Only Good News Today!
Dateline March 8, 2022 Location: Punta Gorda, Florida
In this issue:
- Book News
- Travel News & Book Signings
- New GK Jurrens Book Distribution Update
- “Black Blizzard” Excerpt
- 2022 Coastal Writer’s Conference
1. Book News
The New GK Jurrens Book is Here… Authentic Historical Crime Fiction
It’s rollout time for my sixth novel. Keep reading for the comprehensive list of retailers and links below. You can imagine this is a busy time.
The hardcover edition will soon follow, maybe even before you read this.
Read a brief synopsis of “Black Blizzard” here. And if you’re interested in reading the preface and first full chapter of this period-authentic crime story set during the Roaring Twenties’ hangover (the early Thirties), well, that’s another reason to keep reading.
2. Travel News & Informal Book Signings
Kay and I are still on track to hit the big slab again next week in our faithful old motorhome for about eighteen months this time. I’m just completing about all the physical terrorism I can stand (pun intended) for my bum right foot this week after my tumble off the roof of Das Bus last October. I’m now walking again, albeit only for short distances, and with a distinguished limp as a bonus… but I am walking! And I can drive! Kay is ecstatic. The notion of murdering me in my sleep is fading.
We’re planning quite a few stops on our walkabout (“limpabout”) where I hope to meet new fans and sell signed copies of my new book, and all my books–until they sell out, that is. Having more printed and meeting us on the road is a tricky dribble.
On this tour, I will focus on small town libraries, independent bookstores, local festivals, and small-market radio stations where I hope to score a few interviews.
Here’s the tentative itinerary for some informal book signing events I have in mind (nothing fancy). If I counted correctly, we’ll be in twenty US states and five Canadian provinces. Yes, this is aggressive:
2022
- Elkhart, Indiana
- Joliet, Illinois
- Bevier, Missouri
- Mt. Pleasant/Fairfield, Iowa
- Rochester, Minnesota
- Hill City, South Dakota
- Island Park, Idaho
- West Yellowstone, Montana
- Portland, Oregon
- Sequim/Port Townsend, Washington
- Seaside/Astoria, Oregon
- Lincoln City, Oregon
- Coos Bay/North Bend, Oregon
- Brookings, Oregon
- Eureka, California
- Petaluma, California (SF Bay Area)
- Groveland/Yosemite, California
- Visalia/Joshua Tree, California
- Temecula, California area (between LA & San Diego)
- Oasis, California (Salton Sea/The Slabs)
2023
- Mesa, Arizona (Phoenix),
- Quartzsite, Arizona
- Tucson, Arizona
- Las Cruces, New Mexico
- San Antonio, Texas
- Jarrold/Georgetown, Texas
- Joplin, Missouri
- Mt. Pleasant, Iowa
- Oronoco, Minnesota
- Big Rock, Illinois
- St. Catherine’s/Niagara Falls, Ontario
- St. Phillip/Montreal, Quebec
- Levis/Quebec City, Quebec
- St. John’s, New Brunswick
- Charlotte Town, Prince Edward Island
- Hammond Plains/Halifax, Nova Scotia
- Hopewell Cape, New Brunswick
- Trenton/Arcadia, Maine
- Ease Wareham/Boston/Cape Cod, Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts
- West Kingston/Newport, Rhode Island
- Mystic, Connecticut
- Florida/West Point, New York
- Punta Gorda, Florida
- Fort Myers Beach, Florida
Plus any spontaneous events along the way (for example, maybe while Kay is at Sea World in San Diego).
I’ll post dates and venues as they solidify. I’d love to see you if we meander into your neck of the woods!
3. Worldwide “Black Blizzard” Distribution Update:
I am really excited to share with you that Kindle, paperback and hardcover editions of “Black Blizzard” are available worldwide on Amazon. Also, its eBook edition is available at:
- Apple Books
- Barnes & Noble
- Kobo (in 130 countries, also at Kobo Plus, similar to Kindle Unlimited)
- Scribd (premium subscriber reading service)
- Tolino (German consortium with 1,500 stores)
- OverDrive (leading digital distribution platform to libraries, schools & retailers)
- bibliotheca (dedicated to growing & sustaining lilbraries worldwide)
- Baker & Taylor (long-term relationships with major book & music labels in 120 countries)
- BorrowBox (serves libraries & public schools in Australia)
- Hoopla (serves libraries of all sizes across North America)
- Vivlio (French company servicing bookstore chains across Europe)
Click here for D2D’s universal book link to “Black Blizzard”
Keep reading for a sample of my latest historical crime novel, “Black Blizzard.”
4. Excerpt: “Black Blizzard”
Preface
America trembled through an era of extremes. Millions perished. Not one, but two pandemics swept the globe following the Great War that ended in 1918. On October 29, 1929—Black Tuesday—the free-and-easy Roaring Twenties died a sudden and traumatic death. But the emotional reverberations and illicit vices it spawned did not. Hundreds hurled themselves through skyscraper windows, and tens of thousands across America surrendered their souls to Black Tuesday. Of those who survived its traumatic after-shocks, many drowned their sorrows, but even more were unwilling to do so. Some turned to their faith.
Then the world slipped from bleak to worse. The skies dried up and scorched the earth below. Shadows deepened over the creased land that once offered her keepers bounty for their labor. Farmers took reckless shortcuts hoping to save their acreages. Many could not. Instead of the new decade ushering in new hope, quite the opposite became the new reality.
* * *
The summer of 1931 on the Great Plains of Nebraska and Western Iowa felt like Armageddon. As time stalled, millions of Americans merely subsisted in the clutches of escalating squalor—starving and displaced from their homes. Hundreds of thousands more sought to re-discover Eden—elsewhere. Anywhere else. Those who stayed, struggled for a breath of air free of dust and despair under a drab sky that mocked their foolhardiness. And yes, most stayed put for fear of the sickness.
But even with faces swathed in handkerchiefs, and those lucky enough to own goggles for covering their eyes against the grit, they could not fill the hollow pit where a solid meal and contentment once settled. However, during zero-visibility dust storms they called black blizzards, the larger issue remained—the simple task of breathing more air than dirt.
Banks and private lenders alike gasped for their own survival. They called in notes on homes and farms and businesses that were no longer viable, hoping to turn an economic vacuum into an opportunity for their own survival. Somehow, a few ordinary folk still held money—in land, livestock, inventory, or precious metals. Many more leaned on the only two things of substance left—their faith and their community. Otherwise, the future might be too bleak to contemplate.
This is one such story.
Chapter 1
December 1932
Most birds of prey aren’t large, but their quarry often disagrees. To a field mouse, anything larger than her poses a threat. Yesterday’s brief thaw surrendered to an overnight freeze. The mouse’s tiny nails clicked over the delicate ice crust. Her cheek bulged with a rare grain of winter wheat for her babies who awaited her return in their cozy underground burrow.
The forenoon sun promised a crisp but pleasant morning. A distant screech preceded a quicksilver shadow that cast doubt on the momma mouse’s prospects. The red-tailed hawk swooped in for breakfast. Momma scurried. It was over.
The cycle of life was about to accelerate further, beginning with this otherwise sleepy morning in the rolling plains of northwest Iowa. The hawk, with breakfast in her talons for her own young, contemplated landing near the top of a power pole alongside Lyon County 14. But she thought better of it as she dodged a speeding motorcar slicing through the bitter wind. The auto swirled up a vortex of new snow in its wake, a feathery dusting that refused to stick after last night’s freeze.
* * *
The driver swelled with pride at the chromium hood ornament of a leaping hound on the far end of his motorcar’s sleek hood. It wasn’t just that handsome marquis, but what it represented: prestige and respect. The brand-new auto had been a Christmas gift from Mr. Finn Malone of Chicago, Illinois. Her ultra-modern coachwork concealed her road-proven four-cylinder power plant. There were just too many stylish innovations to count over her predecessor, the Model A. Important folks drove cars like this.
The musky smell of tanned cowhide—and this kid’s breath—filled the car’s interior. No surprise, with those teeth. He did wonder what that was all about. Seemed out of place with those snappy duds. Big city types. Immigrants, no less! With a brilliant but hazy sun off to his left, the driver risked a glance at the big-city passenger to his right. The serene fellow with scary undercurrents gave him the creeps. Especially that lop-sided smirk, his brown teeth, and those eyes. He could still spot traces of blood around the edges of the kid’s fingernails. And who in hell wore a black shirt with white buttons, anyway?
He’d met guys like this before in his line of work—thankfully, not often. More so these days. Short, but larger than life, he was Irish, not German like most folks around these parts. Sounded like a Mick too. Close-cropped ginger hair sprouted from beneath a flat-topped skimmer that shaded his youthful brow. Not very practical. Too damn cold for a straw hat. That overcoat he called his Crombie—whatever that meant—just had to cost a bundle. Slickers! Regardless, with the grim task at hand, the driver struggled to bury the charred-black corner of his conscience.
The scary little gunsel they called Sticks Leary worked for Mr. Malone. That meant he was to be respected—on the surface, anyway—and not just because this kid was a shooter. Malone commanded, the world obeyed, and not just in the Windy City.
As Leary thumbed loose two huge buttons of his Crombie and flipped down its generous collar, the driver caught a metallic flash. A shiny pistol nestled under the kid’s right armpit in a fancy shoulder holster. A show piece. So, he’s a southpaw. Leary shrugged the coat forward with a jerk on both lapels. The cannon disappeared as the huge collar lay down, revealing the rangy kid’s neck and a purplish circle beneath his jawbone. A puckered scar from a bullet wound to the left side of his scrawny throat. No, despite his youthful appearance, Leary was no kid.
He rolled his bug-eyes up to gaze at the driver in the rearview mirror. “Just watch the road, boy-o. Wouldn’t do to put this pretty new sedan into the ditch, now would it?”
“Right. So, Mr. Leary, just curious. Who’s under the blanket in the back?”
“It’s just Sticks, ‘kay?” Why did Just Sticks’ smile not warm him up? “Don’t ya be worryin’ ‘bout any a that just now.”
The driver already knew who was under that blanket, but he didn’t know why. Not that it mattered, other than worrying about the stink of the recently deceased. He’d been beckoned after the deed was done. Leary and another guy had loaded that cargo of dead weight before they allowed him back into his own brand new car. Leary had laughed, “Some jobs ya do yerself, yeh?” And there had been that spooky smirk with those jagged chompers and a cheerful glint in those crazy bug-eyes. Well, in for a penny….
The small Irishman, a hellish leprechaun, continued with conversation meant to sound congenial, as if warming up to a recruit. He obviously enjoyed the sound of his own clipped voice dripping in that ridiculous brogue. Again, with the unconvincing smile. Or was he flirting with a leer?
The gunsel said, “I see why Finn likes the lay a the land out here. Borin’ with a big “B” as far as the eye can see, yeh, boy-o?”
“If he’s looking for rural isolation and no G-Men within a hundred miles, yep, this area should suit his needs.”
They were only to drive a short distance south of George on Lyon County 14. Hopefully, this would be a brief conversation. The kid turned toward the driver, swiveling his left knee up onto the seat between them and slinging his left arm behind the driver’s shoulder. The frontal assault from the kid’s maw damn-near gagged him. “Tell me ‘bout this dealership. Why should Finn get into this at all?”
He’d already explained this to Mr. Malone up in Worthington. With more obligatory deference than genuine sarcasm, he addressed the odious little creep. “Well, George, Iowa is a sleepy little town of about a thousand folks. Mostly farmers who’ve moved to town after making their bucks, or they just got too old to work the land. There’s money there. But they’re mostly poor folks getting by—especially these days. No local law enforcement. Only up in Rock Rapids, the county seat over ten miles northwest as the crow flies, and almost twice that by motorcar. Bairns Motors, the only dealership in George, buys respectability with a low profile. And they have a lot of square footage under roof. It’s the perfect front. Plus, all the well-to-do farmers from the surrounding area buy their Chevies from Henry Bairns. It’s a legitimate business, at least according to our expert consultant—our mutual friend.”
Leary pasted a smug look on his face as he stretched thin leather gloves over his bony fingers. “Finn tells me yer a good soldier, and yer regular. That’s worth somethin’.”
An arrogant little prick, this Mick. The gunsel swiveled a practiced three-sixty with his dark bug-eyes showing lots of white. First ahead, then over his left shoulder, and the same over his right, shifting in his seat as he did so. There was that cannon again. Pausing, Leary didn’t look the driver in the eye, only at his gloved hands on the wheel. “Pull over. Right here. Ya hang tight while I take out the trash.” Dead serious.
The driver jerked the wheel. The car swerved to the edge of the road with two tires in stiff ditch weed. The tires crunched. He ground the gears before he settled the floor shifter into its sweet spot. He squeezed, then pulled the ratcheting brake handle with his left hand. The car skidded to a stop.
Leary slid out of the passenger’s side, but stumbled in his city oxfords on the snowy weeds at the precipice of the shallow ditch. He’d have fallen without his chokehold on the handle inside of the still-open front door. Grabbed the rear door’s exterior handle with his left hand, swung it open and back. The driver stole a glance at the passenger-side fender mirror. Partially blocked by the open door, he still saw Leary tugging his cargo from under the wool blanket and dragging it into the ditch. The blanket stayed on the floor behind the front seat.
With the task complete and his legs still dangling out of the door, Leary kicked his heels together. Jettisoned wet snow that clung to his warm shoes before swinging his legs back into the car. He tossed a small but heavy trophy from the kill into the driver’s lap. “A keepsake fer yeh. Let’s go.” Flat voice, no emotion. But when he caught the driver looking at him, he offered another one of those tiny foul-mouthed smirks—the left corner of his mouth higher and more puckered than the right. The driver stared down at the wet and cool Lyon County Deputy badge he now held in his right hand—scratched and dented. Retrieving a silk hanky, Leary polished his shoes. “What say you show me this town with the funny name, ‘kay, Sheriff?”
Strictly speaking, dumping murdered deputies was not part of his job description as Sheriff.
What have I gotten myself into?
To keep reading, visit your favorite online storefront to purchase your copy of “Black Blizzard” and find out what kind of trouble brews in an unlikely corner of the Midwestern Dust Bowl during the Great Depression! I guarantee more than a few surprises, and all based on true stories of the period.
Visit my Amazon author page here for a complete listing of all my currently published titles. More are on the way.
5. 2022 Coastal Writer’s Conference
(brought to you by Judy Howard & GK Jurrens)
One more exciting piece of good news for you.
I’m delighted to share with you that my friend, mentor, motivational speaker and top-selling author, Judy Howard is co-sponsoring with me a two-day writer’s conference in Brookings, Oregon this September 8th and 9th. We will host this writer’s retreat near the Oregon coast for a couple of dozen aspiring writers and experienced authors for seminars, workshops and camaraderie. We have a lot of enthusiasm and experience to share! And we always learn from other writers.
Keep on keepin’ on, y’all.
With pen in hand… wherever… and until…
Gene
P.S. “Books must be the axe to break the frozen sea inside me.”
– Franz Kafka (1883 – 1924)