30. September 2017 · Comments Off on Another Story From A Fifth of Luna City! · Categories: Luna City Short Stories

(OK, so I hope to have the next Luna City book available by November, 2017. Read and enjoy!)

Kitchen Work

“The work day in a restaurant kitchen starts early,” Richard had told his young prospective apprentices, halfway wishing that they would reconsider the whole thing. “Very early – as in before the crack of dawn; 5 AM to be precise.”

“Well, that’s all right,” Bree Grant chirped. “Gee-Nan and Grampy’s roosters tune up just outside my bedroom window, hours before sunrise, and Grampy gets up early to feed the goats.”

“And on those days when we serve supper at the Café – which will be those Friday and Saturdays around the holidays and special events,” Richard continued, hoping to dampen some of that juvenile optimism, as it made him feel very old, “Your work day will end at ten o’clock. Midnight if you are not on top of the game. Otherwise at around 3 PM, when everything for the following day is sorted.”

“That’s all right,” Bree was unquenched. “Anything to get out of eating Gee-Nans tofu and lentil barf.”

“Wait until you have spent a week scrubbing dishes, pots, and pans,” Richard warned. “That tofu-barf might start to look awfully good to you, then.”

“Never,” Bree looked obstinate, and Richard scowled. “Let me remind you; I am to be addressed as Chef. I will address you as Grant and I will not be contradicted. About the only thing I want to hear from you is a request for clarification, and it had better be a necessary request, let me tell you – is ‘Yes, Chef – immediately, Chef.’ Are we clear?”

“Yes, Chef,” Bree nodded. Richard obscurely pleased that she did not quit on the spot, said, “Good. See you tomorrow, Grant. Bright, early, and 4:30 sharp.”

“Yes, Chef.” Bree glowed happily, and Richard sighed for the resilience of extreme youth.

 

Bree was, in fact, waiting for him the next morning, when he opened the door to the Airstream. She was sitting on the old picnic table at the next camping-spot over, with her own bicycle leaning against it.

“Good morning, Chef!” she exclaimed, as Richard rolled out his bike, and Ozzie hopped into his basket on the back. “Is this early enough for you, Chef?”

“Grant, don’t talk to me and expect a civil answer until I’ve had twelve more inches of hot British caffeine in me.”

“Yes, Chef,” she answered, still irritatingly sunny.

 

To his mild astonishment, Robbie Walcott was sitting on the back stoop of the Café, waiting for them. An elderly Volvo sedan was parked in the space by the trash bins – obviously, he had driven himself. The Volvo was dented here and there, and splotched with rust and off-color primer paint – obviously the main transportation for the younger Walcotts.

Like Bree, Robbie was annoyingly cheerful. “Hi, Chef, Hi Bree. I didn’t want to be late on my first day. Dad always says if you are on time, you are early…”

“He would,” Richard unlocked the back door, and flicked on the lights in the kitchen; spick, span, and scrubbed tidy. “Well then, Grant, Walcott … by the time this summer is over – and if you last, you will be qualified to start in any restaurant in the land as a line cook. An extremely inexperienced one – but a line cook, none the less. I expect you to know where everything – every plate and pan, every ingredient, every tool – is in this kitchen by the end of today. Perishable storage is to the right – walk in cooler, and freezer. To the left, non-perishable. Through here – the main kitchen. Every such item here has a designated place, and by the end of the day, be in it; clean, polished and ready for continuing use. Am I clear so far?”

“Yes, Chef!” they chorused obediently. Bree bounced up and down on her trainer-shod feet. “I have a question, Chef – what are we going to learn, first?”

“Ah,” Richard smiled, dangerously. “How to wash dishes. And scour pots. And take a turn at peeling veg, and taking out the garbage. Still keen on learning classic French cuisine, the old-fashioned way?”

“Well, yeah, of course, Chef,” Robbie answered first, earnest and slightly baffled as to why it should be any other way. “Dad says that the right way to learn a job from the ground up is to start with the dirty stuff. And to handle a ration of crap. It’s a form of hazing, Dad says. A necessary ritual initiation, required to become part of an elite unit. Otherwise it just wouldn’t be the elite if just anyone could power through and carry out the unit mission. Dad says otherwise it’s participation trophies all the way around, and that’s no way to manage an elite organization. Not if the organization wants to go on being elite. Dad says…”

“Enough,” Richard held up a hand. It pained him to admit, even if only to himself, that Clovis Walcott – that is, Colonel Retired Clovis Walcott – had a point, albeit one pounded in with a sledgehammer. “You don’t need to tell me what your father says, again.”

“I really want to learn to cook, Chef,” Bree announced, her lower lip sticking out, mutinously. “Cook the right way, and anything that isn’t tofu-barf. And I’ll wash pots and take out the garbage, if that’s the deal. What comes next, when we know everything there is to know about dishwashing and peeling potatoes? When do we really start learning to cook.”

“In good time, Grant,  and in stages,” Richard smiled ferociously. “When you are sufficiently experienced at pearl-diving, then you move on to plating up cold salads, appetizers and desserts. Not actually making them – just putting them on plates in an attractive manner. Once you are adept with the cold foods, you will move on to plating the hot foods – side dishes, stews, or casseroles. Because this is a small establishment with limited menu options, I plan to combine those duties with managing the fryers. Should you succeed in not setting a massive fire which burns the place to the ground and actually dishing up edible servings of fried items, then it’s on to the sauté station. Ah, my innocent little novices – the sauté station will be the making or breaking of you. Lots of different foods, cooked in hot pans, all at the same time. Here again – because it is a small place, with a limited menu, I have combined it with the broiler-grill station; chops, burgers, hot sandwiches, sautéed fish. Attention to detail, unflappable in the face of distraction – that is what this station demands of the aspiring apprentice cook. In between breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I also plan to familiarize you with the mysteries of baking breads and sweet rolls, edible garnishes, and making soups and sauces. In larger kitchens, those are the province of dedicated specialists – but here in the Café …”

“You double up,” Robbie nodded, quite without guile or sarcasm.

“Indeed,” Richard continued. “What normally would take four or five years is being crammed into the space of three months … well, by the end of summer, should you last that long,” he added, parenthetically, “You will have the barest, slightest inkling of how to cook. And one more thing. Hygiene is of primary importance. You will wash your hands upon starting work, after using the facility, after handling raw food, eating, or touching your hair, face, clothing, coughing, or sneezing … in fact, go and wash your hands now, just on general principles.” He sighed again. “Every day, a clean apron – they are hanging up in the closet by the back door. Dirty ones go into the bin at the end of the day. The same for clean towels. The laundry truck comes once a week. But for now, mes enfants – go wash your hands and put on your aprons. The workday begins.”

 

“It has surprised me no end,” Richard confessed, not a week later, when Kate Heisel came out to the Age of Aquarius. Over the previous month, they had fallen into a habit; on Monday afternoons, after Richard had gotten a good night sleep after a weekend of eighteen-hour long days, and the Weekly Beacon had been put to bed, of Kate coming out to the Airstream for a light early supper, a progress report/strategy session, and a cuddle. Unfortunately, the scheduled cuddle was with Ozzie, who made no secret of his perverse adoration of Kate. Now the cat was curled up in Kate’s lap, as she lounged in the banquette seats in the caravan, her sensible shoes kicked off and a glass of Sefton’s marvelous mustang grape elixir at her elbow. Richard was fixing filet of sole bonne femme on the tiny gas stovetop, to accompany a dish of carrots caramelized with a bit of butter, ginger, and brown sugar.

“What has?” Kate asked, reasonably. The first two videos for Captain Kitten’s Kitchen had been shot, edited and posted, one with Mateo and Angelika, one with Robbie and Bree – all demonstrating simple dishes and techniques.

“The apprentices,” Richard answered. “Grant and Walcott … I have been brutal with them, my Kate of Kate Hall. Brutal, sarcastic, and demanding. Run them off their feet, hounding them every second, like a species of human sheep-dog, snapping at their heels. Do this – wash your hands – no, you imbecile, attend to the recipe card as it is written – and to what end?”

“Yes, what end?” Kate gave Ozzie a lingering caress, and Richard scowled at the sauté pan in which the sauce for the filets was thickening nicely.

“To no end! They are cheerful, obedient … every dish and pot in the place has been scoured to the nines – three times! The prep-work for the following day has been done – even before I ask for it! They say ‘Good morning, Chef!’ and ‘What can I do now, Chef?’ The walk-in cooler is cleaner and more neatly-arranged than I have ever seen it! Guests can hardly set down an empty cup or a plate, and Grant or Walcott is around to take it away. I am baffled, my Kate – baffled beyond words.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Kate grinned and held up her glass for a refill – which Richard was happy to do – seeing that it only was a half-step from cooker to refrigerator, and then to table. “You’re flattering them, Richard. You’re doing the courtesy of treating them like adults and not pulling your punches. Kids that age crave being treated like adults, not like delicate little children-orchids. And,” she added, taking a sip of Sefton’s glorious elixir. “That is what kids of that age want, more than anything else. To be treated as if they are grown-ups, to have real responsibility. Doesn’t matter if you’re the harshest, most demanding bastard on the planet. You’re being real and absolutely straight with them. And you are teaching them importing things. Bree wants to learn to cook, in the worst way …”

“Agreed with that,” Richard sighed. “She’s impulsive with the recipes, without sufficient grasp of the rules required to break them successfully.”

“But she wants to learn,” Kate continued. “So does Robbie. Now, he strikes me as being one of those kids who adores a challenge.”

“They certainly have it now,” Richard agreed, and Kate giggled.

“Reminds me of working on the school magazine when I was in high school.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing in Luna City,” Richard racked his brain and came up empty, and Kate giggled again.

“No – I went to school at St. Scholastica’s in Karnesville. The guy who was taught the journalism class which produced the magazine was a crusty old Jesuit, who made his vows equally to God and the Chicago Manual of Style. He was as brutal to his students as you are to your apprentices – but we all adored Brother Gerald. He had high standards. When you finally succeeded in pleasing him, you had accomplished something, and you knew it was good. It was rough at first,” Kate admitted generously. “Getting back a story that you had slaved over covered with so many red marks it looked like an ink-bottle had exploded was a definite kick in the ego. And eventually, learning was achieved.”

“Life, alas, is full of kicks to the ego,” Richard poured himself another glass of wine. “Best learn to handle them and move on.”

“Speaking of moving on,” Kate gave an extra-thorough head-skritch to Ozzie. “Have you picked up any stray talk about the Mills Farm expansion?”

“Thou woundest me, Kate – that you would treat me as an informant, lurking around the tables, picking up gossipy tittle-tattle around the Café for your news stories!”

“I wouldn’t do anything of the sort!” Kate protested, although she had flushed rather pink. “No – I was just making conversation. If I wanted the straight scoop on that, I would go directly to Lew Dubois. I’m just a small-town newspaper reporter – and a weekly at that. I had just been talking to Great-uncle Jaimie last week – and he was going on about signing a hunting lease agreement with Mills Farm. He was so pleased – and it was all because of Lew. He came and talked to Uncle Jaimie a good few times, all dressed in a dirty barn-coat and muddy boots, explaining what it was all about… Uncle Jaimie was pleased as anything. He’s been next-door-across-the-river with Mills Farm since forever, and all he ever got out of them by way of outreach was Benny Cordova buying him drinks at the VFW now and again. Uncle Jaimie must be about the only property owner in Karnes County who doesn’t have a gas lease on his land.”

“Anti-fracking?” Richard stirred the sauce for the sole filets. “Supposed to cause earthquakes, you know.”

“No, just no one ever explained it to him that it wasn’t like the move Giant … an oil well spewing finest grade-a crude in a humongous pool over all of his pastures. Uncle Jaimie would rather not deal with all of that. He’s a guy from the last century – no, strike that. The century before the last.  A hunting lease is fine with him. Give him a break, Richard – he’s in his eighties. And … can I have another, Richard? I have a cat in my lap.”

“Seeing that it’s my cat…” Richard obliged, and topped up her wineglass. “Do continue, my Kate. The main entrée is nearly ready. What else is going on with this strangely diplomatic Dubois character?”

“Well, he has also managed to sweet-talk Judy and Sefton into sale of half an acre of their lad, with about sixty feet of river-frontage. Which is a mere sliver of what they do have, so I don’t think that is any great sacrifice. Which pleases Uncle Roman no end, because it means Judy and Sefton can repay him a good chunk of the costs for their new home … and he has a potential contract to build a new facility for Mills Farm – a riverside boat house, Uncle Roman says.”

“So Roman Gonzales profits coming and going,” Richard topped up his own wine-glass. The sauce was coming along nicely. “Nice work, if you can get it. Maybe I should have gone into carpentry and construction.”

“Too seasonal,” Kate replied. “And there’s at least as much demand around here for good cooking … oh, speaking of which – I’ll be a bit late next Monday, I’m afraid. Last-minute town council meeting, and it may run long.”

“Oh?” Richard felt his heart sink several centimeters. He hated having a routine disturbed. “What brought all this on? You couldn’t just skip it, could you?”

“I can’t,” Kate explained with careful patience. “It’s my job, so I have to go – as boring as town council meetings normally are. This one is special, though. Martin Abernathy sent out the meeting agenda to everyone who usually attends, and even posted something on the Chamber of Commerce’s Facebook page. The first order of new business is to discuss a bid to lease out the Cattleman Hotel to Venue Properties.”

“And this is significant? The place is a huge white elephant. The municipality can barely keep the lights on at the best of times.” Richard was well-acquainted with the bedraggled Belle Époque splendors of the Cattleman Hotel, as it took up half of the western side of Town Square. It once had been a quite splendid establishment, but it’s best days were now at least half a century in the past. There was a small museum in the old lobby, opened two days weekly by the Luna City Historical Commission, which maintained an office on the second floor. There were a handful of suites available to adventurous travelers, and a splendid and old-fashioned bar open with great fanfare on Founder’s Day weekend. Otherwise it served as a lumber room and overflow storage for the city, and most of the third and fourth floors had been abandoned to dust and slow decay.

“Too true,” Kate nodded in agreement. “Oh, thanks, Rich – that looks delish! I know – everyone loved the old place. I mean, half the elder citizens have fond memories of going to parties in the ballroom, or having supper … and everyone was up in arms when VPI first set up Mills Farm, and they wanted to buy the whole place for a dollar, disassemble it and rebuild someplace else. Before I was born, but Great-uncle Jaimie and Abuelita still spit fire when they talk about it. The VPI manager at the time – he thought that he could just waltz in, drop some money on the table and rip out part of the heart of Luna City. Although,” Kate added, as Richard set down his own serving on the table, and slid onto the banquete; Kate obligingly shifted her feet to allow him room, and continued. “I think the Bodies were pretty slick, gifting the place to the city, way back then. It was a dead weight to them and the tax advantages should have been obvious. Keeping the Cattleman open cost more than it would ever bring in, and that doesn’t even consider the costs of repairs and renovation. I’ll have the skinny on that after the meeting next Monday, anyway.” She took a delicate bite of the fish, and Richard was distracted by the expression of sheer gustatory delight which passed over her face. “I could eat this every night, Rich… are you going to offer this as a prix fixe option some weekend? Look, I don’t mind being your test subject. I’d beg to be … hey, you catch your own fish!” she reprimanded Ozzie, who had reached out a paw with the speed of light, aiming to snag the next bite from her fork.”

“The little blighter will have his own fish, my Kate – just dump him off your lap,” Richard savored his own first bites, and Kate protested.

“No, he’s our star kitten. Can’t we indulge him, just a bit?”

“Bad for his character,” Richard answered. “Trust me – I know this from first-hand experience. Enjoy your own supper, my Kate – I have prepared a special sweet for afters. But you don’t get your sweet until you finish your supper and veg.”

“Cruelty in the extreme,” Kate protested, but her eyes were merry and full of affectionate laughter, and Richard considered once again how very content he was with this new life; his café, his caravan and most of all, his Kate.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

25. September 2017 · Comments Off on A New Short Story: Baby Dreams · Categories: Luna City Short Stories

From A Fifth of Luna City: Baby Dreams

Midnight, and Jess dreams.

She dreams of a hot dry desert, a desert where the winds blow dust as fine as talcum powder. But overhead, the sky is harsh and blue, and the world around here is the color of dust. Dusty green, dusty brown, dusty beige, dust without any color at all. Dust the color of tents, of motor vehicles, veiling the uniforms that they all wear, smudging their faces. He wears goggles over his eyes, stepping down from a Marine hummvee, shoving them up to his forehead as he does, the grin across his face making a cheerful boyish mockery of the strapped-on body armor, weapons and helmet which add to the male bulk of him.

“Jessie, darlin’!” he says in her dream, the quicksilver grin from ear to ear. The guy that she has loved since they were both eleven, the two of them horse-mad and given freedom of the Wyler stables and paddocks. “Fancy meeting you here, in the garden spot of the near east. We gonna go dancing tonight, or should we just sent out for pizza and watch an old movie?”

“Jamie, you nutcase,” she exclaims, wishing that they could embrace and kiss exuberantly – but they cannot, as there is a war on, they are both in uniform and there are people around, most of them male and of much higher military rank than Jess the reservist. He kisses her anyway, a brotherly peck on the cheek, and she whispers, “How long can you stay?”

“Just long enough to top up,” he answers. “MarDiv’s on the move. Can’t say anything more, even if I did know. Op-sec.”

“Of course,” she says – her heart sinking within her, but her voice as calm, stoic as a Spartan woman. “Be careful out there, Jamie.”

“Always,” he answers, but he simmers with suppressed excitement. She casts around for something to say, some brief gesture to make. “I got a care package from home last night – Pops sent me some Moon Pies that didn’t get too much melted. You wanna take some with you?”

“Whatever you can spare,” His eyes gleam with anticipation. Moon Pies are his favorite sweet. The first summer that Jamie spent at the Wyler Ranch, it was their special excursion to ride out to the Tip Top Icehouse, Gas & Grocery to buy Moon Pies with their allowance money, and to eat them by the riverbank, dangling bare feet in the cool river, while he tried to frighten her by telling long-ago stories of the scar-faced tramp who lived out in the woods below the old Sheffield place.

“Wait right here,” she commands him; Jamie grins again.

“Yes, ma-am!”

She runs to the quarters that she shares with the other Air Force woman officers; spartan but more comfortable than a shelter-half over a slit-trench. But when she returns with half a dozen Moon Pies, Jamie is not where she left him; a moment of panic – where did he go? Oh, there – already back in the vehicle, leaning out the driver-side window, waving to her.

She passes the Moon Pies up to him; the engine already turning over, no time, no time, only a hasty word of thanks from him, she forms the words “I love you” with her lips, and then the line of drab-tan vehicles rumbles away, sending up another cloud of dust, and they are gone, anonymous in the featureless desert.

 

That was the last time she ever saw Jamie, in anything but dreams and memories. The air conditioner unit is an older one, and when it clicks on it does so with a wheeze and a rush of cooler air. This wakes Jess, or brings her up to the edge of wakefulness. The summer in South Texas is as hot as always; Jess and Joe both sleep best in a cooler room, and so the air conditioner runs all night. Her hands feel numb, and her wrists ache a little; a weird side-effect of pregnancy. She rolls over and settles in to sleep again. Joe’s arm goes around her, in that new position; an automatic gesture, for he is soundly asleep.

 

In the small hours of the morning, Jess dreams again.

 

In that new dream, she is eleven years old; it is her birthday and Pops – widowed and grieving the loss of Jessica’s mother not two months before – has promised her a special birthday present. Jess swings her feet as she sits at the breakfast table, wondering what the present can be, since it was not wrapped in paper and tied with ribbons, like the gifts from her grandparents.

“Tell me, Pops!” she begs again, and Martin Abernathy smiles, teasing her in a way that had been in abeyance for months, all the time that her mother was so sick.

“Can’t tell you, Jessy-bell. It would ruin the surprise. I will tell you one thing, though … it’s bigger than a bread-box!”

“Pops! That’s no fair! What is it?”

“A surprise,” Martin says, and Jess pouts a little.

“Pops, you can be so provoking!” she exclaims. That is a word she heard her mother say, now and again. Jess knows what it means, but has never actually said until now. Martin’s amusement dims, just a little, like a candle flickers in a sudden gust of wind.

“Part of my happy inconsequent charm, Jessy-bell,” he replies. Jess is not quite certain what ‘inconsequent’ means, although she knows the other words. She would question her father more, but for the sound of a large pickup truck, bumping down the long gravel drive past the house. The house where Martin and Beth set up housekeeping is on the edge of Luna City, in a small post-war bungalow built on a large lot with a corral and a large shed at the back – a shed divided into disused horse stalls, where Martin keeps the gas lawnmower, and Jess the bicycle that she rides to school, where she must wear thick glasses to do school work and the other children tease her by calling her “Jessie Four-Eyes.”

The truck tows a horse trailer; both trailer and truck adorned with the logo of the Wyler Lazy-W exotic game ranch. Everyone in Luna City knows the Wyler brand, and knows Doc Wyler by sight. Jess is no exception; he is an important man, even aside from being the veterinarian. And why should Doc Wyler be driving around to the back of the Abernathy house? They don’t have any pets. Jess does not know the boy with him, who climbs down from the passenger side of the truck and stands looking at Jess, standing on the back-door stoop. The boy is her age; wiry and with a grin that lights up his face. If he were from Luna City, she would know him, and if he is the same age, they would be in the same grade at school. It is a puzzle; Jess cannot resist questions and puzzle-solving.

“You best come and meet your birthday present, Jessy-bell,” Martin comes up behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. At first, Jess does not comprehend. What present? But Doc Wyler is opening the back of the horse trailer and leading out the horse in it by the halter, with many soothing words. The horse is a chestnut quarter horse with a white blaze on it’s nose, small even for a quarter horse; a young gelding who dips his muzzle into Jess’s hands and blows out an alfalfa-scented gust into her shirt-front.

“Here you go, young lady,” Doc Wyler gives the halter-end to Jess. “His name is Stinker, on account of having been painfully surprised by a skunk when he was a colt, but I reckon you can call him anything you like. He was sired by a champion cutting horse, his mama was showed by my daughter Pamela in dressage events, but he growed up a mite dwarfish, so your father thought he’d be a perfect horse for you.”

“Mine?” Jess couldn’t comprehend at first. A whole horse, a real horse of her own? Only twice in her later life was Jess Abernathy rendered completely speechless. At last, she finds words. “Oh, Pops – he’s beautiful! And mine, really all mine?”

“Yes indeed, Jessy-bell – all yours.” Martin squeezed her shoulders in reassurance. “Your …” his voice broke, just for a second. “… Mama said that you should have one, when you were old enough. I reckon that you are, this very day. He’ll live here; out at the back – but you have to take responsibility for him. You must ride him every day. Give him a good brushing, make certain that he has good feed, is watered every day, put away in the shed at night …

“We brought along one of Pam’s old saddles,” Doc Wyler was saying. “Should serve well enough. Jamie, you want to get it from the truck? You haven’t met my grandson, have you? Pam’s son. He’s going to spend the summer with us. Jamie, this is Jess and Martin Abernathy. Martin and his folks keep the hardware store on the Square.”

“James Wyler, Junior,” the boy put out his hand and shook Jess’. “But mostly, I’m Jamie. Pleased to meet you, miss. Mr. Abernathy.” His grip is firm, adult, his gaze direct.

“Hi…” Jess is at a complete loss and stares at the ground. She likes boys as friends, but this one is a stranger. But she begins to like this one, when he offers to help saddle Stinker. And she likes him even more, when he promises to come over the following day on his own horse. And he doesn’t know any of the other kids their age, since he is only visiting for the summer. Jess barely notices the satisfied look that Martin and Doc Wyler exchange over their heads.

 

Jamie spends every summer at the Wyler Ranch, until he drops out of college in the second week of September, 2001, and enlists in the Marines.

 

 

The bladder complained. Jess sighed and slid out from the bed, from under the embrace of her husband and the tangle of bedclothes, obeying the call of nature. The bedroom was comfortably cool. That being done, she crept back into bed, curling herself spoon-fashion against the bulwark that was always and forever Joe.

 

Jess dreams some more.  She has been living in Arlington for three years and working as a traveling CPA.

 

She has just completed a demanding temporary job in Corpus Christi, another starting in San Antonio – and a too-brief weekend at home in Luna City between them. A good reason to rush, in the little yellow Wrangler with two suitcases, her laptop carrier and her briefcase thrown into the back seat. Oh, to be at home for a couple of days in the spring, when the fields around Luna City are ablaze with yellow and red Mexican hat, purple field verbena and blue and white buffalo clover, which everyone calls bluebonnets, and esperanza splashes flaming yellow in all the hedges … and that is flaming yellow, red, and blue lights on Route 123. Jess, absent-minded and thinking of nothing but home – after months away, sorting out other people’s financial woes – does not think at first that she is the driver at fault.

Until the police car flashes headlights emphatically at her. And she is the only driver on 123 at that moment. Jess is a law-abiding person – as a licensed CPA, she can be nothing less, not without escaping severe penalties. She signals an obedient right turn, comes to rest on the shoulder, half on grass and half on asphalt. The police cruiser rests in similar position behind her. Jess waits, heart hammering with apprehension. The economic penalty she can easily cover, the absolute humiliation of a traffic ticket within a few miles of Luna City is … humiliating.

The cop gets out of his car, Jess observing in the rear-view window; he is tall, muscular, well-built, walking with an Alpha-male swagger; she estimates his age as in the late thirties, and approves – setting aside all other considerations. A nice bit of man-flesh, all told. Clean-cut, not run to seed in the least. Mirrored sunglasses hide his eyes, as he approaches her Wrangler. Jess sighs and rolls down the window.

“Good morning, ma’am. Do you know how that you were going?”

“Well, over the speed limit, obviously officer … or you wouldn’t have pulled me over.” Even in dreams, Jess has a smart mouth. The officer sighs – a bit on the theatrical side, Jess thinks. She also thinks that he looks familiar, somehow. He has sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves, and the name-plate on his tan uniform shirt is a clue. “Vaughn.”

“I know you!” she exclaims. “Joe Vaughn – you were the quarterback with the Moths, when I was a freshman in high school.”

“Yes, ma’am; varsity, in my senior year. May I see your identification, please?”

Jess sighs, resigned, and reaches into the enormous hand-bag/briefcase which serves her as both. It’s been fifteen years and a lot of water under the bridge, but no one could forget Joe Vaughn, high school hero – and besides, he took Jamie’s older cousin Patricia to the prom. The all-American golden couple, back then. He probably believes that I’m trying to charm him out of issuing a ticket, Jess thinks, as she hands him her drivers’ license.

He takes off his mirrored sunglasses to look at it more closely, and exclaims, “Hey – Now I remember; you’re little Jessie Four-Eyes! Used to hang out with Pat’s cousin Jamie all the time. Gotta admit I like the improvement; makes all the difference in the world.”

“Lasik surgery,” Jess winces. That nick was something she had managed to bury, along with all the usual adolescent humiliations heaped on the plain but clever of the female of the species. Still, she is not immune to male admiration, especially from one who had been well out of her reach, back then.

“So, what have you been doing with yourself since then?” Joe is still holding her drivers’ license; Jess doesn’t quite have the nerve to take it back from him.

“This and that,” Jess replies. “The usual; college, a turn through ROTC and the Reserves, now I’m working for the Manfred Group out of Arlington, but I hope to set up my own office in a couple of years. Too much time on the road. Sorry – I guess I do have a bit of a lead foot. I’m home for this weekend. I didn’t know that you were back in Luna City – I thought you were still in the Army.”

“Was,” Joe finally returns the drivers’ license. “Short version is that I blew out my right knee, the other isn’t in much better shape. The Big Green machine called it a disability and wouldn’t allow me to reenlist, so I hired on with the Luna City PD once I was home. So … you’re gonna be home this weekend. You wanna meet for a burger or something?”

“That would be nice,” Jess is flattered. For the big man around the high school campus, the teenaged Joe Vaughn wasn’t nearly as much the insufferable asshole that he could have been. And he is improved now in a good way, and Jess approves wholly. Now he is scribbling in his notebook. Reading upside down, she realizes with mild dismay that it is the ticket book.

“I still gotta write you a ticket,” he confesses, with a touch of embarrassment. “You were going 85 and the limit on this stretch is 70. I can’t be … well, making exceptions. For anyone. Matter of principle with me, I guess. But that’s my cellphone number. I’m living in my grandparents’ old house on Oak Lane. Your pop has the number for the dispatcher; they can get ahold of me any time, if your still serious about that burger.” Joe seems a little apprehensive – as if he thinks she isn’t interested at best and despises him at worst, for just doing his job without fear or favor.

“Or something,” Jess accepts the ticket with mixed feelings and a smile.

“You can pay it at the city offices during the week,” Joe says, kindly. “Or go online anytime. See you … um, Saturday work for you.”

“Sure.” Jess has decided that she will go out with him, even if it is only as far as the Dairy Queen in Karnesville, just to be assured that she has left Jessie Four-Eyes in the distant, distant and painfully adolescent past. “See you around.”

“You too.” He grins, obviously relieved. Jess sets the Wrangler in gear, and as she drives toward Luna City, she sees the cruiser pull a U-turn, and vanish in the opposite direction.

 

Jess wakens from that final dream; there is dim daylight behind the curtains of the bedroom, but that is not what has disturbed her sleep, or the complaints of a stressed bladder. No, something else, a funny tentative flutter low in her abdomen. It happens again – no, not a bubble of gas working through … but independent, deliberate. Something not of her body.

“Joe?” she whispers; they are still lying spoon-fashion in the bed, she is tucked into the curve of his body. “Are you awake? It’s nearly morning.”

“Mmm. Sure, Babe. I’m awake.” He mumbles indistinct and sleep-fogged. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she answers. “I just felt the baby move.”

(We hope to have the next episode of the Luna City Chronicles out by Christmas this year. Here, a chapter from A Fifth of Luna City, wherein Richard makes a new friend, and takes on an obligation a little more challenging than a potted plant and a female significant other.)

 

A Sky Full of Stars

“Richard … I have to tell you. I have bad news – the most appalling news. I don’t quite know how to say this, but …”

That was Kate, his super-dainty Kate, her face expressing a mixture of horror and regret. Only his own sense of shock and possibly his own gentlemanly upbringing belatedly coming to his rescue – miraculously coming down from the heights of his prolonged classical venture into French cuisine on her behalf – kept him from blurting out his initial reaction: “Jesus, Kate – you can’t be pregnant! We’ve never even slept together!”

Instead, he just looked at her as if pole-axed, and said, “Well, tell it to me, Kate. I’ve had a long day, starting with being bullied in an open boat by an OAP with a bad attitude, and coming close to drowning in a flooded river. Frankly, I don’t think there is any more bad news you can tell me.”

“Well then,” Kate drew a deep breath. “My informant is one of the techies involved with A La Carte with Quartermayne. It’s a traveling TV food show. If you don’t know anything about it, Abuelita does, and so does everyone else who watches the Food Channel. They’re coming to Luna City at the end of summer, for a food showdown…”

“No, absolutely not,” Richard was stone-faced. “I will not participate in one of those travesties. I will not be a performing monkey on a lead for the entertainment of the masses. Again. If I see a TV camera within half a block of me, I will turn around and go home. I’ve been there, Kate. It’s Hell. I’ve learned my lesson – and won’t do it again.”

“No, it’s not for the Café,” Kate swiftly reassured him, those amazing beryl-green eyes huge with sympathy. “The showdown will be between the Pryor’s Meats and BBQ, and the Mills Farm Country Kitchen. But the co-host of Quartermayne this season is someone that … well, you know. And according to my informant…”

“Your spy in the enemy camp,” Richard amended, dryly.

“Whatever. You and he have a long history – Phillip Noel-Barrett.”

Richard broke out in a cold sweat, despite the residual heat in the kitchen.

“Stone the crows, not him – that unregenerate tosser! What malignant plan is that unmitigated arse-monger up to now? Nothing good, I’ll warrant. And those Quartermayne berks better be on their guard, because if he does half the damage to the immediate vicinity as he did with that wretched movie…”

“I see that you remember him fondly also,” Kate commented with just the faintest touch of acid. “It looks like he will be up to some nasty tricks with regard to yourself. In a moment of …”

“Alcohol-fueled frankness,” Richard supplied and Kate grinned.

“Exactly what I assumed. He is planning to reveal you as the Bad Boy Chef – not resting serenely sedated in some expensive loony-bin, but working happily away in an obscure little town café. My contact says that Noel-Barrett is practically slavering at the chops in his eagerness to do you a bad turn.”

“He always was a malicious little git,” Richard sighed. What a way to finish an evening – a beautiful evening, which had topped off a very long and fraught day. “I’ll do my best to stay out of the way, Kate. I don’t want to be outed, much less by Pip Noel-Barrett. I like it here. I like the Café, my little caravan, Luna City and all. I don’t want to leave. But I cannot go back to the old life. I won’t go back. It wasn’t good for me. I know that now.”

“Don’t worry, Richard,” Kate shrugged her outsized overcoat over her shoulders once again. Her face bore an expression of adamantine determination, fearsomely like that of Abuelita Adeliza Gonzales when that formidable lady put her foot down. “We’ll see that you are kept safe, doing what you love to do, and doing it in Luna City. You have friends here, not just me … although Acey McClain – he’s my boss, you know? At the Beacon. He might just begin to wonder about where my loyalties lie, if he ever hears about this caper.”

“Thank you, Kate,” Richard wondered if he was being honestly grateful for the very first time in his so-called adult life. They stood very close, at the back door to the Café, near to the vast pot-washing sink and the industrial dishwasher, which smelled very faintly of dishwater and drains. But they stood so close, as he intended, somewhat reluctantly, to see her out – and he detected the perfume that Kate was accustomed to wear. On an impulse, he leaned down – not very far down – and kissed her, intending the kiss to land in a brotherly, even an avuncular manner. But the minx turned her head at the last second, and it landed on her lips. For a brief eternity, he was lost – Kate, his wonderful Kate of Kate Hall, his super-dainty Kate, before whom all his previous passions, or whatever they had been – were momentary shallow flirtations. Until she pulled back, grinned at him and said,

“That was a kiss to set all records, Richard – perhaps one day, we’ll set another one like it. But I have to go now. ‘Celi will wonder where I am. If I don’t get on my way this instant, she will call Joe to go and get me – and Jess will be furious. Good night, sweet prince; blessed angels see the to thy rest. I have to go.”

“Indeed,” Richard gave a wistful sigh for the night that might have been – but no, it wouldn’t have been right. He and Kate had worlds enough and time. The thought of a wrathful Joe Vaughn, the Luna City chief of police, bashing down the door of the Airstream to haul a weeping and half-dressed Kate into the cruiser was a thought to banish all erotic fantasies, right then and there. “Do you want me to walk you to Patrick and Aracelis’? It’s not far.”

“No, mon cher Richard – you must be exhausted after all this. I’ll be all right. We’re in Luna City, after all.” She stepped neatly out of his half-hearted embrace and opened the outer door. Outside, a shy quarter moon rationed silver light on the back of the Café and the buildings adjoining it on Town Square. A few small lights from the back windows of the Stein’s place, and from the rooms over the small businesses in the other direction, rented out on BnB to those who wanted a small-town Texas experience, cast a dimmer and more golden light. “Oh, look – your cat is still here.”

“I don’t have any pets…” Richard insisted obstinately. “It must be one of the Steins’ perishing little beggars. Wretched things – they pee all over the carpet inside, and crap all over the garden outside.”

Kate peered at the small, shadow-shape lurking in the depths of the hedge between the Stein’s garden – a garden groomed to a state of perfection with a Teutonic devotion to detail, in vivid contrast to the space of crumbling macadam interspersed with weeds and rubbish bins behind the Café. That space was currently interrupted with the Airstream, and a couple of timber-framed raised beds, in which Richard nourished cooking herbs and a crop of exotic salad greens.

The small shadowy shape mewed at her. It sounded commanding, rather than querulous and pathetic, as Richard would have expected a lost or temporarily discommoded cat to sound.

“It’s too small for Beethoven, Bach or Mozart,” Kate observed. The Stein’s musical trio were sheltered, spoiled, well-fed and of considerable size. “Annise would never let them outside in this weather anyway.”

“The flood brought in all sorts of animal flotsam and jetsam,” Richard sighed, thinking on the outsized dog, miniature pony, bantam hen and stray goat, confined in a makeshift corral by the VFD. “A stray, I suppose.”

“Be kind,” Kate said, and in the shadows behind the Café, Richard was sure that she was smiling at him. “Give the poor little thing some of that lovely chicken, or whatever. Good night, Richard – sleep well.”

“I will, even if lonely,” Richard sighed. Quite suddenly, the burden of total exhaustion fell upon him, a burden which rocked him to his knees. “Honestly, I couldn’t have done justice to the occasion if you had even wanted to spend the night with me. I’ve got some pride left in me, Kate.”

“I know,” Kate blew a kiss in his direction, and departed without another touch of her hand or lips, walking swiftly to the bottom of the desolate patch which was the Café’s back garden. Richard thought that she turned and waved at him, before she vanished around the corner of the Stein’s garden-shed/garage.

The evening was over.

And on the whole, it had been a success beyond his dreams, Richard thought, as he turned out the lights in the Café, and sent the last of the dishes and glasses into the commercial washer. A long day, and a hard day; a supper with Kate, and space enough and time to meditate upon where their mutual attraction should go. Bad news about Pip Noel-Barrett’s malicious intentions … but that was consummation months in advance. Sufficient unto the day were the evils thereof, as the school chaplain used to say. Today’s troubles were enough for today.

He got out one of the folding chairs from the Airstream, and sat beneath the inconsistent moon, with a glass of Sefton Grant’s marvelous elixir, contemplating the day, in all of it’s exhaustion and glory, obscurely grateful that he didn’t have to get up on the bicycle and pedal all the way back to the Age of Aquarius. Because of the flood and the good offices of Roman Gonzalez, the Airstream caravan that he called home had been temporarily moved from the campground and small farm where it had sat for at least three decades. His daily commute was reduced to a matter of fifteen steps … and the cat suddenly interrupted these meditations. It emerged from the dividing hedge, and sat not five feet from him.

“Mrrow?” It said. Startled out of his reverie, Richard answered.

“What’s that, old chap?”

“Mrroow!” replied the cat, one eye reflecting the pale moonlight. “Mrroow!” it said again, with added emphasis and air of cold command, which well those passions Richard read.

“All right, then!” Richard set aside his glass, and went into the Café kitchen, to the walk-in cooler, where reposed the container with the last of the chicken from his glorious supper with Kate. He brought out a small bowl, filled to the brim with some-barely cooled shredded chicken and crumbled bits of pate, and carefully locked the back door after him – wondering why he bothered at all, since Luna City was one of the most casually law-abiding places that he had ever set up residence in, however temporary. He set the dish down, and the cat fell upon it with every evidence of glutinous pleasure. When it had polished the dish clean, it approached Richard, still nursing half a glass of Sefton’s mustang white, and sat at his feet. A small pink tongue polished its’ whiskers, one swipe a side, as the cat assumed the expectant posture of one of those ancient Egyptian statuettes of cats.

“Mrroow,” it commented, sounding slightly less commanding.

“You’re welcome,” Richard replied. “But no, I don’t care if you want some wine to go with supper. This is all mine.”

“Mrroow!” The cat sounded slightly disappointed – as if it had hoped for that, but was sporting about being turned down. Seen now in the dim interior light shining through the Airstream’s screen door, it stood revealed as a small brindle animal, with one eye as pale and lifeless as the moon overhead, the other dark and brimming with feline mysteries. Richard was no great judge of cat-flesh, but he thought it was a young animal, despite the blind eye. It regarded him steadily with the other eye, as Richard communed with his glass of wine, coming down from the mighty cloud of terror or exertion expended during a day only a little longer than what he had been accustomed to in his early days as an apprentice chef. Since he didn’t have Kate to talk to, he directed his remarks to the young cat.

“So … rough day for you too, Ozymandias-King-of-Kings? Look upon your works, oh mighty, and despair. Nothing remains … but a hell of a lot of flood water.”

“Mrroow,” the cat commented, sounding rather forlorn.

“Sorry about that, old chap. Just worked out that way. Global warming, you know – but in Texas they call it ‘the weather’. Still a bit disconcerting, especially if one has an aversion to drowning.”

“Mrroow,” Ozymandias-King-of-Kings agreed. Richard sank the last little bit of Sefton’s prize white mustang grape wine. When he had drained the glass of that last mouthful, the brindle cat was sitting at the foot of the step to the Airstream, regarding him expectantly. “Mrroow?” That last had a kind of tentative, yet commanding sound to it. Richard marveled again, at the depth of feeling that the beast could put into a single sound. The Librarian of the Unseen University had nothing on this cat.

“All right, you conniving little beggar.” Richard sighed, and opened the screen door; instantly, Ozymandias-King-of-Kings hopped up into the Airstream as if it was his by rights. He-She-It strolled through the brief sitting area and kitchenette, sniffing at the odd item in a way that suggested judgmental skepticism, but marginal acceptability as to conditions. And then hopped up onto the disturbed bedding at the foot of the single double bed at the back of the Airstream, licked itself several times in businesslike fashion, curled into a neat circular form among the blankets and dropped into whatever was for a cat, deep, deep slumber. When Richard performed his late-night ablutions,  resumed the pajama trousers which were his customary night things, and took his own place in the bed, Ozymandias only burped – or perhaps farted – briefly, purred for a bit and fell back into deep slumber nearly as soon as Richard did.

 

 

06. April 2017 · Comments Off on A Snippet From Luna City IV! · Categories: Luna City Short Stories

Cattle Call

Luna City’s volunteer fire department was housed in a large metal-sided barn of no particular architectural charm, three blocks east of Town Square. Together with the Luna City PD headquarters next door, this put them both on the edge of town by the northernmost and newest of the two roads that led from off Route 123 and into Luna City proper. (Miss Letty’s and the Tip-Top were located at the southernmost, closest to that bridge which spanned the river.) The rain had let up by then, although from the appearance of the sky – grey and threatening – the weather gods promised additional precipitation. Richard pedaled along, carefully avoiding the standing puddles, and reminding himself to bring some dry clothing on the following day, lest he be caught again. Really, he had a cat’s dislike of being first soaked to the skin – and then enduring a day inside an air-conditioned building. Nothing, he was convinced, was apt to make a person more ill than being wet, and sitting under a vent blasting cold air down upon him.

The somewhat scratch parking area around the police and fire department – an area composed of about fifteen percent crumbling macadam to eighty-five percent gravel and hard-pressed and mostly dead grass was entirely full, for the first time in his admittedly limited experience. A jumble of vehicles – most of them the usual selection of pick-up trucks which he had come to see as a mostly normal transportation option in Luna City – were parked there without regard to order and reason.

Well, that was one advantage to a bicycle. He wheeled it around to the side, where a couple of heavy timber picnic tables and a rusty barrel-shaped BBQ unit sat underneath the customary oak tree which was a constant in Luna City, and leaned the bike against the nearest table. The side door was already propped open, with Chris Mayall’s young medic-apprentice volunteer lurking just inside. The name of the apprentice momentarily escaped Richard, although the boy had “Gonzalez” embroidered on the front of his dark-blue uniform shirt. Richard privately admitted to a sense of wistful envy. Just by being born with that surname in Luna City meant that the lad was instantly more one of the local elect than Richard would ever be, Charterhouse and  Cordon Bleu education notwithstanding. The classroom beyond was empty – and it was nearly the appointed hour.

“Hullo, young Jaimie,” he said, having wrenched the boys’ name from his recalcitrant memory. “Where is everyone? I thought that time for the regular training session was moved up – not the location.”

“They moved it into the bay, with so many people,” Jaimie replied. He was still young enough to be excited by a whiff of potential catastrophe. “There’s Cousin Horatio from the County, and the forecast is saying there will be more rain over the next few days. I guess this will be the command post, for a while.”

“Joy and rapture unrestrained,” Richard answered, completely deadpan, and walked down the narrow corridor from the door, past the empty classroom on one side, past the offices on the other, and the dormitories for the duty firefighters on the other, and into the soaring space which housed the various engines. There was more space in the barn than engines to fill it. The area beyond the pump and ladder trucks, the brush truck and the ambulance had been transformed, with ranks of folding tables and rows of chairs. An immense map hung on the far wall. As he came around from the last engine, someone was rolling out a video cart with a large television on it. The map drew his attention first, though; a detailed, large-scale map of the river, it’s many tributaries and watershed as it rambled through Karnes County. Through the VFD training sessions, he had become well-acquainted with Luna City, and those outlaying parts covered by the volunteer firefighters – but this was a much larger map. He took a seat in the rearmost row of chairs; the bustle of activity around the tables made him profoundly uneasy. He exchanged a nod with Sylvester Gonzales, dapper as always in retro-nerd fashion – this time in khaki slacks and a vintage and vividly-colored Hawaiian print shirt – who seemed to be overseeing the set-up of many telephones, one at each place along the first table. The telephones and attendant cables were being unpacked from a couple of lidded plastic tubs. Richard knew or at least recognized most of those present, and sifting in as the hands of a clock hanging on the wall above the map inexorably advanced towards the hour of three. He almost didn’t recognize Miss Letty, unaccustomed to the sight of her in a slate-grey uniform-cut women’s suit, adorned with a shoulder patch and lapel insignia – ARC. Well, nothing like an old emergency-service warhorse scenting a disaster, Richard thought to himself and immediately his inner good-manners angel booted him for being an ungallant prick. Still, he thought the old dear had better not try to wrestle an active fire-hose. Although Chris Mayall, who was sitting in the folding chair next to her, would doubtless prevent her from doing anything so reckless.

There was only one man present who was a stranger to him – and since the name-plate on his unfamiliar uniform bore the surname of Gonzalez – and since the familial resemblance to those Gonzalezes and Gonsaleses of his acquaintance was quite marked, he thought it likely that he knew of that man by repute, if not by first name among the clan.

“That’s Cousin Horatio,” Jaimie whispered, as he slid into the seat next to Richard. “You know … he went and joined the Coast Guard out of high school, but now he’s with the county sheriff’s department. He knows all about boats and things. They call him all the time for stuff involving river rescues and that.”

“Shush,” … That was Jess, sitting in the row of chairs ahead of them. And there was Joe Vaughn, striding up to stand before the stand microphone, in his office as chief of police for Luna City.

“Hey, ladies and gentle-grunts; thanks for taking the time from your busy day to come to this briefing… as you should know from watching the weather, it’s been a rainy spring. And this week’s forecast calls for even more rain. We’ve been advised to activate our emergency response team, in the expectation of catastrophic flooding from the San Antonio River and possibly various local creeks over the next few days. I know that it’s only a precaution, and no one is getting really panicked at this point,” and Joe favored the gathering with an especially serious look. “But there is a holiday weekend coming up. A lot of out-of-town folks traveling to the coast, just visiting a place like Mills Farm, or staying for the weekend with friends in the country, folks who just might not know the lay of the land…”

“He’s got a point,” Jaimie whispered. “If we live here – we know where all the low-water crossings are, all the places that flood out ….”

“Shush…” Richard replied, for he was strangely unsettled in recognizing a newer arrival; Kate Heisel, in her oversized drooping tan trench-coat, cat-footing around the perimeter of the gathering. The sound of her camera and brief flare of the flash attachment riveted his attention, although she seemed more focused on the immense map, and the tables with telephones already laid out. Still – when she turned and aimed her lens at the assembled multitudes, he swiftly bent down to re-tie a shoe-lace. No need to borrow trouble, even if he rather liked and trusted Kate Heisel in a small way. Even if she had said to him, on one memorable occasion, “No one here gives a waffle-fried damn that you used to be Rich Hall, the Bad Boy Chef,” Kate’s one picture of Romeo Gonzales had gone international-viral, once it had been posted on the Karnesville Weekly Beacon website for publicity purposes for the Luna City Players performance of Let No True Hearts Admit Impediment. That it all had come out rather well for Romeo was irrelevant to Richard: Once a photograph taken by Miss Kate Heisel was loosed on the internet, control was out of her hands, despite the best intentions of all concerned.

He didn’t entirely come up for air with regard to his shoelace, until Miss Kate herself came and settled into the folding chair next to Jaimie, returning her camera safely to her camera case.

“Hey, Rich – long time, no see?” she whispered. “Are you a volunteer now? Cool beans!”

“Well, I live here now,” Rich whispered back, disregarding the faint hushing sounds from either side. “What brings you here?”

“News, stilly – activating the emergency response command post is certainly newsworthy. Any time there’s a million cars parked outside the VFD there’s bound to be something of interest happening. I really came down for the cattle drive.”

“Cattle drive?” Richard was glad that his voice didn’t squeak. A small rustling commotion among the audience as Chief Vaughn introduced Lt. Gonzalez from the Karnes County Emergency Management office covered Kate Heisel’s reply.

“For sure,” she whispered. “There’s going to be about a hundred-fifty head of Lazy-W cattle moved from a pasture on low ground moved from a low-lying pasture across the river into the Wyler Ranch, proper. Too many to truck, and too late to do anything but walk them through town. A real cattle drive – I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

***

“When is this going to happen?” Rich whispered back.

“In about twenty minutes,” Kate replied, sotto voice. “My … um … friend is going to call me when they get close to crossing Route 123.”

At his side, Jaimie Gonzales exclaimed in a normal voice, “No sh*t, Katie? I wanna see this!” to an enraged hiss of hushing from those nearest to them. At the microphone, Horatio Gonzalez broke off his introductory remarks to frown and address his juvenile kin.

“Is there something you wanted to share with us all?”

Unrepentant, Jaimie stood up and replied in a loud voice. “Yeah! Cousin Kate says there’s going to be a real-live cattle drive through town!”

Richard noted several things at once: Jess sinking down in her seat, Joe clapping on his wide-brimmed white Stetson and taking out his cellphone, and most of the assembled volunteers assuming expressions of lively interest.

“So – where they gonna go? Whose’ herd? How soon?” was the boiled-down essence of those questions which came thick and fast. Kate Heisel stood up, and finding her small height a disadvantage, stepped up onto her chair. Which being of the folding persuasion, was a perilous perch. Richard gave her a hand up, beating Jaimie to it by a short lead.

“It’s one of the Wyler herds,” she explained, and the timbre of her voice suggested something of embarrassment. “It’s an emergency. My informant has it that Lazy-W ranch management wanted it done and fast, so as to reduce panic …”

“A hundred and fifty cattle in the streets of Luna City – that will reduce panic all right,” Joe Vaughn observed, within the pick-up range of the standing microphone, so that his remarks were perfectly clear. “Katie – why don’t we know about this?”

“I thought that everyone had been informed,” Kate replied, in perfectly reasonable tones.

Joe Vaughn heaved up a deep sigh, from the depths of his soul. “All right, ladies and gentle-grunts – there is our very first flood-related emergency situation. All hands to battle-stations. How long do we have before the herd hits, Katie?”

“Twenty minutes, I think.” Now Kate sounded positively rattled. “Joe – I was sure your people already knew!”

“Well, we do now,” Joe noted. “OK, briefing’s suspended for the moment. Who’s in charge of the cattle drive, Katie? Doc Wyler?”

Kate nodded, concentrating on safely dismounting from a folding chair. Richard thought, fleetingly, that she may have leaned on him more than was absolutely necessary in doing so – but this was Kate, Kate of Kate Hall, as long as her camera lens was not pointed in his direction. Meanwhile, Joe was rapping out crisp directions alternately into his cellphone, his radio, and to the volunteers taking their places along the table.

“They’ll be taking them along Oak from 123 and the south side of Town Square, past the elementary school, and over to Cypress and north to the Wyler ranch. You better alert Jerry at the ISD. The elementary school is already dismissed for the day, but they’ll be going past the high school just at 4:00 … Just call everyone along those streets and alert them to what is going on. Cameras are optional, I guess. But shovels and wheelbarrows will be absolutely necessary afterwards.”

That was the last that Richard heard, over the hubble-bubble. Oddly enough, most everyone else appeared to think this was something exotic and exciting, worthy of notice, nearly as much as Richard did. They were vacating the fire department barn in a rush, all those whose services were not immediately required. Someone among the VFD staff on duty had obliged by raising the two garage doors.  Miss Letty, calm and magisterial as always, refused Richard’s assistance in joining the throng.

“My grandfather saw herds of cattle trailing through the streets quite often. Quite a nuisance it was at the time, he always said. The manure was useful, for gardens, of course.” She fell silent for a moment, and then added, “I suppose it has been years since you young people have seen such a thing, save in movies or on television.”

“It has, Miss Letty!” Katie chirped. “It’s why it’s news!”

Miss Letty snorted. “Sensation, Katherine. Pure vulgar sensation.”

“Sensation is my bread and butter,” Kate replied, not nearly as put down by Miss Letty’s obvious disapproval as Richard thought he would have been. “Vulgar or not. It’s something interesting, and new … or newly-new. I’m off, Miss Letty – my job. You know – that professional understanding that puts a meal on my table, pays for the gas in my car?”

“I know, dear,” Miss Letty unbent sufficiently to offer a smile. “You young girls have so many opportunities, these days. I’m not at all certain that some of them are for the betterment of our sex, but still … you have them.”

“I know,” Kate smiled in return, a smile that lit up her relatively ordinary face, and extraordinary blue-green, beryl-colored eyes. “And I’m not entirely lost to decency, Miss Letty. I do keep some news-worthy confidences.”

“And if you like, Miss Kate, I can offer a meal this evening,” Richard heard himself saying, to his utter horror. “At the Café … if you would like.” Where the holy ____ had that come from? Richard wondered, but Kate favored him with a blinding smile, and Miss Letty with an expression of wintery approval.

“I’d like that,” Kate said, and then went off at a trot in the direction of Oak Street which crossed from 123 into the regular – or somewhat regular grid of Luna City. That ridiculous oversized trench-coat flapped behind her like a loose sail. At the corner, she turned, and cupped her hands to shout, “See you after the trail drive, Richard!”

“So,” Miss Letty observed, after another short interval, in which they and the others had drifted down towards the Oak Street corner and spread out along the mostly-unimproved verge. (Sidewalks in Luna City didn’t begin for another half a block or so.) “How does the spider plant that I gave to you for your patio fare?”

“It’s still alive,” Richard replied. “Sending out a couple of small shoots. Baby spiders, I do believe. I hope they don’t choose to crawl indoors and begin spinning webs.”

“Excellent,” Miss Letty appeared amused. She and Richard had come to the corner, where a low wall of cut limestone adorned the roadside. Some years ago, a previous mayor – in a fit of municipal enthusiasm – had caused it to be built and adorned with cast-metal letters spelling out the words, “Welcome to Luna City – The Biggest Little Town in Texas.” One of the g’s had fallen off, and the last letter s was loose and tilted sideways. All the letters had bled dark smears of minerals down the pale stone, but the grass was clipped neatly around the wall.

Miss Letty took a large handkerchief out of her handbag and spread it on the level top. “I believe I shall sit and watch the excitement from here, Richard. And walk home if the meeting is not continued. I must say that it was good of you to take such an interest. The school cooking classes, the VFD and now Emergency Preparedness.”

“I don’t know if I’m all that much an addition to the strength,” Richard confessed. “I can barely manage a hose without knocking myself silly. And I do not drive. Really, all I can do is cook.”

“You have other skills, I am certain,” Miss Letty assured him. Richard was distracted – Kate was there, standing at the verge where the grass gave it up, in favor of a scattering of chippings and them the tarmac road, her camera out and at the ready.

“I can ride a bike and row a boat – and that’s about the limit. Look – I think the cattle are nearly here.” Richard shaded his eyes with one hand. The road out towards the river and Route 123 jogged slightly, so he could not see very far. A horseman came around the bend, then another, their hoofs clattering on the tarmac. To the west at their back, the clouds were mounting up in the pale sky; creamy mounds of cloud edged with fiery gold, sweeping shadows and light across the distant line of pale green hills dotted with dark green stands of oak. It was an unexpectedly theatrical setting, one which Richard pedaled through twice a day without noticing any outstanding aesthetic merit – but whether it was the clouds, the anticipation or whatever – the setting at that moment was almost epic-movie perfect. David Lean would have given his left testicle to get it on film in one uninterrupted take.

The first horseman was the perfect movie cowboy; a tall, fair young man, slouching easily in the saddle … and it was a Palomino horse, a golden horse with a dark mane and tail. The horse seemed to have a sense of occasion which the rider lacked; strutting along as if on parade, and there the mass of cattle following, tossing heads and red hides, shouldering each other as they followed.

“Santa Gertrudis,” Miss Letty remarked. “Stephen has a prize-winning herd of them. Also of Angus and Hereford. As well as a number of original Texas longhorns – although those, I believe, he keeps in the main pasture. The horns, you see – a hazard.”

“Amazing,” Richard breathed, and Miss Letty asked, “How so?”

“I usually see them as sides and quarters, already prepped.”

“Ah. You have an appreciation for where your chops and burgers come from,” Miss Letty’s sarcasm was restrained, which Richard appreciated.

“Well, of course. I like a good feed and I am not a vegan. Just – interesting to me to see a year’s worth of good beef suppers on the hoof, as it is.”

“Visions of steaks, stews and ragouts are dancing through your head?” Miss Letty had a wry turn of humor which Richard had really not observed to date.

“Yes,” and then Richard’s good humor turned all … well, to something. Kate with her camera dashed out into the road, in the path of that first horseman. Yes, of course the spectacle would be irresistible; a spirited horse, a handsome young rider in all the accoutrements of a classic cowboy. But that wasn’t the part which turned Richard’s attitude in the directions of sack, ash-cloth and discouragement. It was that Kate – his Kate – blew him a kiss on her fingertips.

And the cowboy on the Palomino laughed and returned the gesture.

This evening was not going to turn out well.

 

(Luna City IV is planned for a debut in June, 2017 – and here is a snippet of developments)

For the coffee shop on Town Square that is the usual morning gathering place.

For the coffee shop on Town Square that is the usual morning gathering place.


And sure enough – as Richard pedaled home in the twilight after a training session at the VFD classroom the following Wednesday, he was overtaken by a well-weathered high-top camping van. He was near enough to the unmarked and unpaved road which wandered off through a thicket of scrub off of Route 123 and led eventually towards the Age of Aquarius Campground and Goat Farm. The turn-off was innocent of any signage suggesting the presence of the campground, as most anyone who was serious about staying there knew about it anyway. The van, speckled with dust and splotches of dried road mud, drew a second vehicle on a tow-dolly, this vehicle well-wrapped in a tarpaulin equally road-besmirched. There were also a great many tarpaulin-wrapped items stowed on top of the van – all of them secured with business-like turns of rope and bungee cords. Richard thought that one of them might be a small boat. The driver slowed, rolling down his window.
“Howdy, stranger – am I getting close to the turn-off for the Grant place?” He was an older man, near to the age of Doc Wyler. He looked like the older Joe Vaughn of Richard’s imagining; a craggy, weathered countenance adorned with an impressively droopy mustache of the old-fashioned style popularly called a ‘soup-strainer.’
“It is, indeed,” Richard answered, warmly. “You must be Mr. Vaughn – welcome home! I was informed of your arrival – Mr. Grant asked that I should see you to the most salubrious position in the campground, and assure that you were well-settled…”
“Salubrious …” the driver chuckled. “That’s a real twenty-dollar word. You must be that English feller – the one who runs the Café nowadays. Well, throw that beater of yours onto the back, and hop in. I’m your neighbor for a while, until I get fixed up with a place of my own, here in the lower ’48. Harry Vaughn,” He favored Richard with a bone-crushing grip, extended through the lowered window.
“Richard Astor-Hall,” Richard tried very hard not to wince. “Indeed … I’ve been very pleased with the situation at the Grant place…” Obediently, he wheeled his bicycle around to van door into the back, and horsed it into the cramped interior. There was just enough room. Richard was impressed – a grown man had been living comfortably in a space even more miniscule than the Airstream. “I’ve rented from them since arriving in Luna City,” he explained, as Harry Vaughn let out the gears and steered the van back onto the road again. “The lane into the campground is around this bend, on the left…”
“In my day, it was called the old Sheffield place,” Harry Vaughn grunted. “There used to be a big old house out there. It was all fallen to ruin when I was a young sprout, though. But we all used to come out here in summer – the best damn swimming hole in all of Karnes County, right in that deep bend of the river. Had some fine times there, back in the day.”
“It’s still pretty deep, right there by the campground,” Richard answered. “Here – turn here.”
“Right,” Harry Vaughn slowed the van, and the trailing auto, and steered very carefully into the turn-off. Richard was glad that with all traffic from volunteers and donations to the building of the Straw Castle Aquarius, that Roman Gonzales had seen fit to scrape the thoroughfare with a baby bull-dozer and pour a couple of loads of gravel down, rendering the lane considerably less lumpy than it had been for years. Still, Harry Vaughn drove very slowly – past the goat pasture, past the thicket of trees at the turn-off which led farther up the hill and into the grove of oaks which framed the gleaming ivory tower of the Amazing Straw Castle Aquarius like the supporting-cast greenery surrounding the starring flowers of a bridal bouquet. The old windmill clattered away, and the breeze fanned the various colorful banners which depended from the oak branches and the rough-hewn mesquite beams which supported the veranda’s tin roof. “Nice,” Harry commented, sounding mildly impressed. “Not bad for hippie goat-farmers. Guess this is the campground?”
“Indeed,” Richard said – a campground empty of all but the solitary Airstream and its’ sheltering roof at the top end, and a gaggle of unusually brave or rough-adapted motorcycle tent-campers who had their series of basic a-frame tents set up at the bottom end, in a lee of the bank which overlooked the river. “I live in the old trailer there. As you can see – you’ve arrived at the right time for seeking solitude. Sefton said you can pick any place you like – but the places along the long hedge are the only ones with electrical hookups. I will be happy to assist you …”
“Not necessary, son,” Harry Vaughn replied. “I prefer the big outdoors and solitude myself. I’ll take the slot at the far end from you. And I’m good with setting up myself; don’t want to put you to any more trouble than you have already taken. Since you already work for ol’ Stevie-Boy Wyler, I’m certain you already have enough on your plate.”
That, as Richard ruminated later, after he took his trusty trail bike out of the back of Harry Vaughn’s van, should have been his first clue that Doc Wyler and Uncle Harry might just have – as the soap operas have it – a bit of a history between them.

The shrouded motor vehicle that Harry Vaughn towed behind his van all the way from Alaska was revealed to be an archaic-appearing convertible – with the top down – a convertible enameled in a brilliant shade of red known only the auto aficionados and county fair candied apples. Said vehicle appeared at mid-morning, a day or so later, arrogantly claiming the parking spot directly in front of the Café. Richard couldn’t decide how the convertible could stand out any more flagrantly – perhaps spotlighted by a pair of floodlights. Richard came out from the kitchen just in time to overhear involuntary sounds of appreciation from the regulars at the stammtisch, and those lesser customers with a good view out the front windows of the Café.
“Dios mio – a pristine ’66 Lincoln Continental,” exclaimed the senior Jaime Gonzalez, the proprietor of the main garage and repair shop in Luna City. “Papi had one – he sold it almost brand new to … Harry Vaughn!”
“And who are the ladies accompanying him?” Georg Stein wondered aloud, answered by a sigh from the aficionados of classic motors among the patrons, and one of equal depth from Joe and Jess, sharing a small table at the back of the Café.
“That’s our Abuelita,” Araceli replied/ She hurriedly delivered the order to the second-smallest table. “And her friend Min Kim – you know, Mr. Walcott’s mother-in-law… but I don’t know the other lady…”
“My Aunt Moira,” Richard sighed, in horrified recognition. Yes – Aunt Moira, his father’s eccentric older sister. His father’s mysterious and adventurous older sister, a woman of wide foreign travel and yet no visible means of economic support, although that of various government agencies had been suggested. Aunt Moira was scarily adept with deadly weapons, foreign languages, and methods of self-defense. Richard had concluded some years previously that Aunt Moira might be the distaff Agent 007. She certainly seemed to show up – or have been proven to show up – in various exotic locales, weeks or months before they featured in splashed-out headlines, world-wide. This had happened just too many times to be accounted for by sheer coincidence. As a schoolboy, Richard had tracked that sort of thing. Now he wished that he had kept better track of Aunt Moira’s whereabouts.

24. January 2017 · Comments Off on New Luna City Story! · Categories: Luna City Short Stories
Offices of the Karnesville Weekly Beacon

Offices of the Karnesville Weekly Beacon

(From the next Luna City chronicle, which is aimed for release in mid-summer)

In the Offices of the Karnesville Weekly Beacon

“Kate! Get in here and tell me what in the name of Dog has been going on in Luna City!”

Kate Heisel, bright-eyed and ready to plunge into another week of work on the regional newspaper on the morning after the last of the holidays, was in the chief editor’s office almost before Acey McClain finished bellowing, and as a sprinkling of superannuated dust from the ancient light fixtures in the offices of the Karnesville Weekly Beacon ceased sifting down like a gentle benison on the various desks below.

“Yes, Chief – right away, Chief!” she chirped. Acey McClain, grizzled, slightly hung-over and well over twice her age, scowled thunderously.

“Dammit, Kate – do you have to be so cheerful first thing in the morning? I’m not Lou Grant and you are not Mary Tylor Moore. And don’t call me Chief!”

“Sure, Chief,” Kate grinned at him and took out her notebook, perching on the narrow wooden guest chair opposite her boss. “It’s a legitimate form of aggression, being offensively cheerful first thing in the AM. Think of it as a workout for your liver. Get the old blood flowing … the birds are singing in the trees, the sun is shining, God is in his heaven and all’s right with the world…”

Acey McClain gave his pungently expressed opinion on that state of affairs and Kate’s grin widened. She made a show of jotting down several of the more interesting terms of abuse, and when he had finished, remarked, “Wow, Chief – that last isn’t even biologically possible … unless one is maybe triple-jointed and has a taste for … never mind. You were asking about Luna City over this last week.”

“That’s what I like about you, Kate,” Acey McClain sat back in the monumental and heroically battered leather executive chair which had been the badge of office for editors at the Karnesville Weekly Beacon since it had been the Daily Beacon, sometime around 1962. “And why I put up with your flagrantly disrespectful attitude. You’re the most purely un-shockable female that I have ever met. So – back to my original question: what in the name of Dog and all the Angles in heaven has been going on this last week in Luna City? I swear, if it weren’t for them, we’d have nothing to print except the legal notices, the minutes of the last garden club meeting and the police blotter.”

“About the usual, Chief.” Kate licked her pencil-point – an affectation adopted from her close watching of old movies about the news business. Kate was a great believer in professional traditions. “Let’s see … there was a fire at the old hippy hang-out by the river, just before Christmas. Burned the main establishment to the ground, but no one hurt and nothing much lost. The place wasn’t insured, though … but neighbors are weighing in. The new marketing director at Mills Farm has offered them one of their residential trailers for the owners to live in, while they rebuild.”

“What caused the fire?” Acey McClain was always curious about that. The answer to that question in his own hard-bitten crime-beat reporter past had earned him a more-than-average number of  above-the-fold, huge-typeface-headline-stories during a very long career in the big-city print news business.

“They think that a fire in a sweat-lodge wasn’t properly extinguished,” Kate replied. “The investigator for the LCVFD is all but certain about that. No story, Chief. Now, the mass-brawl that happened immediately before the fire …”

“Now you’re getting to the nut, Kate,” Acey McClain sat forward in the leather office chair, all eager attention. “What was that all about? I heard that some *sshole got bitten in the *ss by a rabid llama – true?”

“Not the rabid part. The llama in question did have all his required shots.” Kate flipped over to another page. “I double-checked with the veterinarian … Doc Wyler. Doc Wyler of the Wyler Lazy-W Ranch.”

“Oh, Dog,” Acey McClain shuddered, almost imperceptibly. “This *sshole didn’t pick a fight with him, too? The biggest ranch and the richest guy in Karnes County? And a man who lovingly cherishes his grudges like they were prize breeding stock?”

“Not so far,” Kate replied, still chipper as a squirrel with a winters-worth of stored away acorns. “As a matter of fact and according to eye-witnesses – and I have a list of them,” she flipped through another couple of pages. “Names available on the Talk of the Town blog. The *sshole is one Gunnison Penn of no definite fixed address other than Canada. He struck the llama in question first; I have photographic proof of it. You know, Chief – it’s great how everyone has a cellphone with camera capacity in their pocket, these days. There is a clear case of self-defense to be made: Gunnison Penn clearly hit the llama first.”

“That Canuck treasure-hunter guy?” Acey McClain looked even more alert. “He’s back again? Guess he must have beaten the last injunction – the one filed for harassing the family of that kid that found a pristine 1892 20$ gold piece at Mills Farm?”

“You don’t have to remind me, Chief – I was there, and the kid’s mom is my second-cousin. Yeah, that guy, and he’s gone again, lucky for Luna City. He definitely got the message. He packed up and went, as soon as he got a stitch or two and a shot of antibiotics at the Med center …” Kate snickered. “I cornered him in the parking lot there after he was released, asking him for his reaction. “

“Good girl, Kate!” Acey McClain radiated approval. “Sixty Minutes material, no fooling, kid – you’ll be in the big-time, any time!”

“God no, Chief – I’ve got some standards! Back to the all-hands punch-up on the banks of the San Antonio River. Another party of individuals charged in the brawl – three guys trying to do a stand-up for a YouTube feature about the mysterious Luna Lights…”

“What was it about those lights,” Acey folded his hands together and regarded his most energetic and enterprising young reporter with happy anticipation. “You find out anything about them? Optical illusion, secret Pentagon aircraft, mass hallucination – what?”

Kate fetched up a deep sigh from the depths of her news-hungry yet strangely ethical soul. “Fire lanterns, Chief. All that it was. I talked to Sefton Grant and his crew of superannuated hippies. They were celebrating the Solstice, or some such crap. They launched fire lanterns – you know – those paper hot-air balloons, with a candle burning under them, about twenty minutes before that guy with the cellphone recorded three of them drifting over the road. I even checked with the weather service – the prevailing wind at that time would have sent them in a westward direction. Fire lanterns – nothing more.”

 

More »

22. July 2016 · Comments Off on From The Next Luna City Chronicle · Categories: Luna City Short Stories

Dance with the Bunny Boiler in the Pale Moonlight

Some weeks after Romeo Gonzales arrived and set up his own campsite in the near-deserted Age of Aquarius, Richard pedaled up the road – deftly avoiding the ruts, bumps and puddles that nature and the passage of the occasional heavy vehicle had scoured into the clay-like soil with the skill of experience. It had rained lightly the night before, so puddles there were in plenty, and the fresh new grass had begun just raising tender new blades coyly between the old dead hay of the previous season.
On the whole, he had found Romeo Gonzales to be a congenial neighbor, given that it was hard to be anything else at half an acre space between their trailers and workplaces some blocks distant from each other. At least, Romeo showed no inclination to conspire together with malignantly-inclined micro-media operatives to ambush him at the door with lights, cameras and harassing commentary, unlike the egregious Penn. Who, in concordance with the injunction delivered through Jess, showed every inclination of making himself scarce whenever Richard was around. Richard was profoundly glad of that, not least because he treasured his afternoons of solitary contemplation of the pleasant but uninspiring landscape and his studies in Larousse.
And besides all that, Romeo was good at fixing things. He took it upon himself to shinny up and lubricate the old-fashioned windmill that drove the water-pump which supplied hot water to the old concrete block washhouse in the campground. Romeo adjusted the handbrakes and the chain of Richard’s bicycle, and when completely bored and bereft of things to do, popped up the hood of his pick-up truck and tinkered with the mysteries within. Still, Richard had looked out of the Airstream’s windows, very late at night, rubbing his eyes because he thought he could see some kind of ephemeral apparition – kind of like the Northern Lights, but rather more red-tinged than electric green, writhing and twisting in the air over Romeo’s Fifth-wheel. But as soon as he blinked, that vision was gone.
Now, that very pick-up coasted slowly across the campground, and Romeo leaned out of the drivers’ side window. “Hey, Rich – I’m heading out to Karnesville to swap out my propane bottles; you were saying that one of yours is empty and the other almost – you wanna come along?”
“Certainly – and thanks for the offer,” Richard answered with honest gratitude. “Run over to the Airstream – I’ll put them in.” He had been experimenting with various interesting recipes on the tiny propane-powered cooker in the Airstream, which had completely drained one tank – and to judge how the burner flame had been flickering of late – was close to emptying the other. The tanks were heavy – and the Walmart in Karnesville was a good ten or fifteen miles distant. In the space of a minute or two, his tanks were in the back of Romeo’s sturdy workman’s pick-up, and they were out on Route 123 – the back road between San Antonio and Aransas Pass, which gained in scenic qualities and relative lack of traffic in its soothing meandering across scenic portions of South Texas what it lacked in the boring celerity of the major highway.
But there was frequent traffic upon it; some miles along the way to Karnesville, the two of them witnessed evidence of that, in the form of a very late-model, velvet-black Mercedes sedan, off on the grassy verge on the other side of the road. The front left tire of the Mercedes was fatally, hopelessly flattened, and the driver stood uncertainly by it, very obviously boggled by this misfortune, although she held a cellphone in her hand.
“Oh, man,” Said Roman, in admiration. “What a gorgeous piece …”
“I don’t care!” Richard, recognizing the unfortunate driver, was horrified. He barely restrained his first impulse to dive under the passenger-side dashboard of Romeo’s truck – which being one of these huge garish American things, would have been big enough to hide at least two people, three of them if they were light of build. “Drive on – that’s the horrible Susannah! She’s a stalker, the bunny-boiler of Mills Farm! An executive of theirs! She has haunted me – chased after me! She came out to the trailer … for god’s sake, man – don’t stop! If you do, you’ll regret it, I tell you!”
“She came out to the Aquarius?” Romeo answered. “Damn, Rich, she’s way to classy for a regular lot lizard. I’ll run that risk, sure. And that Merc is one awesome bit of machinery.” He sighed, as the pick-up swept past the stranded Mercedes. “Sorry, man – you have issues with her. Your problem, not mine. I don’t leave ladies with car trouble by the roadside – just my personal standard.” He grinned sideways at Richard, who felt his heart sink right down to the level of his trainers. (Bought at Marisol Gonzalez’s thrift shop in Karnesville. He did wonder briefly if he could impose on Romeo to make a quick pit-stop there after trading in the gas bottles.)
“She’s a remora in human-guise,” Richard gabbled, frantic and horrified, as Romeo made an easy U-turn and drove back towards the stranded Mercedes and Susannah Wyatt – as always, slim and dressed to the nines in elegant and high-fashion vacation wear. “Just drive on! Call your uncle with the garage and the wrecker – anything! Once she latches onto your flesh, she doesn’t let go! A relentless succubus …”
“Sounds like my kind of woman!” Unmoved, Romeo did another U-turn and eased the pick-up off the road, backing up and parking just ahead of Susannah and her stranded Mercedes.
Richard slid down in the passenger seat, lower and lower, hissing between his teeth as Romeo turned off his engine, “I won’t be a part of this – I can’t be a part of this! For the love of God, don’t let her see me – don’t tell her I am here! The woman is a menace – you have no idea of what you are letting yourself in for …”
“No problem, bro,” Romeo answered, with total assurance. He unsnapped his seat belt, and opened the driver-side door. “I reckon maybe that I do … and I just won’t leave a woman stranded by the roadside with car trouble. That’s just not the Gonzales way.”
“You’ll live to regret it!” Richard made one final frantic and fruitless plea … to no avail. He slid farther down in the passenger seat, certain that he would not be seen, since Romeo’s truck sat so much higher than the Mercedes and had tinted windows in the back. But he could observe what transpired in the mirrors and hear Romeo’s and Susannah’s voices since the windows were open.
Romeo – swaggering just the tiniest bit like an old movie cowboy – doffed his hat and drawled, “Say there, little lady, you look like you’ve got a flat tire, there.”
Richard sank even farther down in the seat. “Oh, god – the bloody stereotype. Kill me now.” He couldn’t hear Susannah’s reply, but Romeo continued, “Don’t you fret, ma’am, I can change it for ya – just show me where your spare is. I got all the tools I need in the back of my truck. I’m Romeo Gonzales, by the way – of the Luna City Gonzaleses. You must be Miss Wyatt, from out at Mills Farm … I’ve heard so much about you.”

(to be continued in amusing fashion. Luna City 3.14159 will be released late this year, in both print and ebook versions.)

Yes, from the next Luna City Chronicle – an excerpt introducing Araceli and Berto’s cousin Romeo, who works in the oilfields and … well, things happen when he is around. Things involving broken hearts and occasionally smoking rubble…

Romeo

When Richard woke the next morning – having slept the sleep of the righteous in Superman sheets – he was alone in the Gonzales children’s bedroom, where mid-morning summer sunlight leaked around the edges of the roller blind that covered the single window. The bed opposite, neatly made with Disney princess sheets, was empty and Kate Heisel was gone; Richard was unsure if he was regretful over that, or not. In telling him bluntly that he was very much a celebrity back number and that no one in his old life seemed inclined to seek him out for any purpose; that was a comfort in one way, but a definite kick in the crotch to his ego in another.
His clothing from the night before was neatly folded and stacked at the foot of the bed where Kate had slept, his shoes next to them. Really, Araceli thought of everything. Richard dressed – his native good manners belatedly kicking into overdrive – and took his borrowed pajamas with him.
The smell of bacon frying greeted him out in the small kitchen, where a sleepy-eyed Patrick was scrambling eggs at the stove.

“Hi, Rich,” Patrick yawned. “’Celi said you were sleeping like a rock – and not to bother you until you woke up. She’s gone to work, the kids are at school – me, I’ll hit the sack myself in another twenty minutes.”
“What time is it?” Richard asked. “Thanks for the loan of the PJs. I was … not in good shape last night, but I am much better, now – thanks to yours’ and Araceli’s hospitality.”
“Half past nine,” Patrick answered. “Glad to hear it … ‘Celi said it was quite a ruckus last night. I’m sorry to have missed the excitement. But on the other hand – I might not have been near as polite as Joe was. Just put those in the laundry basket in the bathroom, and siddown for a bit of breakfast. You want some hot sauce on your eggs?”
“No, I’m pretty much a traditionalist when it comes to my morning eggs,” Richard replied, repressing a small shudder,
“You’re missing a thrill,” Patrick shrugged. “Everything goes better with a bit of siracha sauce.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Richard replied. They ate breakfast in companionable silence, Patrick stifling the occasional yawn. Richard, still feeling a little at odds through not having another day at work, decided that he would ride the bicycle home to the Airstream and spend a leisurely afternoon reading Larousse. The weather being temperate – cool autumn being welcomed after the searing blast of summer – he might even sit outside.

His bicycle was where he had left it the afternoon before, leaning against the stairs leading to the screened back porch. As he left by the front, where a low chain-link fence enclosed the front garden, he did note a single lonely news microphone covered with an enormous furry windscreen muff lying abandoned by the gate. It looked at first glance like a very large, very road-killed raccoon. A Basset hound with lugubriously drooping ears waddled over from across the road, cocked a leg and peed luxuriously on it, and looked at Richard as if seeking approval.
“Good boy!” Richard said. Gunnison Penn and his friends must have retrieved the rest of their jettisoned video gear under cover of darkness. He wheeled out his bicycle and set off, feeling as if he were on a bit of a holiday.

Coming up to the dirt road turn-off for the Age of Aquarius, he heard a truck behind him – slowing to make the turn. He took the prudent step of pulling entirely off the road and letting the truck pass him; a slightly battered but otherwise well-kept extended cab pick-up truck of the sort that half the working men around Luna City drove. There was a weathered twenty-foot Fifth-Wheel travel trailer hitched to the back of the truck – one of the plain bare-bones models without any of the bump-outs that increased the living space when parked. Trailer and truck alike were layered in dust, and alike bore North Dakota license plates. Richard let the dust settle, before he followed after; it looked like Romeo Gonzales had not followed the advice of his friends to just keep going.
Well, thought Richard – a social gain for him, in having company at the Age of Aquarius, besides the over-friendly goats and the annoying Canadian treasure hunter, Gunnison Penn. By the time he got to the campground field proper, the driver of the truck had deftly backed the Fifth-wheel into a parking place at the other end of the field from the Airstream. Well – since the place was all but empty for much of the year, they might as well give each other space. As far as Richard was concerned, Gunnison Penn could give them all the space of the entire county.

“I wonder how much longer he’ll be staying anyway,” Richard wondered aloud. He really hoped that Romeo would be a more congenial neighbor, in spite of Sefton Grant’s worrisome aside about Romeo’s propensity for attracting strange energies, and Araceli’s tale of how he was a particularly disaster-prone Jonah in the oil fields. So, good that his Fifth-wheel and pick-up were parked the length of the campground away. Richard propped his bicycle against one of the posts that held a metal awning over the Airstream and opened the door; he had adjusted so much to the ambiance of Luna City that he never locked door any more, either. He felt again the contentment of coming home, a feeling unknown to him since his school-days. When Romeo the walking disaster-area was done with settling his trailer in, he might walk over and introduce himself.
Some fifteen minutes later, a small yellow Jeep Wrangler appeared in the rutted and unpaved lane leading to the campground. Richard closed Larousse Gastronomique; Jess Abernathy; thirtyish CPA and championship barrel-racer, daughter of Martin the acting mayor, an Abernathy of the hardware store Abernathys, who as things went in Luna City were nearly one of the establishing old families. The Jeep bumped across the lumpy field and parked next to the Airstream, and Jess emerged from the driver’s seat.

“Hi, Rich,” she said, with an expression of relief. “Doc said that I should check on you today, although Araceli says you seemed to be OK this morning.”
“I’m fine,” Rich answered. “You needn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“No trouble,” Jess grinned, mischievously. “And I was coming out here anyway. When Doc heard about last night, he was pretty pissed-off. He considers you one of his personal projects, which is terribly patriarchal of him, but hey – consider him a product of his age and upbringing. He had his personal lawyer get ahold of the district judge and write up an injunction. Mr. Gunnison Penn is hereby instructed on pain of arrest to not approach within thirty feet of your person, your place of residence, the Café, or any private or public place where you happen to be.” Jess flashed a large manila envelope. “And the same with regard to Araceli and Patrick and their kids. I was charged with delivering copies of the injunction to Mr. Penn, since Doc was too angry to wait on the availability of a bailiff. Not an errand, but simply one of life’s little pleasures.”
“Ah – it seems this Monday morning has much to recommend it,” Richard was feeling better and better. “And your friend Romeo has arrived safely – is that him?”
“It certainly is,” Jess shaded her eyes. The distant driver of the truck with North Dakota plates was now busying himself with setting the braces to balance the trailer, and unhitch it from the truck bed. She looked amused and exasperated. “But we really aren’t friends, as it were. He was … oh, three years ahead of me in high school and our social circles didn’t intersect. He was a total jock … Around here, there is a sort of social pecking order, based on your sport. Did you play sports at your school, Rich?”
“Nothing brutal like rugger – I was on the rowing team, and on the school sailboat.”
“La de-dah,” Jess snickered. “Then you wouldn’t have rated at all, when it came to date-bait. Neither did I, back then.”
“I presume that you were a total swot … what you Yanks call a bookworm?”
“Glasses and braces both,” Jess nodded. “Romeo was always perfectly charming … but just a sort of male butterfly, flitting from flower to blooming flower. He usually didn’t bother much with the barely-open buds.”
“I was going to wait a while before I introduced myself,” Richard ventured. At that moment, Sefton Grant appeared from the direction of the Grant’s untidy yurt-based home site farther up the hill. He was carrying something over his shoulder – several very long slender poles, some of them tipped with … Richard blinked. Some kind of green glass insulating knobs, of the old-fashioned sort that used to be used to insulate electrical wires, and a heavy sledge-hammer in the other. “What on earth …”
“We may as well go say howdy,” Jess said, firmly. “And see what fresh lunacy Sefton and Judy are going to inflict on their guests. Mostly it’s the fairly harmless kind, although the LCVFD safety officer did have to warn them sternly about that sweat-lodge they built at mid-summer…”

As they passed Gunnison Penn’s RV with the fading Treasure Hunter International logo painted across the side, Sefton Grant had paced off the corners of the space surrounding Romeo Gonzales’ Fifth-wheel. He was setting a pole in each corner, plunging the end deep into the ground – which had been mercifully soften by a series of recent rains – and then pounding it further in with blows from the sledge-hammer. Each blow clanged like a bell; once well-seated in the earth, the second, glass-tipped pole was set into it.

Jess muttered something under breath about New Age crapola, and demanded, “Sefton, what on earth is this?” as soon as they came close enough to speak without shouting. Sefton Grant, who looked like a younger, fitter and less-run-to-seed version of Willie Nelson, hefted the sledge-hammer, and picked up the last set of poles.
“Judy’s idea,” he explained, somewhat abashed. “Something to bleed off the excess psychic energies before they build up. I’d explained it already to Romeo … hey, Romeo, you remember Jess Abernathy, don’t you? And this is Richard – he runs the Café now, lives out in the old Airstream. He’s from England.”
Romeo, thus addressed, wiped grime off his hands with a somewhat less dirty bandanna, tilted his straw cowboy hat further back on his head, and stuck out his right hand.
“Howdy, folks,” he drawled. Richard was momentarily nonplussed. He had never, in his life, either before arriving in Texas or after, observed anyone tilting their hat and saying ‘howdy, folks.’ “Jess! Good to see you, girl! You don’t say – England, huh? Man, I feel like I’ve driven from there, these last few days, instead of all the way from Missoula, Montana. Good to meet you!” he pumped Richard’s hand with the strength which can only come from a man who has spent the last fifteen years wrangling heavy tools and machinery. “I guess we’re neighbors, then!” Romeo added, with a cheerful and wholly openhearted grin.
“I guess that we are,” Richard said, after searching his mind for something to say.
“I’ve heard about you,” he added. Which he had; but one of those things he had not heard was that Romeo Gonzales was so very blindingly the winner in the lottery of good looks in a clan whose appearance clustered around a norm of ‘average’ to ‘pleasant’ with an occasional outlier of younger Gonzalez/Gonzaleses in the direction of ‘cute.’ Physically, he was tall, lean-hipped wedge of a man, with chiseled facial features, and pale blue eyes which contrasted to devastating effect with black hair and a tan not acquired in a salon through artificial means.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of you, too – you’re that chef guy, ‘Celi’s boss,” Romeo exclaimed. “Say – when I get settled, we ought to go out honky-tonking together! It’ll be a blast…”
“That’s what we’re all afraid of,” Richard thought he heard Sefton say, in a discrete murmur, and to cover it, he replied, “Well … I have the Café, and they expect me to be there very early most mornings, so my evening social life is … for the moment, pretty constrained.”
“No problem,” Romeo favored him with another one of those blinding grins. “I’m gonna work driving the wrecker for Uncle Jesus at the garage, so I’ve gotta be careful myself about staying out of trouble, I reckon.”

(To be continued of course. Luna City 3.0 will be out this fall, in time for Christmas, hopefully!)

The e-book version has gone live on Amazon, and on Barnes and Noble with a release on Friday; the print version will soon be up and available as well. I regret that until it goes officially on sale, there is no look-inside feature yet. Tomorrow, I will set up page for readers who would like to order directly from me – with autograph and a personal message.

But for those readers who have begged to know the identity of Richard’s mysterious visitor – from the first chapter, this excerpt:

 

That’s Show-biz

In the early morning, before the sun was more than a brief bright apricot rumor along the eastern horizon, Richard Astor-Hall pedaled grimly along the back road from the aged Airstream caravan at the Age of Aquarius Campground and Goat Farm towards the site of his daily labors. At least now the Airstream was beautifully and comfortably-maintained, since he appeared to have been informally adopted by the sprawling and omnipresent Gonzales-Gonzalez clan, on top of paying rent to Sefton and Judy Grant from his income from the Café. This was managed through Jess Abernathy, whose firm hands channeled the financial streams of a myriad of Luna City enterprises, including that of the Café and of the Age of Aquarius Campground and Goat Farm.

“Rent. I manage all of Sefton and Judy’s financials as well as those of the Café,” Jess informed him, some months ago when he asked for an explanation for a certain deduction marked every month in his stipend from the Café paid into a bank account at a bank in Karnesville.

“Why?” Richard had asked. “Can’t they manage for themselves?”

Jess frowned. “They are communists,” she explained, in a patient kind of voice which absolutely rubbed him the wrong way.

“I thought you Yanks disapproved of communists in the most strenuous fashion,” Richard replied, to which Jess snapped, “In the old sense, Richard; the lower case-c sense. Judy and Sefton are the last of an idealistic colony of true believers in a system which is only practical when it involves volunteers who work hard to benefit the collective and when it comes to finance, they don’t have the sense that God gave a goose. But they do good work and a lot of it,” she fixed Richard with a commanding glare. “So – I see to handing the takings from the goats and the campground and their Saturday market. I make certain that their taxes, utilities, health insurance and license fees are all paid … so the Grants can go on with tending their goats and worrying about whether it is ethical to weave with machine-made yarns. Never mind Judy twittering on about all that New Agey crap; she and Sefton show up when anyone needs help, and Judy hasn’t yet met a suffering animal that she doesn’t want to rescue. Who do you think fosters all those cats and dogs dumped out here in the country by idiot former owners? From each according to their abilities,” Jess added with a particularly cutting turn of sarcasm, “And to each, according to their needs. Or as we call it around here, supply and demand. I demand regular supplies of their honey, eggs, and goat-milk rosemary soap in return for economic services rendered and Judy supplies them: a win-win, all the way around.”

“I regret even asking,” Richard said and Jess snorted. On further consideration, though, he had to admit to himself that he rather favored Jess’s system of intelligent budgeting and rigid cost-to-benefit analysis. (‘Can we afford this for the Café?’ ‘No, not until ….’ Or sometimes, ‘Yes, but only up to this amount.’)

In his past life, he had been spectacularly careless with money. I had millions of pounds in income once and blew most on loose women and abuse-worthy substances. The rest I wasted. That recollection led to a dire contemplation of the other recently-arrived element of that old life.

Now he pedaled the bicycle along the verge of one of the unpaved back roads which eventually led into the heart of Main Square, Luna City, still pondering on the unfairness of it all. The bike was a mountain model, which had come to him through the largess of the Gonzales/Gonzalez clan, through one or another the the seniors bashfully admitting that it was a great bike, but the son – or possibly the grandson – had outgrown it or moved on to other and less environmentally-sustainable means of getting around. Hey, Ricardo, it’s a good way to get to work! You want it? Twenty-five dollars; I’ll tell Jess and it’s paid for.

As he came up on Route 123, he saw the lights of an automobile at a distance – ah, one of those grossly over-chromed SUVs. Knowing that drivers were apt to speed, in spite of the efforts of Chief Vaughn’s patrol cars and the much more substantial hazard posed by deer insouciantly wandering into the traffic lanes, Richard braked the bicycle, went onto the narrow gravel-and-weed shoulder of the road and waited for the SUV to pass. Which it did – about fifty yards farther along Route 123, where a number of unaccustomed lumps lay, slightly off the tarmac.

It looked, from where Richard stood, as if a deer had gone mano-a- deero against a mechanized vehicle, with predictable results. Hundred- pound deer, five-thousand-pound motor vehicle – which was going to win that contest? To his mild curiosity, the SUV slowed abruptly and went off into the shoulder. The blinking hazard lights flicked on, and someone emerged from the vehicle … a masculine outline, a male someone followed by a faintly overheard burst of indignant Korean in a familiar and feminine steam-whistle shriek. Ah; Clovis and Sook Walcott. Richard wondered why on earth Clovis should be interested in roadkill – but not for very long. To the tune of a final machine-gun burst of Korean, the shadowy figure of Clovis got back into the driver’s side, the blinking red hazard lights resumed their steady beam and with a roar the SUV pulled back onto the road and vanished around the next bend. Now that the road was empty, Richard remounted the bike and carried on – he had another fifteen minutes before he was due at the Café.

When he got to the place where the Walcotts had pulled off the road he saw that yes – indeed a deer; relatively undamaged from the impact but quite plainly dead; neck at a grotesquely unnatural angle. Nearby lay another roadkill; this one a hulking black bird of the kind he was given to know was called a ‘turkey-buzzard,’ also sprawled on the edge of the pavement with one wing upraised like a small black sail. The turkey- buzzard stank like a charnel-house. Why this unlovely spectacle of vehicular/wildlife mayhem had drawn Clovis Walcott’s intense interest was a mystery indeed. In the seven months or so that Richard had lived in Luna City and bicycled back and forth between the Café and the Age, he had seen it often enough himself … and even more often, the live deer creatures, wandering dainty and long-legged in the open spaces between thickets, or the turkey-vultures soaring on motionless dark wings in the faultless azure midday sky. But – he said to himself, in a grumpy acknowledgement he had made a thousand times in the last six months and would doubtless make a hundred thousand times more – this was Luna City, Texas.

He continued pedaling through the pre-dawn dimness, relishing the welcome chill of it all after the ungodly summer heat, a chill which had left a slight crunch of frost on certain grassy spaces. The sky was the color of mother-of-pearl, an elusive shimmering shade flushed with pink and apricot-orange, evanescent. He passed the bright orange Luna City Independent School District bus, pausing briefly at an intersection on the outskirts of town to collect a gaggle of small children, swathed in their winter coats and burdened with small rucksacks. These children were also burdened with the attention of watchful mothers and the occasional father who went scattering to their own daily devices once the school bus bore their offspring away.

He waved to Patrick Gonzalez, rumpled in his oil-stained coveralls, and sleepy-eyed from a night of driving a tanker truck; it seemed to be his morning to see Angelika and Mateo off to school, while Araceli turned on the lights and the coffee-machines at the Café.

Still ruminating alternately over why Clovis Walcott was  so interested in fresh roadkill and his own predicament with regard to the recent inconvenient visitor to Luna City, Richard turned down the narrow street which ran along the back of that block of buildings. Most of them housed garaging or at least a place to park a car, and in the case of the Café, the rubbish bin, a small weed-grown space and a small loading dock. The Steins, in the next building over, had a garage and a small shed at the very back, with a walled little garden between it and the rear windows of the main shop. As Richard wheeled into the back of the Café, he saw Georg’s bare-bones sedan backing out of their garage. He wondered vaguely what brought out Georg so early; on most mornings, he and Annise were over in the Café at that large table in front of the front window – what Georg jokingly called the ‘stammtisch’ – where the  regular patrons gathered.

He let himself in through the back door into the kitchen, which smelt divinely of fresh coffee and baking cinnamon rolls. Araceli was empting out the dishwasher, stacking plates and mugs with nervous efficiently and a great deal more force than strictly necessary. She glared at Richard, as he shrugged off his winter coat; this was a vintage military field jacket from Marisol Gonzalez’ second-hand shop in Karnesville. Chris Mayall at the Gas & Grocery had already been humorous  about it, but the jacket  was well-made and warm.

“That friend of yours is here,” She said, sounding if she were speaking around a clenched jaw. “The English one.”

“Not a friend,” Richard sighed. “More like an associate … and I regret like hell that it was ever that close.”

“Oh, Rich,” drawled the visitor in tones of tragic disappointment. Alas, Richard’s visitor was leaning picturesquely in the door way to the main room of the Café. “I am cut to the quick. I thought we were best chums, always.”

“Nope.” Richard was inordinately proud of the way that he thought  he had adopted something of the classic western bent towards the taciturn. Besides it was past time to fire up the griddle and start the bacon, then those slivered ham slices that everyone called Canadian bacon, and finally a nice vat of scrambled eggs.

“You’re a brute, Rich; a cold, cold unfeeling brute.”

“All a part of my happy, inconsequent charm,” Richard answered, sternly unmoved.

“I come all the way to this out-of-the way hole,” his visitor protested; tragically wounded as to expression, languid as to posture in the doorway, “I endeavor to make myself pleasant to your friends, rekindle our old relationship, relish the charms of this quaint little village, and this is my reward?”

“We were never friends,” Richard replied, his attention bent upon the griddle, and preparations for the morning rush of breakfast customers. “It was a mutually-advantageous association; friendship had bloody-all to do with it. Are you going to stand in the door all morning, with Araceli and the girls constantly stepping around you? You’ll be trampled underfoot in the morning rush for cinnamon rolls – consider yourself warned.”

“If you truly feel that way, Rich,” there came the deep and wounded sigh. “I’ve tried to reach out to you so many times! You never replied.”

“Life is full of these little tragedies,” Richard brought out a bowl of eggs from the refrigerator and began cracking them with deft and systematic skill into another. After some moments, he looked up from this task.  “’Ere – you still there?”

“I am,” replied the visitor. Araceli took up a tray upon hearing the front door open and close with a musical chime, and interjected, “Well better find another wall to hold up. Your special order is ready. Best eat it before it gets cold, then.”

“You take such good care of me, dear girl,” the visitor answered, without a blush. Richard thought it a testimony to good manners and excellent customer relations training that Araceli refrained from bouncing the tray off the visitor’s skull as she carried the breakfast special order  into the dining room. After a moment, she returned, not visibly fuming, although Richard could read the signs accurately.

“Pip Noel-Barrett was never a bosom chum of mine,” he confessed with a long sigh. “Truly – I have better taste than taking that poser to   my … well, to my confidence, anyway. He is, as practically everyone eventually realizes, an insufferable, inconsiderate, and amoral git; I  deduce that we are in accord in that matter. Ordered off-menu, I take it? Told you to add it to his running tab?”

“Of course,” Araceli snapped. “As always; I do not mind taking the trouble, Chef, I really don’t. What I do mind, is that he picks over it with an expression on his face like Mateo when he doesn’t like what’s for supper, leaving most of it on the plate and never saying a darned thing about what’s wrong with it. If he calls me ‘dear girl’ or ‘Araceli-my- darling’ one more time, I WILL hit him with the heaviest iron skillet in  the Café.”

“No, you won’t,” Richard answered. “It will make a mess on the floor, and assaulting one of Clovis Walcott’s business associates will reflect badly on everyone. Speaking of business, has he done anything about paying?”

“Nope,” Araceli’s expression was thunderous. “It’s always – sorry love, left the card in my room, sorry, bit short of the dosh at the moment, tomorrow, Araceli-my-darling. Jess will be furious.”

“If it comes to that,” Richard sighed. “I will set Miss Abernathy on him. That would give me the greatest pleasure. He owes for more than a fortnight of breakfasts and sandwich luncheons since he took up a room at the Cattleman.”

“A month is more like it. You’d think if he was in the movie business,” Araceli continued grumbling. “He’d be a lot better about paying his bills.” For some reason that Richard couldn’t fathom – save that Araceli was one of the most hard-headed women of his acquaintance and that she was badly offended by a customer pick-pick-picking at the Café’s food offerings like a dyspeptic hen – she was immune to the fabled Noel-Barrett charm.  The front door chimed again and then again almost at once. Yes, the first of the morning regulars. Araceli bustled out with carafes of fresh coffee and hot milk.

(All righty, then – this should hold y’all til Friday!)

08. May 2016 · Comments Off on Behold the Cover for the Second Chronicle! · Categories: Book News, Luna City Short Stories

Second_Chronicle_of_LC.indd

 

The ebook will be available at the end of this week on Nook and Kindle – links posted as soon as they go live. The print version should be up by the middle of next week! And it will no longer be a secret – the identity of Richard’s unwelcome surprise visitor!