Verdict: WHERE FOOLS DARE TO TREAD is a well-crafted, enjoyable and intriguing mystery… IndieReader

A tangled but engrossing mystery populated by dynamic characters-  Kirkus Reviews 

The great thing about getting your book published is that finally, people will be able to see what an incredible writer you are and devote their time, energy, and yes, a little cash, to all your hard work. It’s why writers are so stoked pre-publication; it’s like the week pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training and for a brief shining moment every team has a chance to be World Series winners.

Naturally, that unrealistic high fades as the prospect of 162 games of mediocrity wields its ugly head, furthered by the sport’s prognosticators thumbs down on your teams competitiveness for the upcoming season.

Books, like MLB teams, are subject to review; we submit them, and we pay for the privilege, because word of mouth matters and good reviews sell. Which is all good and fine if you’re a reviewer-and many of us do review-but being on the receiving end is a perverse kind of torture; you want an honest appraisal that both defines and delineates, but also loves unconditionally.

Sadly, such is not to be, mainly because no book is perfect, and for the most part all art is subjective. Be that as it may, each review is like a year-end performance review from any number of bosses and fellow employees that becomes both numbing and anxiety provoking at the same time.

My new book, Where Fools Dare to Tread, is being reviewed and the reviews have been positive, and yet as a writer I feel the constant need to rebute the review and/or the criticism even though it’s highly unlikely that I would change the reviewer’s mind and not come off as whiny and defensive, and no one wants that.

I will say it’s very interesting. Typically, I have a standard routine, first comes fear, “It’s going to be terrible and I’m doomed”, then after a few days hiding in the closet I break down and read the review and am bummed they don’t love it unconditionally. Once I get off the floor, I reread the review, concede their points and hope I don’t have to repeat this ever again or until the next review rears its, potentially, ugly head.

I don’t know how I plan on getting through the reader’s reviews when the book is actually published.

Please see above routine.

©2019 David William Pearce

This is the third vignette for the book, Where Fools Dare to Tread. Bennie and Artis own the Moonlight Arms, the courtyard bungalow community where Monk lives. It’s a throwback to an older LA, before it became the megalopolis it is now.

“Well I’ll be damned.” Benjamin Madison was checking me out. “You ever heard of a man named Rory Calhoun?”

“Cowboy star of the Fifties and Sixties wasn’t he?” I wasn’t absolutely certain of that.

“That he was, worked with him at Universal; I was a set director. Sharp dresser, that man. What can I do for ya?”

“I heard you had a place for rent.”

“True.” Bennie, as I would come to know him, rubbed his chin. I found he did this as he was thinking. Bennie stood about six foot, which, given his age; I assumed well into his eighties, meant at one time he was quite tall. “Of course, we generally only rent to seniors, but it doesn’t have to be everyone…let me check…” He turned and called into the bungalow behind him, “Ardis, darlin’ can you come out here?” Bennie returned his gaze to me. “Yes sir, I have a suit just like that, yes sir, it takes me back.”

Ardis Madison, a good foot shorter than her husband, came out and had nearly the same smile as Bennie once she caught sight of me.

“My, oh my,” she exclaimed.

“I’m thinking Rory Calhoun,” Bennie said to her.

Ardis took this into consideration. “Maybe, but Mr. Calhoun was taller than this gentleman. My Name is Ardis,” she held out her hand.

I took her hand. “My name is Monk.”

“Monk here is looking for a place,” he told her. “What do you think?”

“What do you do Monk…”

“Buttman,” I told her.

Bennie laughed, “That might not be the best name for an actor.”

“I’m not an actor, I work for a law firm.” That was mostly true.

“Probably just as well,” advised Ardis, “they’re a dime a dozen out here. Why don’t you come in so we can talk.”

I followed them in. Their bungalow was a time capsule from a Hollywood long gone. Pictures of a much younger Bennie and Ardis, with every imaginable star from television and movies, adorned the walls. Bennie walked me through most of them with Ardis right behind.

“I got into movies right after the war. Ardis was already in the costume department at Warner Brothers. I started there building sets before I moved over to Universal. Loved every minute of it. Not too many folks can say that, can they Darlin’?”

“No,” Ardis answered, “I don’t think many can. Our children can certainly attest to that. Do you have any children, Monk?”

“I have a daughter in Virginia.”

That where you’re from?” asked Bennie. “I grew up in a little town in Iowa called Garwin.”

“Not originally, but I lived there for twenty year before coming back to California. I grew up near Ukiah.”

“Yeah, we’ve been up there a few times, pretty country. What’d you do in Virginia, if you don’t mind my asking?” Bennie was staring at a picture of him and John Wayne. “Interesting man,” he said.

“I was a farmer.”

“Farmer?” He seemed surprised.

“Yeah, but I grew tired of it, and sad to say, when my marriage fell apart I figured it was time to do something different.”

“My father had a small farm,” Bennie moved over to a picture with Kirk Douglass, “but I had no interest in that.”

“What do you do at your law firm?” Ardis handed me a glass of tea.

“To be honest, I help them with their, how should I say this, more colorful clients. Apparently LA is full of eccentrics with a lot of money and many prefer a specific kind of contact man; that’s what I do.”

Bennie rubbed his chin, “Yeah, that sounds about right. I had a good buddy named Johan; you remember him, Darlin?” Ardis nodded that she did. “He had that kind of job, only it was at the studio. He had to make sure these people made it to the set on time. It’s something like that?”

“Yes. Since they have a great deal of money the expectation is that you come to them,” I explained.

“Sounds about right.” Bennie motioned towards the sofa and we sat down.

The rest of our conversation revolved around clothing. Ardis was more animated as we talked about costume design, how beautifully people used to dress, and how nice it was to see someone my age wearing such a nice suit. I mentioned the stores down in La Brea where I’d shopped.

“Would you like to see the bungalow, Monk?”

“I would.”

“Now, you know this place is mostly for seniors, people like Bennie and me, so we expect that you’ll respect the somewhat quiet nature of how we do things here. Other than you, we only have three renters even close to your age. There’s Joanie in bungalow 5 and the Martinique’s in bungalow 8. You’ll be next to them in bungalow 9.” Ardis unlocked the door to the bungalow.

“I promise to behave,” I said.

The bungalow was just as I had hoped: small, stylish, and clean. We walked through the living room, kitchen, bedroom and bath.

“That’s all there is,” Bennie noted.

“It’s more than enough,” I assured him.

“Well then, we’ll get the papers signed and you’ll be an official member of the Moonlight Arms.”

“I look forward to it.”

A woman watched as we returned to the Madison’s bungalow.

Ardis noticed me noticing the woman, “That’s Joanie. I’d be careful around her. She’s a little flighty when it comes to men.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

I wish I had.

©2019 David William Pearce

This is a repost from my other website, davidwilliampearcewriter.com

The true unabridged tale of how I came to write the Monk Buttman story.

Originally, I had planned to write a relationship story.

Fresh off the success of actually finishing a book, I dove right into the next one. Having always been fascinated by the idea of true love, love at first sight, soul mates; all that sort of bunk, I was raring to go. And I had characters and a broad plot outline bouncing around inside my head. Yet, when I sat down at the computer to begin writing, staring at the methodical cursor blinking at me, I had that quintessential writer’s moment…

I got nothing.

Now it is a writing shibboleth, that ye shall write every day even if you ultimately end up sending it to deletion hell. With that in mind, I remembered that one of the main character’s friends at work wanted to be a writer and had come up with a great idea. “I’m going to write gritty detectives novels, you know, pulp fiction, and I’ve got the perfect title: Monk Butman, hard-boiled private dick!” he says.

“That’s terrible. Nobody’s going to read that!” the main character replies.

Which made me laugh, but it also got me thinking. How would that go if one was actually going to write about a guy named Monk Buttman?

First, it would be serious, I’d write it straight up, no gimmicks or jokes. Monk was someone just doing a job. In this case, doing side work for a large LA law firm. People might laugh at the name, but Monk wouldn’t care: it’s just a name. And he was ok being a nobody doing grunt work. The rest of the world could kill themselves trying to make it, Monk was happy with just enough to afford him a simple hand-me-down life with no pressure, no commitments, no unhappy wives, uncommunicative daughters, any of it.

The fun in writing it, naturally, is that, no matter how Monk tries, trouble finds him.

Second, nothing about Monk would recommend him for detective work. That’s the fun of the above title. And he knows this. He’s not a former cop or agent, he didn’t learn multiple ways to kill a guy in an elite branch of the military. He was a farmer. He’s not a tough physical guy.

Monk has to get by on his wits.

I started writing…and I’m writing still.

Where Fools Dare to Tread is available for pre-order at https://www.amazon.com/Where-Fools-Dare-Tread-…/…/1684332036

 ©2019 David William Pearce

In this second vignette, Monk meets his handler at Aeschylus and Associates, the LA law firm with whom he contracts his services.

Buttman and Boyer

Boyer was on his office phone, his feet propped on the desk. He didn’t notice as Marsyas Durant and I came in. His attention was directed to the iPhone in his other hand and whatever was on it.

“It’s perfect. I’ve been…”

“Mr. Boyer,” Durant’s patience had run out.

Boyer looked up. Flustered, he dropped the iPhone and missed the receiver with the one that was attached to his ear only moments before.

“Mr. Durant…sorry,” Boyer fumbled with the office phone, finally placing it on the desk. “Yes sir.”

“This is Mr. Monk Buttman. In reference to what we discussed at our meeting on Friday, he will be acting as the firm’s contact. Mr. Buttman, this is Todd Boyer, he handles some of our more sensitive and challenging clients, you will be reporting to him. Mr. Boyer will fill you in on our expectations and answer any questions you might have. Good day, gentlemen.” Durant glanced at the phone on the floor as he left.

Todd Boyer, now relieved of Durant’s presence, returned to the florid character he was when I entered his office.

“Have a seat, Monkman.” Cute.

I sat down.

Boyer picked his phone up from the floor and gave it his full attention.

The office was approximately twelve feet by twelve. Along with his desk and the chairs, there were bookshelves, a filing cabinet, pictures and diplomas, and a window looking out at the brick building next door.

“Don’t get used to my office, we won’t be meeting here,” he responded to my looking around.

“Then it might make sense to show me where our meetings will take place,” was my response to his.

He put his phone on the desk. “And what makes you so special, Buttman?”

“Not a thing.”

Boyer smirked at that. “What did Mr. Durant tell you about this job?”

“The same thing he told you; that there were clients that had particular needs and he thought I had the right stuff,” Durant didn’t actually phrase it that way but I liked how that sounded.

“And how did you come to Marsyas Durant’s attention?”

“His car broke down so I gave him a lift.”

“Really” Apparently, he didn’t believe me. He took the phone from the desk and put it in his pocket. “Alright, let’s get this dog and pony show going.”

We left the office and took the elevator to the basement. The elevator emptied out into a nondescript room manned by a woman at a desk.

“Desiree, this is Mr. Buttman,” Boyer informed her.

Desiree did not look up.

“Don’t worry about her,” he informed me. We left the affable Desiree, passed through a metal door, wandered down a hallway and entered a small room with nothing more than two chairs.

We sat down.

“This job requires discretion,” he began. “I assume you can memorize short phrases…”

“I can.”

“These phrases will seem nonsensical to you, but that is none of your business. Your business is to state them and report back to me any concerns or comments. Got that?”

“Sure.”

“Sure. Are you curious as to why we would do this?”

“Not particularly, but if I had to guess, one, it keeps me out of the loop, and two, if someone is listening they won’t understand.”

Boyer grinned, “Very good, Buttman; maybe you’re brighter than you look.”

“Maybe.”

“And a man of few words…”

Boyer’s phone began chiming.

©2019 David William Pearce

 

This is the first in a series of short vignettes featuring the characters from the new book, Where Fools Dare to Tread: A Monk Buttman Mystery, which was be released on February 21st.

Monk and Agnes at the store:

“What’s wrong with chips?” Agnes demanded.

“They’re not healthy! It’s important to eat healthy.” I assumed that went without saying.

“So what are you saying?”

“We’re not getting any chips,” I said.

“But I like chips! I want to have some chips. I’m not going to just eat apples and stuff.”

“Stuff?” Apparently that was her term for the other food in the shopping cart.

“Stuff!” she huffed.

We stood in the junk food isle sizing each other up. Some things between us made sense, the dancing, the drinking, the sex. Other weighty matters such as basic foodstuffs were more problematic. Agnes’ pantry was, minus the canned soup and Cheetos, empty. We had an upcoming road trip that required something more than canned soup and Cheetos.

Our relationship was a little more than a week old.

“What exactly do you eat? You’ve already stated your lack of interest in cooking, so…” I was hoping it wasn’t just bar food at Johnny’s.

Agnes feigned shock. “It’s not just bar food, if that’s what you think. I have a functioning microwave and I go out to nice places too.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What’s uh-huh supposed to mean?” She was trying to be put out, placing her hands on her hips for emphasis. I thought it was cute.

“It means your diet is a disaster,” I said, mimicking her with my hands on my hips.

“I don’t think it’s a disaster, Buttman!”

“I’m sure you don’t, but if you have designs on me then you’re going to have to get used to regular food, not chemicals in a frozen box or restaurant food marinated in salt and sugar.”

Agnes frowned. “I eat salads at restaurants, you know.”

“Really?”

“And I didn’t say I had designs on you,” she harrumphed.

“Oh, I think you did, just the other night!” I said this with righteous certitude. Agnes continued to frown.

“Excuse me!” I turned to find an exasperated heavy-set woman pushing a cart with two kids shoehorned into a plastic car attached to the front of it. “You’re in the way!”

I stepped back, allowing her to grab three bags of potato chips. The woman snarled at me as she moved on.

“Exhibit A,” I said once the woman was out of earshot.

“I don’t eat that much!” Agnes protested.

“You also told me, the other night, that you’d like to have someone look out for you and make sure you’re eating right, remember?”

“That doesn’t count…”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d been drinking and I was horny, that’s why!” She seemed surprised I would even ask.

“Uh-huh.”

Agnes shook her head. “Does this mean I can’t eat pizza or fried chicken or a burger because I like you?”

I shook my head. “No, it means we take it easy on the junk, and if you’re in the mood for pizza or chicken or a burger, we make our own. It’s better that way.” I put my arm around her and kissed her forehead. “We need to finish up, we don’t have all night.”

“Fine, but I have to have some cookies. I won’t budge on that!” she pouted.

“Fine,” I sighed.

I let her go and we left the junk food aisle to its own thoughts.

©2019 David William Pearce