Tow Away Zone by Chris Towndrow
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.
https://books2read.com/TowAwayZone
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.
Amazon UK : https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B0092KZ17Q
Amazon US: https://www.amazon.com/~/e/B0092KZ17Q
https://www.christowndrow.co.uk
https://twitter.com/TowndrowBooks
https://allauthor.com/author/christowndrow/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/15130376.Chris_Towndrow
https://www.facebook.com/ChrisTowndrowAuthor
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