It’s the most wonderful time of the year! Some might associate that with Christmas, but they’re generally kids, or adults who can’t give it up. But for me, it when I can crow about a new book release featuring that nefarious nobody named Monk Buttman.

Book 5 in the series, The Fist Inside the Glove, finds our nobody in the tight grip of physical restraint caused by his neck being broken in a car accident. He is not happy about this. It, and the neck brace he’s required to wear, is crimping his style. His wife, Agnes, is not happy either. Her long-time employer, Johnny D, is closing up shop and moving back to Colombia, and her already fraught relationship with her father blows up in spectacular style at her son’s wedding.

In the midst of this, Monk finds himself in possession of a book with the quaint title of The Court Jester, curtesy of his amused friend, Xavier Dunkle II, who plays it up for laughs. The book, in lugubrious language, posits—a fancy word for “making a statement on the assumption it will be proven true”—that the time has come for the wealthy, and well-connected, to take control of the country and do away with our troublesome and not particularly efficient democratic form of government. (Sound familiar?) Monk finds it fits in quite well with that class of well-to-do, of which he is now reluctantly a part, who take umbrage at the flakes, cranks, and political bomb-throwers who threaten their financial stability and control, to which they believe themselves ordained.

Mostly though, like Xavier, he finds it a well worn whine of those in power.

Until people start dying.

Which might include him.

Pressed on by circumstance, and by Agnes, who finds herself invigorated by the idea they might be in danger and the possibility of adventure—and their being murdered, Monk and his able assistant saunter along among a cast of characters who may or may not be on the level. Agnes finds this thrilling; Monk is certain it’s not going to end well:

“It’s a death wish, isn’t?” I (Monk) countered. I wasn’t convinced the plan had any reason to be successful; it was us playing detective and foiling the bad guys even though we weren’t sure who the bad guys were.”

Is it the book’s author who lives like a hermit in the California desert? The shyster lawyer Agnes is sure is only in it for a buck? The investment titan enticing Monk to join them…maybe? Or is it a shadowy ex-CIA assassin playing his own game? Whoever it is, Monk is certain they’re in over their heads.

If only he could move his neck to see.

Available now.

©2022 David William Pearce

As is increasingly becoming the norm (this is a good thing), I’ve finished the work to get book 5, The Fist Inside the Glove, of the Monk Buttman Mystery series, out to my adoring public. This means editing for serious things like plot continuity, character dialog tags, and all those possessives that go unnoticed till it’s too late; cover design; PDF mistakes, which happen, and the general wonderment that, wow, this is going to happen. It’s a lot of work, and mostly on me as I’m not a big named author…at least not yet.

The writing, the creating of another chapter in a longer story (the Buttman books are sequential, carrying on in time) is the most fun. Initially, a theme comes to mind, in the case of The Fist Inside the Glove, it’s the power that comes with money, and the belief that having wealth confers a greater say in how the world ought to operate. Mostly, it buys influence. So what happens to someone like Monk, who goes from having a little money to more than he’ll ever need? When a little known book, The Court Jester, comes into his possession, he considers it a joke, the stuff of rich whiners unhappy with their minions. But when the people he knows and respects have grave concerns over the book, he begins to wonder.

There’s also an unpopular president, and a congress and government that is considered incompetent and indifferent to the desires of the people. Sound familiar? Something needs to change, and maybe the answer is in this small book Monk thinks is a grift. Throw in his wife, Agnes’ family feud, his own family dramas, and the weight of being suddenly important, adds to the fun.

If you think that possibly getting killed in the process is fun.

In tone, I wanted the story to be a little lighter, despite the subject matter. And as I’m a fan of the greats in the genre of private and amateur detectives, I thought it would be interesting to give the story more of a Nick and Nora vibe from Dashiell Hammett’s The Thin Man. Across the books, Monk and Agnes have developed a certain repartee between them, and I wanted to expand on that. The dreary, but very necessary, tasks of editing are in some ways mitigated when you like what you’ve written, and if you’re going to do the editing (which is often advised against, but pricey when sent out) it’s best if you’re not thoroughly sick of what you’ve written.

And I like what I’ve written.

Meanwhile, I’m working on book 6, titled, The Object of Our Desire. Have to keep the content flowing through the pipeline.

The Fist Inside the Glove, will be released on December 8th. It can be pre-ordered here, and here.

©2022 David William Pearce

The beauty of fiction is it gives the writer an opportunity to write about multiple events over the course of a single story that ties them all together even it they didn’t happen all at once or to the same people.

The less than smooth exit from Afghanistan brought the realities of U.S. conflicts to the fore of the American public, or at least the media. But for me, I’d been thinking of it for some time particularly because many of the events depicted in the new Monk book, In the Service of Others, take place in Afghanistan.

The story is about what happened to Monk’s youngest brother, Jacob, while on tour in Afghanistan. Jacob is a Marine, and the consequences of what happened, not only to Jacob and his fellow Marines, but to Monk’s family, particularly Moses, Monk’s father, and the families of the other Marines, are the focus of the book. It also looks at how disconnected we are as a society from the people we task with protecting our national interests abroad. I think few Americans have any idea how stretched thin and how involved our military is in other countries affairs.

This is why I made Jacob a Marine (though I could have made him a solder). As someone who has military experience, I was in the Navy, I’ve noticed as veterans become a smaller and smaller proportion of the population, that more and more Americans are unfamiliar with people in the military and what military service means. What we hear of military action is through the limited lens of what the military releases and what the media covers.

Yet it is people, those in service, who bear the brunt of what goes on, whether we know of it or not. And war puts incredible pressures on those who fight. It is this that makes for interesting stories, both good and bad. Long conflicts, like Afghanistan, inevitably invite trauma, be it courageous, cowardly, honorable, or destructive. It’s said that war brings out the best and the worst in us, and I wanted to explore that, including that which we often turn away from, be it sexual assault, vigilantism, or murder.

These are big topics or themes.

And it is into this thicket I push Monk and his family and friends because governments rarely suffer any long-term harm, but the people affected by these events do. The people affected have to make sense of what’s happened and why it happened and how could someone they loved and cared for possibly be responsible for such monstrous acts while the rest of the world goes about its business.

In the Service of Others, a Monk Buttman Mystery (book 4) by David William Pearce available now.

©2021 David William Pearce

There was no denying the wall was dirty. It was time to clean.

The problem, as far as the staff was concerned, had more to do with the nature of the wall than the difficulty in cleaning it.

It was… different.

The room itself was nondescript as such rooms go, meant for little more than a place to put a bed. And rare was the guest who requested the room for the privilege of spending the night.

It was the portal that brought the customers rather than the room itself. It was interdimensional in the sense of many variants within the same space and moment, but also in regard to time/space fluidity. It was this unknown that brought the thrill seekers and the curious to the room in the first place, and arguments about whether it was better to time travel, or experience the same moment in multiple dimensions within the same time frame, were common.

But for the staff working at the hotel, it was the one room no one on staff wanted to clean. The manager was forever having to cajole or threaten in order to keep the room even remotely hygienic. Adding to the problem, the portal would routinely spit out all matter of ectoplasm and ephemera from the worlds on the other side.

So, on a bright sunny Monday, the staff was called together for a meeting to hash out what was to be done with room 13.

The manager, a short stout woman named Betty Dunbar, laid plain what was already known. “If we don’t keep the room clean, the Department of Health is going to shut us down.”

A murmur went through the room.

“I heard we were going to get robots for this,” a woman named Delores said.

Betty shook her head. “Too expensive and their union is too demanding.”

“Well. I’m not going in there,” Delores continued. “All that PPE makes me all sweaty and it’s hard to hear.”

“The health department assured us the ectoplasm is harmless,” Betty answered. “You don’t need to wear all that gear when cleaning.”

“I’m not touching that stuff; I don’t care what the health department says. They said the water was safe and look at Bennie,” she pointed to a man across from her, “he’s got three arms now.”

“No, I heard that’s because he went through the portal too many times in a row,” said Anck Su Namun.

“Bennie does not have three arms,” a frustrated Betty told them.

“Show ‘em, Bennie,” said Anck.

Bennie held up only two arms.

Betty crossed her arms. “Well?”

“I got better,” Bennie protested.

“What about Uriah? I thought this was his gig, man?” asked the Dude.

“Uriah got his programming degree and works off-world now,” Betty informed them.

A collective “Oh” went through the room.

“Off-world, man, or outer-rim?” pressed the Dude.

“There’s no difference,” said Xenophanes, the Alien from beyond the Moon. “It’s all the same. Trust me it’s just propaganda meant to make it look better than it is.”

Betty clapped her hands. “Were getting off point here, people.”

“I don’t think we should even bother,” complained Xenophanes. “The minute we’re done, some yahoo comes through and just messes it up again. Why aren’t we requiring our guests to clean up after themselves—”

“And how is it you can go back and forth without getting crap on you, but leave crap all around?” asked the Dude.

“It doesn’t matter,” an exasperated Betty said. “The guests pay very good money to use the portal and cleaning is a service provided.”

“What do they do on the other side?” The Group turned to Zebulon, who’d been quiet up till then.

“It’s not a hotel on the other side,” said Bennie.

“It could be though,” Xenophanes corrected. “That’s the beauty of interdimensionality.”

“I just want to get back to my explorers party,” a down-trodden Zeb said.

“Got to pay attention when you’re jumping, dude, otherwise you get stuck,” said Bennie.

“No, I’m the Dude,” said the Dude.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Dude,” Bennie chided.

“Again,” Betty said, trying to redirect the conversation, “we’re here to talk about getting the room clean.”

“See, that’s another thing,” added Delores. “I don’t want some crazy-ass grabbing me and pulling me through that thing, and don’t say it don’t happen cause I’ve had a few crazies try it.”

“You’re being too rigid, man,” the Dude counselled. “Expand your mind. You can do the rope thing, man—”

“Use nylon,” advised Bennie.

“You’re cutting in on me, man,” said the Dude.

“Sorry, Dude.”

“I’m allergic to nylon,” Delores said, “and the last thing I’m going to do is listen to a pair of potheads.”

The offended Dude shook his head. “Wow, that’s harsh, man, harsh, and we only imbibe after hours, man.”

“PEOPLE!” Betty shouted.

“Can’t shout at us, Betty, it’s in the contract,” Anck told her.

“Fine,” she said, taking a deep breath. “I tried to give you a say, and this is what I get. I posted the schedule and whoever’s on it, it’s your turn.”

Betty got up and left the room.

“Wow, so much negativity in this room, man,” said the Dude.

Anck Su Namun raised a dusty finger. “I have a potion we can give her.”

“Or some gummies,” advised the Dude.

“I’m not listening to any of this,” Delores said as she got up.

The others got up as well and slowly meandered around until the only two left were Xenophanes and Bennie.

“How come you don’t go back home, Xen?” Bennie asked.

“The nachos suck, man. Nothing but Soylent Green.” Xenophanes visibly shook as he thought about it.

“I don’t think Soylent’s too bad, “said Bennie.

Xen raised his long thick unibrow. “With synthetic cheese sauce?”

It was Bennie’s turn to shudder. “Yuck.”

©2020 David William Pearce

A fun little short story about missing towels. Nothing makes a vacation troublesome like no towels

The tropical sun and the ocean breeze danced in the third-floor room the Townley’s had reserved. The sunlight shimmered along the greens, whites, and reds of the couch, chair, and bed facing the Pacific. With the sliding door open, the ocean breeze kept the heat at bay.

Dexter Townley stuck his head into the hallway after he inspected the bathroom. “I can’t find any towels”  

“I can’t believe there aren’t any towels,” his wife, Edith, said from the bedroom.

“Come look for yourself then,” he said.

Dex and Edie spent an unnecessary five minutes confirming that there were no towels in the suite.

“I’ll call down,” Edie said.

The young man at the front desk listened as Edie explained the situation. “That is quite strange,” the young man said. “We’ll have new ones brought up.”

Dex was anxious to get out to the beach which was part of the resort. “I say we take a walk.”

“Won’t we need a towel, dear?”

“I’m not suggesting we go in the water,” he said. “Just a walk.”

“I think I’ll stay here and sit on the balcony. It was a long flight and I’m tired.”

Dex frowned. “Yes, I remember you relaxing in the car as I brought up the luggage.”

Edie reached for her husband’s hand. “Now don’t be like that. We came down here to be free of the bickering for a while. I promise we’ll take plenty of walks. Alright?”

Dex took his wife’s hand and leaned in to kiss her. “You’re right.” He let go. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

***

The resort manager stood with the rest of the staff. No one knew quite what to do. Not only were there no towels, but now Edith Townley was nowhere to be found.

“I don’t understand,” the manager, a man named Frickee said. He turned to a small older woman. “Flora, you said you took up a new set of towels, yes?”

“Yes, I did. And the woman was there too,” she said.

“And that was less that two hours ago, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my wife can’t have just disappeared,” an angry Dexter Townley said.

“I agree, Mr. Townley,” Frickee assured him, “and we’ll get to the bottom of this. In the meantime, I’ll have Flora bring up another set of towels.”

They left the angry Dexter Townley to his thoughts.

Along with the resort security man, Bromley, Frickee had the resort searched and the security tapes reviewed.

No Edith Townley.

“This is definitely odd,” Bromley said.

“What do we do?” an agitated Frickee asked. “Should we call the police?”

Bromley rubbed his chin. “We may have to. Still, I’d like to have another look in the room before we do. Maybe something was missed. I mean we’re relying on this man’s word, but we all know that sometimes people aren’t always truthful and sometimes people do bad things to one another.”

“Yes, sometimes they do,” Frickee agreed.

***

The room was empty. No Dexter Townley and no towels. The luggage of Dexter and Edith Townley remained by the door as it had when they came by earlier. The sliding door was open and the evening breeze swept the curtains to one side as the sun slid slowly behind the ocean’s edge.

“We’ve never had anything like this happen in my twenty-two years,” Frickee said as he rubbed his forehead. “We’re a nice family-oriented resort.”

“There’s always a first,” said Bromley, who began to methodically search the room.

Aside from the missing towels, nothing was out of place. The luggage was opened as well, and, as with the room, nothing was found amiss.

“I guess we call the cops,” Bromley said.

***

Some months later, long after the police had found nothing concerning the whereabouts of Dexter and Edith Townley, the young couple occupying the room returned from the beach to find a stack of clean towels on the bed along with a note:

I’m done with these. Thanks.

©2020 David William Pearce

Is your main character a good guy or a bad guy or somewhere inbetween? Or are they simply trying to cope with what the world throws at them?

I am working on the 6th Monk Buttman book. I’ve seen him and his family and friends through a number of trying circumstances. As a writer, that’s by design: Something interesting has to happen to keep the reader engaged. But as any writer will tell you, after a certain point, you inhabit your characters, you live and breath them, you know their history, and you know their quirks, where they do well, and where they do not.

I purposefully put Monk, and by extension those around him, into problematic situations. For some readers in the early books (1-3), this has to do with Monk being involved with 2 women at the same time. Some don’t like that, while others don’t seem too bothered by it. And this is among the women reading it, if that means anything.

But that was the point: What happens when you find yourself in love with 2 different people at the same time? Social convention says you have to pick one or the other, but social convention is a construct that some adhere to, and some don’t. It is in this context that the character of the character comes out, and it is there that readers tend to judge whether they like or dislike the character.

I meant Monk to be problematic in this regard. He isn’t thoughtless or mean-spirited, certainly not to Agnes, the woman he lives with, or to Judith, with whom he sees on occasion, or if you prefer, on the side. This is complicated by the attitudes of both Agnes and Judith, who are aware of each other, but are struggling with their own insecurities, as is Monk.

It doesn’t help that the 3 of them are not completely honest with themselves, or each other, and are notorious rationalizers, but I think that makes for a more interesting story and makes for more interesting characters.

Will it blow up in their faces? Of course it will, but we all knew that going in. It’s why we write and why we read.

I will say that initially I was surprised by some of the feedback and reviews, particularly those critical of Monk, but that’s to be expected. These aren’t romances, even though love and indeed romance are a part of the story. And some of that may be that the whole story of Monk and Agnes and Judith is not neatly wrapped up in one book, but extends across the first three and influences the others that follow. It may also be because Monk has issues (as we all do) and those issues don’t always make him look particularly good in light of his actions.

But as the writer and the person who knows him best, I can say, that his heart is in the right place.

©2020 David WIlliam Pearce

This is the last vignette for the book, A Twinkle in the Eyes of God, A Monk Buttman Mystery.

I pulled into the driveway of Farrell and Rebekah’s home, a doublewide modular house they were renting from Farrell’s parents. The grass was trimmed and the flowers along the entrance were still in bloom. I parked the truck next to the house. Carleton was behind me in the Falcon, and Duane behind him in his truck.

“Kinda a cumbersome way to do this, don’t ya think?” Car handed me the keys to the falcon. I walked with him to Duane’s truck and gave him a hug. They both knew I was heading out from here, and I think there was an understanding that this might be it. “You sure you want to live in California?”

“I need to get away for awhile,” I told them, as I had before, each time they’d ask.

“Well, take care, man, and best of luck,” Duane said as he put the truck in drive.

I watched them drive away.

Rebekah was at the door. She put her arms around me and kissed my cheek. I followed her into the house. She liked to keep it clean and organized, with everything just so. We sat on their new couch. It was a deep-seated thing, charcoal gray, that you seeped into.

“What do you think?” she asked, patting the cushions.

“It’s certainly comfy,” I said.

“Yeah.” She continued to run her hand along the fabric. “I guess you’re here to say goodbye…”

“Yeah… I need to get away for awhile.” I shook my head. Is that the only thing I can think to say to anyone? I took the truck keys from my pocket and handed them to her. “Don’t forget the shotgun’s behind the seat.”

“Aren’t you going to need it? You know what Car says…” She tried to smile at that.

“Yes, we all know what Car says, but… I’ll be ok.”

“You sure?”

“Of course, just ask your mom,” I said.

Rebekah frowned.

“Sorry. I’ll be all right. How are you doing? Are you and Farrell happy?”

“Oh yeah, we’re doing great. Hopefully we won’t be here too long. I mean it’s nice Chess and Pell letting us live here cheap, but I want my own house—”

“And babies?” Rebekah was always talking about having a family.

“Already working on that,” she said, smiling.

“I wish you more luck than your mother and I had.”

“So no baby brother, huh?”

“Doesn’t look good. Maybe some step brothers, but…”

She put her hand on my arm. “Do you know where you’re going?”

I laughed at that. When have I ever known where I was going? “West. Maybe back to California. I don’t know.”

“You’ll let me know when you get there, won’t you?”

“I will.” I got up. I needed to go. I could feel the pain welling inside and I was tiring of crying, tired of feeling lost.

She followed me to the Falcon. I turned to her. “Oh, I almost forgot. My journals are in the truck.”

“Journals?” She seemed surprised.

“Yeah, in case you take up farming,” I said.

“You didn’t want to leave them for Judah?” I’m pretty sure she was joking.

“No. Besides, I’ve been told he’s got it all figured out. Just ask your mom.”

“Dad!”

“Sorry.” I hugged her one last time. “Be happy, Becky.”

“You too.”

I kissed her and drove off. I made it a good two miles before the tears began streaming down my face.

All the way to California.

©2020 David William Pearce

Monk and Joanie, a woman he was once in love with, discussing his upcoming trip to Virginia. This is a vignette to support the book, A Twinkle in the Eyes of God.

“You’re going where?” Joanie asked.

I knew she heard me the first time, but I repeated: “Virginia.”

“Virginia? I thought you’d rather be shot that go back there?” She was sitting next to me in front of my bungalow. It was a warm evening and we were nursing our drinks.

“That’s still an option,” I assured her.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Jesus, Monk,” she slapped the back of my head, “it’s like pulling teeth. And you brought it up!”

“I did, didn’t I?” I said, stating the obvious.

“So are you going to tell me or not?”

“Anything’s possible…”

“Uh-huh, like this drink all over your pretty new suit.” Joanie pointed her glass in my direction.

“I don’t think it needs to come to that. And this isn’t a new suit, just new to me.”

“Sure, Monk, sure.” Joanie took a sip of her wine and waved to Mrs. Grumpas, who was walking past.

“I’m going back to help my daughter,” I said, as I waved to Mrs. Grumpas. “I wonder where her husband is?” Mrs. Grumpas rarely went anywhere without her husband, Herman.

“Herm’s in the hospital, something to do with his prostate,” Joanie informed me. She always knew what was up with the old folks here at the Moonlight Arms. “Help your daughter how?”

“Something about her idiot husband,” I said.

“Prostate troubles?” She laughed at that.

“I doubt it. He’s a little young for that.”

“Why’s he an idiot? Not that you’d know much about being an idiot…” She laughed at that too.

“No, not much.”

The Ontavarises, Olivia and Cresto, holding hands, walked by. They smiled and wished us a good evening.

“How long are you going for?” Joanie asked, as the Ontavarises went into their bungalow, which was two down from mine.

“Hopefully not too long. I’m not exactly thrilled at the prospect to begin with.”

“You don’t want tot see your daughter?”

“It’s not that, and why does everyone ask that?” I whined.

“Who’s everyone?”

“You, Agnes, Moses—”

“That’s only three,” she said. “Shouldn’t there be more for you to complain so much?”

“It’s not quantity, it’s quality,” I said.

“Uh-huh.”

“It is—”

“Sure, Monk.”

“You’re not being very supportive, you know.”

“Then get the gun,” she laughed.

“Very nice,” I grumbled.

“Just considering the source,” she said, tipping her glass.

I shook my head and frowned, but tipped my glass anyway. I knew this wasn’t an argument I’d win.

©2020 David WIlliam Pearce

This is the 10th vignette for the book, A Twinkle in the Eyes of God. Astral was Monk’s first wife. She called herself Lilith. Monk was known as Will. They lived in Virginia. At this point their marriage has fallen apart.

The stars were out, a rare cloudless night. The fight had ended and I was sitting in the cabana once again wishing I’d been more understanding and less angry. But like everything else that had transpired over the last few months, that was a lie, both mine and Astral’s. There was nothing to be understanding about. I wiped my eyes and quietly admonished myself for being such a crybaby.

I didn’t hear Astral coming up behind me.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” she said, her voice flat, emotionless.

“I imagine you do.”

“I’m not asking, Will, I’m saying you need to go.”

“So you can make a proper announcement about you and Judah Martindale?”

“Yes. It’s no secret anymore.” She slowly walked to the other side of the table.

“If it ever was. You two were hardly discreet,” I said.

“I not going to argue about that anymore. You need to go”

I looked at her, the starlight twinkling behind her hard unhappy face. “Why do I need to go? Why don’t you go live with your boyfriend?”

“The house and farm are in my name, Sunshine, remember?” The emotion was back, making her voice harsh and brittle.

“Yes, of course. This was my fault to begin with, so I should leave because it’s so much more convenient for everyone else, right?” My voice was no better.

“Say it however you want.”

Beyond her were the fields I’d turned over the day before, prepping them for another season. Beyond the fields were the mountains, and beyond that? I didn’t know. There was nothing here, and nothing there but bloody dirt roads and the terror of that day long ago.

I looked at my wife. “It seems you two have this all worked out then. And my last act?”

“I talked with Donald, he can work out the details—”

“Details of what?”

“Judah’s buying your half of the farm,” she said.

“Yeah he might as well take all of it.” I shook my head. “You know the word is that Judah doesn’t know a fucking thing about farming.”

“I’m not interested in what any of friends think!”

“Yes, we’ve argued about that too.” I smiled as I wiped my eyes. “I guess we’ve found the end of that rainbow.”

“I don’t need any of your smartassed remarks, Will!”

“Then I guess I was wrong. Ah, what does it matter now.” I put my head in my hands.

“I expect to see you tomorrow at Donald’s office. Ten o’clock. And try to look presentable.” I heard her start to walk away.

“Whatever you say, dear.” I sat up and turned to her. “I guess this means you can get pregnant now?”

Astral glowered at me.

“Yes it does,” she said, walking back to the house.

The starlight danced above her, danced despite the tears running down my face. Somewhere, they assured me, was God in his infinite wisdom.

I wondered.

©2020 David William Pearce