Posts Tagged ‘beginnings’

Not Beginnings

6 Comments »

August 18th, 2019 Posted 7:56 am

Normally on Sundays we do beginnings, but yesterday we happened to run across a journalist we know, so why not take a look at the scene in Heart of Barkness with Chet, Bernie, and Myron Siegel, an old reporter put out to pasture?

Myron gave Bernie a look. It reminded me of the time – the one and only time – that I’d been in an art gallery. This was with Bernie and Suzie, and she’d gazed at a – what was the word? Sculpture, that was it. She’d gazed at sculpture of a cat, a cat which had turned out to be made of glass – an important detail then, but surely not now, after all this time – in the same way Myron was gazing at Bernie.

Share

Not Beginnings

11 Comments »

August 11th, 2019 Posted 8:05 am

Normally on Sundays we do beginnings, but yesterday we happened to see a horse, so why not take a look at the scene in Heart of Barkness where the wrangler reluctantly allows Bernie to saddle up the very difficult Mingo?

There was a long pause in which nothing happened except for Mingo rolling his crazy eyes. Then without a word, the wrangler handed Bernie the bridle. He took it in one hand, sort of wrapped his other arm around the Mingo’s head, made a soft grunt I’d never heard from him before, and the next thing I knew he had the bridle in place and that metal bar – never between my teeth, amigo, no matter who was doing it – in Mingo’s mouth. After that came the saddle pad – which Bernie let Mingo sniff at, why I didn’t know, since it reeked of horse and nothing but, of no interest to anybody – and then the saddle. In a flash Bernie got the under strap thing all tied up, muttering, “Seven, four, one,” as he did so, a complete puzzlement to me, and in one easy motion he swung himself up top. For a moment Mingo went out of his mind. It happened just like that. I could feel it, and also feel his tremendous strength. He was going to rear up and toss Bernie to the ground. And that rearing up actually started, but it turned immediately into a sort of circling trot that ended with Mingo snorting and coming to a halt. Bernie patted Mingo’s neck, not for a long time you might say, and maybe not putting a whole lot of feeling into it, but still: this day was off to a terrible start.

Share

Beginnings

13 Comments »

August 4th, 2019 Posted 7:33 am

On Sundays we do beginnings. Here’s the start of Heart of Barkness, the brand new Chet and Bernie novel. Can you read it if you haven’t read any others in the series? Yes, according to the 28th amendment (ratified late last night).

“Red-letter day, Chet,” said Sergeant Rick Torres, our buddy at the Valley PD Missing Persons Department. “In the car.”

Red-letter day was a mystery to me, and maybe red is, too. Bernie says I can’t be trusted when it comes to red, something I’ve never understood. I knew fire hydrants were red, for example, knew that as well as I know my own name. Which is Chet, in case you missed it, right up there off the jump. I also know “in the car,” and never need to be asked twice. Or even once. Rick opened the passenger-side door of the black-and-white. I hopped in, sat up nice and tall, totally alert, ready for anything. Was my tongue hanging out? Possibly. I got most of it stuffed back in. We have standards, me and Bernie, just one of the reasons that the Little Detective Agency is so successful, except for the finances part. It’s called the Little Detective Agency on account of Bernie’s last name being Little, but we’re equal partners, Bernie handling the gunplay and the so-therefores and me bringing other things to the table. Maybe we’ll get to my teeth a little later.

Share

Beginnings: Christmas in July!

5 Comments »

July 28th, 2019 Posted 7:45 am

On Sundays we do beginnings. Today: Santa 365, one of the Chet and Bernie e-shorts. It starts like so:

“There’s no Santa Claus,” Charlie said.

“Who told you that?” said Bernie.

“Esmé.”

“Who’s Esmé?”

“At school.”

“Well,” said Bernie, “everyone has their own opinion.”

“It’s not an opinion, Dad,” said Charlie. “It’s a scientific fact.”

“Oh?”

“From a scientist.”

“Any scientist in particular?”

“Groucho Marx.”

“Esmé told you that?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Know much about Groucho Marx?”

Charlie shrugged his skinny little shoulders. “He was a scientist and he said there ain’t no Santa Claus.”

“What do Esmé’s parents do?”

“Drive her to school. Pick her up.”

“I meant for a living.”

“Like you’re a private eye?”

“Yeah. Like that.”

“I don’t think they’re private eyes,” Charlie said.

“Why not?”

“They’re rich.”

 

Share

The Books



powered by wordpress | site by bakermedia