Author Bumping is a talent I come by naturally. I have literally fallen into a full body bump with some pretty big name writers. These unplanned slams usually occur with hilarious results.
Robert B. Parker, was a lovely man. He was the Dean of American Crime Fiction and the creator of the wise-cracking, street smart Boston private eye, Spenser. The New York Times said of the Spenser novels “ We are witness to one of the great series in the history of the American Detective Story.”
My first meeting with Robert B. Parker was not the auspicious event I would have preferred. I slammed into him as if he were home base. All one hundred and twenty pounds of me hitting his chubby frame with an “umph!” But let me back up and get a running start into this story.
I was attending a writer’s workshop in London. It was comprised of a small group of dedicated hopefuls who were there to hone their craft with instructors, Bob Parker, Stephen King and PD James. The event was quarterbacked by Gary Goshgarian, an amazing writer and professor of English Literature at Northeastern University. Gary writes powerful crime thrillers under the pen name of Gary Braver.
The workshop took place at the London Polytechnic University campus located on Marleybone Road across from Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum and near White Chapel, home of Jack the Ripper. It was summer and the inner city buildings were deserted. Red graffiti decorated the walls, and swore at us in terms I’d never heard before. The buildings have since been renovated but at the time, the setting was pretty eerie.
I took a seat in the old lecture theater, laying my knapsack and duffle bag on the floor at my feet. I was pleased I had traveled light and finally got the hang of looking like a writer. I had dropped the sissy pink dresses and kitten heels after the last writers’ conference. I was determined to look like what I thought writers looked like. Tough and ready to rock ‘n roll.
Someone spoke from the stage – can’t remember who – telling us where and how to find our room assignments in the dorms and that someone would be addressing the group, shortly. I settled back and admired the carved wood paneling and Phantom of the Opera ambience.
A professor-like woman turned to me in the dimly lit room. “Hi. My name is Shirley. I have really got to find a ladies room. Would you mind my bags for me?”
“Sure.” But even as I spoke I knew … I needed a loo trip, too. Now was as good a time as any. The lady on Shirley’s far side agreed to stand sentry over our bags . My new buddy and I set out in search of a potty. The halls outside the auditorium were silent. Slippery polished marble floor, stone walls and dim lights but no restrooms. “Maybe they’re on the second floor.”
We walked up a level. Nothing. And the lights were dimmer. Shirley and I agreed to take this up one more floor. I was mentally kicking myself for not using the loo at the airport. With the school abandoned for the summer, someone had taken to making a career out of polishing the marble floors. They were as slippery as ice.
No potty. No loo. “One more floor?” I asked. Shirley nodded, her eyes like two giant robin’s eggs behind her thick glasses. It was awfully quiet. We made our way to the fourth floor clinging to the banister to steady ourselves. A good tinkle was now at the top of my list of most desirable things to do in London.
On the fourth floor we finally found a ladies loo. We entered in the harsh light. The room felt like the men’s room scene in the Shining. Jack Nicholson meets the long dead manager of the Overlook Hotel. The guy who slaughtered in family with an ax. Okay… my nerves were a bit prickly.
Shirley grabbed one stall and I hit another. I’d clicked the door shut and was in bladder emptying ecstasy when the door shook. “Open up or I’ll break the door down!” said a male voice with a cockney accent.
Knowing it would do no good to scream, I said… “Absolutely not!” (I’m notoriously polite.)
“If you don’t open this bloody door I’m going to put it under the door.”
I knew what he meant by “it.” Ick! I said the first thing that came to mind. “You do and I’ll step on it!” Eww…
“Barbara! What’s going on?”
“Dumb question, Shirley!”
Then there was silence. Not a word. Not a footstep. Only the sound of Shirley whimpering from her position two stalls down. More silence. He was either waiting outside the door with a Jack the Ripper Knife or he had run away.
I made an executive decision. “Shirley… at the count of three - let’s make a run for it. One…”
“Barbara, I can’t. I can’t get my girdle up. I’m too scared!”
Girdle? Who wears a girdle? I was trapped in a farce with a woman in a girdle, and a guy who might be very large in certain bodily areas. “Shirley… ditch your girdle. We’re running for it! 2-3”
We broke out of our stalls like two race horses out for the Triple Crown. We hit the marble floor with Flintstone feet flying. Funny thing about running on slippery surfaces … you can build up some real speed.
At the second level… Shirley went reeling. “Turn into the skid!” I yelled at her as I grabbed the railing. She squealed and then righted herself. By the time we hit the ground floor we must have been going a hundred miles an hour.
A group of people stood at the entrance to the auditorium. Robert B. Parker was among them. I lost control and went into a slide. I bumped into his portly belly. Slam!
Bob and the others were concerned. Security came running. Shirley blubbered – I recounted what had happened. “What did this bloke look like?” asked the guard. “I didn’t get a look at him. But he had a cockney accent and he must have a penis as big as a horse! The words were out before the Catholic girl in me could censor them. I’ll never forget the look on Bob’s face. He burst into a hearty laugh. “He was going to put it under the door.” That made Bob laugh even harder. “I told him if he did, I would step on it.” I tried to sound rational, but it was too late. The laughter echoed off the stone and marble.
Bob Parker wasn’t my first Author Bump but he was one of my more memorable.
* Wendy made the top 100 Kindle books in humor and women sleuths on Thursday.
* Wendy made the Hot New Releases List in humor on Thursday.
Wendy's big sister Alice is about to release her new book cover.
For all those fans who were slightly freaked out by the Thugs Bunny, you'll be happy to see him modified and mollified... but still threatening. Now Alice and Wendy are a matched set in the Fractured Fairy Tales by Silkstone series.
But enough prattling. Let's get onto the excerpt from
Wendy and the Lost Boys
It started almost two years ago as what had become a normal poison-ivy-like night for me. Standing at the window of our suite at The Plaza, I gazed out over the pink and white blossoms of June in Central Park wondering when I would learn to say “no.” It was a hellacious sacrifice to drop what I was doing, leave my clients in Miami and haul up to New York to be at my husband Croc’s side as he pursued investors for his hedge fund Privateer, LLC.
I thought I’d finally found a good man when I first met James Crocowski at a fundraiser for hurricane victims. We continued to bump into each other at a series of charity events over the next few weeks. After a few months of frantic dating, I woke up in the bridal suite at the Luxor Hotel in Vegas. I was Mrs. Crocowski, the thirty-nine year-old wife of a hedge fund manager. I was ready to admit I’d made a mistake.
“How do I look?” Croc did a spin in his tux.
I turned from the window to study him. The man was an optical illusion. He looked intelligent, hardly the picture of a guy who’d just lost triple-digit millions. And obviously to him he looked primo. I bit off a really nasty comment and settled for, “Stop panting. You sound like a dog.”
“Yeah, but how great do I look? We’re going to a Charlie Hook party. It’s important.”
The name meant nothing to me. This was not a charity event, despite the embossed wording on the invitations. Croc, aka the Crocodile, was set to snare a new pool of investors with his welcoming grin and promises of extraordinary returns. I was sick to my stomach with what I suspected were his less than honest guarantees. I regretted my last minute decision to join him, torn between wifely loyalty and rat-sniffing instincts.
Dressed in my size-six little black dress that screamed designer original, while I screamed inside my head, I grabbed my velvet coat and struggled into it. My highlighted hair swung loose on my shoulders. “You look fine.”
“Didn’t I buy you some bling to wear to these events?”
I shot him my dirtiest look, feeling unclean being in the same room with him.
The doorman helped us into the hired limo, and we headed to a private party in Montclair, a city in northern New Jersey. I settled back and watched the cars rat race along.
Somewhere on the Jersey side of the George Washington Bridge we were sideswiped by another vehicle. First there was a thump and then a shattering crunch.” What was that?” I yelled to our driver. The limo bounced over rough pavement, hit gravel, and came to rest against the guardrail.
Crack! A gun shot and then another ricocheted off the front right fender in a splash of sparks.
Croc threw his weight against the limo door but it didn’t open. I yanked his sleeve. “Don’t leave me here, you chicken-shit!”
We were still struggling when a tall thin man reeking of cologne and cigars got into the front passenger seat. He aimed a large gun at my husband. “Don’t move or I’ll blow your head off.”
I pegged his accent as Russian.
My precious mate tried for the door again, knocking me in the ribs with his right elbow.
The Russian flashed me a quizzical look. “You married this coward?”
“I was drunk at the time.”
He smirked. “I could never get that drunk.”
“Nobody asked you,” Croc snapped. His smart mouth was about to get us both killed.
I put my hands in the air and slid into the far corner of the car trying to fold into the upholstery.
The limo driver sat stone still, almost blasé.
“We told you three weeks. You have until Monday. Ninety-three million dollars,” the Russian said.
“I promise 18% on your money if you wait until Thursday!”
Had my husband lost his mind? Facing a gun he negotiates interest rates?
The Russian cut his eyes to me and left the car.
Croc exhaled in a whoosh. “I guess they want their money back.”
“Give it to them.”
“I don’t have it. We had operating expenses.”
It dawned on me. “Are you involved in a Ponzi?”
“No, it’s a creative new-age investment opportunity and my tireless efforts are under appreciated.” He avoided eye contact and stepped out of the car.
“Doesn’t this shake you up?” I asked the driver as I dialed 911 on the car phone. “By the way, shut off the engine.”
“Lady, welcome to the new Wall Street. You get used to it after a while.” He yawned.
Outside the limo, Croc puffed on a cigarette. I’d never seen him smoke before. There was a lot I didn’t know about this man I married after I’d downed three bottles of champagne. Drink in haste. Repent in leisure. I put my head back and closed my eyes. It was time to see a lawyer.
The police arrived in less than ten minutes. By then Croc had disappeared. Maybe he walked off into the night or maybe the Russians decided not to wait until Monday. Either way, my wish had been granted. I was Croc-less.
Along with the details of the mugging, I filed a missing person’s report then went back to the Plaza and did a happy dance in our suite. My husband had abandoned me. Confirming my morning flight back to Miami, I changed rooms and for safety’s sake registered under my maiden name… Wendy Darlin.