Aces Full
Page 20
“I do not,” I said.
“I don’t either. Which is a shame. I’ve got loads of the stuff.” She went to her bag. “I heard through the grapevine, Grady Huff pled to manslaughter.”
“Probably as it should be. He’s an ass but he didn’t murder anyone in cold blood. What he really needs is an extremely tolerant and long-suffering and deaf girlfriend,” I said. “And maybe she should be blind.”
“Are you glad it’s over?”
“I am. Made me a small fortune, though.”
“Darren will never be connected to the Toby Moreno shooting.”
“Even if we find witnesses who saw them together,” I said. “He’ll claim it was circumstantial. Nothing will stick. Darren is free and clear.”
“He’s not through with you.”
“I know this. And I’m not through with him.”
“Mackenzie,” she said. Slow and reluctant. “I need to confess something. I lied.”
“Always tell the truth. Or at least never lie,” I said.
“You’re quoting something. But anyway. That night at poker, when I set the files on the table, I said I didn’t have a file for you. But, in reality, I do.”
She pulled out an envelope, secured with folding tabs. Handed it to me. I stood.
“Before you open it,” she said. “Please understand. I was scared about that night. I thought I would be killed. I thought you would be killed. And…it just happened.”
I pressed the tabs together. Opened the envelope.
“Wait.” She placed her hand on mine. Hers shook. “It doesn’t mean anything. Please don’t panic. I can fix it.”
“Relax. We’re okay,” I said.
“Alright, but…okay. Look.”
I pulled out a paper.
It was a marriage certificate. An official one.
A legal contract between Mackenzie August and Veronica Summers. We had both signed.
“Uh…” I said intelligently.
“I thought Darren was going to have me shot and I wanted you to receive all my possessions,” she said in a rush. “Or I thought you would be shot and…well, damn it, I didn’t want to completely lose Kix. I would have shared him with your father. I’d only take him on weekends.”
“You and I…we’re married?”
“It just…happened. I had it drawn up. Reginald knows people with weird talents,” she said.
“It’s real?”
“As far as the Commonwealth of Virginia is concerned. Since Friday.”
“We’re married,” I repeated. Although it sounded like someone else said it. Someone from a movie. “That’s a decent replication of my signature.”
“I’ll get it annulled. I swear I will. Don’t be mad. But for the record, you’re the only bachelor in Virginia who’d be upset married to me.” She glanced at her watch. “Fuck. I’m so late.”
“You’re my wife,” I said.
“Good grief, that sounds hot from those lips.” She grabbed my shirt. Kissed me. Picked up her purse again. “I have to run.”
“This went through the system?”
“Yes! Friday.”
“I’m your husband,” I said.
“Yes Mackenzie. Stop the dirty talk right now or I’ll be held in contempt of court. Wow, I’m a mess. I have to go.” She hurried to the door. “We’ll talk tonight. Okay, my husband? After matrimonial consummation. Extreme honeymoon bliss. Maybe twice?”
She glanced at her watch again, yelped, and fled down the stairs.
The wedding certificate was still in my hands.
Glowing. Getting hotter.
“Sweet Jiminy Christmas.”
THE END
Two Pages of…
My Opinion on…
The State of the Novel
John Grisham is still rich. He makes five million dollars per book, or whatever the huge number is. But he’s making less now than he used to make per book. It used to be ten million. That’s a good thing, in my opinion, for all of us, including him.
What changed?
Here’s what the math looked like ten years ago for every hundred people who wanted to be writers:
1 person becomes John Grisham, ten million per book.
9 people traditionally publish books, making $5,000 per.
60 people try and fail to get their book published.
30 people never try, feeling defeated before they begin.
But then technology leveled the playing field.
Somewhat.
Thanks to the Kindle and eReaders, here’s what the math looks like in 2018 for every hundred people who want to be a writer:
1 person becomes John Grisham, five million per book.
9 people traditionally publish, making $5,000 per book.
30 people self-publish books, making $10,000 per book.
30 people self-publish books, making $1,000 per book.
20 people try/fail to get their book traditionally published.
10 people never try, feeling defeated before they begin.
(Those numbers are approximate and should be taken as an indication of the truth, rather than cold fact)
I love the new numbers. More books get published, more people realistically chase their dream, and more people make a living writing or simply have a part-time job they adore.
Why is this good for John Grisham, who is making less? Fewer people are reading his books, after all. Because it increases the overall health of the writer/reader market. More people than ever are reading books, even on their phones. Newer writers mean more creative stories and better characters. John Grisham and the rest of us benefit as we push back against mindless games on our screens and the onslaught of Netflix sucking up our time.
It’s a chaotic time in publishing.
Many things are changing.
But most of them are great for writers and readers.
This is a long way of saying…
…thank you, Kindle, for helping me have a career.
…thank you, reader, for taking a break from the literary giants and taking a chance on me.
I’m having a ball writing Mackenzie and Ronnie.
Sneak Peek of the next Mackenzie August book
Chapter One
“Jiminy Christmas,” I said. Again.
I’d said it a lot that day but the phrase felt right. Don’t tinker with a good thing.
I sat in my reclining swivel chair, feet planted firmly on the floor. I wanted to cross them on the desk like any respectable and debonaire detective would do, but my sneakers had been unresponsive for several hours, the cowards.
My laptop was open and impatient, beckoning for attention.
In my hands I held an official marriage certificate pinched gingerly on the edges between my fingertips, like it was hot.
It was my marriage certificate.
Whose marriage certificate?
Mine.
That’s impossible, you say.
You’re right it is. I’d never married anyone.
And yet…legally I had a wife.
I had a wife.
She was a humdinger, too. A dame worth killing for. An attorney who made a mean cocktail. She read books to children at the Rescue Mission and drove too fast through school zones. She adored my son and hinted about seducing my roommate. She’d never told me she loved me but she’d admitted it to a poker table full of professional malfeasants. Hard to decide if she looked more like royalty wearing an evening gown or black activewear.
A girl I deemed deserving of my dedication and devotion.
Did I want to marry her? I assumed so, yes. One day.
Though probably not yet.
However…here I sat. Contemplating the evidence of our union.
“Jiminy Christmas,” I said.
My net worth had probably skyrocketed. So that was nice. And she’d mentioned marital consummation and honeymoon bliss as she dropped off the document earlier that day.
Did I desire honeymoon bliss?
Ye
s. Yes I did.
But did I deserve it?
Yes. Yes I did.
Someone knocked on my door.
If I was the kind of incompetent man who got startled, I would have been.
A cute girl stood there. Not a girl, but younger than me. Maybe twenty-five. She had one of those haircuts that looked feminine but didn’t reach her ears. Blonde. Untucked slim-fit checkered flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up. Jeans. Bright white teeth.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said.
“No you’re not.”
“You’re right. I should say, I hope you don’t mind if I disrupt your daydreaming.”
“Better,” I said. “More honest.”
“You look like a man in a good mood. You were grinning at the ceiling.”
“I do not grin. And if I did, it would be a volitional expression of good humor. Not the reflex of a milksop,” I said.
“Jeez, okay. Why are you purposefully displaying your good humor?”
“I got married today.”
“Oh wow. Congratulations!”
“Not necessary. It’s easy to do, turns out. How can I help?”
“You’re Mackenzie?”
“I am.”
She pointed down the stairs. “I bought Metro. Or, the space next-door where Metro used to be. I was going to ask if you had five minutes to lend a hand, but seeing as it’s your wedding day…”
I stood. Laid the marriage certificate carefully on my desk. Like it might eat me.
“I miss Metro. Their lunch menu was solid.”
“Mine will be better,” she said. “Guaranteed.”
“What do you need help with?”
“The water main. I’d like to switch it on. So stupid but I can’t find it. I’ll give you a free lunch when we open next spring.”
“Deal.”
“Great. Thanks.”
I came around the desk. She backed up, letting me descend the stairs first.
I grabbed the handrail.
“What’s the name of your restaurant?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
And I realized my mistake…
The next Mackenzie August book, arriving late summer 2018!
Author Acknowledgements
Guys like me only have a career thanks to you and your reviews on Amazon/GoodReads. Leave one, if you can.
Many thanks to Brad Thompson and Adam Moseley, founts of information. And to Kim Sarrell and Teresa Blecksmith and Clair, for being willing readers.
Thanks to Domi, the cover artist. Your powers are growing. And so is your patience with idiot writers.
Check out Mackenzie on Audible - I think Scott Ellis does a great job. https://www.audible.com/pd/Mysteries-Thrillers/Sophomore-Slump-Audiobook/B07BK84CZK
If you haven’t read The Last Teacher yet, click here and I’ll send it to you for free. It’s the Mackenzie August prequel.