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110 pages

English

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Description

When a Nick Drago's friend's '55 Thunderbird goes missing and people wind up dead, the puzzle becomes international. And quickly turns to something other than heisted classic cars.

Sujets

Fiction

Informations

Publié par	eBookIt.com
Date de parution	21 février 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781456602338
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0300€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Drago #1

by
Art Spinella

Copyright 2011 Art Spinella,
All rights reserved.

Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0233-8

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Art Spinella. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, companies or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design: D. T. Spillane
Audio Book version in 2011 by Pasta Studios

Printed in the United State of America

The early reviews…

Drago #1, says Western World newspaper, "...is a 3D jigsaw puzzle of clues..."

and readers should "Grab your kevlar and fasten your seatbelts... for a breakneck tour of Coos County."

Kindle reviews:

"Couldn't put it down."

“Great read! My wife brought it home for me as a gift. Started reading and quickly got to the point I couldn't put it down. Great characters and engaging story. Can't wait for the next book to come out!”
Email review, "Darn you, Drago. You made me late for work!"

Let us know what you think. Email Arts@cnwmr.com
To have your copy of Drago autographed, mail it to
PO Box 744, Bandon, Oregon 97411
Please include your return address.

Visit www.cnwmr.com/DRAGO

Art Spinella

Drago #1

Art Spinella is a long-time writer, journalist and publisher. He lives in Bandon, Oregon with his wife Stephanie and has five children. Drago #1 is his first published novel. Any resemblance of Nick Drago to the author is purely coincidental. Honest.

DEDICATION

For Cookie

Drago #1
PROLOGUE

As a kid the highlight of each week was a trip to J. L. Hudson Department Store in Detroit where I could pick a new book. The Hardy Boys and Tom Swift were high on the list.
That eventually turned into Mickey Spillane, John D. MacDonald and Agatha Christie.
Simultaneously, TV shows of detectives and cops became regular faire. 77 Sunset Strip , Hawaiian Eye , Route 66 , Mike Hammer and a host of others.
There was a symbiotic sameness to what I read and what I watched. Implausible stories that required a suspension of reality.
Today, writers I highly admire turn out action adventures with characters like Jack Reacher and Lucas Davenport.
The difference for me is that these master storytellers go to great lengths to generate plots as potentially real as possible even if characters like Reacher are – a reach. The suspension of reality is still there, but the foundation of the stories is rooted in the plausible.
When I began writing short stories and mysteries, I wanted to reverse the usual books-to-TV mindset. Rather than Mike Hammer the TV show coming from Spillane books, I wanted to see TV in print.
That’s where Drago is rooted.
When reading Drago #1 or subsequent Drago novels, I want readers to be able to suspend reality and enjoy a story that may not be plausible, may not be “real” but like TV shows such as A Team or NCIS or Castle or Firefly , offer an opportunity to pull back from reality and read with a clear what-the-hell mind set.
I suggest reading Drago from the same chair or couch used to watch television shows. A cup of coffee, a cold beer or a Coke near by. Mind cleared of the daily grind with the sole purpose of having a bit of fun. Spending the next hour or two or three in suspended reality.
Drago stretches credulity. Some of what you’ll read could happen, but is highly unlikely. Portions are “ripped from the headlines.” Other parts are simply improbable, implausible or even impossible. But that’s okay. Because this is TV in print.

Art Spinella

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Most important to Drago #1 is Stephanie, my lovely and patient wife who read every word at least three times. Also key to this book were Bruce English who knows and builds hot rods like no other; Seth – aka Zeke -- for his innate skill in translating automotive ideas into masterful paint; Brian and Linc, the two wrenches at Highway 101 Harley-Davidson in Coos Bay who keep my bikes right side up and George Woolcock who keeps them in line and is a true friend; Tony Dub and David Kimes who unknowingly were terrific sounding boards; and finally, and perhaps most directly responsible for Drago #1 , Tony Messerle whose Harley was stolen right from under his nose.
PREFACE

Sal and I sat across the table at the Mexican restaurant in Bandon going through our usual routine of picking a discussion topic. Nothing helps the digestion of grease more than a spritely argument with a friend during dinner.
“The Cowboys will be in the Super Bowl.”
“False,” I answered. Sal agreed so scratch that as possible chatter over tacos, refried beans and Dos Equis.
My turn. “The U.S. will drill in Anwar within 20 years.”
“No argument. True.”
His turn. “The dollar will be replaced as the international monetary currency.”
“False.”
Sal’s eyes sparkled. “Actually, I think it will happen.”
“We’re here for a couple of quick burritos, not an eight-course French dinner.” Dipping a nacho in the salsa, “The moon landing was a hoax,” I offered.
“We did that one already, Nick. We agreed finally it was. My turn. House of the Rising Sun is the best cross-over blues song ever.”
I scratched my head, giving it a few seconds’ thought. “Interesting. It’s high on the list, but the best? Not so sure. Other genres fair game?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. That’s a possibility.” Another nacho and swig of beer. “Breaking up Ma Bell and deregulating the airline industry are two of the most counterproductive government boondoggles on record.”
Sallie grinned. “Best thing that ever happened to phones and the airlines. Let’s do airlines.”
It was a topic I could either defend or oppose, being conflicted over the results. People in sandals with their dirty toenails would never have been allowed on commercial flights prior to the ‘70s. Now it was the norm. But airline ticket prices would have remained high without deregulation. Prices were heavily regulated supposedly to avoid airline bankruptcies and assure sufficient spending on safety and maintenance. Yes, I could go either way on that one.
“Good one. You first,” I said, taking a long pull of my beer.

CHAPTER ONE

June rolled in like a warm kiss. Enticing although a bit distant. A hint of moisture and a prelude to heat. Typical summer Oregon, at least on the southern Coast where highs rarely exceeds 80 degrees or fall below 45.
Willow Weep, the name given our property by my oldest daughter some 20 years ago when she was barely 6, has settled into the terrain; shore pine, Douglas fir, alder, blackberries and gorse intertwined into a hodgepodge of greenery and thickets making access to much of the land impossible or requiring serious thinning.
Unlike this gentle June morning, Sallie Rand barged through the undergrowth from his neighboring property, ever present thermos clutched in a massive hand, a bulldozer where only a shovel is needed. He pulled up a plastic lawn chair and settled into it with a grunt, the acrylic crackling under his 295 pounds.
No greeting. We had been friends since high school and swore we’d never say “Good morning” because it reminded both of us of Mrs. Sworthborg in home room who made those two words sound like a medieval salutation just before the gallows doors snapped open.
Sallie sucked on the thermos.
“How many this morning?”
I looked down at the notepad and counted the hash marks grouped in fives. “113. Six more than yesterday.”
He pondered a second. “Well, we know trees don’t grow that quickly so obviously you miscounted.”
“Probably.”
Another pause.
“Why do you do that, Nick?” he asked.
“Count my trees? You know why. I’m manic.”
“Manic.”
“Obsessed.”
“True.”
“Curious.”
“No doubt.”
“And I like numbers.” Pulling from my own coffee mug, I added, “Did you know there are 203 steps between the back fence and the batting cage over there?”
“203. Not 204. What if you take small steps?”
“That’s for me and anyone else my height and stride. You might take 220 or more.”
“You saying I waddle because I’m fat?”
“I’d never say that.”
“Good. Otherwise I’d have to sit on your head and crush that thick skull to pulp.”
Mornings with Sal were like that. Neither one of us looked at the other. Legs stretched out, eyes focused on some distant point in the woods that made up the bulk of my acreage.
Paths had been cut through the brush over the past 20 years uncovering old events and mysteries. Charred stumps the likely remnant of the fire that burned Bandon to the ground in 1936. A 10-by15 foot area of dead vegetation where nothing would grow even though blackberries were thick right up to the border of the dead patch.
“What’s the plan for today?”
I shrugged. “Same as yesterday.”
“Nothing planned. Sounds like a plan,” he sighed and smiled. “Sounds like a damn good plan.” A swig of coffee. “Fishing?”
“You know I don’t fish. How ‘bout a ride to Roseburg for lunch.”
“That’s sad, Nick. Not fishing, I mean. How ‘bout hot dogs in…”
My cell phone vibrated in my shirt pocket. Pulling it out, I flipped it open.
“Drago.”
I was greeted with a rush of sputtering; virtually all a single word spoken so quickly it was difficult to understand the context.
“God damn it, Nick! Someone stole my T’bird! Jeeesus. Right out from the parking lot at the Eatin’ Station. No one saw a thing. What am I gonna do, Nick? I got…”
“Bo?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Yeah it’s me Nick.”
“Slow down and tell me again.”
“I was at the Eatin' Station. Parked my T-bird in the rear lot so some numbskull couldn’t put a door ding in it. Like I do almost every morning. I went in, grabbed a seat and remembered I wanted my briefcase which I’d left in the car. Got up. Walked out. And shazaam! The damn car is gone, Nick. GONE. I couldn’t have been in the restaurant for more than what? A minute? Maybe two?”