Hi, all. Dead Man Walker is out Tuesday. It’s the fourth book in my Consignment Shop Mysteries and it’s Walker Boone’s story meaning it’s from his point of view…
“See, there he is, Mr. Boone,” Mercedes said to me. “Just like I told you on the phone, Conway Adkins dead as a fence post in his very own claw-foot bathtub and naked as the day he was born.”
“I take you added the washcloth?” I said to Mercedes, both of us standing in the doorway and staring at the corpse.
“Couldn’t be having the man laying there with his shrivelness all exposed to the world now could I. Not proper for a man his age.”
“Or for the rest of us,” I added.
Guys meet with their buds at the local watering hole and down a few or maybe they shoot pool or shoot hoops. Or they get bar grub or ribs or wings. Wings are always a guy pleaser.
I love guy friendships. Sherlock and Watson, Chandler and Joey on Friends, Fred Flinstone and Barney Rubble, Bert and Ernie, Batman and Robin…you get the picture.
Walker has Big Joey...
“Dawg,” Big Joey said to me as I slip onto a stool next to his, everyone in the place giving Joey space. “Know you’d show.”
Big Joey was built like a Mac truck,
muscles buffed to jet black, gold tooth,
ponytail and main man of the Seventeenth
Street gang...my former home and forever
family. He was my brother in every sense of
the word except parental commonality.
Of course Walker Boone has other friendships, girl friendships like with Reagan. The two started off rocky in that Walker represented Reagan’s ex in her divorce but in solving mysteries they kept tripping over each other. At the end of Dead Man Walker, Walker’s on the run and Reagan’s there to help him out...
“This is circumstantial evidence,” I said to Reagan as we stood on the sidewalk outside my house. “The police have to see that someone’s setting me up to cover their own butt.”
“It’s your butt that needs covering, Walker Boone,” Reagan offered. “The police found your .38 and it matches the bullet that killed Conway. The cops are on their way. You got to get out of here right now.”
I looked at my red ‘57 Chevy convertible parked at the curb. “Might as well put a target on my back driving this thing.”
Reagan shoved her helmet at me. “Take Princess.”
“A scooter? You want me to ride a pink scooter named Princess?”
This is Walker Boone’s story, his friendships, the people in his life that help him out no matter what.
So what about you? If you were in a tough spot like Walker who would help you out? Who would cover for you lend you their pink scooter to get away? Who is your Big Joey or Reagan Summerside?
I’ll give away three and Dead Man pens from the answers. Nothing better than a BFF when the chips are down.