ma. They want me to help APD catch their son’s killer. And I’ve okayed this with Homicide and the two detectives you mentioned.”

I knew how much I’d been played when she picked up a slender file folder from her desk and handed it over. “Here are your copies.”

 ****

I hope this piques your interest in the book. I had fun writing it.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 Here's a link to the new book:

 https://www.dropbox.com/s/ambxgy7e5ndmimk/CutiePieMurders%5BThe%5D.zip?dl=0

 My personal links:

 Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.

 

Don

 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Douche Bag

 dontravis.com blog post #484

 Photo courtesy of lista.com

On January 22, the older of my two sons died in a Texas hospital. He was admitted on the 7^th of that month suffering from colitis. Although he’d had heart trouble over the past two or three years, I initially had no clue that his condition was serious. But as time went on, his organs began to fail until they could no longer sustain life. On the afternoon of his death, the nurse put the phone to his ear and I was able to say goodbye and tell him I loved him. Not long after that, he passed. Needless to say, I sort of fell apart and am not yet fully collected.

 

As a result of this, my Oklahoma writing buddy, Mark Wildyr agreed to let me guest post the same short story he’s posting on his own website (markwildyr.com) this very day. Thank you, Mark, for coming to my rescue.

****

DOUCHE BAG

By Mark Wildyr

I managed to snag a summer job back home after my freshman year at Eastern New Mexico University. Lucky, gainful employment was hard to come by in this uncertain economy. Not only that, but my hometown can’t even claim 10,000 residents, every one of them scratching for a living.

Anyway, when I hired on as one of the remodel crews for Westerton’s Home Repair, I considered myself lucky. I might have liked a semi-blue-collar job, say like working in the mailroom at city hall or delivering for the local florist, but, hey, you gotta take what’s available, right?

I’m not a rough-and-tumble guy, but I figured I could hold my own with a blue-collar crew. My old man was one for years, but then, I’m not my old man. In fact, I spent more time with my mom and grandmother than any of the male members of my family. Truth be told, I’ figured out I was gay this past fall when I got involved with my first semester roommate. Can’t tell you how liberating that was. But now I’m back in this little town with a mindset of the 1940s, requiring me to go back into the closet. Wasn’t hard to do. Been doing it all my life, even if I didn’t know it at the time.

On my first day, the boss assigned me to Walsack’s crew. Julius Walsack was about as broad as he was tall, but it wasn’t fat. Overdeveloped muscles… but definitely not fat. I’d known him before I went off to college in the vague way a guy knows everyone in a small town. He had a rep for spending his days doing hard manual labor and devoting his evenings to doing hard physical exercise in the town’s one gym. About five years older than my nineteen years, he’d been somebody to say hi to when our paths crossed. Looking back, I realized that he’d scared me, or at least intimidated me with his he-man bluster. Now he was my immediate boss.

The other two members of our crew were older men I knew the same way I knew Walsack, they were faces I could put a name to. They were an amiable bunch, and I knew my way around a hammer and saw, so I fitted in right from the start. Or thought I did.

The second day, Walsack walked up to me as I was fashioning a spline miter joint for a box window and sent me to the hardware store to pick up an order. As I started up, he slapped me on the butt.

“And put a hurry on it. It’s got some stuff I need,” he yelled while tossing the keys to his pickup at me.

I caught them and hurried to the company’s truck, swiping sawdust off the rear of my jeans as I went.

Later the same day, he came up to inspect the work I was doing and stood so close his thigh lightly brushed where he’d left his handprint. I moved to the other side of the saw table and watched his eyes as he studied what I’d been doing. He suggested a small change which made sense before walking back to whatever he’d been doing.

The next day, I was hanging a curtain rod in one of the bedroom’s closets when he sauntered in to see how I was doing. While one hand tested the rod, another came to rest on my ass. I was sorta penned in, so I just brushed his hand away. He agreed I was doing a good job, and went back to his own work. Maybe I wasn’t as far in that other “closet” as I thought.

For the rest of the week, it was something every day. Once, he slipped past me in tight confines and rubbed his fly across my butt. He paused just a second, not noticeable to the others, but it definitely was to me. A couple of times when he came to make suggestions or inspect something I was cutting on the saw, his eyes weren’t on the work. They were on my crotch.

Long before the end of the work week rolled around, I considered quitting. But this was as decent-paying a job as I was going to find. Maybe I could ask for a new assignment. Of course, I’d have to come up with a reason for the request. At the end of shift Friday, he informed me that most of the guys gathered at a local bar downtown to celebrate.

“But I’m not twenty-one yet,” I replied.

“Aw, you come on. I’ll get you in.”

But he didn’t. The bouncer turned me away after eyeing my driver’s license. I glanced at Walsack, who shrugged.

“Hey, I figured every college kid had a phony ID. Too bad.”

As I turned away, he laid a hand on my arm. “I’ll get a couple of six packs, and we’ll go to my place.”

I pulled free and started walking toward my car. “No thanks. I’m tired.”

  

The weekend was unsettling. Most of my high school buddies had moved on, and I wasn’t interested in trying to find a date. Most of my time was spent puzzling over how to handle Walsack and thinking about my former roommate. I missed him; and I missed what we’d done. Sure wasn’t anyone in this little berg I could do that with. Except maybe Walsack. The thought made my skin crawl.

Why? He wasn’t a bad-looking dude. Sure was built. Like a brick shit house, as they say. But he was so damned… macho was the word that came to mind. Aggressively so. Wasn’t my type. I had a type? Must have because he sure wasn’t it.

I went to work Monday with my tail dragging. Not a week before, I’d been excited and anxious. Now I was dreading it. My mood must have showed, because the others on my crew-except for Walsack—asked if I was okay. He just beamed at me like a fox spotting a hen.

We’d finished last week’s job and were working at a new house. My assignment was to install paneling in the two-car garage. That meant I mostly worked alone since the rest of the guys were remodeling the kitchen. A solo job was okay by me, but it meant Walsack checked on me more often than usual.

The first couple of times were okay. He pointed out a couple of things I needed to correct and gave me some tips that made the job easier. Then he started in with his tricks. Standing too close. Putting his hand on my arm. As the afternoon went on, he grew bolder. Once, he reached over me to point to something, and his groin pressed right up against my butt. I froze, and after saying something I don’t even remember, moved away. I turned in time to see him adjust himself.

The dude’s turned on!

Just before quitting time, he delivered the clincher. I didn’t even hear him enter the garage, but I heard the door close behind him. I ignored Walsack until he was standing behind me… too close, as usual. My mouth was open to say something when he leaned into me.

“Hey!”

I started to move away, but his hand snaked around me and grabbed a handful. I twisted away and ended up in the middle of the garage with my fists curled.

Walsack faced me, laughing. “What’s the matter, kid?”

“Don’t ever touch me like that again!”

He shrugged. “Why not, you’re gay aren’t you?”

“What of it?”

“So you oughta like a real man feeling you up.”

“Is that what you are? A man?”

“One hundred percent New Mexico beefcake. A queer like you oughta be lappin’ up what I’m offering.”

“Tell me something, Walsack. If you’re such a man, why’re you even interested.”

His chest swelled. “I’m a man, all right. But a little change now and then don’t hurt. You oughta be flattered I find your ass kinda fetching.”

“If you’re such a man, that means you screw women, right?”

A smile played on his lips. “Ever chance I get.”

“So do you go feeling them up all the time.

Walsack scowled. “N-not all the time.”

“Why not?”

“Hell a man doesn’t make a play for every woman he meets. You know the old saying. Some will, some won’t.”

“According to that logic, you oughta feel them all up to see which ones will.”

“Hell, can’t do that.”

“How come?”

“They’d, I dunno, think I was a douche bag or something.”

I smiled. “There you go. Got it right the very first time.”

 

****

I believe this short story addresses a truism… far too many people, upon discovering someone is gay, automatically assumes he or she will go to bed with anyone who’s willing. Not so in most cases, as gays are looking for special people and commitments and possibly marriage, just as hetro’s do. Of course, some sleep around… just as some hetros do.

Good job, Mark. And thanks again for your help.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

My personal links:

Email: don.travis@aol.com.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982

Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.

 

Don

New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.