by Alan Robertson
by Alan Robertson
Published Jul 31, 2009
Genre: FICTION / General
Ex-jock, Jack Tramp, thinks he's got it made when he learns he's inherited a small fortune. Short of cash and waiting for probate to close, he's hired to find a missing young musician named Jimmy Wright. Big money for a couple days work. He thought it would be easy.
Before long, Jack finds himself tangled in a web of lies and deceit as he struggles to rescue Jimmy from the clutches of a crooked record producer who wants his songs, a sleazy scammer who wants money, and a beautiful woman who wants everything!
"Robertson balances a wild imagination with a droll sense of humor . . . intricate plot twists kept me engrossed right up to the unexpected climactic conclusion . . . escapist reading at its best."
"fast-paced . . . complex . . . tight, compelling dialogue . . . a satisfying and enjoyable read."
-Tyler Tichelaar, The Marquette Monthly
My name is Jack Tramp. It’s late Friday afternoon, and I’m in Flanagan’s, a midtown Manhattan bar—expensive wood, polished brass and more than a full day’s requirement of green. Seated across the cocktail table is Bill Seppanen. Emphasis on the first p, short a. He’s blonde, small-town handsome and, like myself, drifting into middle age. We grew up in Hunter, about two hours north, and played high school baseball together way back when. I haven’t seen him often over the years, but still think of him as a close friend. He’s an attorney now, here in the City, and whenever legal matters come up, which is almost never, I call Sep and he handles it. This is one of those times. I’ll explain that later. When the business was over, Sep suggested we have a drink.
After we’d downed a few to loosen up, and done the obligatory breeze-shooting about old times, Sep worked the conversation around to his home life. Told me he and Glenda were having problems. Didn’t surprise me any. I’d always figured Glenda for trouble. Five-five, blonde, petite, intelligent and, at first glance, very sexy. But once you’d been around her for awhile, any images of reproductive activity evaporated under the withering heat lamp of her total desire to dominate every situation. But hey, that’s just my opinion.