A New Kid in Town

Joining the band yesterday was Grace Eloise Getze, latest grandaughter of The Famous Author. He now has two, Grace and Angelina. They sound like sweet little cherubs, don't they? All sweetness and lace. Why do I have the feeling it'll be a different story in high school?

Grace Eloise is the first child of John and Julie. Congrats, kids. And good luck with those night feedings.

WAH!

Redhead of the Week

Born Maureen Fitzsimons, August 17, 1920, in Ranelagh, County Dublin, Ireland, film star and singer MAUREEN O'HARA is famous for playing fiercely passionate heroines. She worked many times with director John Ford and longtime friend John Wayne.

(I'm not asking.)

Maureen was accepted into the prestigious Abbey Theatre in Dublin at the age of 14. Not too many years later, actor Charles Laughton saw a London screen test, and believed Maureen had "something special." Her first major film was Jamaica Inn, (1939), directed by Alfred Hitchcock.

Laughton next cast her in the role of Esmeralda opposite him in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, to be filmed at RKO Studios in Hollywood that same year. Hours before boarding the Queen Mary to sail to America, a young man from the studio, George Brown, who had a crush on her, convinced Maureen to marry him. Mom and Laughton found out, whisked her away from altar to boat.

The marriage was never consummated and later annulled. George was not happy.

After Hunchback, World War II began, and Laughton, realizing his studio could no longer film in London, sold her contract to RKO, where director John Ford cast her in How Green Was My Valley.

Bingo. Audiences loved her. I'm not the only guy who likes redheads.

Maureen says her first love is singing. In 1960 she starred on Broadway in the musical Christine and released two successful recordings, Love Letters from Maureen O'Hara and Maureen O'Hara Sings her Favorite Irish Songs. Throughout the 1960s she was a sought-after guest on musical variety shows, appearing with Perry Como, Andy Williams, Betty Grable and Tennessee Ernie Ford.


At the height of her career, Maureen was considered one of the world's most beautiful women.

She is also remembered for her chemistry with legendary John Wayne. She made five films with The Duke - Rio Grande, The Quiet Man, The Wings of Eagles, McLintock!, and Big Jake.

Maureen married her third husband, Charles Blair, in 1968. Blair was a pioneer of transatlantic aviation, a former Brigadier General of the US Air Force and a former Chief Pilot at Pan Am. A few years after her marriage to Blair, O'Hara for the most part retired from acting.

Blair died in 1978 when the engine of a Grumman Goose he was flying from St. Croix to St. Thomas exploded.

In 2004, Maureen O'Hara released her autobiography 'Tis Herself, published by Simon & Schuster. In the same year she was also honored with the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Irish Film and Television Academy in her native Dublin, Ireland.

In 2006, Maureen O'Hara Blair attended the Grand Reopening and Expansion of the Flying Boats Museum in Foynes, Limerick, Ireland - as a patron of the Museum. A significant portion of the Museum is dedicated to her late Husband Charles Blair.

Thanks to Wikipedia, Maureen O'Hara, and all you fiery redheads.

Elmore Leonard

My brother Mike called me from California 25 years ago and said I might like a crime writer he'd found. Elmore Leonard. Can't remember if it was STICK or LA BRAVA, that first one, but it was a flurry for the next few years, catching up with all Elmore had put out.



I was surprised the first time I saw Elmore's name on a western, but that's where he started. If you've seen Paul Newman play HOMBRE, you know that Elmore's cowboys and cops have a whole lot in common.

They're tough.




They don't say a lot.












They know neat stuff.






They take no shit.













These are some of my favorites. KILLSHOT will soon be a movie. LA BRAVA is considered a classic by crime fiction writers. GET SHORTY was written as a dig at Dustin Hoffman because of the actor's behavior on another Elmore movie project.

What's Your Book About?

The Famous Author guest blogs today on how writers must be prepared to describe their books. In a graph. In a sentence. In a single idea or pitch that resonates with strangers. Good luck! A.C.

BIG NUMBERS WORLD TOUR, Episode #12

BUFFALO, NY -- Desmond uses one of those sticky roller things to take the lint off my black sport coat. Tonight’s event, A Cavalcade of Authors, is about to start, and before leaving the recently refurbished Big Numbers World Tour bus, Desmond--my driver, assistant, PR consultant, and spiritual counselor--wants me to look and be my best.

“Have you thought of what you will say?” Desmond says.

“Not really. The usual. Something about the 600-pound live tuna. Or the stockbroker who needs money to win back his kids.”

“The program says each author will have four or five minutes to talk about himself and his book,” Desmond says. “Seems to me you should have some good lines written down on a note card--maybe even memorized.”

“I like to wing it. I think spontaneous is better than canned, you know.”

Desmond nods. “I agree, at least when you’re face-to-face with someone. But this is like a little speech. You should be prepared.”

Everybody’s full of advice these days. My agent. The PR department. My wife and kids. The family’s chocolate Lab. Desmond’s been on board what? Two months? Not even, and the former guru to the stars thinks he knows all there is to know about publishing.

“I’ve done this kind of thing a dozen times this year, Desmond. I’ll be fine.”

Inside the book store, I greet my fellow authors, including a few familiar faces, and then sit down behind the head table to begin our little forum. About twenty or twenty-five customers have gathered to hear us. One by one, we authors talk about our books.

The author is front of me is hilarious. Like a standup comic, this person makes the crowd giggle, laugh, and guffaw. I’ve heard the jokes before, this tale the author tells, but the delivery gets better each time, and the material that didn’t work last time has gotten tossed out. It’s now boiled down to a highlight reel.

The author finishes to loud applause.

I stand and stutter. Then a long silence as I forget which story I was going to tell. In desperation, I blurt out dumb stuff about my past, then try to switch to the book. My lead character sounds like a bad father when I forget certain facts.

I sit down after two minutes because I have no idea what I should say next, and because everything I DID say was disastrous.

Half an hour later, Desmond walks me back to the tour bus and begins to brew some herb tea. No more booze for me. “I saw you talking to people afterward,” Desmond says. “Did you sell any books?”

“Only one. But I talked to over twenty mystery readers.”

“How many books did that author who spoke just before you sell? He was very funny.”

“I don’t know. Seven or eight, I guess. I quit looking.”

Desmond’s eyes bore into mine.

“Okay, okay,” I say. “Next time I’ll write some stuff down on a note card.”

“In this situation, you are a performer,” he says. “You must have good material, and you must rehearse.”

“Should I sing and play the guitar?”

“Resist if you want to, boss, but this is what you have to do if you want new people to try your book. This is why you’re on this bus.”

Desmond’s probably right. But it’s times like these when a lonely garret looks good.

Go Rutgers! Jersey's Pride

The Scarlet Knights will face a ranked opponent for the third consecutive week tonight as Rutgers University (5-3) travels to 16th-ranked Connecticut (7-1) at Rentschler Field.

Kickoff is set for 7:15 p.m. with national television coverage on ESPNU. The Scarlet Knights look to bounce back from last week’s 31-3 setback at home to No. 6 West Virginia.

Photo by Tom Ciszek/NJSportsPhoto

BIG MONEY, Chapter 16

Mallory’s words smack me. Not as hard as the Creeper did last night, but enough to provoke the physical reaction I’m sure the Cop with the Girl Scout Arm hoped for. I feel my eyes go big, like silver dollars. When my breath comes back, it’s quicker and a little shallow.

“Who did you send up there, Carr? Tell me now or I’m taking you in on suspicion of murder. Let the newspapers and TV stations have the news.”

I labor for a deep breath. I need oxygen. I need the Lone Ranger. The Cisco Kid. Luis.

Okay, Carr, think quick. Tony Farascio is Mr. Vick’s friend. Tony’s carrying one-hundred-thousand dollars in what I assume to be unlaundered gambling money. And anyway you look at it, thanks to me, Tony went to see Talbot on Shore’s behalf. I do not want to give Mallory Tony’s name.

Mallory screams at me. “Who the fuck was it?”

But Shore’s troubles can only blossom into full-boat disaster if I lie during a murder investigation, play hide-the-truth with Branchtown cops.

When you’re sinking in heavy shit, it figures as pure folly to dig yourself in deeper.

“His name’s Tony Farascio,” I say.

“Spell it.”

“F-A-R-A-S-C-I-O.”

“He works for you?”

“He’s a friend of Mr. Vick’s.”

“He’s a lawyer or something?”

“Something,” I say. “Maybe just a friend.”

Mallory’s eyes narrow. “But he was on Shore Securities business?”

“I guess.”

I didn’t think it possible, but the tall cop pushes closer. His nose brushes mine. An Eskimo kiss.

Gee, Jim, does this mean we’re going steady?

“Was he or wasn’t he, Carr? I thought you were running the company while Vick’s out of town.”

I cough to clear my throat. That backs the bastard up. Maybe I should tell him I have TB.

“Mr. Vick told me to call Tony if I had trouble with...” My sentence dies. I’m wandering down a dangerous path here. I keep talking this way, explaining myself, it’s going to sound like I--or Vick, Shore, somebody--hired Tony Farascio to threaten or even kill Talbot.

“Trouble with what?” Mallory says.

“Just trouble.”

Mallory shakes his head. His jaw sets like black- flecked white marble. “Screw this, Carr. You’re coming back to the station, spend the night answering questions. For now, just tell me what Farascio looks like.”

The New Jersey sun is long gone. Stars flicker above the Navasquan River. I don’t see Gina the Luscious anymore, and the last stranglers have wandered back inside the Martha. The Branchtown Fire Department rumbles from the parking lot in a red parade of trucks. Everything’s finished. Especially me.

“Six foot one or two,” I say. “Two hundred pounds. Dark wavy hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow. Handsome as a movie star.”

“Eye color?”

“Brown. Like a puppy dog.”


An hour later, at the police station, I say, “Listen to me. Every night our back office tells the clearing bank in New York what to do with the money and securities taken in during the day’s business. We send the bank a list of names and account numbers, what’s to be deposited in each.”

Mallory and I sit in an eight-by-eight-foot police interview room with a desk and two chairs. The furniture ranked as old twenty-five years ago, and the puke green, chipped walls haven’t been painted since Harry Truman was President. The floor smells of lemon disinfectant over stale urine.

“If the bank goofs,” I say, “if they leave one dollar of a client’s funds in Shore’s catchall account, then technically we’ve co-mingled client moneys. And if we don’t catch the mistake, if the banker doesn’t bother telling us, just fixes it himself the next day, our permanent records become inaccurate.”

Mallory nods with satisfaction. “I get it. And if this co-mingling charge hit the newspapers, Shore would lose a crap-load of business, maybe even close.”

I shake my head.

“You or your boy Farascio killed Talbot to keep this report from going public,” Mallory says.

He waves papers at me I assume came from Talbot’s hotel room. How else would this redheaded Irish cop know about the co-mingling charges?

“Exactly,” I say. “Shore hired Tony to kill the A.A.S.D. investigator because everybody knows a murder trial would make us look good.”

“I don’t think your friend Farascio expected to stand trial,” Mallory says. “He figured to burn the place down, cover his tracks.”

The interview-room door opens and Mallory’s partner leans in holding a manila envelope. The young detective looks nineteen in his schoolboy haircut and brand new J. C. Penny suit. Like an Eagle Scout.

“Here’s the fax from Washington,” Scoutboy says.

Mallory opens the folder, reads a few minutes while I wonder what he’s staring at. I don’t have a rap sheet, but maybe Tony does. Maybe I shouldn’t have given up Farascio’s name. I definitely shouldn’t have let Tony go see Talbot. Mr. Vick’s going to choke me when he gets back from Italy. Or, more likely, Tony, Bluefish, or Max will have throttled me long before the boss gets home.

If and when I get out of here, I’m never going to stop drinking martinis.

Mallory’s had enough of the file. He tosses the manila folder onto the poetically inscribed table between us with a tiny splat. The papers and photos slide partially out, pulling my eyes like a Shania Twain cheesecake calendar. What is this?

“How long have you and Anthony Farascio been friends?” Mallory says.

“I told you. We’re not friends. I never met the guy until this week.”

“Right. He’s a total stranger. That's why you sent him up to deal with the A.A.S.D. for you.”

“He’s Vick’s friend, not mine.”

Mallory grins. His bony fingers pick up the manila folder again. He slides out a photo-fax, nudges the grainy image across the table. My open hand slides across the table to pick up the paper, the wood smooth against my fingertips. It feels like I’m crawling into a trap.

My eyes take in the shot of a burned-out, two-story brick building, probably a restaurant and bar judging by the blackened sign in the foreground that gives the joint’s hours as 10 a.m. to 2 a.m. Guess it could be a massage parlor. One that knows how to give its customers the Big Finish.

Mallory saying, “The Feds call your pal Farascio Tony the Torch.”

Huh?

Branchtown’s top detective slides a second photo toward me, this one featuring three, tarp-covered bodies, all with blackened feet peeking from under the canvas.

“He gets paid to burn things for insurance money,” Mallory says. “Every once and while, there are people inside. You people at the Martha tonight were lucky.”

65 Degrees on The Jersey Shore

I'm playing golf today. Could be the last day of good weather for six months.

And screw work. I'm not even calling in. Rags can worry about me all day long.