“Turker,” he said. “I am from Istanbul. Maybe I will return there.”
“Maybe you could hire him,” blurted out Maxie. Joey nodded.
I stared at Maxie.
“As a private detective!” Maxie said, too loud for the quiet.
“Maxie!” said Jillie.
The Turk didn’t say anything. But he smiled.
“I don’t need money, Maxie,” he said. “But thank you.” Then suddenly, “Cocuk, come here!” he commanded, his arms stretched wide, and the fifteen-year-old Boy took him up on that and embraced the man whom all these years he thought was his enemy.
The moon was sitting over the mangroves, and over my dock, and it threw its light into the Great Swamp where I had fished these past seven years to fight depression, whose quiet had drugged me to sleep, and whose wildness had distracted me from my nightmares. Then the Turk got up, the man Maxie had named the Asp, and said he was leaving. I told him to find a place in the house—maybe in the living room—camp out until morning—everybody else is—and he hesitated—and I said—no arguments—go. He smiled, thanked me and said, “Maybe another time, arkadashlar.” He left the way he came in, back around the corner of the house, into the darkness. I heard the car start, and watched the headlights sweep over the swamp.
The Asp vanished as quickly as he had appeared.
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five
Under the Cold Copper Moon
Joey was asleep at the table. Jillie woke him and said she would put him to bed in the third bedroom with Richie. I told her she and Louise could share my bed —strange as that sounded—but she said, okay, yawned, and headed through the screen door, guiding Joey through the kitchen toward the bedroom. She looked around as she passed the kitchen window, and smiled. And I knew what she was thinking—it was a good time for us—and a good time for a father to get to know his son again.
I got up and went into the kitchen to get the last bottle of Liberty School. I brought it out with two fresh glasses and poured a little into Maxie’s glass and some into mine. We leaned back in our chairs and sipped wine and listened to the sounds of the Swamp that never sleeps.
“Come on, let’s try out that hammock,” I said. Maxie looked toward the mangroves. “There,” I said, and it was swinging in line with the palm branches under which it hung. So, we took our glasses, the bottle of Liberty School, and headed for the hammock, my favorite part of the house. We climbed up onto the hammock—or tried to—Maxie almost flipping us over, and laughing as he did it, balancing the wine glasses, until we finally found a steady seat, and then we talked, and watched the moon, now full, its edges tinged with copper. It was floating through the clouds, moving quickly as if in a race with them.
My head was dizzy with the wine and dreaming. I murmured to myself, My race is over. Finally!
I put my arm around Maxie. “My son,” I said. “You’re home.” And I squeezed him—hard. He smiled, crowded in against me, and buried his head in my chest. I eased the wine glass from his hand and set it on a circular table I had built around a palm next to us, then put mine there and the nearly empty bottle of wine, and settled back into the hammock.
“Hey, Dad,” he said, his eyes drooping.
“Yeah?”
“Can we put up some Christmas decorations this year?”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“I haven’t celebrated Christmas since...”
“Sure, Maxie,” I said. “We’ll get a tree and some lights—tomorrow. Okay?”
“Okay...” he said, and his eyes were already closing. Gone for the night.
I realized for once how much he had grown, his head now against my chin, and looked up at the moon as it chased through the clouds. It seemed to have lost its coldness.
Fifteen, I thought, Wow! And my eyes were closing, too.
Author’s Note
A Cold Copper Moon is a work of fiction. Some of the places exist only in the mind of the author. For instance, there is no city south of Miami named Oceanside, nor a town in Ohio named Muskingum, nor a college by the name of Concord. I switched the names of town and university to protect the innocent. Other places, streets, and restaurants are for the most part real, although the details may have been changed to suit the author’s fancy. You must understand, writers love to tell stories.
Acknowledgments
It’s time for me to acknowledge the people who made it possible for me to write and publish A Cold Copper Moon.
First, let me thank my readers: Karyn Conrath, who reads and serves as my chief editor; John and Stephanie Coburn; Ryan Conrath, PhD, who reads and edits with a deft hand; Scott Nelson; Jane and Glenn Trout; James and Helen Conrath; Jack and Melissa Conrath, who read and comment with great insight and whose constant support is magic in this lonely business; Christine Bohanan, who fills me in on Cleveland and environs; Ron Mutchnik who read the work, word by word, and provided valuable comments; Helene Naimon, my backup for details about Boston and Robert Parker, one of my favorite authors. Thanks also to others who have supported me in my writing efforts: Robert Freedman, Raymond and Susan Imbrigiotta and the entire clan. You have all been so marvelous!
A special thanks to Jack Driscoll, a PEN/Nelson Algren Fiction Award and Pushcart Editor’s Book Award winner, and the author, among other notable works, of one of my favorite books, Lucky Man, Lucky Woman. Jack has not only guided me in my early writing efforts but has continued to help as I work on my skills. Thanks, Jack. It never ends, does it? Lois Driscoll is also a vital reader.
Thanks also to a fellow author, David Harry Tannenbaum, who has penned, among other works, the remarkable Padre Island Series. It stars two of my favorite detectives: Jimmy Redstone and Angella Martinez.
Special thanks also to other fellow writers for their support and advice as I try to put it all together correctly: Randy Rawls, Victoria Landis, Micki Browning, Nancy Cohen, Ann Meier, Gregg Brickman, and Dana Sommers among others. And, of course, Dee Tenorio, who not only designed A Cold Copper Moon and its cover, but also offered significant insights as she read through my manuscript.
Tristram Coburn, who originally served as my agent and is now in the publishing business (Tilbury House Publisher) and who continues to help, has been key in my development as a writer. Thanks, Tris. My books would not be what they are today without your insights about the content and your editorial direction. Thanks for hanging in there.
There are others to whom I owe a debt of gratitude. Randy Wayne White, one of my first reads when I came to Florida, has continued to encourage me with his constant and important reminder to “Persist!” And thanks also to another famous Florida writer, Tim Dorsey, who continues to inspire with his great stories about the myriad of characters in the Sunshine State that make writing about Florida such an interesting adventure.
A special thanks to J. Michael Orenduff, author of the Pot Thief Mysteries. I enjoyed my time with you on your “Talking Books” radio show. And to Julie Glenn, host of Gulf Shore Live on WGCU, an NPR affiliate. Thanks for making my appearance on your show a comfortable and delightful one.
Kathleen Donaldson, a former law enforcement officer, continues to help me with the complexities of police procedure. And a tip of the hat to David Berilla (host for book signing in Rehoboth Beach, MD) as well as to Susan Pittleman who has an editor’s eye.
Thanks also to Dr. Phil Jason, reviewer extraordinaire for the popular, Florida Weekly. I appreciate his insights into my writing. He should know about writing, as Professor Emeritus of English at the United States Naval Academy and a poet. Martin Lipschultz has been a constant with his remarkable photography. He rendered the first photograph on my website that makes me look remarkably like one of my idols: Leonard Cohen. And what can I say about Ryan Conrath, the one responsible for the website at www.richardconrath.com, for his editorial insights, and his help with rendering my books into Kindle. And thanks to Dee Tenorio who designed the latest website as well as this book and its cover.
Other Supporte
rs:
The Women’s and Men’s Cultural Association of Collier County; Lee County Library; Collier County Library; Palm Beach County Library; Collier County Sheriff’s Department; Mystery Writers of America, FL; and the Council for Critical Thinking, Naples, FL.
Some local Indie Book Stores have also been so supportive. On Sanibel Island, FL I am grateful for the help from Gene’s Books, MacIntosh Books, and a special thanks to Bailey’s General Store and its book manager, Rudola Richards. On Rehoboth Beach MD a special nod to Browse About Books.
And finally, last but surely not least, a deep bow and salaam to my lifelong partner, chief editor, muse, and constant inspiration, who has spent endless hours, days, and months listening to the reading of my books, editing them, commenting on whether the lines are true to the scene, and without whom A Cold Copper Moon would not be what it is today—and I guess, by now, you must realize that I am talking about my wife, Karyn Marie. A simple ‘thank you’ is just not enough.
Coming Soon
Coming Soon – a new series with new characters
Here is a preview of the newest novel from Richard Conrath:
THE BLOOD MERCHANTS
Prologue
It was cold outside. It should be. Providence. In the winter—in the middle of the winter actually—with ice hanging on the eaves like tinsel on a Christmas tree, waiting for the man in red pajamas to deliver presents to the kids who were sleeping—even though the houses didn't have chimneys. A crazy feast. He was thinking he wanted to be that man. The one who climbs into peoples' homes—no danger of being arrested—when everyone is in bed. Isn't that when the Clutter family out in Kansas was murdered—one by one—in the night while they were in bed? By Perry Smith and Richard Hickock? You would think people would learn.
And this is what he was thinking as he watched a man—a young man—coming out of the house across the street, his face lit up by the street lamp laced in ice and by a porch light that the girl had turned on. She looked familiar. And they kissed. In the moonlight, in the shadow of the trees that over hung the porch. But even in the shadows he could see them clearly. And then they parted, she closing the door—but not before taking one more look back as he took the stairs to the ground one-at-a-time, probably slick from ice. And then he found the gate at the white picket fence blocking his way to the street and opened it, looking back to see if she were still there, but the lights were out now—in the house—but the porch light was not, and the street light was not, and he headed the short distance to his car which was parked on the street, directly across from the house, hard up against the curb, nestled snugly against the curb, well out of the way of cars that might drift off the straight path of the street, and away from the protection of the street light, and lost in the shadows of the late night. But he crossed the street in a relaxed way, the collar of his coat pulled up against his cheeks, his stocking hat pulled down over his ears—it was close to zero this winter night in Providence, Rhode Island. He tried to open the door on the driver's side. But the key stuck in the lock and wouldn't turn.
And that's when he looked up and noticed the man standing in the shadows of a large oak and watching him, not ten feet away.
About the Author
Richard “Connie” Conrath is a former Catholic priest who left to teach philosophy at a small college while freelancing for newspapers like the Cleveland Plain Dealer and Sunday Magazine. He left teaching in 1984 and began a series of three-year stints in administration as a college vice-president, president, and then as headmaster of an American school in southern Turkey. It was there, during the darkness of the Turkish winters that he began to write his first mystery. He now lives in south Florida with his wife.
A Cold Copper Moon is the final in the trilogy, The Cooper Series. Book two, Blood Moon Rising, won several awards including The Royal Palm Literary Award, The Clue Award, and The Silver Falchion Award.
A Cold Copper Moon (The Cooper Series Book 3) Page 32