Five Star Review of The Zozobra Incident by The Novel Approach

DSP Publications released The Zozobra Incident, as promised, on the fifteenth of this month. Ben at the Novel Approach was the first to review the book, and he was gracious enough to award the book five stars. I was so impressed that I'm publishing it in full as a part of this blog post. Well... as the post, actually. Thanks, Ben. (Sorry, but I can't reproduce the special effects of the review.)

*****

THE NOVEL APPROACH REVIEW OF The Zozobra Incident by Don Travis

Amazon US Title: The Zozobra Incident (A BJ Vinson Mystery)

AUTHOR: Don Travis

PUBLISHER: DSP Publications

Length: 290 Pages

Category: Mystery/Suspense

At a Glance: A New Mexican mystery novel I can't say enough good things about. You'll love confidential investigator BJ Vinson!

Reviewed By: Ben
Blurb: 2nd Edition

BJ Vinson is a former marine and ex-Albuquerque PD detective turned confidential investigator. Against his better judgment, BJ agrees to find the gay gigolo who was responsible for his breakup with prominent Albuquerque lawyer Del Dahlman and recover some racy photographs from the handsome bastard. The assignment should be fast and simple.

But it quickly becomes clear the hustler isn't the one making the anonymous demands, and things turn deadly with a high-profile murder at the burning of Zozobra on the first night of the Santa Fe Fiesta. BJ's search takes him through virtually every stratum of Albuquerque and Santa Fe society, both straight and gay. Before it is over, BJ is uncertain whether Paul Barton, the young man quickly insinuating himself in BJ's life, is friend or foe. But he knows he's stepped into something much more serious than a modest blackmail scheme. With Paul and BJ next on the killer's list, BJ must find a way to put a stop to the death threats once and for all.

First Edition published as The Zozobra Incident and the Bisti Business by Martin Brown Publishers, LLC, 2012.

REVIEW: I loved this book. I loved the setting and feel of being in Albuquerque. I loved our protagonist. I loved the pacing and suspense. This was a complete win for me.
About the setting: I imagine there are quite a few cultural differences between Albuquerque and the Pacific Northwest. However, even taking that into consideration, the story was hitting me more like a nineties historical than a contemporary PI novel, even though there were cell phones and a present-day car or two. Which didn't bother me in the slightest, but I started to wonder if Albuquerque was sort of stuck in the past, with their western lingo and clothing styles. But I wouldn't know for sure. That being said, I ate up the outdated fashion, cowboy discos, and silly old-timer expressions.

BJ is an intriguing man and an excellent protagonist. He's an ex-detective, is rich, has interesting and often risky hobbies, sports a vicious old gunshot wound, hangs out at the local country club, and works as a confidential investigator. He's not your typical playboy, but his love life is fairly dynamic. For one, his ex calls to have him investigate a blackmail scandal; two, the main suspect is a male prostitute, determined to get into BJ's pants, and three, BJ falls for a college student during the investigation, who totally knocks his socks off in the bedroom. He claims to be a pretty boring guy, but for this story he certainly has a lot going on.

BJ's thrust into danger when the blackmail investigation turns deadly. I was on the edge of my seat, wondering who was going to get popped off next. I loved this setup. There was something deliciously scandalous about BJ's ex, Del, having BJ hunt down dirty photos of himself screwing another guy. And yet there was also something completely normal about it too. BJ treated the investigation just like any of his other cases, showcasing his amazing intuition and worth ethic. I was incredibly impressed with the quality of his character.

There wasn't a whole lot of talk about what BJ looked like, but with all those hot boys flocking to him, it's a safe bet he was a sexy beast. A straight man made a comment BJ was very straight-acting, but until someone said so, I didn't think much about how BJ presents himself. Another person was shocked BJ had a Stetson, which led me to believe BJ doesn't dress as a typical New Mexican. But that was hard for me to gauge, perhaps because everyone in this story seemed as if they were either a cowboy or gang member. It did make me wonder if BJ was a bit of a snob, or at least seen as one.

BJ's my new hero and definitely someone I'd want to meet in real life. I'll be following his adventures closely.

5 start--a glorious page-turner!

Ben
The Novel Approach

*****

Hey, I liked that review. Thanks, Ben. The Bisti Business will be out in a few months. Hope you like that one, as well.

Happy Thanksgiving Day to all of you. Here's remembering our troops unable to be home with their families!

As usual, readers should feel free to contact me at dontravis21@gmail.com. Thanks for being a reader.

New posts at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Five Star Review of The Zozobra Incident by The Novel Approach

DSP Publications released The Zozobra Incident, as promised, on the fifteenth of this month. Ben at the Novel Approach was the first to review the book, and he was gracious enough to award the book five stars. I was so impressed that I'm publishing it in full as a part of this blog post. Well... as the post, actually. Thanks, Ben. (Sorry, but I can't reproduce the special effects of the review.)

*****

THE NOVEL APPROACH REVIEW OF The Zozobra Incident by Don Travis

Amazon US Title: The Zozobra Incident (A BJ Vinson Mystery)

AUTHOR: Don Travis

PUBLISHER: DSP Publications

Length: 290 Pages

Category: Mystery/Suspense

At a Glance: A New Mexican mystery novel I can't say enough good things about. You'll love confidential investigator BJ Vinson!

Reviewed By: Ben
Blurb: 2nd Edition

BJ Vinson is a former marine and ex-Albuquerque PD detective turned confidential investigator. Against his better judgment, BJ agrees to find the gay gigolo who was responsible for his breakup with prominent Albuquerque lawyer Del Dahlman and recover some racy photographs from the handsome bastard. The assignment should be fast and simple.

But it quickly becomes clear the hustler isn't the one making the anonymous demands, and things turn deadly with a high-profile murder at the burning of Zozobra on the first night of the Santa Fe Fiesta. BJ's search takes him through virtually every stratum of Albuquerque and Santa Fe society, both straight and gay. Before it is over, BJ is uncertain whether Paul Barton, the young man quickly insinuating himself in BJ's life, is friend or foe. But he knows he's stepped into something much more serious than a modest blackmail scheme. With Paul and BJ next on the killer's list, BJ must find a way to put a stop to the death threats once and for all.

First Edition published as The Zozobra Incident and the Bisti Business by Martin Brown Publishers, LLC, 2012.

REVIEW: I loved this book. I loved the setting and feel of being in Albuquerque. I loved our protagonist. I loved the pacing and suspense. This was a complete win for me.
About the setting: I imagine there are quite a few cultural differences between Albuquerque and the Pacific Northwest. However, even taking that into consideration, the story was hitting me more like a nineties historical than a contemporary PI novel, even though there were cell phones and a present-day car or two. Which didn't bother me in the slightest, but I started to wonder if Albuquerque was sort of stuck in the past, with their western lingo and clothing styles. But I wouldn't know for sure. That being said, I ate up the outdated fashion, cowboy discos, and silly old-timer expressions.

BJ is an intriguing man and an excellent protagonist. He's an ex-detective, is rich, has interesting and often risky hobbies, sports a vicious old gunshot wound, hangs out at the local country club, and works as a confidential investigator. He's not your typical playboy, but his love life is fairly dynamic. For one, his ex calls to have him investigate a blackmail scandal; two, the main suspect is a male prostitute, determined to get into BJ's pants, and three, BJ falls for a college student during the investigation, who totally knocks his socks off in the bedroom. He claims to be a pretty boring guy, but for this story he certainly has a lot going on.

BJ's thrust into danger when the blackmail investigation turns deadly. I was on the edge of my seat, wondering who was going to get popped off next. I loved this setup. There was something deliciously scandalous about BJ's ex, Del, having BJ hunt down dirty photos of himself screwing another guy. And yet there was also something completely normal about it too. BJ treated the investigation just like any of his other cases, showcasing his amazing intuition and worth ethic. I was incredibly impressed with the quality of his character.

There wasn't a whole lot of talk about what BJ looked like, but with all those hot boys flocking to him, it's a safe bet he was a sexy beast. A straight man made a comment BJ was very straight-acting, but until someone said so, I didn't think much about how BJ presents himself. Another person was shocked BJ had a Stetson, which led me to believe BJ doesn't dress as a typical New Mexican. But that was hard for me to gauge, perhaps because everyone in this story seemed as if they were either a cowboy or gang member. It did make me wonder if BJ was a bit of a snob, or at least seen as one.

BJ's my new hero and definitely someone I'd want to meet in real life. I'll be following his adventures closely.

5 start--a glorious page-turner!

Ben
The Novel Approach

*****

Hey, I liked that review. Thanks, Ben. The Bisti Business will be out in a few months. Hope you like that one, as well.

As usual, readers should feel free to contact me at dontravis21@gmail.com. Thanks for being a reader.

New posts at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Me and the MVD

Hooray! As I write this on Tuesday, November 15, DSP Publications is in the process of releasing my novel, The Zozobra Incident.

*****

Now to this week’s post: Warning! Anyone going to the Motor Vehicle Division to get or renew a New Mexico driver’s license is in for a shock.

For some time now, the powers that be in the Land of Enchantment have dillied and dallied (not to mention dithered) over new requirements the feds imposed for issuing licenses that serve as secured IDs for boarding airliners or entering a federal building or base. Each year we failed to get our act together, and each year the federal authorities granted us a delay in coming into compliance.

I’m here to tell you that has come to an end. As of Monday, November 14, 2016, all New Mexico licenses issued—including both new and renewals—meet the federal standards. But getting them is something else.

My license expired a few days back, but I held out until we were FAA compliant. On Monday, I watched a local news program that explained you needed proof you were who you said you were and that you were legally present in the United States, either by birthright or by legal immigration.

Trip One

Went to nearest MVD office Tuesday a.m. a little before 9:00. Took a number (63) and was called to Window 10 about 20 minutes later.

“What can I do for you,” Window 10 asked.

“I want one of those super-duper driver’s licenses that serve as ID for airline flights.” With that, I confidently shoved both my driver’s license and the passport I got last year (in case NM didn’t get compliant before the feds banned our licenses).

“Where’s the rest of it?” he asked.

“Rest of what? My passport’s got everything you need. And it’s official. Confirmed by the good old USofA.”

“No, you need your Social Security Card and two things confirming your legal residency.”

He refused to listen to reason. Hopped into my car and raced back home (with an expired license, remember).

Trip Two

Spent half an hour trying to print online copies of a PNM bill, grabbed my lease agreement and Social Security Card and sped back to the MVD. The waiting room... full. New number... 112, with some 40 numbers ahead of me waiting to be called. If each one took 10 minutes, I’d be out of here in another 400 minutes. How many hours is that? Forgot to bring a calculator. Also forgot to bring something to read, so settled down to people watching… which got old. Fast.

Then I lucked out. The woman sitting beside me couldn’t wait any longer and offered me her ticket. Number 93. Thanked her and grabbed the scrap of paper that ought to cut 190 minutes off my wait time. Eventually, I was called to Window 12.

“What can I do for you?” Window 12 asked.

A little more sullen now, I answered, “Driver’s license.”

I pulled out the sheaf of papers I’d brought and shoved them beneath the thick pane of glass between him and me, now appreciating his need for a protective device between him and his clients.

He shuffled through bits and pieces of my life until he came to the SS card. “This is your Medicare Card, not your Social Security Card.”

“It has the same information on it, they’re issued by the same agency, and they’re both red, white, and blue. Should be okay."

“Afraid not. I have to have the Social Security card or your SS-1099 or—”

“Okay, okay! This is the second time I’ve been here, but I’ll go get it.”

After he condescended to tell me to return to him without pulling a new number, I risked another APD speeding ticket by racing home once again.

Trip Three

I located the Social Security Card (adjacent to where the Medicare card had been stored), jerked it out, and once again high-tailed it to the MVD. (Hey, APD, that’s four opportunities to nail me you missed).

Number 12 had a client, but he saw and acknowledged me. Ten minutes later, he was free, but indicated he had one other return customer ahead of me. I sat back down while the gentleman who took my rightful seat before Number 12 got titles transferred on two vehicles (a lengthy chore, I can tell you) before starting the process of getting a driver’s license renewed. As I fidgeted and fumed, I heard a number called. Number 112. Lo and behold, I still had that number in my pocket, so I beelined it to Window Eleven.

“What can I do for you today?”

I wearily shoved everything at her and leaned back wondering what she’d find wrong this time.

“Looks like you have everything, sir. Let’s get you taken care of.”

I walked out of the MVD for the final time at 12:26 p.m. Getting that license ate up almost four hours of my life… however, that did include travel time.

Dear readers, in view of the above, feel free to tell me what a dolt I am at dontravis21@gmail.com.

New Posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Honeysuckle, Wisteria, and Little Rosy

How about a piece of nonsense this week. Just a short, short story… sort of.

But first, let me remind everyone that my book, The Zozobra Incident, comes out on Tuesday, November 15. I’ll admit to being a little bit excited.

Now to the story.

*****

HONEYSUCKLE, WISTERIA, AND LITTLE ROSY

Fred the mailman parked his white, blue-trimmed, boxy vehicle at the top of the street and stuffed his heavy bag with the appropriate deliveries. This was the last street and his favorite block on the route. Hard to say why. Small wooded area at the bottom of the hill. Double row of thirties-type homes facing one another across the asphalt. Upscale then, middle class now. They weren’t cookie-cutter houses. Each one was a custom-built. All neat and well-tended. There was just one thing wrong with the neighborhood. It was old enough so that each residence had a mail box affixed to the wall beside the front door, grandfathered in before the changes that made mail delivery possible from the front seat of his truck. Still, somehow it was worth the inconvenience.

Most likely it was the folks living here who made it so special. The Parsons family on the east side of the street at the top of the block were cat people. They resembled their pets, meaning they sometimes watched from the window but never came outside to say hello. Snooty or shy? In five years, he hadn’t figured that out.

Farther down the block, he came to the Daniels’ house. Except he called it the Spaniels’ house. Two beautiful Springers roamed the fenced yard. He chuckled to himself. They needed a “Beware of Dog” sign posted at the gate. Not because Nip and Tuck were ferocious, they just mauled him a little trying to plant sloppy kisses on his nose.

Down at the end of the block, the Smith’s hamster sitting in her cage at the picture window usually went crazy on her wheel. Her little legs moved in a whir as soon as he hit the front step. He could hear the squeak of the circular ladder as it spun… even through the plate glass.

But the Foxendillers, last house on the west side closest to the wooded area, were his favorite. Joe Foxendiller, a retired computer programmer, lived with his wife in the neat stucco with a modest mansard roof. Joe liked to talk, and often as not, met Fred at the door to collect his mail before it got to the mailbox. And, often as not, he’d be accompanied by his three “babies.”

The family’s children had grown up and moved out, leaving the old folks with their surviving pets: Honeysuckle, Wisteria, and Little Rosy… born this past May. Fred was pretty sure it was illegal to own pet skunks in New Mexico—something to do with rabies—but the Foxendiller kids had been raising them for years, and nobody in the neighborhood seemed to object.

Joe didn’t come to the door today, but Fred spotted two little animals sitting side-by-side on top of the sofa near the window. Black button eyes, black fur with two gorgeous white stripes running down each of their backs. He did a double take. There were usually three. Where was Honeysuckle? That was the big male. He was usually sitting there with the other two.

He had ribbed Joe about naming a male skunk Honeysuckle, but Joe just shrugged and said the kids gave all their pets flower names like that children’s book, Bambi. And that’s the one he got stuck with. Wisteria, the female, was slightly smaller, but had a sweeter nature. Little Rosy was as friendly and awkward as a small puppy.

Fred waved at the little guys before dropping the Foxendillers’ stack of bills and advertising in the box. Then he turned and tripped down the steps, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of a big skunk on the sidewalk. The mammal seemed as wary of Fred as Fred was of him.

“Honeysuckle! You gave me a start? What are you doing outside?”

He bent down to stroke the animal’s head—just as he had a hundred times before—but the skunk hissed and backed up a few steps. That wasn’t like Honeysuckle. Probably because his owner wasn’t with him. Joe never let his pets outside by themselves.

“Okay, guy, you’re gonna get in trouble, you know.” Fred backed up the steps and felt for the door handle. Sometimes the Foxendillers failed to lock their door. It was that kind of neighborhood. The knob turned to his touch, and he stood aside. “Go on, get inside.”

The animal stared at the gaping door a moment before making a dash up the steps and disappearing inside. Feeling proud of himself, Fred gave a tip of his hat to the three pets lining the back of the couch.

Three?

Fred glanced into the shadowed hallway in time to see a white tail disappear around a corner.

“Oh, my God!” he moaned. “What have I done?”

*****

Man, I’m glad I wasn’t in that house for the next few minutes… or the next few days if the stray skunk got pissed at someone. Wonder if Fred admitted what he did or simply slunk away. Let me know what you think about the story.

I welcome comments at dontravis21@gmail.com. Thanks for being readers.

New Posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

The Day the Sun Defecated

Another short story this week? Here it is.

*****

THE DAY THE SUN DEFECATED

He did a double take. Had the early afternoon sun really defecated? Was that a small, glaucous piece of crap floating to earth?

Ridiculous, of course. A parachute? Maybe, but he saw no evidence of an aircraft. Yes, there was something, but it was at such an altitude as to make it unidentifiable. His eyes returned to the shimmering piece of ethereal flotsam and realized it, too, was still high in the sky. His heart raced. Was this some alien falling to earth?

Even as he threw his old Jeep into gear, he shook his head. Naw. Nothing so outstanding. Things like that didn’t happen to Marshall Goodson. He marked the position of the distant speck relative to Dead Horse Butte before easing forward over the rough mountain track.

As soon as he reentered the forest, he lost track of the object, but he knew of two places a few miles ahead of him that would make appropriate landing spots for parachutes… or UFOs. He glanced at the rough, unimproved road. No fresh tracks ahead of him. If that was a parachutist, no one had come to pick him up. Not by this route, at least. There was a back way, but anyone familiar with the area knew that was a very rough drive. His curiosity pegged at maximum, Marshall pushed the doughy little vehicle harder… and took the punishment that maneuver occasioned.

After splashing through the thin trickle of Ria La Placita, he emerged from the evergreens and started down the long, sloping road that dropped into the canyon. He forded the deeper waters of Hooligan’s Creek and started up the rough, narrow track that took him up onto the plateau. He judged about thirty minutes had passed before he reached the first likely spot.

Nothing stirred in the mountain meadow other than a lone doe that stood her ground and returned his stare. Her fawn was probably hidden close by. His tense muscles relaxed, making him understand he’d been half hoping for a little excitement.

Marshall revved the motor again and headed deeper into the forest. Another fifteen minutes lapsed by the time he reached the more likely spot, a broad, circular meadow. Empty. Disappointment roiled his stomach. No alien craft wreckage. No parachute crumpled on the grass. Crap! Nothing extraordinary ever happened in his drab life.

He was about back out onto the road when a man walked out from the cover of the trees. Startled, Marshall’s hand tightened on the gearshift. Ordinary looking Joe, if a little taller than most men. Wearing camo gear that wasn’t quite military, but could have been. No pack of any sort, just a carrier—probably plastic—that vaguely resembled a violin case.

“Looking for a lift,” he called.

The man walked forward, inspecting him closely. An athlete from the way he moved. “Yes, I could use one.” The heavy voice hid a slight accent of some sort. “Dr. Smith said to tell you hello.”

There it was again, that elusive foreign sound. Smith almost started with a Z. And the first syllable of hello was a shade too strong. A shiver of unease flowed over Marshall's shoulders.

“Don’t believe I know a Dr. Smith,” he answered carefully.

The man did not react, but his eyes did. Just slightly. A mere tightening of the flesh around them.”

“Ah, well, goodbye then.  I am not yet ready to return to town.”

“Sure? It’s pretty deserted around here.”

As if to make a liar out of him, Marshall caught the distinct growl of a laboring engine. A vehicle coming in from the north… the back way. The sound of that motor momentarily froze the world. Nothing moved over the meadow until a dark green Land Rover turned off the road about a hundred yards in front of them and headed through the tall grass directly for the Jeep.

The Rover halted ten yards in front of Marshall’s vehicle, and a short dumpy man with a distinctly foreign air hopped out.

“Dr. Smith said to say hello,” his camoed companion called out.

“Ah, how is the old man. Well, I hope.”

Camo man smiled, but it wasn’t a nice thing to see. Marshall threw the jeep into gear once again and started to back up.

“Just a minute,” Camo took a step toward him. “I did not thank you properly for your offer of help.”

“That’s okay. I….” Marshal’s voice died as a small, black, efficient-looking pistol appeared in the man’s hand.

“Is there really a need for this?” Dumpy man asked, alarm making his voice thin. Then he spoke a few words in a language Marshall did not understand.

Camo halted beside the Jeep’s front tire. Marshall had previously removed the canvas top and laid his windshield flat, so they stared directly into one another’s eyes.

“Please turn off your engine,” Camo said to Marshall.

“I don’t think so.”

Camo raised the pistol and pointed it right between his eyes. “I insist.”

Before Marshall could obey, Stocky spoke again in that strange tongue. Marshall shivered in sudden fear. His armpits grew wet. Slavic, he decided. “Russian?”

He hadn’t realized he spoke aloud until the two men turned to face him. Then he understood. The President of the United States—his president—was in town. Or at least the presidential party was at a compound in the mountains, meeting with counterparts from around the world to discuss trade issues. That wasn’t a violin Camo carried. It was a rifle broken down and waiting to be reassembled. Waiting to kill. This was an assassin… no, what did they call them? This was a mechanic coming to assassinate the American president.

“I see you have figured it out,” Camo said in a voice devoid of feeling. “That is too bad.”

Marshall went momentarily dead on the inside. His trembling ceased. Even his fear evaporated before a rising anger. He was surprised to realize the Jeep’s motor was still idling. In a single sudden motion, he threw the vehicle in low gear, cut the wheel sharply to the left, and gunned the motor. The sound of his own voice shouting “Take that, you piece of shit,” startled him.

Caught by surprise, Camo attempted to lurch backward, but the fender hit him solidly. When he tried to recover, the driver’s side mirror caught him in the back and sent him reeling.

Marshall made straight for the forest. For a moment he thought he would make it. Then he heard gunfire. From two weapons. Camo was hurt but not out of it. But maybe he was hurt enough….

Two bullets struck the Jeep’s frame before something hammered into his back.

                                                                    *****

That's what I like about blogs... I don't have to obey rules. I can publish what I want. How do you kill the guy who's telling the story? It just stops, right? Leaving us to wonder if Marshall, who was merely looking to pick up a stranded stranger to bring a little variety into his dull life, accomplished something useful after all. Had he injured Camo man enough to prevent the assassin from accomplishing his murderous assignment? Unfortunately, Marshall will never know. But then we won't either.

Give me your guesses at markwildyr@aol.com.

New posts publisher at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Breathsong

I’m wallowing in nostalgia again this week, so I’d like to publish a paean to my late wife. Please bear with me as I remember Betty.

*****

BREATHSONG

I know exactly when the act of inhaling and exhaling became something more than simply breathing… when it became breathsong.

Subconsciously, I accepted the concept long ago, but understanding it as song became clear to me as my wife lay dying in an ICU, her lungs tortured by pneumonia, her breathing measured by machines. Betty had a long history with the illness. She suffered a serious case decades ago. In later years, she acquired “walking pneumonia” five times in one twelve-month period, something that required medical attention but not hospitalization.

She had an even longer association with tobacco. She took up smoking at age sixteen and continued unabated until her admission to the ICU unit at UNM Hospital. Betty had routinely smoked two packs a day in the fifty-five years I’d known her. When I questioned her about verified data proving the use of tobacco could be deadly, she responded that those were statistics. “I’m an individual with my own set of genes and stamina and ways of dealing with health issues.” In years hence, I’ve wondered if that intelligent woman realized how dumb she sounded at that moment.

Betty’s gone now, of course, but I often think of her breathsong. A language all its own, it beat to a unique rhythm that changed with the stimulus of the moment… tempest, squall, tornado, sea breeze, gentle caress, mountain calm. Full-throated when she drew on Doral filter tips—a muted inhale followed by a satisfied whoosh, signifying pleasure. Slow and languid when cuddling one of our sons as he slept in her arms. Sharp and irritated when the other child grew mischievous.

Her breath signaled anything she wished to express: excitement, fatigue, love, displeasure…and especially the passing of an emotional storm. Her breathing bespoke of love at times of personal intimacy, awe when viewing such marvels as the Valles Caldera, surprise at an anniversary present, apprehension when confronting one of life’s unexpected challenges. It projected her anger or displeasure (usually with me) as distinctly as it expressed forgiveness and struck a chord of clear warning when someone earned her displeasure.

I remember the day that song died.

Oh, how I miss her breathsong.

*****

Thanks for indulging me in this moment of weakness. Betty was a red-headed gal with a temperament to match. I was lucky to have known her.

I welcome comments at dontravis21@gmail.com. Thanks for being readers.

New Posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Auto-da-fey in Santa Fe

As the release date for The Zozobra Incident draws closer, I am increasingly excited at the prospect. November 15, 2016 is a red-letter day for me… Zozobra day. So forgive me for continuing to talk about the upcoming re-release.

*****

OGRE BURNED TO DEATH in Santa Fe, New Mexico BEFORE JEERING THOUSANDS

Old Man Gloom, Alias Zozobra, Burned to Cinders to the Cheers of Spectators.

Not to worry, it’s an annual burning-at-the-stake that’s been going on in the City Different since 1924. The victim, of course, is not flesh and blood; he’s a fifty-foot articulated puppet whose annual incineration is designed to render all of our woes and worries to ashes... along with him. Or at least, that’s the Mexican folklore legend.

The event takes place on the Thursday following Labor Day and kicks off the Santa Fe Fiesta, a grand celebration dating back to 1712 when the Marquis de Peñuelo, the Governor of New Spain, decreed a party to mark the reconquest of Santa Fe by Don Diego de Vargas following the Pueblo Revolt. The Fiesta is billed as North America’s oldest continuous civic celebration.

Now comes Don Travis’s timely novel, The Zozobra Incident, using the burning of Zozobra as a pivotal moment in his contemporary murder mystery. He provides the flavor, as well as the history, of this symbolic purging of our souls. Zozobra is the first of a series of mysteries featuring BJ Vinson, an Albuquerque confidential investigator. Each novel in the series takes place in New Mexico, allowing the author to paint vivid word pictures of some of our beautiful landscapes and historical places.

New Mexico author Sarah Storme reviewed The Zozobra Incident and awarded it five stars: When BJ Vinson's ex-lover comes to him for help, the investigator is drawn into an increasingly dangerous mystery full of murder and blackmail. And the big question: is his new love interest involved, or simply at risk? Don Travis weaves a fast-paced mystery over the backdrop of Albuquerque and Santa Fe, sending his protagonist into more and more dangerous situations as the story progresses. BJ Vinson, ex-Marine and ex-cop, not only deals with gangbangers and thugs with ease, he also handles most of the prejudice against his sexual orientation with an admirable shrug. He's a guy who is easy to root for. I recommend this book to anyone who enjoys mysteries full of suspense, and with deliciously exciting endings. Readers will also enjoy the excitement of new romance laced through the tale.

Buyer’s Remorse

From age and experience comes wisdom; from wisdom comes decisiveness. Right?

Perhaps not. I’m a “status quo” sort of guy. Except for a computer, almost everything I own probably qualifies as an antique. Until absolutely forced to replace it, I slept on a bed bought over fifty years ago. Heck, I use handkerchiefs that are thirty years old. Ragged, but old. A couple of tables in the apartment are senior to my sons.

 The point I am trying to make is that other than consumables, I do not often buy things. In addition, I am really attached to my favorite chair. But when my legs start going numb after sitting for a period of time, I consider the idea of acquiring another. You must understand that there are two centers to my universe (well, three… but we won’t talk about the refrigerator): my Lazy Boy recliner and my computer desk. I eat meals in that chair. I read there. Nap there. Work puzzles and write short fiction on my laptop… and it’s only fifteen-years-old, hardly an antique.

     Nonetheless, when Lazy Boy advertises a sale, I consider this a sign from on high that it is time to act. I visit the store and ask to see their cheapest…er, least expensive chair. In passing, the sales representative points out a recliner he considers their best buy. Naturally, it is fully $100 more than the chea… least expensive. The man invites me to sit in the chair of my choice and try out all sixteen of its positions while he goes to the office and works up a pricing sheet.

    The old boy knew what he was doing. After five minutes, I recognize the chair is too small. When I recline, the foreshortened back leaves my head hanging with me staring at the ceiling slightly behind me. My hips don’t fit properly. On and on. So I do what he knew I would… ask him to show me that other chair. By comparison, it is heaven. The cost is at the upper limit of my budget, so I have to bargain. I agree to handle the sales tax if he eliminates the charge for “stain-proofing” the fabric. He agrees but won’t budge on the $80 delivery charge. Okay, so I’ll pick it up at the warehouse and do away with that deal breaker. I know people with trucks and muscles. Shouldn’t be a problem. So we make all the arrangements, and I return home.

    Once there, I sit in my old recliner and note how well it fits the rather odd contours of my body. How comfortable it is when I lie back and close my eyes. Heck, I don’t need a new one. Can probably get another fifteen years out of this one. Then I make the mistake of eating supper in the chair. By the time I finish, my legs are well on the way to numb.

    Wednesday arrives… the day of the Great Chair Pickup. I’d asked my neighbor (hereinafter known as MN) to help me pick up my new purchase. MN is big, hefty fellow almost as old as I am who has a Nissan van equal to the task. Between the two of us, we should be able get my chair into the apartment and dispose of the old one.

    Lazy Boy’s workers at the warehouse load my purchase into the Nissan and we head home. Unloading the chair presents no problem. MN has a two-wheeled trolley, so getting it to my apartment should be easy even though we have a series of steps to maneuver. Two at the sidewalk, five where we turned into my building, and two more on the way to the front door.

    We make the first two steps but then discover that the chair is dragging on the sidewalk. We reposition it, which isn’t as easy as I expected. Even so, we make it to the set of five steps in front of my building where we run into a problem. MN insists we fasten the chair with a bungee cord so it won’t fall off the trolley as we bump our way up the steps. I don’t think thait's necessary because I am at the bottom supporting the chair, but we’d used his truck and mostly his muscle power thus far. Besides, he’s a trained scientist. (True, he’s a geologist, but it has an “i-s-t” at the end, doesn’t it? My government and history degrees only have an “e-n-t” and an “o-r-y between them. And what’s an ent and an ory when compared to an ist?)

    The trouble was, we don’t have a bungee cord long enough to do the job. We can hook it one place or the other but not both. MN sits down on the third step to rest while he puts his scientific mind to work solving our problem, but when muscle power won’t stretch a six-inch cord to twelve inches, he decides to stand up. That’s when I discover he’s no better at getting off the ground than I am. I think for a minute he isn’t going to make it, and I certainly can’t help him. He’s bigger than I am (configured differently, but bigger), and I have trouble getting me up, much less him.

    As he’s fighting that battle, another neighbor comes by (hereinafter known as My Other Neighbor or MON) and sees our predicament. After taking in the situation, he grabs the trolley, pulls it up the steps, and rolls the chair into the apartment. Then he hoists my favorite recliner over his shoulder and hauls it up an entire flight of stairs to his apartment—without even a wobble in his knees—thereby saving me the trouble of disposing of it.

###

    After that, I collapsed into my new chair and squirmed for ten minutes bemoaning the fact it didn’t conform to my exhausted body before finally falling into a restless asleep. MN went to his own upstairs apartment (most likely on his hands and knees) to fall into his bed for a nap. MON tripped down the stairs from his apartment and whistled his way to his car to go do who knows what? Probably slay dragons and save old duffers from poorly planned physical activities.

*****

Just wait. In fifteen or so years, you’ll read this post from an entirely different viewpoint than you are now. Let me know what you think  at dontravis21@gmail.com. Thanks for being readers.

New Posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

More Characters from The Zozobra Incident (A Reprint)

I apologize for another reprint (and promise to use them more sparingly in the future), but I want to complete my introduction of the major characters from both the book, THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT, and the BJ Vinson Mystery Series. Remember, DSP Publications is giving rebirth to the novel (and the series) beginning November 15.

*****

Last week, we learned about BJ, our protagonist, took a look at Hazel Harris, his secretary-office manager-surrogate mom, and met Del Dahlman, BJ’s first love and first bitter disappointment, who is now a successful Albuquerque attorney. We will see these characters throughout the series.

We also gained some insight into Emilio Prada, the handsome gigolo responsible for breaking up BJ and Del. Now let’s look at some other individuals who populate BJ’s world.

Detective Eugene (Gene) Enriquez is just shy of his forty-first birthday when we first meet him. A local (he was born in Bernalillo, a town fifteen miles north of Albuquerque), Gene is stocky, five-seven, and weighs 155 pounds. A Hispanic, he has vaguely Polynesian features a lot of women find attractive. After his army service, he goes through the Albuquerque Police Academy and is sworn in as an officer. He walks a downtown beat and even rides horse patrol for a short period, but his ambition is to become a detective. Some years after he achieves this goal, he finds himself assigned to a new partner… a gay partner. B. J. Vinson. It bothers him at first that BJ, who could have passed as a hetero, doesn’t bother to deny his homosexuality when asked about it. Before long, Gene comes to admire his new partner’s honesty. The guy is gay, and that’s that. Once Gene learns he can trust his partner’s judgment and instincts, they get along professionally and socially. Gene takes some flack from other cops about riding with a queer, but Gene is married to Glenda, an attractive woman with whom he has five kids. He figures that all the cover he needs. He takes it hard when BJ nearly dies while they are apprehending an accused murderer, but he keeps in touch when his partner takes medical retirement and opens a confidential investigations office. He is one of the few people who knows BJ inherited a fortune upon his parent’s death. We’ll see Gene again.

Paul Barton looks Hispanic to Anglos and Anglo to Hispanics. When BJ first meets him, the family name “Barton” takes him by surprise. He expected it to be a Spanish surname, but it is Paul’s mother who carries the Latin blood. Paul was born on June 13, 1985 in Albuquerque’s South Valley. That makes him twenty-one at the time of THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT. BJ first spies him with a cowgirl on the dance floor at the C&W Palace, Albuquerque’s biggest book-stomping joint. Drawn by Paul’s good looks and lean frame, BJ later realizes the kid is the new lifeguard at the North Valley Country Club where he swims as therapy for the bullet wound in his thigh. Once the connection is made, their mutual attraction soon becomes evident. This is the first time BJ has been tempted since Del’s betrayal. Paul is not only a lifeguard, he is also a full-time student at UNM pursuing a degree in Journalism. In addition, he works in the school’s cafeteria so he can live on campus his senior year. Paul is 5’11” and weighs 155 pounds. He has brown eyes, brown hair, and a swimmer’s build, A small dragon tattoo decorates his left pec. Fiercely independent, he drives an old Plymouth coupe even though BJ offers to buy him a more recent model. He’s an expert swimmer, plays soccer and golf, and loves to dance. His father, Paul Barton Sr. was a carpenter who died of TB when Paul was ten-years-old. His mother, Luisa Marta Arrular de Barton, works two jobs while raising her son. He is exposed to gang activity in the South Valley, but resists the temptation to join. Once Paul and BJ get together, Paul is absolutely devoted, even though there are some stormy times ahead. Needless to say, we’ll see Paul in future novels.

And then there is the surprise fun character. The widow Mrs. Gertrude Wardlow has lived across the street from BJ for as long as he can remember. He considers her as a frail, diminutive old woman who wears her white hair like a helmet and speaks in a thin, tremulous voice. But when the chips are down, he learns she and her late husband Herb were both retired from the DEA and that she still has the spirit as well as the will of a fighter. She is a continuing character.

*****

This is the last of the reprints for a while. Let me know what you think at dontravis21@gmail.com. A hoorah to all readers.

New Posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.

Other Voices in the Zozobra Incident (A Reprint)

Last week, we learned a little more about the protagonist of THE ZOZOBRA INCIDENT, BJ Vinson, so I’d like to take the liberty of another re-post to take a deeper look into some of the other voices in the novel, starting with Hazel Harris, BJ’s office manager and surrogate mom.

                                                                                             

*****

At the time ZOZOBRA takes place, Hazel, a retired teacher and best friend of BJ’s deceased mother, is sixty-three-years-old. She stands 5’5” and weighs 150 pounds. She is plump, rather dowdy, gray-eyed, and considers it her responsibility to be a stand-in mom. Although he tweaks her nose now and then, BJ puts up with Hazel’s smothering because he is truly fond of her. Besides, she runs the office—and sometimes him—efficiently and makes sure the clients pay their bills… something BJ wouldn’t be nearly as proficient at doing. Plump, capable, and nosy, Hazel reminds him of that sassy maid of the same name in the comics and on TV who runs the fictional Baxter household. She doesn’t approve of his gay lifestyle but loves him like a son. We meet her throughout the series.

Delbert David Dahlman, known as Del to his friends and associates, is a slender, blue-(sapphire) eyed, blond with an athletic build (obtained in a gym). He stands 5’11” and weighs 160 pounds. Del possesses an eternally youthful appearance that seems to defy aging. A Chicago boy who attended the UNM Law School, he’s practiced mostly corporate and tax law in Albuquerque ever since 2001. He is an associate attorney with a large local firm named Stone, Hedges, Martinez, Levishon, etc.… or the Blahs, as BJ calls them. He is thirty-two-years old in 2006 when he comes to BJ and asks for help running down a blackmailer. He had met BJ in the line of duty, and when they were attracted to one another, they ended up living together in BJ’s home on Post Oak NE until BJ was seriously wounded in the right thigh by a bullet from an accused murder’s gun. During the long recovery, Del wasn’t able to handle the home nursing and allowed himself to be seduced by a handsome gigolo named Emilio Prada. The manner of the split-up makes it hard for him to come to BJ when he assumes Emilio is handing around some raw pictures. Nonetheless, he swallows his pride and asks BJ for help. Del also lives on throughout the series.

Emilio Prada is a twenties-something legal immigrant from Durango, Mexico. He is handsome in that way some Hispanic juveniles are prettier than their girlfriends, although “Milio” never grew out of it. Rather than work for a living, he uses his looks and slender, wiry build to make his money. He is amoral more than immoral. He sees nothing wrong with selling himself to men or women. In fact, he enjoys the seduction. When he meets Del Dahlman, he figures he’s found a goldmine… the answer to his dreams. Here is a handsome, successful man wealthy enough to take care of him for the rest of his life. Besides, the sex is good. But Milio likes to dominate his marks (and that’s what Del is) and oversteps the bounds of their relationship. When Del sends him packing, he takes some very graphic pictures of the two with him, the genesis of Del’s belief that Milio is behind the blackmailing.

But things are not as simple as they seem.

*****

Let me reaffirm my belief that readers are the greatest people on earth. Let me know what you think at dontravis21@gmail.com.

New Posts published at 6:00 a.m. each Thursday.