We’ve all been there. We’ve all done that. Seen the signs. Read the ads. And failed to act.
It’s one in the morning and the “Last Gas for 100 Miles” sign flashes by in your headlights. A half-mile later you blow past the brightly lit Conoco station at seventy-five and plunge into the Arizona darkness. Piece of cake, you think as the glow fades over the horizon behind you. Ninety miles later your car sputters to a stop and you’re faced with a pre-dawn hike featuring every horror movie, mass-murderer story, and Animal Planet snake-week documentary you’ve ever seen or read playing over and over in your mind.
Or the Thursday newspaper ad telling you that the wondrous new iGoodie you want is finally priced less than a new Testarossa; but only for two days. Saturday morning you wake up to an empty store and the reassurance from the sales clerk that, “Sure, we’re sold out now, but we’ll be getting the new model in a few months. Why, of course it will cost more. It’s the new model!” You swear you hear a sotto voce, “You dope” as you walk away.
And finally, you find yourself in the last week of the Fresh Squeezed Pre-publication, collectors’ edition, limited release set containing the print book of Fresh Squeezed, both eBook versions (Kindle and everybody else) and a T-shirt that will not be available to the losers who procrastinate past the drop dead date.
Ever.
And yet you still find yourself able to wait.
Don’t. There are still some left – hence the whole “limited edition” thing. But we stop selling them on June 30th.
I understand why some of you might be uncertain about making such a financial commitment to your entertainment; particularly given that it is a first novel for both Bonnie and me. Twenty-five smackers is, as an alternative, enough to get you one movie ticket and a small popcorn-combo. But that’s over in ninety-four minutes and you’re left with nothing except the gastrointestinal after-effects of the popcorn. With the Fresh Squeezed Package you can read it over and over again, lend it to friends, give away the eBooks and T-shirt, or come up with any number of other ways to impress that certain someone with your deeper-than-TV cultural awareness and quirky sense of humor. Plus, it’s a great book, we’ve got a great cover, and you’re really gonna wish you would have shelled out the dough. Really.
Bonnie and I have honed the text. Our editor’s rapier pen has torn it apart twice, forcing us to realize that the semi-colon should be used in specific grammatical situations and not just because we like the way it looks better than the thingy with two dots. And, we’ve got a really cool cover.
So here it is, just one last enticement, so you can’t say we didn’t give you every possible opportunity. Have a look; the cover, the revised prologue, and now, for the first time ever, Chapter One.
Fresh Squeezed. Act now. Just click on the “Support” button and select the “Fresh Squeezed Package” from the drop down menu.
Prologue
March 15, 2007
The once‑red paint on the front door of Pacco’s Lounge peeled off in finger‑shaped pink sheets like sunburned skin baked too long on the Jersey Shore. The east Hackensack eatery’s blinking neon sign briefly cast a shadow across Juice Verrone’s hard‑set face then flicked off. He opened the door without a sound and stepped inside. The door closed behind him with a soft thud. A dark maroon velvet curtain separating the entrance from the lounge immediately parted, and a short, round guy wearing a red‑and‑white checked shirt slipped through.
“Juice!” the waiter said in a nervous whisper.
“Yo, Tablecloth.” Juice pulled a silenced .40 caliber automatic from beneath the jacket folded over his arm and aimed it at the waiter’s nose. “Mikey in back?”
“Uh.” The waiter glanced over his shoulder at the curtain.
“Thanks.” Juice pointed the gun barrel toward the ceiling and patted the waiter’s shoulder with his other hand. “Take a hike.”
He pushed the curtain aside with the barrel of his gun and stepped into the dining room beyond. At the far end of the room, dim overhead lighting illuminated a booth with an unimpaired view of the room. The booth’s sole occupant pushed pasta around on his plate. A half‑full glass and a straw‑covered Chianti bottle sat on the table. A white cloth napkin dotted with small red splashes stuck out of the guy’s shirt right below his chin. He looked up when Juice came into the room.
“Hey, Juice.” The man leaned back against the well‑padded upholstery, pulled the napkin from his collar, and pointed at the space next to him. “Have a seat. And put down the fucking gun. You’re my brother for Christ’s sake.”
“Fuck you, Mikey.” Juice glanced left and right. “You shot Dad. Any relations ended then.”
“Hey, it was just business.” Mikey resumed stirring the pasta on the plate. “Dino Faldacci was disappointed with Benny’s production. I was trying to help out.”
“You were just trying to move up.” Juice twitched the barrel of the gun up a few times for emphasis, then clenched his jaw. “Payback’s a bitch.”
The door to the kitchen swung open and a man the size of a Fiat squeezed through. His Mac‑10 machine pistol pointed in the general direction of Juice’s torso.
“Juice,” the man‑car grunted.
“Angelo.” Juice flicked his eyes left, then looked back at Mikey.
To the right, the door to the men’s room opened, and another pasta‑pounding guido stepped into the room holding a twelve‑gauge, sawed‑off shotgun, his head wrapped in a grimy, gray‑white bandage that looked like it had been there a while.
A small smile flickered across Juice’s face. “You look like shit, Stevie.”
“Fuck you, Juice.”
“I told you not to piss her off.”
“Yeah. I don’t know who the fuck Gucci is but the bitch makes a fucking tough purse.”
“Gucci was a guy, you dope.”
Stevie shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever.”
“What’s with the mummy getup?”
“The fucking logo tore the skin off my forehead.” He winced like the memory of it hurt. “They had to take a skin graft off my back to fix it.”
“Shit, Stevie. You were ugly to begin with. Why’d you waste the money?”
“Fuck you, Juice.” He racked the slide on the twelve‑gauge.
“Like I said, I told you not to piss her off.”
“Gentlemen.” Mikey clinked the wine glass with his fork. “What we’ve got here is a bunch of wops in a Mexican standoff.”
Angelo stared blankly at Mikey.
“You fucking idiot.” Mikey shook his head. “You move to shoot him…” he pointed the fork at Juice, “and he pops me.” He put down the fork and made a slow‑down motion with his hands. “I don’t want to get popped, so put down your pieces.”
Stevie and Angelo looked at each other, shrugged, and pointed the guns at the floor.
“Juice, come on. This is business. Look, you always had our backs. You were good at it. But when we needed you out front…Well, you just didn’t seem to have it in you.” Mikey gave his brother a big fake smile. “This time I’m gonna let you walk outta here. But this thing about Dad…You gotta let it go. If I need you, I’ll give you a call. Now, get outta here.”
Juice glanced from Angelo to Stevie and finally locked on Mikey. The odds of getting out weren’t good and dying wasn’t his idea of revenge.
“Okay, Mikey, okay.” He backed up slowly, keeping the pistol trained on his brother. “Remember, payback’s a bitch.”
Juice Verrone backed through the curtain and just disappeared.
Chapter 1
March 1, 2009
“Ted! It’s not underwear!” Rudy Touchous was a chubby, little guy in his mid‑thirties, but he squealed like an eight‑year‑old on Christmas morning. Finding a fish on the end of his line sent Rudy into a happy dance that almost knocked Ted Foteo out of the boat.
Ted pulled up the sleeves of his khaki cargo jacket and grabbed the net from the rack. He dipped the net under the fish and carefully lifted Rudy’s prize into the boat. With a practiced hand, he gently removed the hook and laid the fish out along the ruler on top of the cooler.
“It’s thirteen inches, Rudy. This one’s legal.” Ted opened the cooler. On a good day, the catch filled the space in the ice chest left by the drinks Ted and his clients removed. Rudy wasn’t much of a drinker, so there was no room for the eighteen‑ounce bass. Ted extracted two beers and a Coke, then nestled the expiring fish into the cooler and covered it with ice.
“Time to celebrate.” Ted held a beer and the Coke in one hand and offered the cans to his still quivering client.
Rudy took the Coke. “Wasn’t that great, Ted? I mean… a fish. An actual fish!” Rudy leaned back in the fishing chair looking like the poster child for Orvis catalog addiction: a new fishing hat the color of overcooked green beans sat on his head; he wore a tan shirt and khaki pants stuffed into pristine, knee‑high, green‑rubber, Le Chameau fishing boots.
Ted popped open a beer and they toasted Rudy’s success. “Beats the hell out of work, huh?” He had discovered early on that Rudy had an uncanny ability to snag his fish hook on just about anything. The back of his own shirt, Ted’s fishing cap, the rag that Ted used to wipe off the seats were all potential targets. The Columbia River offered a bounty of garbage waiting to be recovered, and the trash bag already brimmed with the results of Rudy’s unintentional effort to beautify this stretch of the river. Today’s take included a five‑gallon bucket, a tangled nest of fishing line, and a hot‑pink thong.
The two men sat quietly sipping their drinks. The sun dropped into the narrow gap between the sullen gray clouds and the sharp edge of the Cascade Mountains. Light flooded the landscape like somebody had thrown a switch. The sky burst into afternoon red and orange phosphorescence while the technicolor reflections shimmered off the water.
“Hot dog!”
“Yeah, Rudy, you did good today.”
“No, Ted! The big hot dog!”
Ted wondered whether his rotund client had forgotten to take some kind of medication. Then, he looked past Rudy’s outstretched arm. Above the black basalt rocks, a ray of sun illuminated a frozen ooze of mustard on a giant fiberglass hot dog perched atop the cliff.
“Yeah, that hot dog is right on the edge now,” Ted replied. “It’s going to fall off one of these days.”
“What’s a hot dog doing there?” Rudy asked.
“It’s Wanderfalls. The old miniature golf course.” Ted laughed. “The Boy Scouts were studying plants at the edge of the cliff when the windmill on one of the holes tipped over—knocked their sorry asses clean into the river.” He sipped at his beer. “Looks like that hot dog might be next.”
“What happened?” Rudy asked.
“The rock underneath was starting to break apart so the town shut Wanderfalls down. That happened right after I moved to town.” Ted paused. “Wow, almost two years ago.”
Ted admired the sky and drained his beer. He tossed the can into Rudy’s recently retrieved bucket.
“Okay, Rudy, looks like you have time for one or two more casts. Let’s see if there’s another fish out there looking to bite.”
Ted reached a small net into the bait well and scooped out a minnow. He grabbed the leader on Rudy’s spinner and deftly hooked the little fish through the lower lip. He dropped the line and pointed to the bow. “Right along the cliff, little buddy.”
Rudy arced the tip of the rod back over his head and caught Ted under the chin. Ted pushed the tip free. “Careful there, Rudy,” Ted said and rubbed at the old scar that nicked the right side of his jaw.
Rudy flicked his wrist again. The short leader swung out over the water, spun back around the rod tip, and slapped him on the side of the face. The minnow started to slide down his cheek.
“Remember,” Ted gently reminded his client, “let go of the line when the tip is pointing where you want the cast to go.”
“Okay, Ted.” Rudy’s brow furrowed. He got set to cast again, flicked his wrist, and landed the bait right where he aimed. “Like that?” he whispered smugly, already knowing the answer.
Before Ted could reply, the line went taut and Rudy jumped up and down with excitement, rocking the boat again.
“Yo, Two Shoes, watch out.” Rudy’s nickname slipped out. “The river is like ice‑water this time of year. You go in and you wouldn’t last fifteen minutes.”
“Ted! I caught another one!”
Rudy’s shout startled a pair of night herons hiding in the reeds. When their clamor faded, the line was slack. The fish had spit the bait and quiet returned.
Quiet, but not quite silent.
Low voices drifted down the Wanderfalls cliffs. Another, louder, voice broke in and it didn’t sound happy. The hairs on the back of Ted’s neck stood up. The boat floated into the darkness gathering at the bottom of the cliff.
“Ted?” Rudy’s voice wavered.
“Shh…”
Angry voices bounced off the rocks.
“Ted, what’s happening?” Rudy asked, his voice an octave higher than before.
“I don’t know. Hang on. We’re getting out of here.” Ted reached over to start the boat. Small pebbles falling from the cliff chattered on the deck. A truncated scream and two shots echoed off the rocks. Something big splashed a few feet off the bow of the boat. A loud rumbling, almost like thunder, reverberated from the top of the cliff.
“Ted!” Rudy shrieked as the giant hot dog plummeted toward them.
The jumbo frank slammed into the stern and sheared the engine off at the transom. The impact launched Rudy into the air, and he smacked against the cliff. His fishing vest caught on a point of basalt, and he hung like meat on a hook.
“Ted! Help!”
“I can’t, Two Shoes. I think my leg’s broke.” One end of the huge hot dog bun had Ted pinned to the slanted deck. His head was spinning from the pain.
The boat drifted closer to the cliff. Ted grabbed the boat hook and tried to snag something, anything. Nothing. Icy water flowed into the unbalanced boat. The cold water stung like a sandblaster as Ted went under.
He heard a muffled pop as his life vest inflated, and he rose to the surface like a bubble. He screamed as his broken leg changed angles.
Another rumble from above and a giant smallmouth bass toppled from the cliff. The fiberglass fish hit the bow, counterbalancing the hot dog on the stern. The hulking bass glared at him with a look that seemed to ask: “How do you like it, asshole?” Ted passed out.
Ted came to hearing Rudy’s voice.
“Two Shoes,” Ted said through chattering teeth. “It’s fucking cold and my leg’s stuck.” His body was completely numb.
“I’m gonna get help, Ted.” Pebbles splashed into the water.
“Two Shoes!”
“What?”
“Find Dinah. Tell her Juice loves her,” Ted mumbled as his field of vision started to shrink. The river was now quiet as a crypt.
“Dinah? Juice?”
“Yeah. Dinah. She’s my wife. I’m Juice. Find her. Tell her I love her,” Ted said with all the energy he had left. Then everything went black.