John’s Books

Stalking four bank-robbing brothers in the southwest’s wintery barren land become Chief Detective Alberto Jose Cargile’s arduous challenge. Surrounded by magically painted mountains, this case is full of menace and uncertainty. His search starts near the Ghost Ranch land but leads Alberto to his home town Trissa where the brothers commandeered Maggie May’s B&B for their hide-out. The location, barely blocks away from his home, brings a pent-up anger that may have weakened his objective decision process.

The eruption of a 100-year snow storm diminishes Detective Cargile’s options. How does Alberto square Trissa and his neighbors’ safety against the cunning brothers? With the deep snow and no exit for the narcissistic leader, the standoff menacingly turns into a showdown with guns a blazing. Alberto senses it may be his own death sentence. Whose blood will spill?

Two river rafting summer experiences. One with boy scouts and their fathers on Colorado River. The other rafting is on Las Palmas River with four executive bankers. The first trip is a four-day exciting adventure. However the second three-day cruise on a lazy river -for team building- had turned deadly. Detective Esparza di Onega from the small town Trissa, is called on to unravel the Las Palmas River murder case while Chief Alberto Jose Cargile and his boy scout nephews are having a blast on the Colorado River.

Arriving home, Chief Alberto Cargile gets an update from Detective Onega for the bank suspects. Onega initially interviewed, then interrogated the three bankers as evidence points as suspects. They must go back to the murder spot on the river, along with the three remaining executives, to solve the mystery of the missing silver case and the murdered senior executive. Why keep a heavy case in the river raft? What are the bankers hiding and what will Chief Alberto Cargile find on the river? Is the silver case the reason for the murder?

EXCERPT

“Time to start loading up for the Big One!” said Chris Stevenson, the executive vice president of Investment Banking Inc.’s international division. He was in his late sixties and driving his BMW 5 Series heading south of Denver. The “wild Southwest,” as he called it, was anything south of Colorado. And it was the small group’s destination.

“After the phone call, we can talk about Las Palmas River rafting,” said his trusted employee of fifteen years, Richard Wright, who was riding shotgun.
Chris Stevenson, senior vice president, and Richard Wright, vice president, co-managed the International Department in Investment Bank Inc., located in Denver, Colorado. Their destination was the Las Palmas River for a team-building exercise. Henry O’Dell, director, and Samuel Moore, director—who made up the rest of the department—were driving in a separate car, planning to rendezvous with Mr. Stevenson and Mr. Wright at the river.

You enjoy reading detective stories that are full of unusual characters involved with suspicious murders while embedded in constant mayhem. It’s a story you can’t put down full of curious people with unusual screwups always slipping into illegal lifestyles. Yep, you love the rascals.

In The Bridge Jumper, the first novel in my Trissa series, the detective story happens in a small tourist/artist town in the southwest in the winter of 2002. The daily life of the inhabitants of Trissa, a fictional town are full of colorful events with a background of Hispanic richness rooted as deeply as a hundred-year-old cactus.

So, your question is, “What does this story mean to me?”

The answer is an exciting, fast-paced, detective experience for you.

The story starts on a lonely bridge . . .

Read, Learn, and Enjoy! Love the Screwups!

In the year 2322 Nona Clark, University department director, is unexpectedly offered the Secretary of the Interior position by President Dominic. Her previous reports held insights regarding the year 2222 -known as The Terrible Twos- when tsunamis destroyed all land west of the Rockies. Her directive is to rejuvenate the land. The first work is focused on the Dakota Territory -lost statehood- as proof of concept.

The mayor of the Dakota company town, Rasputin Ratsiloff, a sadist, is angered with Nona’s appointment. Reporting to the alien Elders -that run the plazas in the western territory- Rasputin has free rein to continue his vengeful acts against David, Nona’s husband, for destroying his sex trade in the southwest.

Nona quickly discovers Rasputin’s unscrupulous cahoots with the underbelly of Washington D.C. to control the economy of the western US. Confusing diversions are hurled at her efforts. Are the Elders or the president Nona’s friends or foes? And the angel-like creatures known as Crying Bodies: Are they involved to protect Nona and David?

During the last quarter of 2020 my memoir draft is complete. I’ve sent it to my editor, and she expect to have it completed in May. I’m currently working on the title. Sometimes a title is obvious to me, but this time I couldn’t immediately come up with a catchy one. I’m thinking of my life’s driving force being my family’s well-being. I enjoyed examining my family’s social status, religious upbringing, the men who were inspirational, my education and my international career.

I also appreciated reading Educated by Tara Westover. In her early adult life, the ensuing struggles she endured was heart rendering. It was her education that helped her scale the dreaded walls of isolation and family waring.

My interest in a memoir happened when my daughter, Jessica, invited Prudence and I and some of her close friends to share a weekend in San Francisco discussing her early childhood that she had little memory of. Having those frank discussions brought me to my knees a couple of times as I shared my parental role and challenges. Recalling Jessie’s life, it was wonderful to be surrounded by the people that love me and I them.

I fell in love with the writing process but not educated in it. I started the endeavor as a fluke in high school writing contests, then as personal therapy in my early twenties when I went through my divorce during college. I picked up writing again in my international business traveling from one country to another one as a form of keeping my mind active during the long flights. Writing my observations in airports led to writing short stories, then novels with Prudence’s encouragement. In my current stage of life called retirement I have found my next career as a full-time novelist.

I’d like all of my siblings to read my memoir. You will find events that you remember differently. That’s okay and expected with ten unique people but all part of the same family. To make this personally interesting I’d like to have each of you write something that you remember about growing up in the family. It can be another interpretation of an event or something that has struck you over the years to add to the Abeln saga. What’s the purpose of this? The memoir becomes something more than a memoir. It becomes a story of a family that you are part of and, most importantly, all of the siblings still enjoy getting together. That is a unique part of our lives, isn’t it? Then you can give this book to your children and your grandchildren; it gives them a glimpse of what it was like to grow up in a very large family. A living document where they came from.

The London taxi windows were open wide. Equipped with heat but no air conditioning. Typical British manufacturing standard. However, the city seldom had a heatwave. The unusual spike in temperature this fall brought London into the 80’s for several days. At least the breezes off the Thames made the adjacent streets comfortable.

But the weather was not impacting the two men who concentrated intently, oblivious to the poor flow of air. Re-organizing their briefcases and loosening their ties, they passed the Oxford tube station heading to Charing Cross and their hotel.

“Now that I have seen your professional presentation,” confessed Eloy de la Prado, “I see my approach plays a minimum role. I will spend time practicing in front of a mirror to beef it out.”  At 6’ 2”, Eloy had difficulty finding a comfortable position on the taxi’s bench. Like his father, he was lanky with olive-colored skin and a slightly hooked nose.

“Beef it up.” In his late twenties he absorbed his surroundings, mused Gannon.

“Sorry. I am a quick learner,” said a nervous Eloy to the owner of the company.

“You’re faster than I am with Spanish,” grinned Gannon Waters. In his late fifties he had sold his U.S. business so he could concentrate on the European growth potential he envisioned. With long greying hair, Italian suits and London light pink shirts and wingtip shoes with the standard white socks, he had the air of a typical European businessman or Euro congress member, easily slipping into different roles to benefit his objective in any of the eighteen countries comprising the European Union. Until, that is, when he started to speak with that mid-western American accent.

The Followers, an ultra-right splinter group, are demanding that the Norwegian government correct the balance between industrial and environmental space. Eliminate paved roads!  Decrease cars! Add more paths for bicycles and walking parks! While these requests appear to be sensible and brimming with altruistic consideration, the messengers behind them are anything but. The Followers make their plans obvious to all who dare to look deep enough—their intentions are outlined clearly within the group’s own manifesto which threatens to invoke a bloodletting tribunal upon the State.

When cousins Sven Hogsness, Chief Inspector of Bergen Police, and Svent Hogsness, the State (PST) Director, receive multiple execution videos along with body parts delivered directly to their private residences, the bullseye is painted!

Meanwhile, the summer solstice brings an uplifting light. With the Nordic sun shining above for a full twenty hours, life feels bright. The Hogsness families, holding true to their established traditions, celebrate the day as a retreat to their summer home outside of Bergen. The group invites Betsy Waters (an American) and her boyfriend, Carl Masimo (a South African), to join them. The local Bergen police unit and the State PST police from Oslo organize a task force to track down the Followers and provide extra protection during the Hogsness family festivities.

Everything surrounding the solstice, it seems, is shrouded in mystery. Are additional police enough to protect people from unbalanced extremists? And, when life hangs upon a tenuous thread, what does it really mean to ‘do the right thing?’ Rich with subplots and complex detective work, Nordic Sun is ultimately a journey about finding truth and how listening to one’s intuition can make heroes out the most unlikely people.

“I am reading the document, The Terrible Twos, and the short history of Etiwanda. The worst tragedies were the episodes of volcanoes, earthquakes and tsunamis starting over 100 years ago, or roughly five generations back. During the West Coast environment tragedy, our Homeland Security shrugged. However, the desire to have a reasonable enforcement of stability seemed universal in the battered West. History calling it the Terrible Twos, which started in the spring of 2202 when the first set of hurricanes, volcanoes, earthquakes and Pacific seismic disruptions came about.” David stopped and asked Nona Clark, Department Head of Religious and Social Studies at the Colorado University, if the recorder sound levels were alright.

“Sounds good, David.” Looking away from the dials, Nona saw David waving a paper in his hand.

“I found this article in my review of papers from 99 years ago:

 The archipelago in the Pacific “Ring of Fire” has suffered its deadliest year of natural disasters in more than a decade. Earthquakes leveled parts of the tourist island of Lombok in July and August. In September, a double quake-and-tsunami killed more than 2,000 people on Sulawesi Island.

“This was the shortest article,” he said biting his fingernail cuticles. “I was getting bored and started looking for backup material.”

“You did research?” Nona, paying attention, grinned at her husband. “I’m happy you’re using the university’s services. Go on if you’re ready. I have it on pause,” she said, holding up one finger.

Watching the recorder’s digital spinning wheel, he continued. “They defined a toxic environmental normalcy, if you can call creating a normalcy the price for significant deviation from the standard regiment resulting in toxic deaths. This was taught in the ZooCoo school programs at a young age. I decided to escape the forced normalcy in Plaza del Sol, my community inside of Etiwanda. Leaving was terrifying because of the unknown, however liberating it originally seemed, because of the unknown.” David turned off the recorder as he laughed at his own nonsense. “God, this sounds trite.”

Nona, rubbing her eyes, looked at the recorder. “I can see why you laugh. We should edit some of this. Why don’t you skip the trip into the mountains and talk about your cabin experience? I think that is very revealing.” She pulled her reddish-brown hair behind her ears.

Elementary school started next week for the kids, then the university classes started the following week. Summer events were over and the kids, as well as David, were acting bored, so Nona decided on a little project to keep their minds occupied. It was Jessica, their youngest child’s idea to tell stories that were normally reserved for her cabin.

“We could do it here,” she said. Peter, whose thick hair was black enough to have a bluish sheen, chimed in. “Have Dad  tell us about the plaza. I’m already forgetting things.”

Emmet Waters shifted in his business class seat twice getting comfortable, and then pulled off his shoes. He remembered the advice to drink plenty of liquids on international flights. What liquids? Orange juice, beer? He thought as he saw the beverage cart in the plane’s galley. Being new to the trans-Atlantic world, Emmet had some trepidation and anxiety. Right now he felt excited to experience Europe and powerful. Yea, beer to settle my stomach.

His company launched into Europe their executive training classes, picking Emmet who demonstrated a positive knack for handling successfully diverse groups. He jumped at the opportunity to spear head the effort, even though it meant more days away from home. He managed one European trainer in the UK, Richard Angler, the initial financial risk, to help implement the strategy for Europe. Richard had proved effective selling into several global companies based in London, so the right European to help with expansion.

“Remember, all in moderation,” Carol, his wife said, as she kissed him at the airport.

“I know how to be moderate, most of the time,” smirked Emmet as he held Carol he touched her bottom.

“It’s your first flight over the Atlantic. You’ve never flew for eight hours.” Carol’s eyes closed slightly, her brow crinkled into a frown.

“I can handle it.”

“Did you organize anytime with Gannon? I think your brother’s in Brussels. Based over there, he could be helpful.”

“No. Didn’t work out.”

“Be safe.” Carol gave him one more kiss and grabbed his bottom.

“Mafia murders—like the ones in Ravenna—gnaw at your soul,” said Bill Barry, the Roma Consulate, grimacing as he put down his scotch. He checked Gannon’s reaction before he continued. Noticing Gannon’s lack of expression and  his untouched scotch, Bill plowed on. “I know you saw the bodies, the aftermath of the shoot-out. I commend you for bravely speaking to the Italian police. Must have ground you down like a second trauma. They are the most emotionally-charged police in Europe. They should have waited for a translator.”

“It did feel like we were interrogated,” said Gannon, the owner of SoftWaters, with a solemnity of a priest in a confessional. “Checking if we were partners in the murders.” He twisted his hands in his lap rethinking the horrendous moments. “In Italy?” Geesh.”

Nodding, Bill said, “I’ve sent my best to confirm the deceased’s identities. They won’t be in the morgue for long. Contacting Aretha’s mother in long-term care is a non-starter?”

“Best not to involve her,” said Gannon. “I feel badly for Aretha’s two kids. Bart’s seventeen and Marcello’s four, from what I remember.”

“I guess we can call it a night to a terrible day,” Bill said as he finished his scotch.

“The kids?”

“They are stuck in the custody of Servizi di Protezione dell’infanzia, Child Protective Services. Their Human Resources Department moves slowly. With no relative except their mother, Natalie, I’m afraid it will be some time.” Bill clasped his hands and looked at the papers on his desk. “Not much we can do.”

Gannon scratched his forearm as if fending off demons clinging to his skin. “That’s shit.”

“My hospital is a microcosm of Bologna. We save lives. We do not take them,” said Dr. Ambrosia, the Chief Medical Officer at Policlinico Sant’ Orsola Malpighi. A tall, dark-skinned man from southern Italy fiddled with his Marlboro as he talked. “We serve patients throughout Emilia Romagna by our specialties, as a successful business.”

Flying to Bologna Tuesday morning, Gannon Waters arrived via taxi to the hospital where his Italian business manager for SoftWaters, Alessandro Massimo, set up the important meeting. “That’s very impressive,” said Gannon, as they walked the hall that led to the doctor’s private balcony. “I can see why Alessandro wanted me to meet you.” Dr. Ambrosia wore a dark grey business suit, and Gannon was struck by the hospital’s level of quality and professionalism.

“Your hospital is a model of modern tools and techniques,” said Alessandro, a petite young man, Alessandro’s enthusiasm was apparent in his quick-talking style and unbounding energy. His karate schooling gave him confidence to counter the bullying he received at school being always the shortest boy in the class. Alessandro’s shirt highlighted a powerful physique, yet the yellow in his bowtie clashed with his sallow skin. He had encouraged Gannon to stroke the doctor’s ego to help move the SoftWaters’ product sale forward. Alessandro was short, just up to Gannon’s shoulders, with black wavy hair that added a few inches of height and Kahlua-brown eyes which made all that he said believable.

The chief marketing officer’s private balcony equipped with lawn, tables, a bar and a waiter boggled Gannon’s mind as he stood near the door.

“We have over one thousand active beds. It is a city unto itself with a staff of three thousand professionals, Signor Waters,” said Ambrosia, with his white lab-coat flapping as he talked. Looking at Gannon, he bumped into a preoccupied doctor in the hallway reading a report.

“Pardon,” said the silver-haired doctor as he bowed to his boss.

“It is my fault, Professor,” said Dr. Ambrosia. “We have some visitors.”

“I have no time,” said the professor with a distinct British accent as he continued down the hall. “Severe case of identity displacement. Another time, please,” he said, pointing at the report as he turned the corner.

“Let’s enter,” said the CMO, pointing to the glass door. “The day is lovely for a drink and smoke between my surgical operations. Even though it is March, don’t you agree?” The waiter held the patio door open to the private park and motioned to enter.

Gannon looked at the distracted doctor walking away. “The professor, what’s his name?”

“Professor Giancarlo Armini. He chairs the Psychiatry Department. Fine expert,” said Ambrosia, as he lit up his cigarette. “You wish to meet?”

“He’s shaved his beard,” said Gannon, as he continued to stare.

Alessandro grabbed his arm. “We cannot keep Dr. Ambrosia waiting. He has limited time for us,” pleaded Alessandro, worried with Gannon’s distraction.

After WWII the growth of many industries, aeronautical businesses included, dramatically increased the population drawing graduates from the East and Midwest. My father was in the Navy during the war, and graduated with an Engineering degree from the University of Minnesota afterwards. My mother got a teaching degree from Iowa State and moved to LA, where they met at a Newman Club dance. The first house I remember was off of Workman Avenue in West Covina, a suburb of Los Angeles. It was a dead-end street surrounded by undeveloped land and orange orchards. Our Church and school, Sacred Heart, was at the end of the street and almost everyone was Catholic, so we all went to the same school and church. New houses, where orchards once stood, were coming in at a fast pace. It was the 1950’s, and America was living large.

Mom was tall for moms. She had light brown hair, an aquiline nose with green eyes that were very expressive. Dad was as tall as Mom, with black hair and brown eyes with a slightly turned up nose. He smoked Camels and devoured Time magazine to the extent that he underlined paragraphs of interest.

The Lovejoys lived next door but had no children. The Seguins were next to them and they had five children; Jay and Johnny were Mark’s and my age. Behind our house was a greenhouse where we threw small rocks off of the glass roof and watched them tinkle down. Behind the Seguin’s was a free standing orange orchard where we sat in a tree and ate oranges until we had an acidic attack like boils.

Our bicycles had only one speed, the push-on-the-pedals-as-fast-as- possible. We’d race our bikes and jump off them onto a neighbor’s grass and tumble. This was our block and no one needed to leave the street as everything we wanted was here. TVs were still rare. We’d walk to one of the neighbor’s to watch a program which never started when promised as it was still a new technology and a new frontier. So part of seeing the TV program was getting together and talking to our friends.

We compared when Santa arrived at each house on our block to see the remarkable, yet efficient use of his time. Mustard weed fields were behind the Santiago’s house, the only open field where we built forts, dug tunnels, had our battles based on Disney programs like Swamp Fox. One of our buddies, Dwayne Shorne, lost his 2 front teeth in Jerry Tucker’s fist in a fight in that mustard weed field. Who could imagine breaking teeth by a fist?

Airplanes flew overhead and that meant we lived in a big city. “Your Dad is on that plane,” Mom said as she pointed toward the sky to a small sliver in the graying daylight one day. Dad was on a business trip, so that meant that planes took only men on business travel. But where did he go and how did he come back to us were questions that my brother Mark and I asked. Paul was only 3 years old and didn’t bother with this stuff.

“Absolutely, marvelously adequate,” said the teacher to Patience’s mother. “And that should be taken as praise,” she said, pushing at her nose and removing the bi-focals from her jaundiced face. She had a short haircut that older women wear to make themselves look younger, with strands of different colors circling her round face. Wearing her Chinese red, silk kimono made the woman look more like a Theater teacher than an English teacher.

Why do older women do that? Thought Patience, as she watched her and her mother talk.

She always talks differently to grownups than students.

“Ahem,” Patience’s mother replied, not knowing whether to be insulted or to grapple with the newest educational phrasing for student development. Leaning on the desk, she spoke slowly, “Is she being challenged enough? I mean, do you think she’s learning her studies well enough?”

“They are children and we need to protect them as they are growing up, yes? No reason to rush them into adulthood sooner than necessary, right?” The smoothed-face old woman cleaned her glasses with a small piece of cloth as she talked. “We prepare these treasured assets. No child is left behind without improvement. It is not what is said, but what is known! The goal of having all our trusted ones move uniformly through the school year, prepares them for the next, right?” Putting her glasses into her pocket, she squinted at Patience, then at her mother. “She is a bright one, always wearing something colorful!”

“I see your point,” said her mother, whose narrowing eyes told Patience she was not happy. Turning to Patience, she said, with a furrowed brow, “Let’s move on to the next teacher, shall we?” Turning back to the teacher she said curtly, “Pleasure,” and walked away with Patience’s hand in hers.

Walking through the crowded corridors, her mother read the signs over the doors. “So much for English,” she said, without looking at Patience. “What should we expect in Science?”

Patience didn’t answer, for mother was in one of her moods that would get fouler as the evening went on.

I wish I were somewhere else than here, she thought. Mother is becoming upset and my teachers are useless in her eyes. I see that.

The Science teacher was no better. “She’s good at following instructions, natively inquisitive, I’d say. Receives and digests the facts and always asks about the next assignment and when it is due. Bright one, yes!” He had tiny, dark-brown eyes that filled his eye sockets, leaving no room for the whites.

Mr. Rodin’s bushy mustache stuck straight out, which reminded Patience of several types of rodents. Looking at her desk, she hoped that no one saw her smile at that thought.

How strange grownups are, they seem to turn into something else as they age.

The smell of breakfast toast lingered in the kitchen. Outside, the breeze rustles the bushes’ silver and pale green leaves in the spring’s brisk morning.

“Where have you been?” Aretha asked, wearing her old beach cover gown.

“Driving around,” said Malcolm, as he pulled the car keys out of his denim pocket and dropped them into the dish by the stove. He brushed his dark blue polo shirt and tan corduroys.

“Nearby? Driving just around? Not like you.”

“Just around,” he replied.

“Anywhere in particular?”

“No. Getting to know the land, so to speak,” the Brit said, as he sat at the kitchen table and read the morning newspaper.

“Wandering perhaps near the airport?”

“Could have, could have. Between here and there, right?” He smiled, but the tension around his eyes told a different story. Malcolm looked away from Aretha involuntarily.

“I found the Denver International Airport parking ticket in your car yesterday.”

“Oh? Clumsy of me,” he said, starting to fidget with his I-Phone. “Ticket?”

“In fact several.” Her voice louder with each word.

“Oh?” Now, he’s tracing the I-Phone buttons with his index finger.

“I could smell the Italian cigars that you enjoy.” Her throat blushed with anger.

“Not surprising. Well…” he stuttered, his finger running on the tabletop’s grey tiles.

Holding her throat, Aretha said, “Is there anything you want to talk about?” Her heart labors as she examined his eyes.

Malcolm stared at the small lake, to the north of their large property, but only sees Aretha’s ghost in the window, staring at him. “I love being here Aretha. I really do. I love you, madly! More than a Brit is capable of saying.” Flustered, he threw his hands up in the air.

“But,” said Aretha, “you need something don’t you? Something more than just you and me.” Her voice dropped lower.

“Yes.” With his admission, she heard the sound of his disappointment.

“What I mean is… I miss me home. The smell of the jet fuel somehow helps. Weird? I try to play with a straight back. But now…”

“Did you ever want to jump on the plane and go back?”

“I’ve talked to the BA flight staff. Hearing their voices help make the connection for me. Once, they let me on the plane, before boarding. ‘Special, VIP,’ they said to the TSA. What a laugh they are!” said Mal, as he slapped his leg and chortled.

The laugh was genuine, something she hadn’t heard in a while.

The first man was killed in the grassy field behind the Hilton Hotel on Boulevard de Waterloo. It was a small park divided by a stone walkway that lead south to the Grand Place, the city’s largest plaza. The murder was set up to look like a robbery gone wrong. The rain pelted down hard during those days, driving even hardy Belgians inside. No one found the body for two days, until the feral dogs started to dismember the corpse. The deceased was an expat staying at the Hilton Hotel. Without a wallet or passport but a dented forehead meant the deteriorating heap left the world without a sanctifying prayer.

The second man died in his hotel room, at the Sheraton Hotel on the inner Ring Road, east of the famous Grand Place. This was staged to look like as a murder. But the police found the medical report on the bedside table describing the man was at stage four cancer, destroying his brain. The Medical Examiner wrote the man had voluntarily killed himself, saving his family involved with a prolonged death process.

However, the death was by suffocation by the two passport thieves. The ME’s conclusion ignored the man’s bruised neck.

Millie and Max, after stealing the passport, left through the hotel doors by the Sheraton’s concierge station. Max Diamante was satisfied that he had rifled through the man’s room sufficiently to make it look like a burglary and murder. Millie O’Hara, stationed in front of the room, watched the elevators for guests. She carried a small suitcase in case someone from the hotel staff questioned this wandering guest.

“He didn’t fight as the other did,” Max whispered with an American accent in the elevator. Wearing his suit and tie presented himself as another businessman: Black pants and shoes, black shirt buttoned at the neck, gold cufflinks.

“Did you get everything?” asked Millie in her Northern Ireland accent, as she touched his pants then hooked her finger into a belt loop. Raising an elbow, she paused lifting his pants.

“Too easy. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t even lock the safe in his room.” Max patted his breast pocket then lifted his hand to Millie’s chin as she lifted his pants. “Don’t play with me if you don’t mean it, Millie sweetheart.”

Moving her hand down the front of his pants, she flicked her fingers at his bulge and laughed. “You wish. But you won’t get beyond shopping,” she sneered, hostility radiating in her tone. Turning toward the mirror in the elevator she fluffed her deep red hair, then pulled it over her shoulders. She ignored his owl-like eyes the rest of the way down.

The humid air smelled like dank worms. Walking with a longer stride, Max pulled ahead of Millie as they walked toward the Place. She wouldn’t play his game, trying to keep up with the police-trained Max Diamante, falling further behind him. Besides, he never would talk to her after leaving the scene of the crime.

At this distance Millie observed Max’s unusual stride on the deserted street as they turned to the walking street, heading to the Coffin bar. Walking pigeon toed Max dragged his right foot, planted it, then moved his left foot forward. Observing this strange gait Millie realized what he was doing. She let out a small laugh stopping Max.

“What?” In a threatening voice he turned around.

“Nothing, I was just sneezing,” Millie sang catching up with Max. “Just a sneeze, nothing more, nothing less. Fire up!” She poked his shoulder with her index finger.

Max looked at her, his marbled, glass-like eyes boring into hers. “Sneeze, eh?” Bending his shoulder, he stared at her finger for a second, then looked at her eyes. “Funny sneeze you have.” Laughing absurdly he walked toward the street. Mechanically he said, “Is Joseph in the car?” pointing at the Mercedes Benz parked at the intersection of Le Brava.

“Yah. He’s probably already here,” Millie said facing the bar’s door. “The Coffin, his fav. He counts the money then reviews the passport. With a nod we then celebrate.”

As she talked a man exited from the Coffin Bar.

Leaning to her ear, Max said, “I could collect another passport. I’m convinced he’s carrying one. Wanna bet?”

“Stop it,” said Millie, as she pushed Max away. “Stop acting like you can hit  anyone.”

“It’s in his breast pocket.”

“We’re next to Joseph’s car. Can it.”

Shifting his view Max pointed at the man that was buttoning his coat as he walked toward the Audi.

“Put your finger down. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Millie barked at Max.

“Are there others tonight?”

“Joseph will give us the bloody list at the bar. New group of expats playing tourists. He and Larry Larrigetta run a gimmicky tour. Something called Summer Sundays that brings the expats to us. Can it be better?”

As Max focused on Joseph getting out of his car, Millie shook her head, knowing his boxers were too small and bunched up on him as he walked.

His boxers making him squirm, of all things! Millie glowered.

Listening to Bob Dylan in his car relaxed Gannon. Stopping for a red light on France Ave. in Edina, he held up the Biograph CD. Dylan’s face and hair had a reddish color. Like a Greek Pan. Certainly plays off the ancient images in his music, Gannon thought, laying the CD down. The day had a tinge of gray but was expected to clear up by noon. He undid his sport jacket button as the car’s heater warmed him, and pushed his greying dark brown hair off of his forehead. His hazel eyes scanned the road ahead as he approached the freeway.

His car phone chirped on the passenger seat. Looking at it, he grimaced. I shouldn’t have gotten this phone, Gannon thought. A father of four, Gannon kept trim with exercise and sport activities with the kids. He also had a good gene-pool of Irish parents which gave him a positive-anything-can-be-accomplished attitude. Not recognizing the number, he picked up the phone and said, “This is Gannon.”

“Gannon! It’s so good to ‘ear your voice. ‘Ow are you? Am I calling too early?” The voice was thick, with that Parisian accent. All of the ‘H’s’ sounding like soft ‘c’s’. André Perpignan was all Parisian, full of life and charm. He had lived in the States for two years, yet refused to learn the pronunciation of American words. Tall and lanky, André looked like he never combed his disheveled, wiry hair.

“André! You’re my first European caller this morning. Must be my lucky day,” Gannon said. “Say, I’m almost at my office. I’ll call you back when I get there, okay?” Working with André for six months on software proposals for governments in Paris, and Lyon, had made little headway. Gannon was thinking there was minimal possibility for success in that country.

“Ca va. Okay. But buy your airline tickets then before you get to your office. To Paris. No reason to take extra work today? N’est pas?

“Tickets?”

“Airline, yes of course. That is what I said. Or do you prefer the sea. It is up to you, of course.” André laughed at his lame joke.

“Are you trying to say we got the business in Lyons?”

“No, that is not what I am trying to say. What I am trying to say to you, Gannon, is the following: We have the business in Paris. That is we have an official response for our services, along with a bank account number for the monies, French Francs of course. I have to talk to the gentleman in charge for disbursements. He is such a nice gentleman. Raised in Paris, went to the Sorbonne University, he, well let’s say that his wife is . . .”

“André,” Gannon cut him off, “tell me the details later. I’ll call you soon. Bye. Ciao.”

“Oui. Ciao, my friend. Ciao.”

Hanging up, Gannon started to re-think his agenda with this unexpected possibility for his company SoftWaters. André had kept this project alive, yet couldn’t close the big deal. He had brought in the existing French business. Correction, Malcolm in the UK had brought in the French business with André’s help. Malcolm was the GM for the European SoftWaters business. Even with his British lack of sensitivities, he had done a reasonable job.

André kept the SoftWaters business alive in France, adding new product offerings and training. But no new customers. This would be André’s first customer. He was finally cracking the difficult market where ‘not-invented-here’ was the general anthem.

Turning off the freeway on the Eden Prairie exit, Gannon headed east toward the SoftWaters offices. Squinting into the hazy morning sun, he maneuvered the Montero into the parking lot making a mental note to call Malcolm in London. Making a third mental note, he’d look at his family calendar to see when he could fly to Europe. The last time he went, some difficult moments with Beth and conflicts with the kids’ activities made that trip tense.

Arriving at the office, Gannon hung his jacket on the back of the chair and scanned his clutter-less desk. He had the most organized work-room considering he was the owner of a software company that was notorious for leaving piles of field reports and stacks of analysis updates laying around. No new urgent messages on his desk. Renting the entire third floor illustrated his U.S. business’ continued growth. But European expansion was his real love that was on hold.

After Ed’s murder in Italy, he realized they could have done their entrance differently, but the culture, the style of business in Europe was foreign and he was naïve and learned the most difficult lesson of death and loss. Now with hired Europeans, Gannon was taking small steps, feeling more confident, but still business-wise conservative, reflecting the initial fast pace entrance which may have led to Ed’s tragic death in Italy.

Looking at the picture on his desk of the two guys at the Grand Place in Brussels, Gannon picked it up. Six years ago, his partner Ed and he negotiated a software franchise deal for Spain and Italy, their first entrée into the European market. Brussels was picked as a neutral place for the negotiations.

Gannon wiped off the dust that accumulated on the picture and saw Ed’s smiling face, and his more pensive one. He was the worrier among them. The sights and smells of their first meetings, the late dinners, and the comedic way they succeeded in spite of their utter lack of cultural understanding, still gave Gannon a good feeling. Putting the picture down, his heart crimped, the dreadful part of the memory that Ed died on that trip. He later found out it was by the hands of Giancarlo’s thugs the Italian negotiator. It still upset him. “Those were crazy days,” he said to his lost friend, his previous co-owner of the company. “How could I have prevented your unnecessary death?” He still reconciled Europe with the good and bad elements he experienced.

Eva is going to be a handful tonight, Ed thought as he sipped the hot drink. Closing his eyes, he saw an image of himself as a young kid. Afraid of the dark. Toro the Tough was after him again. Found in his shadow, he called it Toro because it threatened and hurt him when darkness fell.

Shaking his head he thought, No self-doubt, Eddy. Be strong. Win tonight! Opening his eyes, confidence renewed, he smiled at her, with his self-assured style.

Ed was meeting Gannon the next day at the Minneapolis airport for their flight to Brussels. This will be the last time he will have sex in a while. Why hesitate, he wondered as she reached in her purse for lipstick. Ed gazed at her, wondering what move would be best.

Getting too old? Not for the chase.

Eva decided this was an early night, no fooling around. She calculated to be in bed in an hour, alone. She searched in her purse for her car keys; sleeping in her own bed tonight.

***

Gannon was trying to enjoy dinner at the Especial Restaurant with his wife Beth before the European trip. However, his mind floated from one thought to another. Looking at his food, he imagined exotic meals in Brussels on this trip with Ed. As he stabbed at his prime rib, Gannon remembered how Ed had talked him into the boondoggle. Business was good. He was satisfied, but Ed wanted to expand into Europe. ‘What do we know? The markets in the countries? The language?’

‘It’s a paid vacation,’ Ed explained. ‘Business expense it all.’ That was too pat for Gannon, but he could never argue against Ed’s logic. Gannon gave into the business vacation idea. With tickets already purchased, they were off tomorrow.

Gannon dropped his fork. An omen for things to come? He brushed away crumbs on his starched white shirt and picked up his fork again. He told Ed that this trip would turn into something special. Ed laughed at that, which made Gannon feel stupid. ‘Just relax and enjoy,’ Ed said.

Finished with her meal, Beth knew he was distracted, since he had said, ‘Uh huh’ to the last five things she said. After 14 years of marriage, she knew Gannon’s habits. He worried over details, yet was going along with Ed’s plan.

“The Foundation,” Beth said, her hand extending beyond her blue chiffon sleeve to touch Gannon’s arm, “is expecting 5% more funds this year to meet their objectives.  Being the director of fund raising, they asked me to develop the plan. You know how Hugh is. When he asks, it’s an order.” She knew he had heard a word she said. “I told Hugh that we can forecast double from some of the contributors, and your company HERD will set the pace.”

Gannon nodded, “Uh huh,” as he stared into the room.

Beth continued, “We can use the HERD facilities for our kick-off meeting to the annual fund raiser.”

If he were listening, he would agree, thought Beth.

“Great,” said Gannon, as he signed the credit card receipt and squeezed out of the booth, which made him think about the diet he promised himself. At least he will purchase a new suit while in Europe.

“Can I do something useful?” I yelled. My children kept on playing. I couldn’t think of anything I could do except watch my children. I wanted to play also, but I didn’t want to interrupt Nona. She acted as happy as a child with my children.

“You can read the map, watch out for pirates, and make sure the kids don’t jump ship,” laughed Nona as she handed me the map while running after Meus. With her hair bouncing in the sunlight, she picked up my little daughter in a dead run. I unfolded the colored paper, not knowing how to read it. What did Nona want? To find some pirates?

She squealed at Meus, “Gotcha!” as she picked her and twirled her around in a circle.

“Father!” Meus squealed in faux drama but was delighted and full of joy.

“My turn, father. My turn! Pick me up!” urged Teus, tugging on my shirt. “Twirl me!”

Dropping the map, I picked him up. We twirled around in a circle, just like Nona did.

He laughed and kicked in the air, “Faster! Faster!”

The grass was soft. The gentle wind touched my feet and the sun warmed my hair. I was happy.

Goggle Eyes came quietly upon our fun. Nona nearly collided with her as she played with Meus.

“Watch out!” yelped Meus as she and Nona tumbled to the ground laughing. Goggle Eyes picked them up. She looked as transparent as light in my eyes.

I stopped twirling Teus, then we walked over to the women.

“I have to go,” she said unemotionally. “You know I am done here. The children now have their protec­tion, their father. I know they will be safe in the New World with Beus,” she spoke to Nona.

She bent over to kiss Meus on her cheek. “I will miss you and Teus. I will really miss you both.” The words sounded unusual as they carried emotion and longing for Goggle Eyes. Her eyes squinted tightly, no longer oval and translucent as they were normally. She bent to kiss Teus’ cheek.

Then just like light does in the sunset, she faded away and left us.

“She’s gone. She’s taken away my feelings,” I said despondently.

Walking up to me, Nona whispered into my ear. “Not really. She gave her agape love to you. That opened your own love, your human love. That stays with you, always. You’ve already given your love to your children. I feel it.”