When a travelling
salesman finds a town that’s not on the map, he must choose between
romance and a long-held promise of untold riches.
Beckman Spiers is
a grey man in a grey world—and he’s happy with that.
After 12 years of
routine and grind, he’s again fighting to become Number One
Salesman of the Year. Legend has it, Number Ones get so rich, they
never work again. With a week to go, Beckman is gaining on his
nemesis, smooth-talking Tyler Quittle.
When a chance
blowout on a deserted Arizona highway leaves Beckman stranded, the
mysterious Saul arrives, and tows him to the strange neon-lit town of
Sunrise. Here, he meets the glamorous Lolita Milan and his fortunes
change.
Yet, Sunrise’s
small-town charms conceal secrets, and his world becomes one of
private investigators and backstabbing business deals.
What will he have
to do to reach Number One? And what will he do if he wins the race?
In this comedic,
stylistic, and mysterious story, meet the most unique characters and
get pulled into the colourful world of Sunrise.
Our
mild-mannered hero Beckman, seeing that he’s being followed by a
sleuth (for reasons unknown) and concerned that something is wrong
with Lolita’s engagement, wants to find out if he’s imagining it
all. As a man who hates dishonesty, he doesn’t want a girl he likes
(but can’t have) being wronged by her fiancé. She’s helped him
get valuable sales in town and he’s indebted to her.
We
meet two more Sunrise characters, both with eyesight problems
(eyesight is a motif in the book), and reflect on a famous black and
white movie—one where the hero meets a woman who’s betrothed to
someone else.
Taylor’s,
on the block near Our Buck’s, was a detective agency.
Behind
the frosted windows and stiff entrance door opened a small room with
three desks, behind which lay what looked like the same again.
On
the walk up (actually a gentle downhill), he’d imagined dark oak
panelling, deerstalkers, microfiche machines, grainy black and white
images plastered on walls, endless filing cabinets, and maybe a
lingering whiff of cigar smoke in the overly warm air.
The
desks were modern, the walls clean, the computers sleek, and the
temperature read a digital 20.5.
Two
of the desks were occupied.
Behind
one sat a man of indeterminate late middle-age, impeccable hair, open
shirt, and suspenders. Plus, a monocle. Above the desk hung a framed
black and white photograph, technically a movie still. A famous one.
If
Suspenders and Monocle wasn’t the business owner—Taylor (first or
last name)—Beckman was a son of a gun. Possibly two sons. Or two
guns. Or both.
At
the second desk, and engrossed in mouse-jiggling activity, sat a
younger woman, probably early thirties, cropped hair, navy pantsuit.
Surely-Taylor
looked up from his paperwork, a fraction bemused. Maybe a tenth. Two
ninths at most.
The
man rose, offered his hand. ‘Welcome to Taylor’s P.I., sir.
I’m—,’ Beckman held his breath in anticipation, ‘—Zebedee
Taylor, founder here.’
The
accent wasn’t local. Texas maybe?
‘Beckman
Spiers, passing through.’
True
enough? As opposed to a resident. Now, how much of a movie fan is
this guy? Assuming it is his poster.
‘That
so?’
‘I’m
just here for the waters,’ Beckman offered.
‘The
waters? What waters? We’re in the desert,’ the founder replied
after a momentary pause.
‘I
was misinformed.’
Taylor
(last name) flashed a knowing smile and gestured to the chair. ‘How
can I help, Mr Spiers?’
‘I’d
like to hire a P.I.’
‘Then
you’ve come to the best place in town.’
Because
this was the only
place? Or, given what Beckman had observed to date, perhaps the town
was as replete with private investigators as it was with inert
gas-filled illuminations?
‘Starting
immediately, if possible,’ he clarified.
‘Certainly.
That okay, Reba?’
The
woman looked over. Beckman stared at her until he’d confirmed he
was staring at what he thought he was staring at, which had taken
such a duration of confirmatory staring to confirm.
She
had a glass eye. Luckily for her, it was the only glass thing in
Sunrise that didn’t glow red. Or green. Or blue. Or a million other
colours.
‘Sure,’
she said, ignoring his now-completed stare. ‘D’you want to scooch
over and give me the details, sir?’
Beckman
went to rise, but the chair had wheels, and the floor was wooden, so
he did what any other self-respecting eternal nine-year-old would do
and pushed himself across to her. He refrained from saying “Wheeeee!”
because this was a serious matter. Lives were at stake (not really).
‘What’s
the subject’s name?’ she asked, fingers poised above her
keyboard.
‘Carlton—.’
He
hit the buffers. Of course, Carlton would have a surname. Only he
couldn’t remember it. Because he’d never been told. Unless, of
course, it was
his last name? Possibly? Carlton was fine as a last name. Like …
Beckman. Usually.
His
mind raced. His gaze flicked between Reba and Zebedee. They were on
tenterhooks. There was something else there, too—like they were
making efforts to avoid looking at each other. A private joke in the
making? Were they trying not to make each other corpse?
Throw
me a bone, folks. How many Carltons can there be in Sunrise? Or is
that another thing here? The dozen or so people I’ve met are the
only people not
called Carlton?
‘Carlton
drives a Mustang. Tall. Glasses,’ he offered.
‘Carlton
Cooper.’ Reba made a note. ‘And what’s the nature of the
concern or assignment?’
‘Infidelity.’
He didn’t say it; the word just emerged from his mouth. He wanted
it back. He wanted to reach out and stuff the naughty word back down
his throat. And yet …
‘Twenty-four-hour
surveillance?’ she asked.
He
nodded, assuming this was the way to go. On the flip side, he might
as well have been Emperor Caligula, throwing swords into the sea to
defeat Neptune.
Onwards
they went, through the mercifully brief customer registration
rigmarole, to the two-hundred bucks daily fee declaration, handing
over two hundred as a deposit, and finally to the tendering of Reba’s
business card.
With
the wall clock indicating 12:55, he exchanged handshakes with both
people, outwardly business-like, inwardly wondering what on God’s
green earth he was doing, and passed out onto the street.
At
least Reba would be keeping an eye on Carlton.
He
slid inside the Chevy and purred up the hill towards Lolita’s
place.
The
Lincoln pulled out and followed.
I've been a
multi-genre author since 1991.
My favourite work
to date is 2019's Tow Away Zone, a quirky American small-town
romantic black comedy. It’s been well-received by readers, with 5*
reviews on Amazon.
In 2020 I
published the sequel - Go Away Zone. In 2021 I'm completing the
trilogy.
My sci-fi journey
started with space opera “Scared Ground” being available on
Kindle in 2012.
In 2018 I
published my 2nd sci-fi novel - Imperfect Isolation - which embraces
robotics, asteroid mining and a snowy drive in an 80-year-old Porsche
911.
The sequel,
Reprisals, followed in 2019. In early 2021 I released the 3rd
instalment, Trip Hazard.
I'm currently
editing a reflective Western. It explores prejudice against the deaf
community and the Native Americans, as a man struggles to reconnect
with his lost son and come to terms with his own failings.
I've written a
collection of offbeat humorous stories and vignettes in the style of
early Woody Allen prose. The Real Jamie Oliver and Other Stories is
basically a window into my nonsensical side.
I also write
pantomime & stage drama scripts. I’ve had 8 works performed and
reached a total audience of over 5000 to date.
