“Small town hi-jinks delivered with healthy doses of sarcasm and wit. Jock Stewart is like Guy Noir freed from the confines of public radio. A must-read for anyone who likes their sleuths hard-boiled, their women salty, and their plots with as many twists and turns as a plate of the Purple Platter Diner’s spaghetti.” – Nancy Whitney-Reiter
The Story: Jock Stewart is a fast-talking newspaper reporter who is on the trail of a missing racehorse named Sea of Fire. Will he find the horse or will the inept police department get in his way? And what about his girl friend Monique, the gossip columnist in the little black dress? None of this probably matters because, in a comedy/satire, nobody really expects everything to add up by the end of the book.
How it Starts: Jock Stewart woke up this morning with an industrial strength hangover. An empty Scotch bottle lay on the floor next to an empty little black dress that wasn’t his. Last night, a fair amount of Monique Starnes wore it at the newspaper’s office party. Her cleavage, more out than in, was deep enough to kidnap a man’s dreams. Now, there would be hell to pay.
Food at the Purple Platter Restaurant: Smith leaned back in his chair, slightly reducing the smell of fish. Jock hadn’t eaten much of his meal anyhow since as best he could recall, most Denver omelet recipes didn’t include coffee grounds, cigarette ashes, and miscellaneous unidentified material that appeared to have come from a dustpan.
Some asshole dropped the omelet and scooped it back on the plate.
Clark Trail, the Mayor: According to randomly informed sources, the mayor presumed that when the former Muskrat & Company Factory, manufacturers of lead, arsenic and asbestos dinnerware since 1921, was selected as the county’s number-one EPA site, he had the perfect venue for handling “granny’s healthcare needs.”
Councilman Calvin Knox told reporters that the mayor’s venue was as “perfect as consigning granny to an ice floe and waiting for nature to take its course.”
Lucinda Trail, his Wife: She put her hand on his arm, guiding him to a circle of white, wrought-iron chairs in the patio at the west end of the house. There was water on the tile and the chairs appeared to have been recently washed. Obviously, she didn’t want him inside the house where, possibly, the mayor might be sprawled in a pool of blood in the foyer, caught in the act of sneaking out of the house for his tryst with Bambi or the Lady in Black. He wondered whether the headline should include TRAIL’S END or TRAIL MIX.
How it Ends: It was the kind of question most guys on the planet went their entire sorry lives without ever being asked.
Do you ware to read all the stuff in between these snippets? If you’re a Clark Trail kind of guy, you probably won’t. If you wear a little black dress, you probably will. At least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.