Lisas World of Books

Excerpt

            That day, the day Bill arrived, my mom was serving up eggs and complaints.

            “Dammit, that daughter ‘a mine,” she yelled to Dolene, across the diner. “She’s like walking birth control. Does she think I’m trying to have babies? ‘Scuse me, Darlin’” Maybell gave Clover’s bubble walker a little kick, sending it between tables 4 and 6 so she could get by and dump a load of dishes behind the counter.

            Dolene was homegrown, like the tumbleweed, with eyes like a golden retriever that never quite looked at you directly. She was smart enough to add up a check, but you could tell she was never getting out of Hadley. “I take it you didn’t get laid last night.”

            Maybell pointed to her sour puss. “Does this say ‘laid’ to you?”

            There was a ‘harrumph’ from booth 5 by the window. That was Rose. Rose was an old woman by the time she was 30. Now she was in her late 60s, a widow since before I was born—in other words, forever. She liked to spend her afternoons at Maybell’s Diner, reading her book and keeping an eye on the goings on around her, as if she was the town’s homeroom teacher.

            “Look at Saint Rose,” Maybell said, stuffing dirty plates into the plastic tub under the counter. “Thinks she smells better than Mentos. I ain’t running a library here, Rose. Next time bring Reader’s Digest!”

            There was another sound from Rose, something between a ‘well’ and a ‘pfffft.’ She never took her eyes off her book.

            The door opened with a DING from the bell that hung on it. No one noticed Bill entering. He was about average in height, but his skinny frame made him look taller. You could tell from his face that he was in his mid-20s, but those were hard years he had lived, and his body looked frail and geriatric. His clothes were old and clung to him like an extra layer of skin, with a smell that would never wash out.

The angles of his face were sharp and careworn. But his eyes, those were different. His face was hard and weathered, but his eyes were soft. They seemed brand new.

No one in the diner even looked. If they did they would have seen those eyes taking in every little detail: the people talking, forks carrying food, the string lights behind the counter, Dolene ringing up a check. But what drew Bill more than anything else was the grill. Harley, the grill cook, must have had four meals going at once, each with its own set of sounds and smells. Most of those meals involved eggs. His spatula made a metal-on-metal scrape as he turned them. Bill was riveted. He went to sit at the counter to watch.

            Down the counter, a porkish-looking man named Earle—probably one of three men in town who had never slept with my mom—raised his empty cup. “Can I get a refill, Maybell?”

            Maybell stopped and faced him. “Seriously, Earle? Is it so goddam much trouble for you to get up off your ass and get it yourself? Can’t you see I’m working here?”

            “Well…” he stammered. “I just—was I—I was—”

            Maybell pointed to the coffee pot. “How far away is that? Two feet?”

            “Sure, I guess…”

            “Am I your personal slave, Earle? Is that why God put me on earth?”

            “No, I don’t think you’re—”

            Maybell grabbed the pot and sloshed coffee in his Earle’s cup. “There. You happy now?”

He nodded meekly.

            While she had the pot in her hand, Maybell filled the cup sitting in front of Bill. “I’ll be by to take your order in a minute, hon.”

            Maybell walked on. Bill just sat there and stared at the coffee. For him, there was no diner anymore, no Maybell, no clanking dishes or dumb conversation. He leaned closer to that cup like it was the only thing in the world. And there he was, smelling coffee for the first time. And it smelled like life. Like a whole world. Like this is how a planet smells if you’re up in space and could take a deep breath. Bill was motionless for who knows how long. And then, when he was good and ready, he took his first sip.

            Those eyes, the ones that didn’t belong on his head, they closed as if he was praying. No, more like he was hearing a prayer. The coffee was praying to be heard, and Bill heard it.

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Excerpt:

The Townhouse in Mt. Adams

“Bart, this is your mother.” Blanche’s disembodied voice seeped through the speaker system embedded in every room of the three-story townhouse. Echoing throughout the sparsely decorated spaces, her tone was calm and rational with a tinge of caution—which sounded pretty normal for Blanche Babington. “Your sisters and I are planning on seeing you this weekend for the Samhain festivities in Rabbit Hash. Let me know when you expect to transport. Seems Betsy and Betty have some big plans for you again. You better call me back.”

Bart stepped out of the shower, wrapped a bath towel around his waist, and strode to the sink. Tussling his auburn hair with his hand, he spoke to his reflection in the mirror. “I know what my sisters are up to. They do this shit every year. No more.”

Bart tapped the left corner of the mirror and a ripple of waves moved from the corner of the mercury backed glass across the once still and solid surface, “Amelia, call Reggie and Sparky.”

The mirror answered in her distinctive AI rhythm, “calling Reggie and Sparky,” and emanated an old-fashioned ring of a corded phone. With a plop, Reggie appeared in one corner of the mirror and Sparky in another. Amelia displayed the trio of friends in a single line across the elegant mercury backed glass, which hung above a sleek marble double vanity in Bart’s master bathroom and doubled as a smart screen. “I have your BFFs, Bart. What else would you like me to do?”

“That’s all. Thanks Amelia.” Bart dismissed his smart assistant and smiled. “If only all women were like Amelia.”

“Yo, brother, why you got to be showing up on my Copy Reveal screen half naked?” Reggie grimaced.

“He’ll say it was unintentional, but we all know the truth. He didn’t get enough attention as a child.” Sparky chimed in.

“Shut up. It’s go time. Are you boys ready for The Lemon?” Bart stretched on his shirt.

“I’m not sure The Lemon is ready for your look, bub.” Reggie grimaced and looked away.

“What?” Bart looked down to see his emerald green towel still tightly wrapped around his waist, topped off with a navy-blue pima cotton, boutique brand, polo. “Oh hell. I’m going to grab some jeans.”

“Don’t forget your tightie-whities, Marky-Mark.” Sparky yelled.

“Rightfully so. Who wears tightie-whities, ever? Even back in the day, when he dropped his drawers to impress Miss Mona Lisa Giorgio—who was not feeling the vibrations—the tighties were not a good look.” Sparky grinned and straightened his ball cap.

Reggie nodded. “True. No matter how good the package, sometimes it’s all about the wrapping.” The two friends gave each other a virtual high five that spawned an undulation of swells in the mirror.

Bart returned clad in jeans and his polo. “Fuck off, both of you. I looked good. It wasn’t my choice of underwear she didn’t like. Miss Mona Lisa was into rich Italian guys. She wasn’t into young, just starting out, witch doctors.”

“Whatever makes you feel better, man.” Sparky waved him off.

“I’ll feel better when I pull this weekend off. I’m ready to get this plan started. I’ve got to find a witch worthy of hanging out with for the next three days, and that’s willing to play along like we’re a real couple. I’m determined to put an end to the ‘set-up Bart’ bullshit my sisters pull every Samhain. It ruins the whole weekend. Besides, it’s gone on long enough. Time to move on. I’ve moved on. Everyone else needs to, too.”

“No shit. Last year was ridiculous. I thought Betsy was never going to quit introducing you to all those models.” Sparky shook his head, and his silver and black hair dangled over one eye. “It was like a line of Wictoria Angels walking the catwalk just for you.”

“You poor asshole.” Reggie scoffed. “You could help a brother out and throw some of your misfortune my way, you know. I am a single warlock now, too.”

“Trust me, none of those witches were your type. They weren’t my type either. Besides, you and I are not the settling down kind. Not anymore. That’s why your three-year shit-show with Brigette didn’t work out Regg. I mean, how the hell did you expect to settle down with a hippie witch? You’re mister conservative?”

“She wasn’t a hippie witch.” Reggie rubbed his chin. “She was crazy.”

“Crazy witch. Definitely.” Sparky agreed.

“Well, whatever. Good riddance. You’re better than that, man. We don’t do crazy because crazy witches just up and disappear for no reason what-so-ever.” Bart leaned on the counter and eyed both of his best friends. “We do this. Us. Brothers.”

“Yeah. But don’t forget Misty.” Sparky’s eyes lit up at the mention of his wife.

“Of course, I always include Misty in our crew. Hell, she’s a better wingman than you are Sparky. Just something about a female fox Shifter that witches love.” Reggie waggled his bushy eyebrows, licked his thumb and forefinger, and slide them across both unruly strips.

“Is she coming out on this little manly adventure to get Bart a weekend play date? Or are we rolling with the homies only?” Reggie asked.

“She’s sitting this one out. Something about getting all our crap together for the Samhain festivities. I think she’s been plotting and planning with your sister’s, Bart. So, frankly, we need to keep your plan to trip up their matchmaking on the down low Or, Misty might blow your cover.” Sparky looked over his shoulder toward a shadowy door in the distance. “Hence, why I’m hiding out in the basement? I didn’t want her to sniff us out.”

“Good luck with that. Misty’s got a better sniffer than you do, man. And I’m bummed she’s not coming out with us. Like Reggie said, she’s the best wingman we got.” Bart thrust his hands in his pockets to straighten his jeans

“You lookin’ to find the next Mrs. Darington, Regg?” Sparky asked.

“Could be? You know, the third times a charm.” Reggie mussed his dark hair and smoothed his pale green button down.

“Charm my ass. I never believed in that crap. The two previous witches should have taught you a lesson. Love and Reginold Darington don’t mix. You’re free and clear, bro. Enjoy that freedom.” Bart bobbed his head and stuck out his chest.

“Don’t do that. Whatever that ‘trying to look badass’ thing you’ve got going on there. You look real silly.” Sparky laughed.

“Shut the fuck up, Sparky, before I ask Amelia to vape you out of this conversation.” Bart blew out a long breath. He was already worried enough about this whole fiasco he’d cooked up. But he was so tired of everyone trying to make him forget Samhain was associated with the worst day of his life.

“Go ahead, buddy. I’ve got my woman. I don’t need to help you one bit.” Sparky crossed his arms and leaned back in his desk chair.

“Alright you two, just cool it with the machismo shit. Time’s a wasting, and I don’t even know what that plan is for this hairbrained scheme Bart’s got us doing. But we better get to doing it before the evening gets away from us.” Reggie looked at a glowing watch-like contraption on his wrist.

“You’re right, Regg. We need to get a move on. My plan is to start out at The Blind Lemon here in Mt. Adams. I’m thinking there’ll be a healthy crowd of witches there on the eve of the two biggest nights in the witch world. Samhain always brings the ladies out. So, all I have to do is find the one that will be cool with playing a little game of pretend with me.” Bart shrugged. “Easy peasy.”

“The Blind Lemon. Don’t you go there all the time, man?” Reggie asked.

“Sure. But never around the holidays. It gets stupid crazy with crowds.” Bart said.

“I’m not so sure The Lemon is the best place, either. But what the hell? Let’s give it a whirl. If that’s a bust, we’ll trot back on over here to my neck of the woods. The Rhine is always hopping.” Sparky got up from his chair and put his face close to the screen. “We transporting now?”

“Give me twenty minutes,” said Reggie.

“Twenty minutes. What the hell, dude?” Bart barked.

“I gotta do some stuff. Lock up the place, settle Max in for the night. You know. Just stuff. Besides, I’m coming all the way from Indian Hills. You know, it takes me a bit longer to transport from way out here. You and Sparky can light it up in a few minutes and be at The Lemon’s passageway. Hell, Bart, you can walk quicker than you take to transport.” Reggie puffed.

“Max will be fine. He’s the coolest Shepard familiar ever. I’m sure Barty needs to tuck little baby Pricilla piggy in, too.” Sparky said in a mocking baby voice.

“Don’t you worry about Cilla. She’s with Blanche and my sisters. They’re doing all the girly things for the party, and she couldn’t miss that. Besides, Cilla is the baddest bitch flying pig familiar around.” Bart loved his little pink flying pig and doted on her. She’d come into his life at a very dark moment, and he’d never forget the joy and love she showed him. Priscilla was the reason Bart stayed the course to become a witch doctor.

“Exactly, dude. She’s a flying fucking pig. Seriously, I was just teasing you. Literally, you couldn’t ask for a cooler familiar.” Sparky threw a cap on his head.

“I know. Okay, enough. I’m giving you guys thirty minutes. Under the garden sign on Hatch Street.” Bart pointed first at Reggie, then to Sparky. “Thirty minutes.”

“Cool.” Sparky nodded.

“Should I wear a hat? A ball cap like Sparky. Is that a thing now?” Reggie pulled a faded maroon and off-white hat, accented with a beer label patch on the front panel, from a hook on the wall next to him and slipped it on his head.

“Dude. It doesn’t matter. Just get your ass moving.” Bart rolled his eyes and tapped the mirror, which rippled again like water washing away the images of his two friends.

Excerpt: 

On New Year’s Day, the children went with Michael to brunch in Venice and walked on the boardwalk. For dinner, they ate at their favorite Chinese restaurant in West Hollywood. Arriving home, they noticed someone sitting on the porch. Michael quickly got out of the car and went over to the man. It was Joe, a young client of Michael’s.

Two years earlier, Michael brought Joe into the agency as a client; they had a very respectful relationship. Joe asked Michael if he had time to talk. Normally, Michael would have asked Joe if it could wait till the next day, but Michael saw the urgency in his tone. He told Joe to come in and to give him some time to put the children to bed.

Michael came back into the living room with a martini for himself and his guest. He finally broke down and had liquor in his house. Joe sat down and told Michael to listen before he commented. He told Michael that there was an action to take over the office, and his LA staff were aware of it, as well as the New York staff. Gail had also secured a replacement for Michael to run the LA office. The clients were not informed. She was waiting for the proper time after Michael left the office. Gail had secured all the bank statements and hired a lawyer.

Michael was shocked. “Who told you, Joe? Do you know a timetable for when she intends to do this?”

Joe said he was dating someone at the union who told him, and he was not aware of a time she was going to act on this. Joe seemed very pale; Michael became concerned about Joe’s health, asking him how his T-cell count was. Joe did not respond to much of anything.

“There is nothing you can do,” said Michael.

“Just be healthy. There are some experimental drugs. Stay away from AZT. That is AIDS by prescription.”

Joe finished his drink and got up to leave. Joe hugged Michael, and while he was holding on to Michael, he whispered in his ear, “I’m scared. What is going to happen?”

Michael replied, “You are going to live and have fun. Just be gay.” They both laughed. Before Joe left, he stopped in the doorway, turning to Michael.

“What’s wrong Joe?” asked Michael.

“I did not call. I wanted to.”

“Why didn’t you?” said Michael, staring at the young man, who was in a world of anxiety and apprehension.

“I was afraid they tapped your phone,” said Joe, and he left.