COOL DEAL A Trucker Deal Mystery. |
Meet a trouble-magnet! In a rising pool of danger, the next move's a no-brainer--Get a grip, or go under! |
Think everyone has it easy in Silicon Valley? Try being a fledgling P.I. in politically-correct Palo Alto! When the very incorrect murder of a rising-star lawyer horrifies the public, fascinates the media, and throws the police into an investigative frenzy, the obvious suspect is part-time pool-cleaner Trucker James Deal. Suspected by the public, hounded by the press, and targeted by a killer, Deal hangs tough when the hunt turns nasty, and doggedly tracks an opportunistic murderer through the upscale streets and backyards of well-heeled suburbia. Finding whodunit is only self defense, and with friends and enemies slugging it out, the San Francisco Peninsula's headed for a shake-up that ain't no earthquake! See, Deal's a trouble magnet--a righteous dude who's impulsive under pressure, hot for truth, and cool when it counts. Drop by, hang on, and check out New Deal Investigations, where results count more than P. C. procedures, and pool cleaning's dangerous work.. |
Reader reactions: "Good plot with solid characters..." Redwood City, CA. "Well-written...held my interest...punctuated with episodes of surprising violence..." Menlo Park, CA. "Descriptions of restaurant dining in downtown Palo Alto are dead-on! You can feel the attitude in the air. Riveting shoot-outs!" Palo Alto, CA. |
Trade paperback...Publication date: April 2001...ISBN 0-595-16461-7...287 Pages |
To buy this book at any of these on-line sellers, please click on the button of your choice. |
ONE begins... I wouldn't have heard Michael Saint punch out his wife if I hadn't been in the esteemed Mr. Saint's backyard at one P.M. on a sunny May twelfth cleaning the swimming pool for my friend, Jason. Even if I'd been ten minutes late, maybe the guy wouldn't have died. It was Jason's job, and if he hadn't over-scheduled his time again, I wouldn't have been shamed into helping. I'd quit the pool gig, of course, when I got my P.I. license, but Jay still called when he got backed up and always used the same weasel. Trouble was, it was true. "C'mon, Truck. Who gave you work when you were so bummed? Man, you were a project with a capital 'P', but Deep Blue Pools helped you find a handle, anyway. And now look what happens--Guy forgets his friends soon as he's back in the cop business." So here I am, Mr. Conscience, saving Jason's butt again. Truth is, I don't mind covering a route for Deep Blue Pools now and then, and Jay's okay. I mean, I worked for him through college until I joined the sheriffs. The work's hard and pays decent, and that's more than I can say for some of the things I've had to do to keep New Deal Investigations marginally solvent. Sure, my track record's good but not long, which means I've got dues to pay. I can live with that--even take pride in it--but a man's gotta eat while he's waiting for the limo, so it's a good thing for me that Jason still appreciates my WASPy work ethic. But right now, life was urgent and ugly. Saint was more interested in flexing his macho than in watching the poolman work, so when he looked through the sliding glass doors, our eyes locked and I knew he was coming out. I was staring at the house, of course, alarmed by a woman's scream while I forced off the stuck lid of the pump basket with a pipewrench. Saint didn't give a damn why I was there, but he was seriously pissed, and an honest tradesman made a convenient target. The door banged open, and his face darkened. "What're you looking at?!" His tailored gray pinstripes lacked only the coat, so he looked pretty formal for a belligerent clown. Saint was a former Arena League linebacker--I'd read that in People--so he knew how to yell. That also made him bigger than me, though not by much, and I kept that in mind as I dropped the wrench and turned. He stalked me. "You speak English?!" I didn't back up. Hey, this was an asshole who hit women! "Easy, man. I'm the pool guy." "Screw you. Get out!" He shot out a thick hand and grabbed my upper arm, but I turned into him, slapped it off, and looked him in the eye. "Don't push it." Him: double eye-blink, surprise, roundhouse right at my head. Me: block left, short right to the point of his chin, watch him go rubber and drop facedown on the redwood deck. Cudda caught him, but didn't bother. I sensed movement at the open slider but caught only a hint of blue-gray hips moving away into the house, heard a door slam in front, a car motor rev, then fade. She bailed, I thought. Smart lady. Saint grunted, coming around, so I hustled out, too, wanting to be long gone when his head cleared. Damn! I thought. Jay won't believe this! |
