"I guess now it's time for the thank-yous. First I'd like to thank my great-aunt Shelley, who has been an inspiration to me. My aunt Pearl was a great help. I'd also like to thank Rabbi Drexler, as well as my mother, for teaching me a very important principle: Do as I say, not as I do."
He heard the crowd gasp but the adrenalin was pumping too hard. He'd come to the end and he had to get this right.
"Finally, I'd like to honor the memory of my father, Leonard, and all of my grandparents. Without you, I would not be here, to have this special day of becoming a man. And to my grandfather Morris, I give a special thank-you for the gift you left behind. I know you couldn't be around to give it to me personally, but I hope you'll understand why I had to use it."
It was a swift, smooth motion to retrieve the good-luck charm. The gasps grew louder but all Dovid felt was the charm's lightness and how utterly right it seemed in his right hand. He raised it upwards, barely registering the rush of several people toward him. But they wouldn't get there in time.
When it was over, Dovid smiled. His boyhood was over and he had finally become a man.
No matter what, he would stay that way forever.
Copyright © 2007 Sarah Weinman
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BLOG BYTES by Ed Gorman
The Rap Sheet. J. Kingston Pierce offers his readers high style, sharp insights, and an air of amiable conversation as he looks at mystery novels, mystery movies, mystery TV shows, and other subjects ranging from the new batch of Bond babes to a moving tribute to the late Jack Palance. Part pure journalism, part critique, and part just plain fun, The Rap Sheet is a tribute to the intelligence and wit of a single person. Pierce gives opinionating a good name. therapsheet.blog spot.com
gadetection: “A comprehensive collection of material relating to the Golden Age of Detection—roughly from 1920 to 1960—covering authors, books, magazines, ephemera, and other details.” While the Golden Age doesn't hold great interest for me, I spent a pleasant hour and a half on this site getting up to speed on this special era of mystery fiction. And you know what? I'm going to buy a few of the books recommended here. I sorta got hooked. This is a formidable, readable site that covers its time period in a fascinating way. gadetection.pbwiki.com
A Writer's Life. For writers and readers who want to know more about Real Life in Hollywood, acclaimed TV writer and novelist Lee Goldberg gives you the lowdown on what writing for TV entails. Not as easy as so many critics seem to think. Goldberg also offers a wide range of opinions on topical matters using humor, disdain, and a kind of world-weariness appropriate to the subject. Before you consider self-publication read Lee's take on all the scam artists out there. Be very, very careful.
leegoldberg.typepad.com
Rough Edges. James Reasoner is one of those writers who works comfortably in multiple genres and does exceeding well by all of them. I enjoy his blog because it's a mix of some very useful insights into the process of writing fiction, a personal blog detailing his life as a husband and father down Texas way, and a forum for commenting on the books and movies he reads and sees. He doesn't post every day but when he does post it's always worth reading. This is one of those stop-off points where the personality of the writer keeps you coming back no matter what subject he's discussing. jamesreasoner.blogspot.com
Ed Gorman's own occasional blogs can be found at www.mysteryfile.com.
Copyright © 2007 Ed Gorman
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CLARA'S SACRIFICE by J. F. Freedman
Thriller writer J. F. Freedman, several of whose books have been New York Times best-sellers, began his writing career in film and TV, where he wrote and directed episodes of such shows as The X-Files and Kojak. In 1992 his first novel, Against the Wind, was published and its success made novel-writing his primary occupation. His latest book is A Killing in the Valley (Madison Park Press, 2006).
The Blue Dolphin is strictly a locals bar, because it's too far off the beaten track for the tourist trade. It's tucked away on a dead-end street in the West Beach section of the paradise known as Santa Barbara, a couple of blocks up from Cabrillo Boulevard, which parallels the ocean, and an equal number of blocks off State Street, the city's main north-south artery. It's a no-froufrou joint, just drinking, watching sports on the overhead televisions, and drinking.
Two or three times a week, Sutpen and I meet there after work. We slam down enough booze to get decently into the bag, but not so much that we're blotto. We are, after all, professionals.
It's the middle of June, so the sun is still high when I push through the door. The oldies radio station is playing Duane Eddy's instrumental of “Gidget Goes Hawaiian.” Sutpen is sitting at the bar, nursing his usual Absolut martini. As my eyes adjust to the dim light I nod at Emily, the bartender from God knows how far back. She begins putting together my perfect Manhattan: Maker's Mark bourbon, up, no cherry. I plunk down on the stool next to Sutpen's. It's a weekday, so the place is pretty slow. Just us and a handful of other regulars.
Sutpen and I have a couple of fundamental qualities in common. We're both functioning alcoholics, and we're both sleeping with his wife. Clara, a willowy blonde who could pass for Diane Lane's sister (in other words, she's a stunner), turned forty six months ago. Sutpen was going to do the usual wine-and-dine at a good restaurant, a nice evening but nothing ground-breaking, with maybe a modest Beverly Hills shopping trip thrown in for brownie points, but at the last minute he had to fly down to San Diego for an unavoidable meeting with a megabucks client; so Clara, to spite him, celebrated her birthday (a biggie, especially for a woman) by spending the weekend with his oldest and closest friend at a cabin I rent up in the Los Padres National Forest. We had been lusting after each other for years (not particularly subtly, but comically enough not to arouse suspicion), and this seemed like the right occasion to go for it. Sometimes inevitability overtakes conscience.
It was going to be a one-time, get-it-out-of-your-system stand, but we both liked it way too much. If Sutpen wasn't one of my best friends going all the way back to college, or if they really did have an unhappy marriage, I wouldn't have felt as guilty about cuckolding him as I did, and am. But the cock knows what it knows, to paraphrase Woody Allen. It's a crappy thing to do, but I can't keep away from her, nor she from me. We're not going to fall in love, she's not going to leave her husband so we can run away together and start a new life, like Gauguin in Tahiti. We're just going to carry on our under-the-radar illicit affair until it runs out of steam or Sutpen dies of cirrhosis, whichever comes first.
"What's up?” I say in salutation.
Sutpen lights a Camel filter. Smoking in public establishments is illegal in California but the news hasn't hit the Blue Dolphin yet, not that anybody in here would give a damn. He inhales a lungful of smoke, blows a practiced smoke ring towards the pressed-tin ceiling, and takes a healthy swig from his martini. He has a head start on me; this must be at least his second. You know a guy for over twenty years, you can spot important stuff like that.
Emily slides a cocktail napkin in front of me and places my drink on it. As I'm about to lift it to my lips, Sutpen turns to me.
"Clara's cheating on me."
Thank God I hadn't taken a sip yet. I might have choked, or blown a mouthful of drink across the bar. I lean over and sip the top off my drink; I don't trust myself to pick the glass up.
"How do you know?” I ask. “Are you sure?” I add, trying to sound concerned and brotherly.
"I just do.” He knocks down half his drink in one swallow.
"You caught her?"
"No.” He pauses, staring darkly into his glass. “Not yet. But I'm going to, pretty damn soon. I've got Bonnie Walsh working on it."
Bonnie Walsh is a private investigator. She's the best in the county. Sutpen uses her when he absolutely has to get the goods.
"How long have you...” I almost say “known,” but amend it to “suspected this?"
"Not long. Couple of weeks
.” He corrects me. “Not suspected, Kevin. A husband knows. It might take him awhile, but sooner or later he's going to figure it out."
"Any idea who it is?” asks the supportive friend, there in time of need.
He finishes his drink and holds it up for a refill. “You think I'd be sitting here calmly having a drink with my best buddy and pal if I knew who it is?” He shakes his head. “Bonnie hasn't scoped that out yet. But she will.” He flicks some ash off his cigarette onto the floor. “She's like the Texas Rangers, she always gets her man."
I lift my drink to my lips. My hand is just steady enough now that I don't spill it all over myself. This is going to be a four-drink evening, minimum.
"So how long has Bonnie been on the job?"
"A week."
My mind goes into overdrive. When was the last time Clara and I got together? It's been several days, because I've been busy at work, and she had some conflicts with time as well. I think it's been right around a week since the last time we tried to kill each other with passion. La petite mort—the little death. That expression is suddenly becoming too close to the bone.
"So you don't actually have a suspect yet?” I double-check.
Sutpen shakes his head. “Not yet. But it's just a matter of time. It always is. People know they're screwing up and they do it anyway, they can't help themselves,” he tells me philosophically, as if he's talking about someone else's disaster, rather than his own.
Emily puts a fresh drink in front of him and he sips from it, this time more slowly. Confessing to a friend is calming him down. “Thus has it ever been, going back to Adam,” he lectures me. “Take it from the expert's lips."
Sutpen should know. In a city full of top-drawer divorce lawyers, he's the king. This is a very rich little city. He's handled divorce settlements involving hundreds of millions of dollars. When marriages fall apart, last month's lovers morph into this month's warriors. Divorce is never a pretty affair, but somebody has to do the dirty work, and get paid handsomely for it. Sutpen is one of those elite somebodies.
Who never thought the hammer would crash down on him. The denouement won't be a divorce, necessarily: that will be his decision once the dust clears and the blood is washed clean. What's really bugging him is that he's discovered that his feet are clay, like the rest of mankind's. If I wasn't the cause of Sutpen's misery, I'd feel sorry for him. Actually, I do; but not enough to confess. No friendship goes that deep.
"Does Clara know?” I need to pry as much information out of him as I can, while I can.
He looks at me like I'm the village idiot. “That I'm onto her? Are you crazy? She's the last one who's going to know."
Wrong, I think to myself. She's going to know that he knows in a couple of hours, when I call her and drop the bomb.
The good news, if this can be called good, is that we're a step ahead of him. Maybe, if Clara and I can restrain ourselves, the well his detective is drilling will come up dry. Of course, as Sutpen so astutely pointed out, people like her and me, meaning just about everybody in the world, can't hold off. The gravity of passion is almost always too strong.
I should leave this alone, but I can't help myself. “So if you do find out who it is—"
"When,” he interrupts me.
"When you do find out, what're you going to do about it? Are you going to divorce Clara?"
He shakes his head vigorously. “Of course not. She's my wife. I love her."
"Then what?"
"Kill the bastard, of course."
This time I almost do blow a mouthful of bourbon. "Kill him?" I repeat stupidly. This is not some biker on steroids spouting beer-fueled threats. Drunk or sober (he hasn't ingested enough booze yet to be drunk), Sutpen is a pillar of the community. Men in his position don't commit murder, not over adultery. But who knows how deeply into rage one can go until it's actually in your face? Could Sutpen pull a gun on me and squeeze the trigger? I can't believe he would, but I sure don't ever want to find out.
"Yes,” he says calmly. “I'll find them in flagrante delicto and I'll blow the sucker's brains out.” He looks at me with this goofy grin on his face. “And I'll walk, Kevin. Scot-free. You think any jury in this county would convict me?” He waves that notion off like he's batting away a mosquito. “It'll never even come to that. Can you imagine Burt Carmichael even bringing me up on charges?"
That he would skate a murder rap is not wishful thinking on my crazed friend's part. Sutpen comes from one of the richest and most powerful families in the county. He makes over a million dollars a year as a divorce lawyer, but if he didn't want to work a lick he wouldn't have to. His grandfather, old Henry Sutpen, was a member of Reagan's original kitchen cabinet. No one in the world is bulletproof, but in this county the Sutpens come pretty damn close. Plus, Burt Carmichael, the district attorney, is one of Sutpen's closest friends; probably second only to me. Burt and Sutpen were law-school classmates at Stanford. They almost went into practice together, until Burt decided to go into criminal law and joined the D.A.'s office. He's in his second term now, and he's almost as untouchable as Sutpen. But not as. No one is.
"I guess that depends,” I answer, once I untangle my brain, “on the circumstances."
He laughs. “The circumstances won't be a problem,” he assures me, giving me a brotherly rap on the shoulder with his knuckles. “You just watch."
* * * *
I'm in my house less than five minutes when my cell phone rings. “Sutpen knows!” Clara practically screams at me over the line. His given name is Barclay, but everyone, even his parents and wife, calls him Sutpen.
I sit down with a heavy thump. “He knows about us?” I stutter. Damn! Was he messing with my head at the Blue Dolphin, to see if I'd crack before he broke it open? What a cagey bastard. No wonder he wins all those trials.
"He knows that I'm cheating on him behind his back. He doesn't know it's you.” Her voice is shaking.
My heart is pounding in my chest like the tympani in the “Hallelujah Chorus.” I have the sinking feeling I'm going to need some divine intervention to save my ass before this is over.
"How do you know that he knows?” I ask her. “And that he doesn't know it's me?"
She answers my second question first. “If he was sure it was you, you'd be dead by now,” she barks at me. “A few years ago, when we were going at each other's throats over some imagined indiscretion, he swore to me that if he ever found out I had betrayed him he'd kill whoever it was, no matter who. He'd kill his own father if it came to that. He meant it, too. He's a victim of his ego and his reputation,” she says, as if that aspect of his character somehow excuses him. “As to how I know he's hip to us, Bonnie Walsh is spying on me. His private investigator, the Terminator of all private dicks. I sniffed her out today, the bitch. I've got a sixth sense for this stuff, I've absorbed it over the years from Sutpen, like osmosis. There's no other reason she'd be on my case—it's got to be us.” I can hear her ragged, heavy breathing over the line, and I realize she's choking back tears.
"Where is he now?” I ask in a sudden panic. “Is he home yet? Could he be listening in on you?"
"He's outside in the hot tub, soaking like a lobster. He was pretty snockered. You guys must have really tied one on tonight, more than usual. What was the occasion this time?"
"He was baring his soul to me. About his wife's betrayal. And how he had sicced Bonnie on you,” I add lamely.
"He told you that?” she explodes. “Sonofabitch, Kevin! When were you going to get around to telling me? Damn,” she spits out. “At least now I know I'm not paranoid."
"Of course I was going to tell you,” I try to placate her. “I just walked in the door. I didn't want to call you if he was right there.” Phone in hand, I cross the room to my liquor cabinet, pull out a bottle of Gentleman Jack, and pour a healthy shot, which I knock back immediately.
There is a pause. “Yeah, that was smart,” she has to concede. I can feel her calming down—a little. “What are we going to do,
Kevin?"
She wants me to solve this. Without her getting permanently damaged, without her marriage crashing on the rocks. She won't say it, but if someone has to take the fall, she wants it to be me, not her.
"Stay away from each other except in public, for openers,” I tell her.
"It's not going to be easy. You know that as well as I do."
We were supposed to be together tomorrow, our first assignation in over a week (in hindsight, thank God for not having been able to earlier). I've already booked the motel room, thirty miles away. Under a fake name, of course. I pay cash and no one needs be the wiser. Except if Bonnie Walsh is shadowing Clara we'll be found out immediately, and that'll be all she wrote.
"No, it won't be easy,” I admit. “But the alternative...” I can't fudge this. This is a life-and-death issue, maybe literally. “There is no alternative, Clara, not for right now. We're going to have to bide our time, you're going to have to be as clean as Caesar's wife, and we'll try to figure out an answer, if there is one.” I catch myself, and amend my blunder before she freaks out. “Of course there's an answer—there always is. I meant, one that leaves everybody...” I want to say happy. I settle for “unbroken."
* * * *
It's been three days since Sutpen dropped his first shoe. He and I haven't spoken since, except for a quick confirmation over the phone earlier this afternoon that we're doing our usual thing tonight. It would take more than the possible disintegration of his marriage, compounded by the humiliation of horns growing out of his skull, to keep Sutpen from his appointed rounds.
I haven't seen Clara, of course. She's called me a few times from her cell phone; she's afraid the house line is bugged, which it probably is. “Are we ever going to see each other again?” she badgered me yesterday. “If I ever needed you, Kevin, it's now."
"Me too,” I answered. “But we can't be idiots about this.” Especially me—I'm the one who would take the bullet. I can't imagine Sutpen would shoot his best friend in cold blood, but in the dark, carrying a full load of rage and probably drunk, not knowing who that Scaramouche is who's balling his wife, anything's possible.
EQMM, May 2007 Page 5