I know budgets are tight all over, but I’m asking for your help to self-publish a novel that I have written. It’s called The Client’s Wife and the story follows the 30 year old granddaughter of Nick and Nora Charles (of the classic ‘Thin Man’ movies) as she sets up shop as a private detective and solves a series of murders in New York City. It’s a fun and stylish romance mystery that takes place in present day but embraces the martinis, jazz and humor of a bygone era. It’s received positive responses from everyone who’s read it and now it’s time to stop waiting for others to do something with it. So I’m raising a small bit of money to get the book designed and printed myself.
The goal is to sell copies and then have Hollywood take a look at it. It offers an amazing role for one of the new crop of young A-list actresses. For your minimum contribution you’ll be the first to get a copy of a trade paperback and for the second, slightly higher contribution, I’ll sign it. Again, the entire novel is written and edited. I’ve included an excerpt below. I hope you like it and can throw down a few sheckels to support it. Thanks so much!READ AN EXCERPT HERE…
A perfect evening followed a perfect day: the kind of glorious New York City day that turns week-end visitors into life-long residents and makes even the down-hearted glad to be alive. It was late June, which is when these days often occur. A Canadian high had brought dry air, a cloudless blue sky and a temperature of 80. As evening fell, it would level off at 70, prompting people to slip into something more revealing.
It was also Thursday, when Manhattanites let loose before the hordes of Bridge and Tunnel Visigoths turned the weekend into one long amateur night. The swells hadn’t completed their annual exodus to the Hamptons, Fire Island, Litchfield County, Prout’s Neck, Edgartown and Nantucket. Plus, the Yankees had just whipped the Red Sox in a rare getaway day afternoon tilt to put the archrivals in a tie for first place. So the Big Apple was ready to rip.
As dusk gave way to night, the city lights shimmered like a man-made solar system. And New York once again staked its claim as the world’s greatest city. Forget that the skyline still missed the Twin Towers. Forget that it wasn’t the most modern or even the most beautiful city. On this night, the magnificence of New York was measured by a raw energy that proclaimed Anything is possible here.
My night was about to prove that.
I was on a stakeout. It was the first one since I’d started my own private investigation agency a month ago. I’d spent six years on the Force and half of those in homicide. I had decided to leave for reasons I don’t feel like rehashing at the moment. And now I had my first case. My Client wanted me to reopen a private investigation of Mrs. Farber’s death, because she had been killed in one of his assisted living facilities.
It was the kind of case I’d hoped for. I had started the agency with the mission to help folks solve cold case homicides that were never resolved satisfactorily. This case fit that bill, but what I was watching now was completely confusing. I also had a rare headache, which was a minor distraction. And I don’t like to be distracted. Unless it’s by choice.
I was in an apartment on 67th Street between Park and Madison, looking through the telescopic lens of a new digital camera that did everything but bring you breakfast in bed. The lens was trained on the sumptuous digs of a prewar apartment building across the street. Though my subjects were on the 67th street side of the building, the address was strictly Park Avenue.
My vantage point was the result of a chit I had called in from a friend in real estate management. The owners of my hideout were in Jackson Hole buying a ranch; I was supposedly watering their plants.
As I peered into the apartment across the street, the treatments of its 8 foot high windows were open just enough to give me a good look at what was happening inside: namely, sexual gymnastics showcasing skills that I promised myself I’d attempt someday. The two participants seemed to be playing a fun game called Let’s have sex in every room. I could only see the dining room, the living room and one of the bedrooms, but when they had first staggered into the dining room naked, I assumed they had gone a round in the kitchen. I arched my eyebrows and let the camera take pictures and video.
I said I was confused. My Client had requested that I monitor his lawyer for any suspicious business activity or associations. He suspected that his lawyer might be involved somehow in Mrs. Farber’s death. This stake out at his lawyer’s apartment was the first step in my discovery process. But the only thing I was discovering tonight was that my Client’s lawyer was having an affair with my Client’s wife. And the scene playing out through the camera lens was making me sweat...