~~~~~~~~~~~
EXCLUSIVE EXCERPT:
We
climbed the stairs to the second floor. In the darkened corridor I inhaled the
familiar odor of cigarette smoke, old carpet, and desperate lives.
We
stopped in front of the familiar office with O’Brien Detective
Agency etched into the frosted glass door. Muffled voices came from
inside.
I
tried the door. Locked. I slid my hand along the top of the dusty door frame
and grabbed the key.
I
unlocked the door and entered the dark outer office. From a radio on the
secretary’s desk came the announcer’s fervent voice: “A fiery horse with the
speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty—” I clicked off the radio.
“Hi-yo,
Silver.The
Lone Ranger. I love that show.” Frankie’s gaze swept the
room lit only by the dim corridor light. “No one’s home, kemosabe.”
Mickey
wouldn’t go off and leave the radio on. I flipped on a desk lamp, and the phone
rang. It rang a second time. I answered, “O’Brien Detective Agency.”
No
one spoke. Only shallow breathing.
“O’Brien
Detective Agency.”
“Who’s
this?” An unfamiliar man’s voice, but I noticed a faint Boston accent.
“Jake
Donovan.” Did I detect a note of surprise in the man’s voice that Mickey hadn’t
answered, or was I being overly suspicious?
The
line went dead.
I
hung up the receiver and opened the door to Mickey’s office. The room was dark
except for when the red neon Reed Hotel sign across the
street blinked through the partially open blinds.
Mickey
sat slumped over on the wooden desk. Except for his face flat against the green
desk blotter, the desktop was organized as usual, a notepad beside the phone, a
bottle of Canadian whiskey, an empty glass, and a brass ashtray overflowing
with Lucky Strike butts.
Even
in a wrinkled gray suit and in need of a shave, with his slicked-back black
hair, he resembled the actor Lyle Talbot. Although not quite the ladies’ man he
professed to be, my former partner was tough, resourceful, and fearless. Only
Mickey knew he was the inspiration for Blackie Doyle, a fact that would no
doubt surprise the fan I met on the train, Dorothy Greenwoody.
Mickey
had changed the office: one desk instead of two. He wasn’t as tidy as I’d been.
File folders and tattered telephone books from a dozen cities lay scattered on
a corner table. A four-bladed fan on a metal filing cabinet stirred the office
air, lifting the corner of The New York Times scattered at
Mickey’s feet.
Frankie
peered over my shoulder into the room. “Maybe he’s dead.”
Dead drunk.
~~~~~~~~~~~
In 1933, America is at a crossroads: Prohibition will soon be history, organized crime is rampant, and President Roosevelt promises to combat the Great
Before Jake can win Laura back, he’s nearly killed—and his former partner is shot dead—after a visit to the Yankee Club, a speakeasy dive in their old Queens neighborhood. Suddenly Jake and Laura are plunged into a conspiracy that runs afoul of gangsters, sweeping from New York’s private clubs to the halls of corporate power and to the White House itself. Brushing shoulders with the likes of Dashiell Hammett, Cole Porter, and Babe Ruth, Jake struggles to expose an inconspicuous organization hidden in plain sight, one determined to undermine the president and change the country forever.
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Michael Murphy is a full-time writer and part-time urban chicken rancher. He lives in Arizona with his wife of more than forty years and the four children they adopted this past year. He’s active in several local writers’ groups and conducts novel-writing workshops at bookstores and libraries.
Jake and Laura are introduced in The Yankee Club, the first in a series of two very much in love investigators. The characters and their relationship were inspired by classic The Thin Man movies starring William Powell and Myrna Loy. Enjoy the romance and the mystery.
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