You Can't Go Home Again BUT You Can Still Answer This Poll

Last night the SO and I watched the first two episodes of Season Ten of The X-Files.

Now...I was an early fan of The X-Files--and I was also an early defector. The Great Conspiracy thing bored me to tears--it was so obviously made up on the fly and it was SO preposterous, but I loved, loved, loved the Monster of the Week shows and I loved the characters and their chemistry. So eventually I did come back and stream all the episodes. And the streaming reconfirmed for me how absolutely idiotic the conspiracy thread was, but how really engaging was the core of the show.

Oh, and I saw all The X-Files movies.

This is just background to let you know I am a fan and I do understand fandom. I understand how you can love and hate something at the same time. I understand how you can feel so invested in someone else's imagination that you feel you get a vote. That your opinion should count for something. I understand that stories really DO matter and that it physically hurts when a writer gets it so wrong and dashes all your hopes and expectations.

So anyway, we watched those first two episodes and my foremost thought was...gulp...Mulder and Scully are old. Now I already knew that -- and I have also grown older -- but although I've seen Duchovny and Anderson in other dramatic vehicles, I haven't seen Mulder and Scully in different dramatic vehicles and yes, it was a little startling. And it put into my mind the thought that if you're going to bring something back, you don't want to wait too long.

 Now that I sound ruthlessly ageist, let me clarify that I actually enjoyed seeing Mulder and Scully together again and I didn't mind at all mind that they were older. I did mind things like...they weren't together as a couple anymore because I hate it when storytellers renege on a promise and when characters can't learn from the past. And the fact that the first episode was nearly incoherent with political agenda and HEY, A NEW EQUALLY FARFETCHED CONSPIRACY EVEN LESS BELIEVABLE THAN THE LAST ONE...but you know, that is so Chris Carter, I almost felt a kind of exasperated affection.

The second episode was marginally better, but if the third one doesn't bring home the goods, I will be erasing Season 10 from my memory banks.

But as I said, what watching Season 10 did was remind me that if you're going to bring something back from the grave...like a long promised sequel...you need to make that a priority. And since for once in my writing life I have no plans and no contracts beyond this year, it seems like 2017 would be a good year to tie up a few loose ends.

Accordingly I'm running a poll at Goodreads.

I'm asking two questions: which series book would you most like to see next AND (two--yes, you get TWO votes) which non-series book with a promised sequel would you like to see next?

The poll is here. (I think)

But not everyone belongs to Goodreads and so if you'd like to answer here, that's okay too.

 So onto the choices.


Of my CURRENTLY ONGOING series (which means NOT Adrien and Jake) which book would you most like to see next:

Holmes and Moriarity
Haunted Heart: Spring
Dangerous Ground


AND of the NON-series books where I have, however, promised a sequel:

The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks
Snowball in Hell
This Rough Magic


Now all these series will ultimately be completed (barring misfortune and death) and all these books will ultimately have their sequels (same rules) but in a perfect world where you are in control, what would you most like to see NEXT?

Answer below or at Goodreads.

Dis, Dat, and Da Other

Once again, this is not the post I had intended to write for this week, but there have been a slew of little updates, and I'm deep into Fair Play right now, so maybe we'll just do it this way.


Speaking of Fair Play, here's a little bitty snippet...






“Have you read the book?”
“No.” Elliot grimaced. “I forgot about it, to be honest. After he got that agent, he never really talked about it again. I figured nothing had ever come of it -- until he suddenly had a book deal and the damn thing was going to be published.”
“So you have no idea what’s in it?”
“Zero idea.”
“Any guesses?”
“He’s always talked about stirring people up, rattling a few cages. Christ knows what that means. He might mean cages in general or he might have a few specific cages in mind.”
“How much of a badass could he have been? I know he got a certain amount of notoriety from a string of arrests, but he never did any major jail time and he never made the Most Wanted list.”
“I know. I can’t imagine anyone reading the thing, let alone feeling threatened enough to kill him over it.”
“You could ask to read it.”
 “True.”
“The cops will ask to read it.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. The prevailing theory is that this is just another right wing nut outraged at the idea of a high profile leftist memoir.”
“It’s not a bad theory.”
“No, it’s the obvious theory, but I can tell that’s not what Dad thinks.”
“But he’s not telling you what he does think.”
“No.”
Tucker slid between sheets and groaned with relief.
Elliot tossed the report aside and leaned over him. “Welcome home, sailor.”
They kissed.
“What a long ass voyage,” Tucker muttered.






Fair Play is now available for preorder at Amazon. Hopefully soon at other places as well.


Also now available for order is the print edition of Fair Game. Remember, this print edition is an experiment for Carina Press, and therefore the clock is ticking as to how long it will remain available.


In other news, Stranger Things Have Happened, the Adrien English CYOA novel is now -- AT LONG LAST -- available for Kindle. Yes, it does have those gorgeous (black and white) illustrations by Catherine Dair.


And finally, a bit of good news for audio book lovers, This Rough Magic narrated by Jordan Murphy is now up for sale at Audible. (It should soon be available at iTunes and Amazon.) Regular viewers may recall that Jordan was the narrator who came in second place with voters during the Armed and Dangerous vocal death match.


Oh! I almost forgot. Next week is the release of the Male Male Contemporary Box Set from Carina Press which includes stories by LB Gregg, Libby Drew, KC Burns and me. (My story is Icecapade.) This is a great way to sample some excellent M/M stories from writers I'm pretty sure you'll really enjoy.


And I think that's it. I will be very hard to find on line for the next couple of weeks while I plow through the rough draft of Fair Play, so if I am slow in responding, the good news is I'm writing one of your most requested stories.
 

Coming in 2014

Wait…that’s NOW!

 

So 2014 is upon us like the wolf upon the fold, and I have been hemming and hawing about what’s coming up from yours truly. And partly that’s because I hate to commit lest I fail to deliver, and partly it’s because having the illusion of creative freedom keeps me more…creative.

 

But two projects are contracted and already have release dates. Those would be Stranger on the Shore due out from Carina Press May 5^th (yes, you can preorder, it’s already in edits) and Fair Play, the sequel to Fair Game. (I think FP is due out in November -- also through Carina Press.)

 

So really those are the only two projects absolutely set in stone. That said, there are a couple of things planned for this year that will happen -- I’m just leery about attaching dates to them.

 

The Boy with the Painful Tattoo (Book 3 in the Holmes & Moriarity series). Much anticipated, I know. I’ve got some 15 queries in my inbox at the moment. The hope (and prayer) is to have this out before the summer. It should have been out before now, but to be honest it’s a tricky place in the series -- a turning point -- and I keep mulling over it and trying to decide what I really want to do here.

 

Yes, it will be in digital, print, and audio.

 

Also pretty much for sure this year is Winter Kill (digital, print, audio). That’s the one about the FBI agent and the sheriff’s deputy in the Pacific Northwest (serial killer, environmentalists, Native Americans, etc.)

 

Then we have all the Very Likely to Happen (maybe even before the Will Happens, and those include Ill Met by Moonlight (sequel to This Rough Magic) and Bite Club (sequel to Mummy Dearest). These are both novellas which means pretty quick and easy to write provided I don’t get distracted and lured away by other projects.

 

Ill Met By Moonlight will be paired with TRM in a print anthology -- and there will be an audio book. There should also be a general historical print collection with a new short story. I’m sort of tossing that idea around to figure out what would work best -- should I include IMbM and TRM in that? Or should I leave them in their own print collection? Or both? I’m undecided.

 

I believe I mentioned elsewhere that the last three Adrien English novels have been picked up for Japanese translation by Shinshokan? And we’re continuing to look into more possibilities for translation in other corners of the globe.

 

Finally we have the stuff that should happen, but I don’t want to think about right now: Haunted Heart: Spring, Dangerous Ground 6, Christmas stories, etc. I am very eager to write the sequel to Snowball in Hell, but the original story I’d planned is now pushed back for a book or two within the series. In the words of Stewie the GPS voice…recalculating. And that long talked about project inspired by The Monument Men seems like maybe its time has come...

 

The reality is I can only do 4 -5 projects a year without straining -- strain does not produce the best work, so it’s a matter of figuring out the right projects for the right time. And how I do that is to calculate what I am most eager to write with what you are most eager to read. Sometimes I come up with the perfect solution. Sometimes…not so much.

 

Anyway, that’s where we stand as of this moment. Things could change. They often do. And very often what you have to say plays a part in that. So feel free to speak up now!

 

Snippet from WIP - Ill Met By Moonlight (UN-edited)

(1935 Saturday December 28^th)

 

Oscar Wilde had it right. No man was rich enough to buy back his past.

            That didn’t stop people from trying. Or hiring Rafferty to try. He looked at it more like buying time. Sooner or later the truth always came out. But there was a hell of a lot difference between the truth coming out three days before your wedding or three years after you were dead.

            Anyway, he preferred dealing with blackmailers to trailing cheating husbands. This was the first time he’d been asked to rendezvous with a blackmailer in a museum. A museum holding a major exhibition for a cursed Egyptian mummy. An exhibition where everyone except the mummy was in costume.

            Rafferty moved to the side as two scantily clad temple priestesses squeezed past on the marble staircase. The nearest Lily of the Nile was giggling and clutching the arm of her companion. The other doll was saying, “I told Gene, it was never like this in Babylon.”

            They went on their unsteady way to the mezzanine with its planetarium. Rafferty gazed down at the crowded main hall. According to Scheiner, his client, the blackmailer had instructed the payoff be left in a closed exhibition room, a plain envelope of unmarked cash stashed behind the mummy case of an obscure Ptolemy pharaoh no longer of interest now that Princess Nebetah had been brought to San Francisco to wow the customers. At the end of the party Rafferty was to return to the exhibition room and pick up the parcel that would be left in exchange. If any attempt was made to apprehend the blackmailer’s confederate, the deal was off and the blackmailer would go straight to the papers with whatever damaging information he had.

            Whatever that information was it had to be pretty hot because Scheiner had never struck Rafferty as a pushover but he’d been adamant that Rafferty follow the plan to the letter.

            And that was what Rafferty was doing.

            Mostly.

            It went against the grain to give into extortion. There wasn’t any creature on God’s green earth Rafferty hated more than a blackmailer. So he’d left the fat envelope of cash as directed and then slipped into the gents and changed into an idiotic costume so he could blend in with everyone else at this wingding. He didn’t plan on interfering with the pickup, but he did plan on tailing the bagman.

            Though he’d provided the duds, Brett had advised against pursuit. Brett Sheridan was Rafferty’s…well, never having had a friendship quite like this one, Rafferty wasn’t sure what you’d call it. Whatever you called it was one reason Brett was identifying too closely with the victim. Brett had guts, but the idea of blackmail shook him. Scheiner, naturally, knew nothing about Rafferty’s plan. He’d be happy in the end though, because the blackmail wouldn’t stop with this payment. Scheiner was just kidding himself believing the promises of a guy who called himself Mr. X.

            From his vantage point on the staircase, Rafferty watched the waiters, brawny lads in slave costumes, circulate with drink trays and canapés amongst the hoi polloi of San Francisco. A ten piece orchestra sawed away at a version of “Night and Day,” though the music could hardly be heard over the babble of voices. The place was packed. But then the museum was not especially large.

            Originally built in 1920, the Morshead had previously housed a small collection of antiquities and a large collection of oddities. It was designed in a pseudo Egyptian-revival style. From the pair of giant sphinx sculptures guarding the museum entrance to the painted and carved Egyptian friezes and lotus style columns, the building was supposed to evoke the mystery and magic of the newsreels they all watched with such fascination at the picture show. Newsreels that showed the excavations at Tell el-Amarna and the Valley of the Kings -- which was where Emmett Parker had made his now famous discovery of the burial chamber of Princess Nebetah.

            Emmett Parker. Rafferty’s lip curled. Pompous ass. There he stood now, posing before a group of admirers, like the grinning, bare-chested palooka on a cover of a Jungle Comics. 

            Parker spoke and his audience, mostly female, tee-hee-hee-ed obligingly. Among the smitten was Justine Sheridan, looking especially striking in a white gown with leopard skin girdle. She had the dark, dramatic looks to carry off the costume. Not everyone was so fortune. Lenora Sheridan, for example, looked like she’d fallen into a portmanteau of purple draperies and only managed to climb out. Her gray hair was coming undone, as were the draperies. She kept clutching at the fabric slipping from her plump shoulders.

            A lot of people to keep track of, and most of them unknown to Rafferty. Even the familiar ones were hard to pick out in costume. He absently hummed a few bars of “Night and Day,” turning to watch the hallway to the closed exhibition room over his cupped hands as he lit a cigarette.

            No movement. No one was showing any interest in adventuring down the empty hall to the darkened room.

            The fact that the blackmailer had chosen the museum might mean something. Might even mean the blackmailer was someone who worked for the museum. Rafferty’s gaze returned automatically to Emmett Parker, who once again had the ladies gasping and giggling as he recounted his exploits in the Valley of the Kings.

           

Honesty forced Rafferty to concede that he probably wasn’t giving Parker a fair shake. Once upon a time, a long time ago, Parker had hurt Brett pretty badly, and anyone who hurt Brett Sheridan was no pal of Rafferty’s. Even so, it was unlikely Parker, newly returned from Egypt, was spending his much-in-demand time blackmailing a small time San Francisco actuary.

            No, more likely, the blackmailer had realized, correctly, that pretty much everybody who was anybody was going to be packed into this museum tonight -- in disguise no less -- and his movements would be hard to track.

            Hard. Not impossible.

            Rafferty looked for Brett in the crowd below. He spotted him dancing, Brett’s sleek dark head bent to hear what his companion, a slim dame in a sparkly white gown, was saying. He was smiling, but Rafferty recognized that expression as the face Brett wore when he was a million miles away.

           

Christmas Coda 3

Brett and Rafferty from THIS ROUGH MAGIC

 

 

Rafferty told himself he didn’t expect Brett to show.

Christmas Eve? Nah. There would be some swell Snob Hill party he was expected to attend or some wingding at the old plantation he’d feel it his duty to soldier through. And it wasn’t like Rafferty was ten years old and still believed in Santy Claus. It was a long time since he’d knelt by his cot praying for a pony or a long lost uncle. He was a big boy now and this was just another night in foggy old San Francisco. A little colder, a little darker than some—but Rafferty’d known colder and darker.

It was well after midnight when he poured a stiff drink, his second of the evening, and turned out the lights in the front of the house. He was lying in bed reading White Fang by Jack London when he heard the faint, familiar scratching at his bedroom window.

His heart sprang into life. He threw the book aside, unfolded from the bed, and shoved open the window. Brett stood in the alley. He grinned at Rafferty and held up a bottle of Dom Perignon.

“I thought I heard the click click click of reindeer hooves,” Rafferty drawled.

“Merry Christmas.” Brett handed over the champagne and climbed through window with considerable agility, given that he was wearing evening clothes beneath a dark ulster. The ulster had a Persian lamb collar, so Rafferty had guessed right. A night on the town for young Master Sheridan.

He shoved the window closed behind Brett, yanked the curtains shut. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Brett gave him a level look, his eyes as green as spring. “I can leave if you’ve got other plans.”

“Of course I don’t have plans and of course I don’t want you to leave.” Rafferty took him in his arms. Brett’s eyes were shining and happy, his flushed face cold from the bitter night air. He tasted like champagne. 

“I got away as soon as I could.’

“You should have told me you were coming. I’d have…” What? Fixed Brett a meal? He’d have had plenty to eat and plenty to drink wherever he’d been.

“I wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Rafferty was touched—and embarrassed. He would have been disappointed, sure, though he’d like to think he was better at hiding his feelings. “I’m glad you made it.”

Brett treated him to one of those rare, unguarded smiles. Six months they’d been…whatever they were, and those smiles still made Rafferty’s breath catch in his throat.

“Did you have a nice evening?” he asked, and he genuinely hoped Brett had because there weren’t nearly enough nice evenings in Brett’s life.

“Not particularly.” Brett reached deep into his coat pocket and pulled out a small parcel, a flat blue box with a white ribbon.

“What’s this?” Rafferty took the box.

Brett shrugged out of his ulster and draped it over the bed post. The first time he’d done that, Rafferty had woken during the night and, thinking someone was looming over the bed, nearly shot the coat. “Open it,” Brett said, and turned his attention to the champagne.

Rafferty recognized that blue box and he wondered uneasily where the hell Brett had found the money to buy whatever was inside. Hopefully Brett and Kitty weren’t back to pawning family heirlooms.

By the time Rafferty had fumbled open the box, Brett had uncorked the champagne and poured it into the only two clean coffee cups left in the house.

“Hell.” Rafferty stared down at the gold pocket watch. He swallowed hard. “I got you a book.”

Brett laughed. “Did you? What book?”

Rafferty’s face felt hot. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but really what the hell had he been thinking? “Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

Brett laughed again, an indulgent chuckle. He had put his mug of champagne on the steamer trunk that served as Rafferty’s bedside table and was shedding his clothes with quick, unselfconscious grace. His skin was pale and smooth like warm marble. He said, “You’re a romantic, Neil.”

Maybe. He was Irish. It was pretty much the same thing.

Rafferty removed the pocket watch from the fancy box. It was a beauty. The nicest thing he’d ever had in his life. He glanced at Brett now climbing into his bed, and mentally corrected himself. The second nicest thing he’d ever had in his life.

“Thank you,” he said, and he wasn’t talking to Brett.

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WiP - This Rough Magic

It was always a dame, wasn’t it? In the dime novels, it was always a dame.

A smart and sassy society dame smelling of gardenias, with a fox stole thrown over her bony shoulders, and a mouth that would make a French maid blink. In real life, the dames Rafferty met were of a different breed. They wore Vogue Pattern #7313 and lines of worry in their tired faces. They came to him in the hope that he could locate a missing son or daughter -- or straying husband.

There had been one society dame. Rafferty had helped her get back some letters, and her marriage to a Texas oil tycoon had gone right ahead as scheduled. Every now and then she threw some business his way. He could only think that Mrs. Charles Constable was somehow to blame for the very handsome and very nervous young man currently perched on the uncomfortable chair in front of Rafferty’s desk.

The chair squeaked as Brett Sheridan, of the Nob Hill Sheridans, gave another of those infinitesimal shifts like a bird on a cracking tree limb. Sheridan’s eyes--wide and green as the water in San Francisco Bay--met Rafferty’s and flicked away.

Yes, a very handsome young man. From that raven’s wing of soft dark hair that kept falling in his wide, long-lashed eyes, to the obstinate jut of his chiseled chin.

Not so young, but not so old either. Twenty six? Twenty seven maybe? Sheltered, most certainly. The Brett Sheridans of the world were always sheltered. Right up to the moment the world decided to puncture their bicycle tires. Still, a nice ride while it lasted.

Rafferty said, “And you think your sister took this, what d’you call it, folio?”

Sheridan had a nice voice too. Low and a little husky, not too affected though he’d obviously spent time at a fancy New England boarding school. “Not Kitty. The thug she’s running around with.”

“Harry Sader.”

“Right. Do you know him?”

Rafferty’s mouth quirked. He reined himself in ruthlessly. “Despite how it looks, I’m not on nodding acquaintance with every bum in town.”

“No. Quite.” Sheridan’s color rose. Rafferty tried to recall what the story was on him. There was some story. That much he did remember. “I just thought that in your line of work you might have crossed paths before.”

“I’ve heard of him. He runs with Kip Mullen’s gang.” He could have told Sheridan a story or two about those boys that would have curled his hair, but scaring the client was rarely good business. “Explain to me again what this folio is?”

“It’s a book or a pamphlet. In this case it’s a book of Shakespeare’s play The Tempest.” Sheridan bit his lip rather boyishly. “I suppose, technically, it’s a quarto, but I admit I don’t fully understand the difference. The only thing I know for certain is it’s the earliest printed version of the play. It was printed in the sixteenth century, nearly a decade before the First Folio.”

Rafferty opened his mouth and then closed it. It probably didn’t matter, right?

“And this folio that is or isn’t the first folio is worth a bundle?”

“It’s not the First Folio. That was printed in 1623. It contains thirty six of Shakespeare’s plays, nineteen of which previously appeared in separate, individual editions. All the separate editions are quartos except for one octavo. But Mr. Lennox refers to it as a folio. The Tempest, that is.”

Rafferty could feel his eyes starting to spin. He resisted the temptation to hang onto his desk.  “This thing is worth a bundle?”

“It’s priceless.”

“Sure, but I bet the insurance company tagged it with a dollar amount.”

“Mr. Lennox is very wealthy. The insurance money means nothing to him. He wants the folio back.”

“The quarto.”

“Correct. He wants it back at any cost.”

“Ah. He’d pay a king’s ransom?”

Sheridan nodded unhappily.

“And the last time anyone saw the-folio-that’s-really-a-quarto was the night of your engagement party?”

“Last night. Correct. Mr. Lennox hosted a garden party for us -- Juliet and me -- at his home in Pacific Heights.”

“And you immediately jumped to the conclusion that your sister’s beau was responsible?”

“There isn’t anyone else likely.”

Rafferty dropped his pencil and pushed back in his chair. “That so? All swell society folk with arm-long pedigrees, were they?”

There was that delicate wash of color again. Not exactly what you expected from hale and healthy young Harvard bucks. Not unless they were given to unwholesome activities like painting watercolors or writing feverish poetry. Or worse. Rafferty was pretty sure worse was the not the rumor he’d heard. He’d likely have remembered that.

“No. That is… Yes.”

“Which is it? No or yes?”

 “It wasn’t my immediate thought, no,” Sheridan said stiffly. “But Kitty was acting so…so oddly. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized what must have happened. Sader took the folio and Kitty knows about it.”

“You mean she was his accomplice?”

Sheridan’s mouth thinned down to a line. His jaw lived up to the promise of that obstinate chin. “Maybe.”

“And you want me to find this folio and return it to its proper owner, your fiancée’s father?”

“Yes. That’s part of it. Mr. Lennox has given the culprit seven days to return the folio. After that, he’s going to the police.”

“Why the stall? Why didn’t he ring for the cops last night?”

“Because--because it’s obvious to everyone that the crime was what you’d call an inside job.”

“Well, that’s one thing I might call it.”

“Perpetrated by one of the Lennox’s guests. Lennox is trying to save…someone from social ruin.”

“Not to mention prison.”

Sheridan paled. “Yes.”

“Okay. Seven days to find this book or whatever it is and return it to old man Lennox. What’s the rest of it?”

“I want you to convince Sader to keep his mouth shut about Kitty’s involvement--if any--and to get him to agree to stay away from her.”

“That’s a tall order. Doesn’t Kitty have a say in all this?”

Sheridan’s throat moved as he swallowed. “No.”

“And how am I supposed to convince Sir Lancelot to give up the Lady of the Loot?”

Sheridan’s chin lifted. He said unconscious arrogance, “I understood from Pat that you’re reasonably inventive.”

“Pat?”

“Pat Constable. She’s the one who referred me to you. You to me. Anyway, I should think that the threat of jail would be sufficient to steer Sader away from Kitty.”

Rafferty’s brows rose. “You want me to blackmail him?”

“I don’t want to know anything about it. I just want Kitty out of his clutches.”

Rafferty managed not to laugh. The Brett Sheridans of the world did not like to be laughed at, even when they were talking what they would probably refer to as poppycock. Rafferty would have referred to it as something else, but not in polite company, and this company was about as polite as it got. Requests for blackmail and intimidation not withstanding.

“All right,” he said.

Sheridan’s eyes widened. “You’ll do it?”

“Wasn’t that the idea?”

“Yes. I just wasn’t sure--didn’t think it would be this simple.”

“Yeah, well, it sounds straightforward enough. Right up my alley.” Rafferty tried to look suitably disreputable. He didn’t have to try hard these days.  

“There’s a time element to all this--”

“Seven days. I didn’t miss it. And it’ll cost you more.” Rafferty named a figure that should have made the sensitive Mr. Sheridan blanch. He didn’t bat an eye as he reached inside his Scotch wool topcoat and withdrew a leather wallet. He counted out the crisp notes.

“You always carry this much cash?” Rafferty inquired taking the bills, folding them, and tucking them in the breast pocket of his suit.

“Pat told me you weren’t cheap.”

Rafferty snorted. “I’ve been called many things, but never cheap.”

Sheridan’s lashes flicked up and he gave Rafferty a long, direct look. So direct a look, in fact, that Rafferty wasn’t quite sure he was reading it correctly.

“What will your first move be?”

Rafferty blinked. “Huh?”

“How will you proceed with the case?”

“Are you sure you want to know? It’ll probably be necessary to, er, bend the rules a little….”

Sheridan drew back as though from a flame. “No. You’re quite right. It’s better if I don’t know. But you’ll…keep me posted on your progress? There’s so little time.”

Rafferty rose from behind his desk, and Sheridan rose too, automatically. “The minute I find anything out, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Right. Of course,” Sheridan said doubtfully. “Thank you.”

“No, no,” Rafferty replied urbanely. He was starting to enjoy himself. “Thank you.”

            “Gee.” Linda’s tone was wistful. “He even smells beautiful.”

“That’s Lenthéric aftershave, sugar.” Rafferty turned from the grimy window as Brett Sheridan’s tan V-8 convertible sedan sped away down

California Street

. “He fills the suit out all right, but if he’s got the brains of a Pekingese I’ll eat my hat.”

Linda laughed. She was a blonde bit of a girl, barely five feet in her socks. Not that Rafferty had seen her in her socks--or anything but those prim little numbers she wore on the Saturdays, Mondays, and Wednesdays she manned his front office. He’d met her--rescued her, if you took her word for it--the morning she’d escaped with hours-old Baby William from the Drake Home for Unwed Mothers.

“Do we have a case?”

Rafferty reached into his pocket and showed her the wad of bank notes.

Linda gasped. “Who do you have to kill?”

            “This is honest dough for honest labor. I may have to rough Harry Sader up a little.”

Linda’s big brown eyes went saucer-like. “Harry Sader?”

“He’s managed to get his claws into Little Lord Fauntleroy’s big sister. I’m going to encourage him to let go--among other things.”

“What other things?”

“Our client thinks Harry stole a book.”

“I didn’t know Harry could read.”

“I guess it’s a very valuable book, and it would keep Harry in gin and greyhounds for the foreseeable future.”

“Harry Sader is trouble.”

Rafferty flashed her a grin. “Trouble is my business.” He reached for his hat.

* * * * *