A best place to live and the home of fictional Detective Red Shaw.— Writer Slash Editor 📝 (@BJSmithWords) April 11, 2019
Find him @BeaverdaleBooks and at https://t.co/CdQxRhcbkt #crimefiction #DesMoines #Iowa #mysteries #thrillers
Shaw tried to remember the last time he’d been on a date. Way back, right after he met Sally. He hoped this one wouldn’t be as awkward. They’d arranged to meet at the west end of a pedestrian bridge over the river, just a short walk from the police station. He could see her approach from a distance, sporting a close-fitting white top and shorts. She was dressed for the heat and hard to miss. Her light brown curls were tied back and topped with a Cubs visor. A Cubs-blue bag hung from her shoulder.
“Hi, Red,” she said as she gave his hand a little squeeze. “Are you ready for some baseball?”
“You bet” was the best he could do. If her V-neck were any deeper, he wouldn’t have been able to speak at all. He took in her smile, her green eyes, and tried to relax. He tried to ignore the sweat trickling down his back and wished he hadn’t worn blue jeans. They followed the walkway south along the river.
“I played here once,” Shaw said as they approached the stadium.
“Well, not here, exactly, but in the old stadium. Same spot. This is nicer.”
They stopped to buy tickets. Not many seats were left for a hot summer night and they small-talked as the line crept along.
“So you were in Triple A?”Continue reading “A hot day at the ballpark”
Hey, Des Moines! My Detective Red Shaw paperbacks are coming to a bookstore near you. Like, right there in my old hometown. Soon, too!
I’ll let you know when they arrive, and then I’ll tell you where.
Guesses are more than welcome in the meantime.
Maybe there’s a clue or two somewhere here, maybe some evidence.
No one has asked me yet, but I have the answer.
The question has to do with the title of my new Detective Red Shaw novel: North of Grand.
Why that? I’m glad you asked.
Much of Des Moines, Iowa, is north of Grand Avenue. It cuts through the city east to west – or west to east, depending on your point of view.
I was born there, grew up there, and lived there for a long time. I worked there. Mrs. Smith and I bought our first house there, a block north of I-235 in a neighborhood known as North of Grand. We lived there when our son was born.
South of Grand was another world. It’s where my mother took me and my five siblings on occasion to marvel and gawk at big, beautiful, expensive homes when we were kids. They were especially awe-inspiring when lit up for the holidays. She took us to a different neighborhood on the southeast side sometimes, too, to see how the truly poor people lived.
We were somewhere between rich and poor, a family of seven in a three-bedroom home on Merle Hay Road. (Why seven? One divorced woman plus six kids. She slept on the sofa.)
In high school I worked at a pharmacy just a block north of Grand Avenue, delivering prescriptions to old ladies in the neighborhood, driving a car with a manual transmission that I learned to operate in a panic on my very first day on the job.
The same little store housed the best soda fountain around, with real ice cream made right in the store. I served malts and shakes and cherry cokes and lime phosphates and great sandwiches and other treats to pretty Catholic girls from the nearby high school, to the friendly florist from across the street, to other people that I don’t remember quite so well.
I was a drug-running soda jerk. Last time I checked, the soda fountain was still there.
The people and the crimes portrayed in North of Grand are purely imaginary. Really bad things do happen in Des Moines, of course, but none that I’ve witnessed.
A young guy did threaten to kill me and a friend when we were in high school, but we managed to talk him out of it. One night years later someone reached in our son’s bedroom window at our little house on Iola Avenue and took off with a diaper bag, but that’s the closest thing to crime that came our way.
All things considered, Des Moines is a pretty good place to live or to be from. We’ve been away for years now, but it never seems that long ago.
North of Grand is in my blood. It’s in my bones.
The Smith Compound has taken up temporary residence in far northwestern Montana. We are surrounded in our little borrowed cabin by pine forest, the faint smell of smoke, and a fence high enough to keep hungry deer from eating the neat flower gardens that decorate our well-watered grounds.
The first thing you see inside the cabin’s front door is a canister of bear spray on a window ledge. As I sit here on the front porch typing, I can’t help but wonder if it is there just in case a grizzly decides to ignore the fence and the massive gate in the driveway, or as a courtesy for us to borrow when we venture out for a hike. We did bring our own, and I will not hesitate to use it should my hiking companion prove able to outrun me.
Mountains are a rumor to the east through haze that lifted but once yesterday on our trip from Pacific time in and around Coeur d’Alene, which is widely known as CDA in the lingo of northern Idaho.
A road trip gives a body time to think, as I was doing yet again just now until a pine cone bounced off the deck a few feet from where I sit. A barely perceptible rustle in the branches 30 feet above me gave away the perpetrator, who I swear gave me a squirrelly scowl as he came head-first down the trunk of the pine a couple of minutes later.
If I remember correctly, I’d been thinking about loose ends, of which there are many in every life of any length. They multiply as time goes by. Earlier this morning, back when the cabin’s wifi was within reach, I came across some true words about fiction and how we don’t always get the endings we want. An author can surprise us, disappoint us, confound us. Sometimes characters surprise the author and do or say things their creator could not or did not foresee.
Nonfiction is much the same. Characters surprise and disappoint. Body parts and murder weapons are not always found. Bad guys go unpunished. The innocent go to prison. Things we should say and do go unsaid and undone. We can confound ourselves.
Looking back, with open minds, we see loose ends dangling here and there like fishing lures caught on a wire by the lake road. With luck, we see tidy resolutions somewhere back there, too.
A special little excerpt for my Des Moines friends…
Shaw dropped Vega at 25 East First, drove back over the river and pulled into a parking spot across from the Ruan Center. He found some humor in the towering icon of commerce being at 666 Grand. While the beastly number didn’t particularly scare him, he was glad the modest Catholic diocesan headquarters was just across the street to keep a watchful eye on things.
Zach Costa didn’t see the thing that killed him. He couldn’t have described what it was even if someone had found him before his swelling, bleeding brain shut down for good. It took a few minutes.
First there was nothing. Then came a semi-conscious awareness of crushing pain, hands pushing him, probing his pockets, pulling an arm, a leg. He heard a voice, someone whispering angry words that meant nothing to him. He tried to speak. He saw his mother, his brother. An older man, too. Pop? A vision of Emma floated by, naked, beckoning. He tried to reach out. She faded into nothing.
He tried to remember something he was supposed to do. Get to class on time? Take out the trash? Get the box. That was it. If he could just get the box, he could ride on home. The pain turned to fire and blinding light and then it stopped.