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Friday, May 31, 2024

Book Tour ~ Fluke Moon - Not Raw Enough: Book One by Randall Boleyn

 


Not Raw Enough, Book 1

 

Suspense Thriller


 

Outer Banks exporter Seth Tinsley watches in horror as friends and fellow businessmen die in bizarre accidents. His trade to an exclusive segment of Japan’s Tsukiji Seafood Market inexplicably deteriorates threatening an end to his exports. Seth is forced to step up the timing for the launch of his new aquatic technology created by his unique start-up, SAAK Inc. Seth gambles everything sure that his PELTS products will alter the hierarchy of the worldwide seafood business—especially in Japan.

Grieving its dwindling ocean resources from over-fishing in the Sea of Japan, they realized their culture continues to diminish from the loss of Hirame, the iconic fish once essential to their most sacred rites and traditions. Committed to reclaiming their culinary heritage, an ancient Japanese warrior caste pursues the unique fluke caught in the abundant waters of the Pamlico and Albemarle sounds.

A mysterious woman shows up as the Federal Seafood Inspector to the Hatteras Islands, then begins an inquiry about Seth and his businesses. Still struggling with so many unsolved murders and the loss of close friends, Seth still doesn’t believe he is targeted by an international conspiracy. When an Osaka trading company surprises him with a lucrative buy-out offer for his Kill Devil Hills, NC export company, going against his instincts, he accepts the puzzling buy-out offer.

Instead of collecting the rewards for the sale of his company, Seth ends up alone in Japan, wanted for mass murder and an expendable pawn of the US Government.

 



Reese had married well and most of the time, Big Red treated him like family. Tinsley’s going-down could open up some real opportunities. Might be the last time he’d have to act like he was actually working at this fisherman crap.

He squatted, picked up the square-stock black pistol from his gym bag and slipped the gun into the rear waist-band of his cut-off jeans. Reese could hardly wait to fire the “gently used” nine-mil Berretta he’d bought two days ago up in Norfolk from his reefer supply-guy. He twisted his head around to peek at his butt making sure the gun was perfectly concealed by the long shirttail of his black Metallica tank top. Satisfied with no bulge, he climbed the six- rung ladder up to the pier.

Reese blended perfectly with the gangthe players loitering around the bench at the center dock-hub area, all freakishly appearing like they’d answered a casting call as mascots for the Pirate's Berth Marina.

 The clique liked to stay near the action, but not so close that it might involve anything like real work. They trolled more for easy hits like an impromptu tourist charter after all the quality boats had booked-out and sailed. Or maybe a quick dope deal, or at the very least find out a little of the inside poop on local goings-on.

 Realizing his good-time buddies ignored him, Reese barged through the middle of the group’s banter and parked his cooler in front of the man with a deformed hand sitting next to the pylon supporting the center-hub. Reese pried the cooler top open and handed out a round of nine A.M. beers.

Thinking his entrance fee paid, Reese primed the subject he was most interested. “So, Claw, what's the scuttle-butt on those hot-tub murders? Thought for sure they’d fry Tinsley’s worthless ass this time. What happened?”

Claw squatted on an upturned five-gallon bucket leaning back against the pylon. He finished off his first beer, crunched the can into a small wad with his good hand, tossed the clump next to the cooler then waited for round two.

Reese snorted, dug another beer out of the ice and offered it short-armed so that Claw had to rise up off the bucket as he leaned out with his good arm to take it. After a long guzzle, the old man belched and now properly primed, spoke. “They made a mistake arresting him to begin with,” Claw said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Smart folks don't cook. You know that, or your daddy-in-law would've been burned to a crisp long ago.

“Tinsley's even sharper, bringing down that D.C. lawyer—one of Senator Belk's partners. Old Belk still has some ass in these parts. Word is, Seth spent a ton of money. Musta been worth it though. Judge Doll had no choice but to let the jury bring in the not guilty.”

“Jury only took two hours, I heard,” said the shirtless man with fish tattoos on his back. “Tinsley hardly talked none. That D.C. guy did all his speaking for him.”

“And they just let him go — Scott-free?” Reese asked, raising his arms.

“Why not? He didn't do anything,” Claw said. “I’ve already told you that once. They tried to show how he was into some kinky sex stuff and that he was balling every broad on the Islands. Didn't count for nothing.

“Reckon Big Red had anything to do with all those rumors about Tinsley’s love life?” Claw glanced at Reese as he finished his beer, crushed the can and tossed the wad at Reese’s feet. He grinned and belched again. “Had to really piss-off ole Red that Tinsley walked.”

“That D.A. kept bringing up Seth as a lady’s man,” Fish Tattoo said. “But that D.C. Lawyer turned the trick with facts, showing that it truly had been an accident and how Tinsley called nine-one-one so quick, the lack of motive, and all the legal shit they do.

“Word is, both them girls actually died of heart attacknot drowning. That D.C. lawyer finally told the jury it was nothing but a locally financed rail-roading that wouldn't float in any real court. Old Judge Doll had his bluff called, couldnt keep steering it toward a guilty verdict and folded.”

“I guess heart attacks have become contagious now days,” Reese said turning away to conceal his anger, then spotted a familiar figure lugging an ice chest up the dock’s center walkway. Reese smiled and in a loud voice announced, “Hide your women, boys. Mad-dog killer loose right here on our docks. What’ do y’all reckon it cost to buy your way out of double homicide now days?”

Seth strolled on, carrying his cooler while keeping his eyes straight ahead.

“Watch yourself, Reese,” Claw whispered. “You really shouldn’t get him riled up.”

Reese’s shrill voice punched into a demeaning tone as he tuned up his razzing. “Hey boys, it's the wet killer, Seth. How's jail life been for you? Find everything nice and tight?”

A few in the group laughed, encouraging another escalation from Reese. “We ain't seen you down here in a month of Sundays. You been too busy selling off all your stuff while sitting in the poky, ain’t ya.”

After no response from Tinsley, now only ten feet away, Reese continued. “Hell, Tinsley, we don't even know what the hell to call you anymore. Do you have a prison handle yet?”

Claw cautioned in a low voice, “Reese, hush your stupid mouth, he’s not a man to trifle with.”

Undaunted, Reese added, “hell, Sethy, weren't that long ago, you were just another bum-fuck like the rest of us—out looking for a few croakers. Now you've become a local celebrity by croaking a few lookers.”

Reese jumped up and down shrieking in laughter as he turned to the group. He raised his opened arms in victory. “How'd you like that— croaking a few lookers!” He cackled again, “shit, I amaze myself sometimes. I ought to go on the damn Comedy Channel.”

Reese glimpsed a change in Claw’s expression and turned. Tinsley had set down the cooler and stood glaring at Reese from three feet away.

 

 

 

“Enjoying yourself, Reese?” Seth asked, his voice a death threat whispering low and deep so only Reese could hear. Recoiling from Tinsley’s advance, Reese shuffled back two quick steps. Seth casually peeled off his sunglasses, slid them into his shorts pocket then filled the gap closer to Reese with one giant stride. All the fishermen hanging around grabbed their beers then gathered a few feet behind them leaving Reese alone looking up at Tinsley.

“You know, Reese, I know a guy who knows a guy that could easily put you in the channel, just like you wanted. Especially since you’ve become such a funny guy.”

As nonchalant as possible, Reese stepped back a bit while easing both hands behind him. He had seen this look in Tinsley's eyes once before.

Seth stepped in closer causing Reese to slither back a bit more. In an even more menacing voice, Seth said, “you've stopped laughing, Reese. I hope you're not losing your timing. You know, it's the death of a funny-man to lose his timing.”

Contact might prove painful Reese decided as he maneuvered his right hand to grab the pistol jammed in his back waist band. The long shirttail hung lower than his reach. Reese tore at the shirt as he hopped back another step from the encroaching Tinsley—beyond the edge of the dock and into space.

Shrieking as he plunged from sight, Reese crashed onto his skiff with loud thump, a snap of breaking wood, then a piercing scream. Seth moved to the dock’s edge gazing down at Reese stretched out on his back with his right arm pinned under him. Luckily, Reese’s head landed toward the prow onto the piled-up cushion of the filthy gill-nets.

The horseflies immediately settled around Reese’s face coaxing Seth’s surprised smile to spread into a wide grin which turned into a deep resonant laugh shaking his entire body. It was the first time he’d laughed in more than a month. The other fishermen moved to the dock’s edge and as if on cue, joined in the laughter.

“God almighty, Reese, I’d never have guessed you could move that fast,” Seth managed to say through his hysterical laughter. Tears now formed in the corner of his eyes. “Even with the help of gravity, it was way too quick. One minute you’re here, then in a blink, you freaking disappeared! Now that’s what I call extremely funny. If we could just get that on tape, I’m sure we could launch you on YouTube. That video would go virial for sure and we’d all make a fortune.” Seth turned to the fishermen, “what do you think guys?”

The men yelled a hell yeah and Seth knelt down extending his hand to Reese as though he could reach him from six feet above. “I’d bet your life that ole Red Beam would have loved to have seen that, Reese,” Seth said. “Come on back up here, I'll use my cell phone and we’ll get a re-take.”

“Fuck you, Tinsley!” Reese shouted in a screeching squawk.

“Aw, come on Reese, don't be like that. You got your timing back so quick with that slap-stick thing. We all thought you were hilarious. Now you're trashing it all with that nasty talk.”

“You murdering prick. You've broken my arm.” Reese's voice cracked, his face grimacing and contorted with pain. He tried to move his arm to locate his gun, couldn’t bear the agony, then screamed, “when Red hears about this, he won't let anything stop him this time. He'll make sure the judge and those Raleigh lawyers put your ass away for good. You’ll still be denied bail and no slick, overpaid D.C. lawyer’s gonna talk you free. We've got our own system down here, you Yankee fuck.”

Seth stopped laughing. Reese isn't smart enough to originate such a concept. The implications of being railroaded on the murder charges clicked home for Seth and heat rose in his face. A fighting grin swept across Seth's eyes and he pointed down at Reese. “After you have your rotten bones mended, Reese, suck on up to Red and slobber a little message in his ear for me.”

Reese shouted, “what? You gonna invite us over to bob for naked dead girls in your hot tub?” He tried to sit up again, but the movement amplified the agony in his arm. He whimpered with a moan as he flopped back onto the squalid net.

“Are you listening, Reese? I don't want you to miss any of this. Make sure you tell Red exactly what you said to me in front of these men. That will make his day.

“And tell him this, Reese. I've ignored his lies, intrusions and meddling in my business for the very last time. Tell him I owe him a big one. I intend on paying him back… soon, with interest.

“Have a nice day, Reese. You really brightened my morning. I enjoyed a good laugh at how asinine you are. Red absolutely deserves you in his family.” Seth picked up his cooler as if it was empty and strolled on up the dock toward the Fin Chaser tied up at the farthest slip.

Two men from the fishermen group climbed down and lifted Reese out of the boat and helped him up the ladder. They supported him as they walked up the pier to the Marina office so that someone could drive him to the Medical Center over in Kill Devil Hills. Reese hung his head as he shuffled up the dock, cussed again at Tinsley then started crying.

The other fishermen laughed and talked louder over each other’s comments and still enjoying the entertainment value of today’s spectacle helped themselves to the lunch and cold beers stocked in Reese’ cooler. Popping open another can of Reese’s beer, Claw laughed. “Crazy shit, huh? Tinsley always makes this little island a lot more fun than it used to be.”

Claw turned and reclaimed his seat on the bucket, then gazed back down the dock. “By Neptune’s slimy balls, check out the weird looking fuckers coming our way.” Holding his beer, Claw pointed down the dock with his withered hand drawing everyone’s attention.

Thirty yards away, Reese began blubbering to Bull Beam and his stout two-man crew. The fishermen group could still hear Reese screaming from thirty yards down the dock. “Tinsley mocked me then attacked me and then bumped me off the dock onto my skiff. The son of a bitch broke my arm.” Reese began weeping again. “Make him pay, Bull! Make him pay.”

The three men nodded, then Bull patted Reese on the head. Reorganizing into their wedge formation, they set a brisk pace shuffling up the dock toward the fishermen group still loitering around the center hub not far from the berths of the larger boats. Rapid flapping thuds from their flip-flops carried out over the water.

Claw looked around to watch Tinsley toting the heavy cooler and trudging toward his boat. This view brought on a giggle as his eyes sparkled with glee.

“Perk up you bunch of hopeless drunks. This crazy-assed spectacle ain’t near over. An impromptu act two is gonna commence in about three minutes promising the very real possibility of a bloody finale. This will be the epic fish-tale you’ll tell for the rest of your lives. Get your phones out. OBX history is about to happen right here on this dock.

Not for the squeamish.”

 

About the Author

Randall Boleyn - Writing as a Reader.

When those first few novels transported Randall into the intrigue of other cultures and the complexity of foreign lands, his life changed forever. He wanted to experience those kinds of adventures and ended up traveling the world doing international business while living his own bizarre experiences. Realizing he wanted to create the same kind of stories he loved to read, Randall coaxed the Muse by writing, studying and learning the craft. After years of toiling with the words, the stories suddenly just seemed to happen. It was startling! It was the same joy and surprise he had relished as a reader in guessing how a plot might unfold affecting the characters' lives. He now writes with the eye and passion of creating that next great story like he would want to read.

Randall now lives in the hills of the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and is focused on completing the Powers Meant for Gods trilogy to publish by January 2021.

 

Contact Link

Website

 

Purchase Link

Amazon

 

 

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Book Blitz ~ Through the Storm by Ikwumma Ogbuagu

 

 


Nonfiction / Journal / Cancer

 

A breast cancer journal. I really wanted the journal to be full of life and colourful. The illustrations made it come to life, I find them so inspiring and I hope you do as well!

This book has been a genuine labor of love. It is full of purpose and hope. Everything you see is my vision come true. Cancer threatens everything you believed to be true, I had my chemo-port removed and flew to Atlanta later that day, on the flight back, I believe it was a 6AM flight, all I wanted to do was sleep for the 2 hour flight.  Instead, this idea for a bookmark started forming in my head. I figured lots of people read in waiting rooms and chemo suites etc., so it made sense to create bookmarks with little quips to lift the spirit during these waits. Well, the ideas were flowing so fast that I couldn’t write fast enough and I had no paper, so I wrote on the plane barf bag (I still have it). It became apparent I had a lot more to say than a bookmark could hold. I still plan to make bookmarks some day soon.

I have included prompts for questions to ask. Symptom trackers to report to providers. Daily prompts to do something intentionally kind and uplifting in small bites because some days are really tough and it becomes difficult to remember the amazing person you were prior to a breast cancer diagnosis and treatment. I am truly proud of it. There is a prayer/meditation script written by one of my dearest friends who chose words that can resonate with anyone regardless of faith or the absence thereof and in any tough life situation. There is a feature to track daily water intake and so much more.

 

#breastcancersurvivor🎀 #breastcancerbaddie #breastcancer

 


About the Author

Contact Links

Website

Instagram

Facebook

 

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Thursday, May 30, 2024

Book Tour ~ One of the Most Expensive, Iconic and Kinetic Maps of Australia in the World by Jose Tugaff Amoloria and Lourdes Villena Amoloria




This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by Goddess Fish Promotions. The author will award a $15 Amazon/BN gift card to a randomly drawn winner. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour.

Dream without fear. When dreams are nourished with faith and actions, dreams bloom into realities.

Jose, a self-taught artist, had no formal training in art, no scholastic qualifications and had very challenging life experiences as an international sailor, chef, watchmaker and stone mason. How can one be multi-skilled and pass international standards without proper educational training?

This book will make you rethink how adversity, grief and loss can cause so much pain, and yet these life challenges can facilitate creativity, and be transformed into gifts and blessings for a meaningful and productive existence.

Get inspired by faith and determination that changed the course of life, and be entertained by the unconventional ways Jose educated and equipped himself with skills to achieve dreams and goals. The one-of-a-kind masterpieces in this book and Jose's life are testimonials that creativity can really transform lives. Miracles do happen, and anyone can manifest miracles if they sincerely believe in themselves and in the intervention of the unseen power of the Supreme Creator.


Read an Excerpt

Some of the art pieces were highlighted with microlights when photographed. The results were beyond expectations— almost miraculous!—as Jose does not have any significant artistic talents or training nor did he have prior plans to create these artworks. He did not even have prototypes and didn’t even know how to draw. He was diagnosed as colour blind for most colours (except for traffic lights), so he asked Lourdes to help with the colours for the installation of the right microlights.

One of the Most Expensive, Iconic and Kinetic Maps of Australia in the World The artwork’s designs were dictated by his dreams and imagination. Jose made use of his technical discoveries in watch repair and electronics to revive old timepieces and make them functional again. He used trashed spare parts and old pieces of jewellery to create one-of-a-kind treasured masterpieces. Jose humbly admits that the ideas and successful effort behind these creations did not come from him but from the Supreme Being, whom many of us call God. He also believes in the transformative power of love and support that comes from those who truly love, wish and pray for his well-being and success.

His greatest realization is that to connect with the Supreme Creator, the Master Artist of the Universe, all he must do is pray to God as the most trusted Being. The nearest distance to be heard and make dreams manifest is between his knees and the floor. Nothing to lose, everything to gain. It is his life goal to help others realise the value of dreams, the need to act on them without fear and to fully trust God to guide them in their life journey no matter how difficult challenges can be.

About the Authors:
Jose Tugaff Amoloria is a man of multi-talents and skills. He is a professional watchmaker who had mastered most phases of watches: mechanical, automatic, quartz technology and modern watches. He created one-of-a-kind kinetic masterpieces made of collectible time pieces and watch parts, enhanced with microlights. He became a chef, and was personally taught a French masterchef's family secret of French liquored ice cream.

Jose mastered stone masonry in record time. His experience in watch repair helped him to gain a feather touch to accomplish his masonry works. He is also an avid martial art practitioner of arnis, a Filipino martial art, and he is also a second-dan black belt in Karate, with a champion's trophy to prove it. With so many other skills and abilities, Jose thanks God for the gifts and talents given to him.

Email: jjamoloria@gmail.com

Lourdes Villena Amoloria is an Amazon international best-selling author for her book Kiss From an Angel: How to Turn Your Grief Into a Gift From Heaven, published in Sydney, Australia, 2014.

Lourdes holds a bachelor's degree in mass communications from La Salle, Bacolod City, Philippines, with a post graduate in counselling from the Australian College of Applied Psychology in Sydney, Australia.

Lourdes is on a mission to help others find the gift behind their grief, help with mental health issues, and live more productive lives with faith, self-responsibility and love in action.

Email: lourdesvillenaamoloria@gmail.com

WEBSITE: https://lourdesvillenaamoloria.com
FACEBOOK: https://www.facebook.com/mylifemypricelessmasterpiece
LINKEDIN: https://www.linkedin.com/in/lourdes-villena-amoloria-b92025a2/?originalSubdomain=au
GOODREADS GIVEAWAY: https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/388642-one-of-the-most-expensive-iconic-and-kinetic-maps-of-australia-in-the-w

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Wednesday, May 29, 2024

Book Tour ~ The Twisted Road - A Barrister Perris Mystery by A. B. Michaels

 

The Twisted Road by A.B. Michaels Banner

The Twisted Road

by A.B. Michaels

May 23 - 29, 2024 Book Blast

Synopsis:

The Twisted Road by A.B. Michaels

Barrister Perris Mysteries

 

Jonathan Perris Can’t Save His Clients
…Until He Saves Himself

1907

Rising from the devastation of a massive earthquake and fire, San Francisco is once again on the move. But a strike by streetcar drivers threatens to halt the Golden City in its tracks. Protests turn to violence and violence leads to death. Soon a young guard is convicted of willfully killing a protester and the public is out for blood.

Jonathan Perris, an immigrant attorney from England, has opened a law firm with an eye toward righting wrongs, and the guard’s conviction may fall into that category. But the talented barrister soon finds his newfound career shaken by a tragic event: the gruesome homicide of the beautiful and mysterious Lena Mendelssohn—a woman he’s been squiring around town. It’s difficult to run a law firm when you’ve been arrested for murder.

Don't miss your chance for a limited time sale! Grab The Twisted Road for $1.99!

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Book Details:

Genre: Historical Mystery
Published by: Red Trumpet Press
Publication Date: May 21, 2024
Number of Pages: 422
ISBN: 978-1-7337863-4-8 (Paperback) 978-1-7337863-0-0 (ebook)
Series: Barrister Perris Mysteries, Book 1
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Kobo | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One

Bloody Tuesday

San Francisco
Turk Street Car Barn
May 7,1907

Nineteen years old, with the long, skinny limbs of a colt, Jimmy Walsh crouched behind a lamppost and shivered in the early morning fog. He dropped the brick he’d been clutching and hesitated before picking it up again. "This ain't right," he said, just loud enough for his nearest comrade in arms to hear. "It's like waitin' for Beelzebub to unleash his hounds of hell." Several yards away, the wooden barn that housed the city's electric trolley cars remained shuttered, but the sounds inside, muted through the mist, told him the show was about to begin.

Toke Griffin, a rock in one meaty hand, took a drag of his cheroot with the other. The smoke mixed with the fog, obscuring his leathered face. Two decades older than Jimmy, he was a union man from way back. This strike was nothing new. "Yeah, well them mutts are takin' our jobs and we got to stop 'em any way we can." He tossed the rock a few times and caught it. "They're scabs and rotten to the core. We got to let them know it." The gas-powered streetlight above Jimmy hissed, letting off sparks and a sulfurous belch. Toke barked in appreciation. "Even the damn lamp's on our side."

"Shut the hell up!" Another hiss—this one from a fellow striker, positioned behind one of the barbed wire barriers the scabs had set up to protect the cars. "You'll give us away."

Toke continued to grouse but lowered his voice. "Hell, you think they don't know we're out here? They're chompin' at the bit same as us." He tossed his rock again. "But we got right on our side, just like old Davey and Goliath. You wait and see."

Jimmy tried to swallow but couldn't get passed his Adam's apple. Lord, he wished he had some water or somethin' else to calm the jitters taking over his body. Even his lucky red flannel shirt was no help. Why didn't he keep the grub his mother had given him as he’d left that morning? She'd been up before him, knowing he had to go and not even trying to talk him out of it. "You keep your head down," she warned as she handed him the bag with bread and cheese and a slice of apple cake in it. She’d even put in a mason jar full of cider.

"Sure, sure, Ma," he'd told her, "Don't worry about it. I'll be fine." Giving her a peck on the cheek, he’d headed out, but once around the corner, he'd ditched the bag, thinking it would look squirrelly bringing a lunch sack to a riot. What a damn fool.

It shouldn't have come to this. It'd been over a year since the earthquake and fire had torn up the city, and the roads were still a tangled, busted-up mess. It was tricky driving the streetcars, and there were fewer drivers to boot. All the union wanted was an eight hour day and three bucks a shift. But United Railroads kept bickering with the city over repairs and used that excuse to refuse the union's demands. What else could the carmen do but strike? Then the company brought in the Farleymen to drive the cars—four hundred of them! It stunk to high heaven and Toke had the right of it: they had to stop the scabs from taking their jobs.

The crowd outside the barricade was growing. Jimmy saw groups of Poles and Italians and Irish, even Chinese. They weren't members of his union, but they were workingmen all the same, showing their support. That was labor for you, sticking together to get the job done. But there were also women and kids pouring out onto the street, like it was a parade or something! Thank God Ma had stayed home; he hoped his cousin was smart enough to keep her distance, too. This kind of ruckus was no place for females.

But damn if there weren't plenty of ladies mixed in with everybody else, a lot of them young and fired up, itchin' for a fight just like the men. He'd never admit it, but deep down, part of him admired their courage. Like Toke said, they were sticking up for what was right.

He was chewing on those thoughts when the big wooden doors on the barn began to slide open with a screech and the streetcars lumbered out, each driven by a scab, and each protected by several men with clubs and a guard with a rifle. The clock in the tower above the car barn soon started chiming the hour, but it was nearly drowned out by all the people screaming insults as they surged through an opening where the cars were supposed to leave the yard.

The strikers rushed by Jimmy, shoving him out of the way and already throwing whatever they'd been carrying—rocks and bricks and bottles—toward the scabs. Some strikers on the roofs pushed iron girders they must have got from construction sites; the beams hit the cars with a sickening clang.

Jimmy started to throw his brick, but stopped when he got a look at the second car and who was guarding it. Damnation, it was Emmett Barnes! That sonofabitch used to be a union man—not to mention Jimmy’s best friend—and now he was a hired gun for the Farleymen! He watched Emmett shoot his rifle into the air a few times, and his shots were answered by rooftop union men protecting the strikers on the ground. He couldn't see Emmett's face too well, but he bet his ex-friend wasn't happy, especially since his shots hadn't stopped the crowd from swarming around his car. Jimmy wasn't part of that crowd; he couldn't make himself move—like he was paralyzed or something—as he watched it all unfold.

A brick sailed through the air and hit Emmett in the face; he dropped down, and Jimmy couldn't see him anymore. He glanced to his left and saw a man taking photographs of everybody. "Quit takin’ pictures!” Jimmy yelled at him. “Get out of the way—you're gonna get hurt!"

More and more people began pushing Jimmy from behind, determined to stop the cars from running. He turned back to Emmett's car and saw ... and saw the rifle pointed toward the crowd from another angle. No, pointed right at him. Emmett? It couldn’t be. He wouldn't do that, would he? He wouldn't—

Jimmy Walsh started to put his head down like his ma had told him, but he wasn't fast enough. He heard the crack of the rifle and felt the thump of the bullet hitting his skull. Then he felt nothing at all.

Chapter Two

A Tainted Case

San Francisco
June 1907

A barrister’s duty is to champion his client and seek justice in a court of law; when the client is guilty as sin, it complicates matters.

Jonathan Henry Perris rose to give his closing argument in the matter of the state of California vs. Horace Baxter. He faced the twelve men sitting in judgment before him.

“Gentlemen of the jury, you have already heard the facts of the case. My client, unfortunately, did shift money in relatively small amounts, from his firm’s accounts payable to his own savings account, over the course of several months. Those deposits did indeed line up chronologically with the amounts later deemed missing from the company’s ledger. It’s notable that Mr. Baxter, being the mathematical expert that he is, was precise in his recording, which speaks to his intent, as you shall see.

“That is the ‘what’ of this case and we shall stipulate that for the record. But the ‘why’ of Mr. Baxter’s actions is crucial and so, if you will indulge me, I would like to frame it within the context of the world in which each of us lives … a world comprised of three lives: one public, one private, and one secret.”

The prosecuting attorney looked comically befuddled. “Objection. What relevance does this have to the case before the court, Your Honor? Who cares why the defendant broke the law? The fact is, he broke it.”

Judge Cormer cocked his head toward Jonathan. “Mr. Perris?”

“I believe motive has much bearing on this case, your Honor. I will make my point as succinctly as possible, but you will see the relevance, I assure you.”

The judge scratched his beard. “Overruled, then. Proceed, Mr. Perris but do make it succinct.”

Jonathan turned back to his audience. “For example, I have come to know the public lives of many of you sitting here today. You are, generally speaking—” he said this with the hint of a smile, “— a reputable lot: a banker, a woolens merchant, a sheep rancher, to name a few. I too have a public persona. I am an immigrant, of course, but a respectable one, I hope. I am a trial attorney—what we would call a ‘barrister’ in England.” He extended his arms as if to display himself to the jury. He was wearing an impeccably tailored gray wool suit. “I bathe, I shave, and I dress suitably for my profession.

“But, like you, I also have a private life. I am not married and those who visit my abode might notice the lack of a woman’s touch.” He kept his rueful smile in place. “I indulge in perhaps more than the occasional whiskey, and I keep erratic hours because, unlike many of you, I have no one waiting for me.”

His tone began to harden. “Were I a fly on the wall in your homes, what would I witness, I wonder? Perhaps a perfect illustration of domestic bliss ...” He leveled his gaze on specific members as he spoke. “… or perhaps not. My guess is that one or more of you enjoy your own favorite spirits to help you relax after a long day. Perhaps you drink too much, and your better half doesn’t like it. Maybe you get a thrill out of playing the ponies and you become despondent when you lose more money than you can afford. Maybe your temper runs hot, and your colleagues, not to mention your family members, have borne the brunt of it.”

Some individuals were becoming restive; a few looked decidedly uncomfortable, no doubt wondering where Jonathan was headed.

Certainly, Jonathan’s legal counterpart wondered. “Really, Your Honor? Is any of this relevant in the slightest to the matter at hand?”

Jonathan caught Judge Cormer’s warning look and forged ahead. “Ah, but then there is the secret life that many if not all of us lead.” His voice dropped. “Perhaps you find pleasure with those you shouldn’t be seen with ... maybe an addiction has you in its grip. Or perhaps you’ve done something so nefarious and so perverse that no one, no one must ever learn about it.” He leaned toward the jury box. “What if I, for example, were a murderer? What if one of you were? None of us would ever know it because it’s a secret.” Jonathan let the last word linger.

“My client, Horace Baxter, led three lives, too. To the public he was an experienced adjustor for a respected insurance firm, in charge of determining the amount of payout for a given claim and reimbursing clients for their loss. His private life was relatively tame, with a harried wife and three boisterous young children, whom he adores.”

Jonathan now grew animated, as if to let the jurors in on salacious gossip. “But his secret life involved a woman. Not in the sense you would imagine. Not a voluptuous siren who would turn the head of any man. No, gentlemen. She was his much younger sister, a dear sweet girl, naïve in the ways of the world, whom he had protected his entire life. She had been led astray and become, of all things, an opium eater. She was not married and could not hold a job. The only way to pay for her habit was to prostitute herself.”

Jonathan glanced at his client. Horace Baxter was a hefty, florid man who was now slumped and staring at the table in front of him: a man mortified beyond the pale.

Days before, Jonathan had railed against the man who had lied to him and professed his innocence until discovery had proved him guilty on all counts. Only then had he explained his true reason for “cooking” the company books.

Jonathan sorely regretted taking the case, which he had done at the request of a colleague to whom he owed a favor. He wanted to believe he’d ignored his own instincts about the defendant, but in truth, he hadn’t picked up any warning signs until it was too late. He should have known better.

“You have ruined any chance for me to establish reasonable doubt,” he’d admonished his client. “For God’s sake, man, with so much on the line, you don’t keep such a secret from your attorney!” Jonathan had advised Baxter to throw himself on the mercy of the court by exposing all, but adhering to such a strategy didn’t make it any easier to stomach.

Jonathan now continued his argument. “Imagine yourself in Mr. Baxter’s shoes, gentlemen. Someone immeasurably close to you follows the wrong path and no matter how much you entreat them, harangue them, threaten them, cajole them, you cannot break the chain of dependence, a chain that has brought shame to your family—secretly—but at any moment could become public knowledge and lead to societal rejection and possibly the loss of your employment, resulting in economic ruin for you and your loved ones. It’s a conundrum, is it not?”

He singled out the banker, who flinched slightly under Jonathan’s gaze. “You have one recourse left, which is to find a discreet sanitarium where your beloved little sister can get help. Such a place costs money that you do not have. So, you devise a plan to obtain that money knowing in your heart that it’s wrong to embezzle but rationalizing that it’s a small amount compared to the company’s vast book of business, and that you will find a way, somehow, to pay it all back. You are so intent on doing that, moreover, that you keep precise records. Your plan is to, over time, replenish the account, claim a ‘slight miscalculation’ in the monies due and return those amounts to each client.

“The time comes when you have enough set aside to pay for the treatment, and you are about to send your sister away when a curious and astute co-worker finds something amiss.” Jonathan shrugged at the end of his tale. “And so you, like Mr. Baxter, might very well find yourself here today.

“I humbly ask you to consider the “why” of this case, gentlemen, in light of your own secrets, and show mercy on this man who did the wrong thing for the right reason. That is all.”

* * *

Ten days later, Jonathan returned to the central jail to have a final word with his client. Although Horace Baxter was found guilty, the jury had taken pity on him and recommended time served, along with a modest fine and of course, the return of the stolen monies. Baxter would have to find a new job, but at least he wouldn’t rot in a prison cell.

“You gonna break open the bubbly after getting your man out of jail?” The desk sergeant wanted to chat, but Jonathan was in no mood for it. He had a few parting words for his client and the sooner said the better. “That’s a capital idea, but I’m afraid more mundane duty calls. Have you got Mr. Baxter’s personal effects? I’ll take them to him.”

The sergeant handed Jonathan the bag and waved him through. “Well, don’t be modest. The state had him dead to rights, but you got him off light as a feather. You’re a silver-tongued devil, you are.”

Jonathan ignored the compliment as he made his way down the hall. “That’s not always a good thing,” he muttered.

Horace Baxter was pacing his cell, waiting to be let out, when Jonathan arrived, asking the guard if he could have a few moments of privacy with his client.

“Thank God this day has arrived,” Baxter said once the guard left. He donned his coat, buttoning it over his ample girth. “I’m ready.”

“Well, I’m not,” Jonathan said. “Sit down.”

“What?” Baxter frowned. “Is something wrong?”

Jonathan fought to keep his words—and his actions—under control. “You might say that. I’ve been in contact with your so-called sister.”

Baxter swallowed. “So … you’ve seen Franny? How … how did you—"

“Imagine my surprise when I called on your long-suffering wife to ask about your sister’s welfare, only to find out it’s her sister—sweet, young Francine— who’s taken to a life of prostitution because of her addiction. And when I found that not so sweet young girl, plying her trade on Stockton Street, it turns out she’s disappointed as hell that you aren’t going to get her the help she so desperately needs. So disappointed, in fact, that she let slip who was responsible for her predicament in the first place.”

The desperate look on Baxter’s face spoke volumes. “Wh—what did she say?”

“You know what she said. And you know the only reason she doesn’t share that information with her sister is that it would destroy your family.”

“You don’t understand. I mean ... how tempting it was. I … I couldn’t help myself.” He hung his head, apparently bewildered by his own fall from grace.

“You couldn’t keep your pants buttoned around your wife’s sister—a member of your own family? And you did nothing when she began to escape her guilt through opiates?” Jonathan’s disgust was palpable. “You are a pathetic excuse for a human being, Mr. Baxter. You are the worst kind of bounder because you’re self-indulgent and you’re weak. The only reason I’m not exposing you is the same reason Francine suffers in silence.” Jonathan leaned in and lowered his voice. “But heed my words: if you go near that young woman again, I will personally see to it that you pay the price—and believe me, that price is much too high, even for a mathematical charlatan like you.”

“What’s going to happen to her?” Baxter whispered.

Jonathan rose to his full height. “That is no longer your concern. You focus on keeping your family fed, within the boundaries of the law.”

The two men said nothing more as Jonathan escorted Baxter out of the jail and into a waiting hansom cab.

Good riddance.

It was nearly noon and given his frame of mind, returning to his law office held no appeal. Jonathan considered inviting the woman he’d been seeing to an impromptu lunch, but quickly tabled the idea. Not only was Lena difficult to reach, but in truth he was in no mood to be sociable. Instead, he headed to a nearby watering hole and ordered one of the whiskeys he’d told the jury about. He thought about Francine and what she must have been like before she was betrayed by a brother-in-law she had no doubt looked up to and trusted. Tomorrow he’d find a way to help the young prostitute conquer her demons, but right now, more than anything, he needed to mask the bitter taste of setting a guilty man free.

***

Excerpt from The Twisted Road by A.B. Michaels. Copyright 2024 by A.B. Michaels. Reproduced with permission from A.B. Michaels. All rights reserved.

 

 

Author Bio:

A.B. Michaels

A native of California, A.B. Michaels holds masters’ degrees in history (UCLA) and broadcasting (San Francisco State University). After working for many years as a promotional writer and editor, she turned to writing the kind of page-turning fiction she loves to read. She writes historical fiction (“The Golden City” series, which takes place in Gilded Age San Francisco) as well as contemporary romantic suspense (“Sinner’s Grove Suspense.”). “Barrister Perris Mysteries” is her latest endeavor, based on characters introduced in “The Golden City.” All of her books are stand-alone reads.

Michaels lives in Boise, Idaho with her husband and two elderly, four-legged “sons” (16 and 17!) who don’t seem to know they’re just dogs. She is an avid reader, traveler, quilter and bocce player, as well as a mediocre but enthusiastic golfer.

Catch Up With A.B. Michaels:
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Facebook - @A.B.MichaelsWriter

 

 

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Book Tour ~ Alla - Iconic New Look at DIOR by Berlin Irishev

 



Iconic New Look of DIOR

 

Nonfiction

Date Published: March 18, 2024

Publisher: MindStir Media


 

Today, it is difficult to imagine a fashion show of a high-end brand without the presence of Asian and Black models. However, until the mid-20th century, it was considered a taboo. Who were the pioneers to break this barrier and tread this new and difficult path?

For the very first time in the history of high fashion, a model with a non-European appearance graced the runways - Alla Ilchun. Discovered by Dior himself, she was described by him as "one of the born mannequins". In the United States, she held the esteemed title of Ambassador for the House of Dior.

Since 1947, the creative concept behind Dior's New Look was often perceived as a new trend in fashion. This book presents a much broader context of the New Look concept that includes a human component: a new type of model. A woman for whom this fashion design was created. Alla was an Asian beauty whose body perfectly corresponded to the aesthetic of the New Look. Her impassive, distant, and notably aristocratic expression captivated the couturier's attention.

However, the story of her appearance at Dior has remained a mystery until recently. Her name was doomed to be forgotten. This amazing story of the Muse of Dior as a bearer of multiculturalism is explored in our books "L'Énigme d'Alla. Muse de Dior" (2021) in French and "A Pearl of the Orient at Dior" (2022) in Chinese. The value of these books along with their English counterparts lies in the fact that we rely on official documents, unique photographs, and diverse sources of information about Alla's saga. The story of Alla Ilchun, as an Icon of the New Look and Muse of the great couturier, is a story of wisdom and foresight of the legendary architect of fashion and elegance, Christian Dior.

 

 


About the Author

A multi-faceted individual, Dr Berlin Irishev is a researcher, diplomat, founder of the global project aimed at reviving the name of the legendary Muse of Dior - Alla Ilchun. This biography is part of a series of books dedicated to chronicle Alla’s fascinating story. The book "L’Enigme d'Alla. Muse de Dior" in French (2021) and "A Pearl of the Orient at Dior" in Chinese (2022) unravel the extraordinary destiny of the Muse of Dior.

In addition to telling the story of Alla’s life, this book focuses on the study of Alla as an icon of the New Look. Dior's groundbreaking decision to invite a model of non-European appearance to the High Fashion runway for the first time marked a true revolution in the fashion industry. Additionally, Dr Irishev serves as the general producer of the documentary "Alla - the Oriental Pearl of Dior".

 

“Alla is one of the born mannequins”

 “My models are the life of my dresses. And I want my dresses to be happy.”

-         Christian DIOR


“Over the years I have learned that what is important in a dress is the woman who is wearing it.”

 -Yves Saint LAURENT


“Alla was an Asian beauty whose silhouette perfectly corresponded to the aesthetic of the New Look.” 

-Catherine ORMEN (DIOR Forever)


 “In every swarm of bees, Alla is the Queen”

-Frédérique MITTERAND


 “The star of all stars, unsurpassed”

-Denis SARRAULT


“Happy end guaranteed”

-Victoire  DOUTRELEAU

 


1947:   ALLA - THE FIRST ASIAN MODEL IN HAUT COUTURE

 

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