I'm Still Spellbound

A native-born Californian, Rhonda Fleming went to school in Beverly Hills, and appeared in over 40 motion pictures, starting with David O. Selznick's SPELLBOUND, directed by Alfred Hitchcock. Featured roles in OUT OF THE PAST and THE SPIRAL STAIRCASE lead to starring roles in classics such as CONNECTICUT YANKEE IN KING ARTHUR'S COURT, GUNFIGHT AT THE OK CORRAL, HOME BEFORE DARK, PONY EXPRESS, SLIGHTLY SCARLETT, WHILE THE CITY SLEEPS and THE BIG CIRCUS.

The Famous Author tells me he was 13 when he saw GUNFIGHT AT THE OK CORRAL. He says, "She's had a piece of my heart ever since."

At 13, I'm guessing Rhonda might have worked on another of TFA's organs, but I'm not going there. Rhonda is still very active with her charities--the City of Hope, the Rhonda Fleming Clinic for Women's Comprehensive Care at the UCLA Medical Center, and the Rhonda Fleming Family Center at P.A.T.H. (People Assisting the Homeless), among them. We wouldn't want to embarrass this gorgeous, generous redhead.

Rhonda also guest-starred on numerous major television shows including WAGON TRAIN, POLICE WOMAN, LOVE BOAT, a two-hour production, THE LAST HOURS BEFORE MORNING, and a two-hour special of McMILLAN AND WIFE, which is my first memory of her.

In private life, Ms. Fleming resides in Century City, California with her new husband, Darol W. Carlson. Rhonda was married for 23 years to Ted Mann, producer and chairman of Mann Theaters, until his death in January 2001.

You can check out her website, www.rhondafleming.com, or even email her directly at email@rhondafleming.com.

It Could Get Ugly

The stock market just came off an all-time high, and late last week looked like it wanted to do a 10% correction. In a hurry. Investors are frightened. Various reasons have been cited by others--slowing economic growth (wrong), serious loan repayment problems among homeowners (crap), and a condition known on The Steet as "over-bought (maybe)." Over the weekend, various financial publications warned of a potential crash today.

Personally, I hope so. It will be a great buying opportunity, and one, I think, not only for longer-term investors. That is, if the market dives hard at the opening today, I think even hot tipsters and traders like me can jump in and make some loot. In the business, this is called "trying to catch a falling knife." I don't have to explain that one, do I? I mean you, the image is pretty clear in my opinion.

What will I buy, risking bloody hands? My latest hot tip, of course. Exelon Corp. (EXC) on the Big Board.

Exelon is a utility services holding company, delivering retail and wholesale electricity to customers in the Chicago and Philadelphia areas. A pretty stodgy stock for this hot tip player. I hate buying expensive stocks, and EXC sells for about $70 a share. But I have it on excellent authority (not the guy who gave me TGE) some big European outfits are looking to buy the company for in excess of $80 a share.

I'll check back in later today--say around 10 a.m. (EDT)--and tell you what I've done.

BTW--Where was I this weekend? Why no posts on Saturday or Sunday?

I'll never tell.

Update at 10:09 a.m.-- I bought us 50 shares of EXC at $69.12, total cost $3,464. Spent a bit more this trip, er tip, because it's a utility, not a penny stock. Also, like all gamblers, I'm trying to catch up for the previous loss.

BIG MONEY, Chapter Two

It’s bad, bad news for my kids’ future Walter Osgood is leaving Shore. He’s our ace, earned over $900,000 in gross commissions last year. The firm is definitely teetering without Walter. And therefore so is my dream of building a college nest egg for Beth and Ryan.

After promising Walter I’ll keep my mouth shut until Monday, and hugging him goodbye, I ignore the urge to self-medicate right there at Luis’s. I drive instead to Mr. Vick’s party in Atlantic Highlands. I owe the boss at least an appearance. And with all Mr. Vick’s single cousins and nieces there drinking like fish, maybe I’ll get lucky.

Yeah, it crosses my mind I’d be helping my own business interests if I tell Vick about Walter leaving, bring in the guys on Saturday to work Walter’s accounts. But it’s only a fleeting thought. Walter’s a close friend.

I park, walk straight inside the bayside restaurant bar and bubbly flow of Bonacellis and Shore Securities’ employees. A disk jockey’s thumping disco to an overflow dance floor. Half the dancers are women bobbing and weaving with other women. I’d like my odds of taking one to bed later if it wasn’t for black storm clouds hurtling down from the north.

At the bar, I order another martini. Through long windows behind the slick wood counter, I watch lightning flashes burst over Manhattan.

Feels like the world is engineering me a tempest.

When I’ve sipped my glass of gin and vermouth down to transportable levels, I join the crowd of familiar faces. Another Shore broker, Bobby G., and I admire the size of Mr. Vick’s family and the widespread Bonacelli characteristic of large breasts. Particularly among the women.

Someone grabs my shoulder. It’s Vittorio “Mr. Vick” Bonacelli himself, sole founder of Shore Securities. Thanks to this winter’s deal that brought in me, Carmela and her new-then-ex husband Ragsdale--who can keep track of the latest ins and outs--and Walter into the fold as partners, Mr. Vick’s current ownership is down to forty-nine percent.

But Mr. Vick is our beloved leader. He’d be the boss if that number was two percent.

“We need to talk,” he says.

Mr. Vick drags me to a quiet eddy.

“I want you to look out for Carmela while I’m gone,” Vick says. “I don’t want her going back to Rags.”

One and a half see-throughs have tuned me up enough to tell Mr. Vick exactly how I feel. I have plenty to do without watching over his Butterface daughter.

“Isn’t taking care of Carmela one of Carmela’s jobs now, boss? Didn’t I just write her a big check for college graduation?”

Great figure, Carmela. In fact, everything about her is great. Everything BUT HER FACE.

“You call that a big check?” Vick says.

Hey, fifty bucks was all I could afford. And I think generous considering my current financial prospects. I mean, I was back on my feet until I forked over a down payment on my damn Shore Securities stock.

“Make sure you see Carmela every day,” Vick says. “She’s going ahead with the divorce, but she’s still nutty about him. If Rags comes back, goes ape-shit again...you see Carmela with one puffy lip, you call my friend Tony. He knows what to do.”

Except when he’s behind the wheel of his Jaguar, the recently married-and-quickly-separated-with-a-piece-of-Shore Rags--my former sales manager--is a pussycat. Crazy, yes. But not the hand-to-hand combat type. We’ll never see him again.

“And oh, yeah,” Vick says, “I told my mother to call you she gets in any predicaments.”

Now there’s a problemo. “Mama Bones” Bonacelli, among other nefarious enterprises, runs a chain of free senior-citizen exercise clubs as a front for her betting operations. For entertainment, she practices voodoo and shamanism. With Mama Bones, a “predicament” could easily involve the FBI, peyote buttons, or flesh-eating zombies.

“No whining about Mama,” Mr. Vick says.

I must have groaned out loud.

“You owe me big time for keeping you on a personal-services contract until your A.A.S.D. suspension is over,” Mr. Vick says. “And I’m letting you finish buying shares in the business out of your end of Shore’s profits so you can finally start building something for your kids.”

I sigh and check the shine on my Florsheims. “You’re right, Vick. I’ll keep an eye on Carmela. Mama Bones, too.”

“Thanks.” Mr. Vick clasps my hand. I feel a wad of paper pressed against my palm, and like a slick maitre’d collecting his cash duke, I snag the paper from Vick’s hand in one smooth motion.

Later, when I’m alone, I see Vick’s handout is a torn sheet of yellow notebook paper. “Tony” and a phone number are penciled in block letters. The phone number has a 718 prefix, which tells me this Tony guy resides in Brooklyn.

Wonder should I read anything into that? Vick’s emergency muscle comes from big time mob country?

Nah.

Further Education

I have to attend a seminar today on life insurance products. If I study hard, learn all the commission schedules, I can be a financial planner.

The Human Element

The Famous Author did some childish things this week. It was sad. Begging, crying, cajoling, temper-tantrums, jumping up and down on his computer. But guess what? It worked. After five months, the cover of his book--I think it's more mine than his, but that's another subject--finally has been uploaded into the Amazon/Ingram system.

It was some tale of woe, let me tell you. In fact, the story is so complicated, I can't even describe it. Book errors. One big revision. Ingram and Amazon pulling the book from their system. Then failing to get it back up. The publisher blamed Amazon. Amazon blamed the publisher. TFA sent friendly emails to all kinds of people and nothing happened.

But that missing cover grew more and more irksome. When other bookstores list books on their websites, the stores often draw on the Amazon/Ingram system for info and the cover art. Almost everywhere TFA found his book for sale, the empty spot where the cover should have been said "No Image Available."

Last week, the book was recommended by Rediscovered Books in Boise, ID, and TFA was beside himself seeing that blank hole on Rediscovered's webpage. After another round of emails, TFA finally got hold of a tiny department in Amazon called "Image-fix," but they said call the publisher. TFA went nuts. Instead of anger, however, he showed those Amazon and Ingram people his weak side. He whimpered. He cried. He pounded the wall. He did the hoochie coo. He tried to make emotional contact with people named Poonjab and Anakya. He made himself human to them--a man with real problems.

And yesterday, when TFA got back from two hours on the beach, there it was. The cover of Big Numbers. Not a customer image this time on the main page. A real one. And, unlike before, the image also showed up everywhere in the Amazon system. By late in the afternoon, it was popping up on other online sites as well.

I guess it's kind of like selling stocks and bonds. Sometimes, you have to show them you're human. Beg.

A Redheaded Mystery Writer

The Famous Author hasn't introduced me yet (I wonder why?), but meet this week's redhead. Her name is Susan Goodwill and she writes mysteries--BrigaDOOM is the first of her new Kate London Mystery Series. Her tradepaper novel is published by Midnight Ink, and you can find it just about everywhere right now. It's hot. Very hot. In fact, Susan's hot. Being a living person, she's out of my league, of course, but maybe this Kate London character needs some...help with her investments.

So Susan, tell us, what are the main differences between Kate London and you?

Kate's younger, a little more impetuous, more into the shoes these days, but we both have the same curly auburn hair and snarky sense of humor.

Ah, ha. I knew it. Tell us about you book.

BrigaDOOM combines a retired B-grade starlet, a run-away port-o-potty, a not-quite-right theatre group, and the Naked Bandit. Throw in a hefty dose of murder and some deep-discount Jimmy Choo's, and wrap it all in an old theatre on the shores of Lake Michigan, and you get the idea. The series is my admittedly peculiar take on small town living, murder, amateur theatre, and romance gone awry.

Are you a shoe freak?

I had a sales career for a couple of decades. When I was out in the business world every day, I probably owned sixty pair of shoes—some really cool ones. Hair and shoes are a few of the joys and responsibilities of being female, you know? Now that I work at a computer most days, I'm partial to a couple pair of yummy-but-ugly clogs. Out in public, I'm a bit like Kate, good boots, a sweater, and a nice pair of jeans, and I'm happy.

Will you have dinner with me?

No.

Well, it was worth a shot. Being a stockbroker teaches you quickly--always ask for the order.

TGE's Last Day

We look forward this morning to the opening of TGE on the American Stock Exchange. Like Charlie Brown used to say in the comic strip, as he circled under a fly ball, the potential third out in a bitterly contested game: Am I going to be a hero, or a goat? My plan was to sell Friday, take my winnings or my lumps. Hot Tipster smooth-talked me into buying another 100 shares (see last Friday's report), always the risk with these tips. Chasing losers. I'm baling today, one way or the other. Early or late? Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe better. I'm the one who got us into this mess.

Beach Day

Looks like the sun's out, I'm headed for the beach. Maybe I'll bring The Famous Author's first draft of my third adventure, currently titled "Big Mojo," see how many times I end up in a hospital bed this time. At least I'm a fast healer.

A Fine Mess

It is not my intention to write about Hot Tips every day, but TGE--Hot Tip #1--is turning into a classic lesson for retail stock-market investors. Hot tip, my ass. That puppy went straight down from the opening yesterday and traded as low as $9.73, down a stick and a half from our Monday purchase price.

Between his round of tennis and afternoon golf, we finally located our Hot Tipster at the Hilton's outdoor beach bar. I shouted at, and cajoled people, until I got HT on the telephone. "So what's the word on TGE?" I said. "Did your friend manage to sell all his shares?"

"They've been buying all the way down. Nothing's changed. The story holds. If you've got cash, buy more."

"This doesn't look like a takeover-rumor stock," I said. "I'm thinking more of a pump and dump."

"Are you watching the volume? There isn't any now, but check at the end of the day."

He wouldn't budge. I said goodbye and checked my screen off and on during the day. Sure enough, late in the afternoon, TGE's volume and price picked up. It closed at $10.15, still off more than a stick from our purchase, but well off it's lows.

I got physically excited watching TGE move back up. I bought us another 100 shares at $9.90.

That darn HT is a silver-tongued devil, isn't he?

BIG MONEY, Chapter 1

First, a little pre-weekend update: TGE, my Hot Tip #1, looks like the tout special I worried about Monday when we made the buy. The stock is down 90 cents, the account off about $100, including commissions. No news. No volume, except regular waves of selling. The Hot Tipper is ducking my calls. I feel like selling this turkey before we lose more than 10% of our assets. (I'm not putting any MORE cash in hot tips.) But I said I'd give TGE the week and I'm going to work my plan. Maybe we'll get lucky.

It's Friday. I have to post another installment of TFA's upcoming novel, BIG MONEY, coming February, 2008. TFA said I have to run the prologue again, too--although Jennifer Crusie and other people hate them--because this particular prologue is what makes the story a mystery. (TFA's not kidding, either. If you don't read the prologue to BIG MONEY, or BIG NUMBERS for that matter, you don't know what the mystery IS.) Oh, and remember when I said I wouldn't post any LONG passages? I lied.

If you read the prologue last week, of course, just scroll down to chapter one.

PROLOGUE

Maybe it’s only a ghost.

The lady’s two-story house ranks as ancient, so it’s no surprise the pine floorboards creak. But do I detect a certain rhythm...as in footsteps? Hope I didn’t make too much noise going through her dirty laundry.

I lean back on the blood red living-room sofa and hold my breath to listen. A grandfather clock tick-tocks in the foyer. The oil-burning basement heater pops and rumbles. And yes, there...bare or stocking feet pad quickly toward me down the hall. My heart rate ratchets up to match the hurried footfalls.

I stuff the DVD under my laptop and work hard to put on my three-o’clock-in-the-morning, full-boat Carr grin. Not exactly a simple trick. And definitely not sincere. I mean, how am I supposed to be calm and forthright when this DVD suggests last night’s love interest may not be the innocent beauty I imagined?

In truth, the lady headed this way could be a killer.

Clever of me to wake her up.

I don’t mention her name because...well, gentlemen do not identify their secret lovers, not even by pet handles. And seeing her march out of the murky hall into the living area’s yellowish lamplight strongly suggests the need for a new nickname anyway.

I gasp. Oh, my. And oops. Oh my because she’s wearing nothing but white athletic socks. And oops because she’s using both hands and all ten red-nailed fingers to grasp a pump-action, single-barrel shotgun.

“You found the DVD, didn’t you?” Ms. Shotgun says.

“DVD?” If it wasn’t for rhyming consonants, I’d be pretty much speechless. My gaze is tightly focused on her bare breasts and that shotgun in the same close-up. Visually and emotionally, it’s a lot to absorb.

Her right foot slides back, toes out. Improving her balance. “I know you found it,” she says. “Wrapped in my black beach dress.”

My lips move without sound. I suppose my throat might be choked with fear, but I’d rather think I’m distracted by the long curve of Ms. Shotgun’s hip, the loose weight of her breasts swinging below the carved gun stock.

Watch me get a boner.

“I just checked the bathroom,” Ms. Shotgun says. “You rifled the hamper, found the black dress. So...you’ve got my DVD.”

I try taking a deep breath. On tough stock and bond clients, this often works as a show of calm sincerity. “I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She racks a shell into the shotgun’s firing chamber.

My pledge of innocence must have lacked conviction.

I lift my iBook and offer her the DVD. My heart ticks to an even quicker time. My ego slips a notch. Time was, the full-boat Carr grin and a reasonable lie got me through bumpy spots with naked women.

My heart’s really thumping now, but I probably don’t have to worry anymore about that possible erection.

“Play it,” she says. “We’ll solve the murder together.”

I slide the silver disk into my Mac and wonder if I’m really going to view what the Branchtown Sun calls the “MISSING HOTEL MURDER VIDEO.” Like smoking, this feels very unhealthy.

The DVD’s first images show a thirty-ish woman primping her hair before a gilded oval mirror. Oh, my. I recognize her all right. The happy smile fooled me.

“Don’t you want to fast-forward?” Ms. Shotgun says. “Get right to the choking and burning?”

On screen, the doomed victim cracks open her hotel-room door. Until tonight, I would have been surprised by what I see next: Ms. Shotgun’s digital image rushes inside, pushing violently into the startled hotel guest and knocking her onto the carpet.

I turn from the laptop. “So it was you.”

Ms. Shotgun raises the pump-action level with my nose.

And I thought my future looked shitty last month.



CHAPTER ONE

One Month Earlier...

The big thing about my pal Walter Osgood, Shore Securities’ biggest producer, he’s like a kid when it comes to his feelings. He just can’t hide them. So when I walk into Luis’s Mexican Grill, see Walter at the bar and notice his every other breath is a sigh, that he’s clutching his Gray Goose like a soldier with a ticket to Iraq, I know Walter’s worried about seeing me.

He’s got news I’m not going to like.

Great. A fitting end to a wonderful week. I’ve been taking it hard in the wallet, even harder in the shorts. Ever since Monday morning’s annual appointment with the New York urologist.

The name’s Austin Carr, by the way. Since my Series Seven stockbroker’s license is temporarily suspended, instead of Senior Financial Consultant, the slick business cards in my wallet say I’m a Special Management Adviser to Shore Securities, Inc., Members of the American Assn. of Securities Dealers. In truth, I am really just a salesman--like Walter--and I work for myself. Straight commission.

If we don’t sell, we don’t eat.

I slide in next to Walter at Luis’s horseshoe bar and touch the slick Gucci material covering my buddy’s shoulder. “What the hell’s bothering you?”

Another sigh from Shore Securities’ number one producer of commission dollars. A bit girlish if you ask me. Maybe I’ve been living in Central New Jersey too long, but I find myself fighting an urge to smack him.

A lot of us stockbrokers call ourselves investment counselors, or if we have a license to sell insurance, too, then we’re financial planners. We like to wear two-thousand-dollar suits, carry leather attaché cases, and think of ourselves as professionals, like doctors, lawyers. But really we’re more like car salesmen.

“You worried about the business?” I say to Walter. “We’ll be okay without Mr. Vick. Carmela and I can take care of his accounts, keep the numbers coming.”

Walter and I agreed to meet here after work, tune up before Mr. Vick’s Friday night dockside farewell party in Atlantic Highlands. Shore’s boss, Vick Bonacelli, sails with his family tomorrow for Tuscany. Only his daughter Carmela refused to go. She’s staying behind to help me run Shore.

“Carmela’s just like her old man,” I say. “Slick on the phone.”

Walter shakes his head.

I like to ruminate over the shortcomings of my profession with double margaritas and a positive setting: Luis’s Mexican Grill on Broad Street in Branchtown. The decor reminds me of home, the east side of Los Angeles, and Luis, the owner-slash-bartender, is mi amigo.

“Shore’s a dead puppy without Vick,” Walter says. “You know it better than I do.”

My jaw stiffens. “Whoa, Walter. Things aren’t that bad. A couple of lousy months.”

“Shore’s toast,” he says.

I lean forward, make him look directly at me. I need to see those expressive blue eyes. If Walter really believes Shore isn’t going to survive, then I can easily guess the nature of tonight’s bad news.

“You’re leaving?” I say.

Walter nods.

Shit. “Today was your last day?”

He nods again, then bumps his shoulder against mine. “You know how this friggin’ business is,” he says. “Two minutes after I’m gone, the back office is passing out my accounts and my old best friends are telling my clients I ran off with my twelve-year-old babysitter.”

Luis’s Mexican Grill is Friday-night packed, loud and oblivious. Walter still has his voice set on whisper.

“This way,” he says, “I’ve got a weekend to prepare my clients for your assault.”

Except for math, science, history, and geography, Walter’s no dummy. Guaranteed he’s been tenderizing his good clients about this move for weeks.

“You’re a part owner, Walter. You have a piece of Shore. Why would you throw that away after only a few bad months?”

When he shakes his head this time, not a hair moves. Walter Osgood pays a hundred bucks per styling. “Shore’s lost money every month since we bought in,” he says. “With Vick leaving town, this A.A.S.D. investigation, Sunny and Doppler taking a walk...the red numbers can only get worse, Austin. I’m bailing.”

Sunny was a complainer and Doppler spent his days distressed over potential bad weather. They’ve had a pissy attitude since Mr. Vick sold me, Carmela’s now-estranged husband Tom Ragsdale, and Walter half of Shore’s stock.

“Are you worried about this A.A.S.D. investigation?” I say. “Is that why you’re leaving?”

“No,” Walter says. “I’m leaving because Jaffy Ritter Clark is handing me a check for $450,000 when I show up for work Monday. But if I were you, I’d worry what that A.A.S.D. cutie might dig up on Shore Securities marketing practices. Remember that St. Louis bond default last year? Mr. Vick’s sales contest?”

My hand turns Walter’s shoulder to make him look at me again. “You’re leaving me, Vick, and Carmela dead in the water, man. Without your numbers, we ARE in trouble. Can’t you give it another six months?”

Walter’s pale blue eyes turn cold on me. “What’s going to change?”

Next Friday, Chapter 2

Client Meeting

"That's right. I won't be in all day...No, I am not. I am meeting with clients. Big ones. I can't get out of it...Same to you, Rags."

The Supernatural Element

The Famous Author introduced me long ago to his favorite novel, a real classic, The Hound of the Baskervilles, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The narrator and thus main character is a guy named John Watson, a doctor, who likes to hook up solving crimes with this nutjob of a private eye, Sherlock Holmes.

I think Dr. John's a stuffy twit, personally. And I've told him so to his face. But he's a Brooklyn rapper compared to Sherlock, the world's first "consulting detective."

Anyway, what TFA and I love about The Hound of the Baskervilles is the element of the supernatural. For the first time, Holmes is baffled. There seems no earthly explanation for the eerie howling, the gigantic dog footprints, the reliable witnesses who have seen the ghostly creature racing about the lonely moors, glowing in the dark like some hound from hell. And then the beast is chasing Sherlock...

Gives me the shivers just writing that.

Finally, to the point: I just heard about a new mystery/suspense book TFA has to buy me, although when I show it to him, he'll probably want one anyway. The new novel, just out today, is BAD THOUGHTS by Dave Zeltserman.

“This is definitely a horror story,” writes critic James R. Winter in his JANUARY MAGAZINE online review, and “leaves the reader questioning whether there are elements of the supernatural involved. Through (Boston Police Detective Bill) Shannon’s memory, we see (a character) killed in such a way that leaves no question as to his fate. Yet here he is, years later, tormenting Shannon, threatening his wife and his partner, and giving detailed information to Shannon about the grisly murders...”

Oh, boy. Doesn't that sound cool!

Thanks to The Rap Sheet for tipping me off. BAD THOUGHTS is from Five Star Publications. $25.95 in hardcover.

I've Always Loved Lucy

After much rumination, and consultation with shrinks, I now believe this thing I have for redheads stems from Lucille Ball and I Love Lucy show reruns. She was pretty, spunky, sexy in her own funny way, and definitely all the entertainment you’d ever need for a long weekend.

Yes, she was a pain in Ricky's ass, but there must have been plenty of good reasons why her hot Latin musician husband never strayed in all those years.

So Lucy, the COAC’s first honored redhead spot belongs to you. Congrats, honey! Wish I could give you a big wet kiss.

Speaking of redheaded women, one of my very favorites these days is a sassy newcomer to the world of Austin Carr. Her name is Iris, and I met her a few weeks ago in Boise, Idaho.

The Famous Author met her first, of course. He did his little pitch thing on her at The Rediscovered Bookshop while in town for Murder in the Grove, a mystery convention, and I suppose he must have done a pretty good job, as Iris decided to give Big Numbers a shot.

That’s when she met me.

The rest, as they say, is history. Turns out Big Numbers is one of Iris’s top picks this month at Rediscovered Books (TFA just showed me Iris’s blurb in the bookstore’s newsletter) and as far as I’m concerned, TFA and I agreeing wholeheartedly on this, Iris is a real peach. We are going to send her something nice in the mail.

Hot Tip #1

Not that many years ago, being a typical stockbroker meant passing along hot tips to clients. Give the client "sizzle" over the phone (The company's earnings are taking off; the company's about to be acquired; the Big Boys are buying it up) and then sell them the steak, earn a commission. The business is changing, I'll admit, with more and more brokers turning themselves into money managers, collecting client assets for the investment company to manage. No more hot tips.

But where's the fun in that? I say, let's gamble!

I talked to some stockbroker buddies over the weekend and here's my pick for the best Hot Tip this week: TGC Industries on the American Stock Exchange. TGE is the stock's symbol. The company primarily conducts three-dimensional surveys for clients in the oil and gas business. TGC also provides seismic data acquisition services throughout the continental United States. The company is headquartered in Plano, Texas.

I'm going to buy 100 shares this morning at the opening. It closed Friday at $11.20. According to the Hot Tipper I talked to, I am looking for a $1 to $1.50 gain this week.

Let's see what happens. I'll keep track of this and future Hot Tips in the right hand column.

Oh, yeah. I forgot to give you the sizzle. Rumors of a buyout will push the stock to $13.

(Full disclosure: This kind of tip is a typical tout's. The guy who started this rumor probably wants to sell a huge block of TGE this week, and the only way he can find enough buyers is to spead rumors about it's impending acquisition. It's the best tip I heard only because the competition was worse.)

Staying Alive

The Private Eye Writers of America (PWA) announced its 2007 Shamus Award nominees the other day. And while all writers hold a place close to my heart (us fictional characters kind of need them), I'm only going to mention those authors spotlighted in the "Best First Novel" category.

Lost Angel--Mike Doogan (Putnam), featuring Nik Kane
A Perfect Place for Dying--Jack Fredrickson (St. Martin's Minotaur), featuring Dek Elstrom
Holmes on the Range--Steve Hockensmith (St. Martin's Minotaur), featuring Gustav “Old Red” Amlingmeyer
The Wrong Kind of Blood--Declan Hughes (Wm. Morrow), featuring Ed Loy
18 Seconds--George D. Shuman (Simon & Schuster), featuring Sherry Moore

Given annually for outstanding achievement in private eye fiction, the 2007 Shamus awards cover works published in the U.S. in 2006. The awards will be presented on September 28, 2007 during the Bouchercon World Mystery Convention. (Geez, I hope The Famous Author doesn't take us to Alaska this year. I need REAL sunshine.)

Why only first novels? Well, why do you think, ace? These newly created characters--Nik, Dek, Old Red, Ed, and Sherry--are friends of mine, and their life changed dramatically this week. We're all celebrating. See, just being nominated for awards like the Shamus extends our life spans. The publicity and recognition bring us new readers and more sales. The Famous Authors will have to keep writing about us. For the winner, who gets that "Shamus Winner" sticker plastered on every bookcover from now until doomsday, an award like this could mean years and years of exciting adventures.

That's the thing about us characters. We need readers and sales to keep breathing. And frankly, most of us don't make it. One, two, three books, and then, poof, you're dead and buried. It's a tough world out there for fictional beings. Terrible competition for breathing rights. Especially from the long-lived characters like Stephanie Plum, Elvis Cole, Jack Reacher, that Rain guy, and Alex what's-his-name that James Patterson keeps bringing back.

Ask a room full of crime fiction readers if they bought a book in the last month. Say 40 hands go up. Then ask those people how many of those books were debut novels, and watch 38 or 39 hands drop. People buy their favorites. Readers are hesitant to take chances. They like to know they're probably going to enjoy the time spent.

Unfortunately for us new characters, our lives depend on being discovered, and gradually growing into that list of reader favorites. It's a little scary.

So hat's off to my freshly-infused pals, Nik, Dek, Old Red, Ed, and Sherry for their Shamus nominations.

That' staying alive, kids.

"It's Alive"

Lucky me, I talked The Famous Author into giving me my own blog yesterday. I told him it would help promote his novel, that Oprah's producers are always scanning these things for new show ideas and books. The guy is such a dope. Or desperate, I'm not sure which.

Anyway, who cares? I'm more alive here than I could be in any book, and maybe we can have some laughs of our own. I mean, humor should be even easier if I don't have to dodge ogre-shaped crooks like The Creeper, sexy, dangerous redheads, and weasily sales managers. Plus, if anybody ever discovers my blog, I could actually converse with real people--interact with the world outside The Famous Author's twisted head. Sounds like fun to me. Like a character friend of mine named Igor said famously once, "It's alive! It's alive."

One thing. In order to keep breathing, I have to post regular excerpts from The Famous Author's upcoming novel. I know. It's a pain. But this thing has to be done. Something about (1) me not actually having a physical body, and (2) The Famous Author saying it was a deal-breaker if I didn't.

I promise not to put up long passages. And I'll post chapters (yesterday was the entire Prologue) in order, so my second published adventure, BIG MONEY, can always be read from the start. Of course, The Famous Author won't let me finish the story until well after BIG MONEY comes out in 2008. He still thinks he has a chance to make money writing novels.

Like I said, what a dope.

Talk to you tomorrow. AC

BIG MONEY, Prologue

Maybe it’s only a ghost.

The lady’s two-story house ranks as ancient, so it’s no surprise the pine floorboards creak. But do I detect a certain rhythm...as in footsteps? Hope I didn’t make too much noise going through her dirty laundry.

I lean back on the blood red living-room sofa and hold my breath to listen. A grandfather clock tick-tocks in the foyer. The oil-burning basement heater pops and rumbles. And yes, there...bare or stocking feet pad quickly toward me down the hall. My heart rate ratchets up to match the hurried footfalls.

I stuff the DVD under my laptop and work hard to put on my three-o’clock-in-the-morning, full-boat Carr grin. Not exactly a simple trick. And definitely not sincere. I mean, how am I supposed to be calm and forthright when this DVD suggests last night’s love interest may not be the innocent beauty I imagined?

In truth, the lady headed this way could be a killer.

Clever of me to wake her up.

I don’t mention her name because...well, gentlemen do not identify their secret lovers, not even by pet handles. And seeing her march out of the murky hall into the living area’s yellowish lamplight strongly suggests the need for a new nickname anyway.

I gasp when I see her. Oh, my. And oops. Oh my because she’s wearing nothing but white athletic socks. And oops because she’s using both hands and all ten red-nailed fingers to grasp a pump-action, single-barrel shotgun.

“You found the DVD, didn’t you?” Ms. Shotgun says.

“DVD?” If it wasn’t for rhyming consonants, I’d be pretty much speechless. My gaze is tightly focused on her bare breasts and that shotgun in the same close-up. Visually and emotionally, it’s a lot to absorb.

Her right foot slides back, toes out. Improving her balance.

“I know you found it,” she says. “Wrapped in my black beach dress.”

My lips move without sound. I suppose my throat might be choked with fear, but I’d rather think I’m distracted by the long curve of Ms. Shotgun’s hip, the loose weight of her breasts swinging below the carved gun stock.

Watch me get a boner.

“I just checked the bathroom,” Ms. Shotgun says. “You rifled the hamper, found the black dress. So...you’ve got my DVD.”

I try taking a deep breath. On tough stock and bond clients, this often works as a show of calm sincerity. “I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She racks a shell into the shotgun’s firing chamber.

My pledge of innocence must have lacked conviction.

I lift my iBook and offer her the DVD. My heart ticks to an even quicker time. My ego slips a notch. Time was, the full-boat Carr grin and a reasonable lie got me through bumpy spots with naked women.

My heart’s really thumping now, but I probably don’t have to worry anymore about that potential erection.

“Play it,” she says. “We’ll solve the murder together.”

I slide the silver disk into my Mac and wonder if I’m really going to view what the Branchtown Sun calls the “MISSING HOTEL MURDER VIDEO.” Like smoking, this feels very unhealthy.

The DVD’s first images show a thirty-ish woman primping her hair before a gilded oval mirror. Oh, my. I recognize her all right. The happy smile fooled me.

“Don’t you want to fast-forward?” Ms. Shotgun says. “Get right to the choking and burning?”

On screen, the doomed victim cracks open her hotel-room door. Until tonight, I would have been surprised by what I see next: Ms. Shotgun’s digital image rushes inside, pushing violently into the startled hotel guest and knocking her onto the carpet.

I turn from the laptop. “So it was you.”

Ms. Shotgun raises the pump-action level with my nose.

And I thought my future looked shitty last month.