Fast Times, Big City
by Shelly Frome
Date of Publication: February 27th 2024
Publisher: BCB Publishing
Cover Artist: Frank Federico
Genre: Historical Fiction
ISBN: 9798886330267
ASIN: BOC8CBLC2C
Number of pages: 284
Word Count: 77, 501
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Tagline: Bud Palmer is in a bind as he finds himself at the crossroads where everything is on the verge
BLURB
Like most people, Bud Palmer felt this was just another day. Though the era was drawing to a close, he assumed his life as a sports columnist in the subtropics, in keeping with the benign fifties itself, would go on as predictable as ever.
But that particular autumn morning he was thrust into a caper that was totally beyond him, forced him to leave Miami and take the train to Manhattan, and suddenly found everything in this restless "Big Apple" was up for grabs, on the brink, at a dicey turning point.
Excerpt
Bud Palmer slipped on his sunglasses and set off in his Ford Sunliner convertible on this balmy subtropical Satur- day morning. All the while he tried to convince himself he could get this meeting over with quickly no matter what his shady uncle Rick was up to.
Then again Bud wished he’d just hung up on him. Not put up with “Can’t tell you over the phone. I need you here in person, soon as possible.” That way he wouldn’t be driving across the MacArthur Causeway. Moreover, if his mother hadn’t asked him to look out for her kid brother while she and his dad were on their Caribbean cruise, he’d never have been reminded of Rick’s schemes such as hanging up a dual Realtor/ PI sign.
He wouldn’t be thinking of Rick Ellis at all.
As he drove on, more disconcerting images came to mind: a wiry little guy clutching a polaroid camera, hiding behind the poinsettias as some floozy snuck into a garish motel with some- one’s husband in tow.
Not that Bud himself was always straightforward. At twenty- nine, while his friends were married with kids he was still easing out of relationships the minute he was asked, “Tell me, Bud, how much does a sportswriter make?” Or, “I hear there’s a new subdivision going up in Miramar, each house with a Lanai. Perfect for raising a family.”
In comparison with Rick, however, Bud was always honest about his intentions whether it be his work or love life. In contrast, when playing tennis for instance, Rick was always looking for an angle. He’d crouch behind the net ready to pounce or cut off an opponent’s serve, always looking to throw the server off his game.
Bud crossed over onto Miami Beach, tooled around, passed the ballfield at Flamingo Park, eased by the pastel sidewalks taking him up to Ocean Drive and the fresh fruit juice stand at 10th Street Beach. He parked by a curb directly in line with the juice stand, got out and crossed the sun-dappled street.
Glancing around, he took in the cool tinge of fall blowing in from the ocean, fusing with the salty scent of the water. The sun’s rays streamed through the fluffy clouds; the waves rippled, beckoning the smattering of sunbathers to take a dip.
Everywhere Bud looked nothing had changed. Which included the sight of middle-aged women across the way in their flowery sun dresses, whiling away the hours on the patios of their pink-stucco efficiency apartments; shuffling mahjong tiles; glancing over at the white sands stretching off into the distance in hopes of spotting some lonely bachelor. It was all predictable. Even his paper, the Miami Herald and source of his livelihood, discarded on the empty green bench, seconded the motion.
There was a photo of President Eisenhower above the fold playing golf nearby at Jackie Gleeson’s country club, and a sidebar noting the U.S. was gaining in the space race with the Soviets.
Whatever Rick was champing at the bit about had to be taken with the proverbial grain of salt.
As if in agreement, a voluptuous blond in a fuchsia bikini came into view, turned on the outdoor shower a few yards away, casually washed off the salt water residue on her shoulders, and winked.
Bud smiled back, checked his watch and gazed beyond the mahjong ladies to a gap in the row of efficiency apartments at the end of the block where the weathered bungalow sat a few yards back. The one with the fading sign fronting the bamboo porch railing that read Walk-ins Welcome: Services Unlimited.
He crossed over, hurried past the row of squat apartments, pivoted by the sign, noted the rear end of the rusty Studebaker sitting in the carport, and nodded. It was all the same-old same- old promising more of the same. He bound up the steps, called out “Hello?” opened the screen door and walked right in.
And, sure enough, there Rick was ready and waiting, sporting that signature Charlie Chaplin mustache, flowered short-sleeved shirt and white linen slacks. The first worrisome signal, however, was his bleary, blood-shot eyes as he over-poured a carafe of steaming black coffee into a mug. He whipped out a handkerchief, plunked the carafe and mug on the edge of the desk in the center of the room, and mopped up the spill. At the same time, Bud took in the rest of the place and saw that it hadn’t changed a bit, starting from the girlie calendars on the walls, milk boxes full of paperbacks on the floor; the cluttered desk topped by a scuffed black rotary phone, notary stamp, and the Smith-Corona typewriter flanked by a hat stand with a random display. To complete the picture, there was the rack of glossy magazines so that Rick could keep up with the latest, plus a wooden perch that once accommodated a talking parrot on the near side of a shaded window and a sun-bleached deck chair.
Everything was the same
and not at all the same.
Author Info
Shelly Frome is a member of Mystery Writers of America, a professor of dramatic arts emeritus at UConn, a former professional actor, and a writer of crime novels and books on theater and film. He also is a features writer for Gannett Publications. His fiction includes Sun Dance for Andy Horn, Lilac Moon, Twilight of the Drifter, Tinseltown Riff, Murder Run, Moon Games, The Secluded Village Murders, Miranda and the D-Day Caper and Shadow of the Gypsy. Among his works of non-fiction are The Actors Studio: A History, a guide to playwriting and one on screenwriting, Fast Times, Big City is his latest foray into the world of crime and the amateur sleuth. He lives in Black Mountain, North Carolina.
The Book Junkie Reads . . . Interview with . . . Shelly Frome . . .
How would you describe your style of writing to someone who has never read your work?
Readers have used words like lively, intriguing, propulsive, antic and self-generating. I suppose what they mean is they are immediately drawn in and intrigued by what’s happening, that the characters seem to jump of the page and the story keeps percolating until everything is somehow resolved. Maybe because I see it all like a movie that’s going from scene to scene, shot to shot, seemingly self-generating seeking, exploring, probing for some kind of resolution. Very different from a literary, writerly style which tends to take its time, is concerned with well-turned phrases and imagery as it leisurely delves into the setting, back story, and evolving story line.
Do you feel that writing is an ingrained process or just something that flows naturally for you?
All I know is that I’m haunted or intrigued by something I’ve lost, never had or some basic assumption that no longer rings true. I then feel compelled to come up with a promising dynamic totally differently than my own experiences in order to see what happens. What keeps me going are the surprises, often discovering startling twists and turns and even, at times, realizing something that all along I didn’t know I knew. Like relying on the same old, same old while all the while you had to lose yourself in order to find yourself.
Do you people watch to help with character(s) development? Or do you build upon your characters during story creation?
Due to my extensive experience as an actor, playwright, director and lover of movies, I can easily come up with characters that would be perfect for particular roles in this story. Then, as long as I leave them alone, I allow them to act and respond. Pretty soon they start to take over (at least the major characters do) and reveal who they really are, what’s percolating beneath the façade, what they’re hiding or often don’t realize what they’re capable of. In this way I can discover what this venture is really all about.
Have you found yourself bonding with any particular character(s)? If so, which ones?
As a former actor, I become the character, especially the lead, male or female. This is especially true of the central character in Fast Times, Big City. In fact, the whole reason for writing this novel that takes place in the fifties was to go back as someone who wasn’t as naïve and impressionable. To be at least eight older, part of the in crowd who was much cooler, capable and had a normal family upbringing. Then yank the rug out from beneath him, spirited out of balmy Miami and his comfort zone, reluctantly compelled to take on madcap Manhattan in order to save his feckless uncle’s hide.
Can you share your next creative project(s)? If yes, can you give a few details?
I’m working on a story with the working title Charlie and the Grifters. Charlie is still obsessed with running out on someone back in Santa Fe and holing up in Black Mountain in the Blue Ridge mountains of North Carolina. So far, in becoming a builder and renovator, he’s succeeded in limiting himself to projects where he doesn’t have to stick his neck out and can finish what he’s started. But still he has this unfinished business, lingering guilt after leaving this grizzled old preacher and a threatened bunch of migrant workers in the lurch back in the southwest. Purely by accident, he finds himself involved with the plight of Hannah, a newlywed who is the victim of an assault and battery during a harrowing storm. Now what?
Author website: http://www.shellyfrome.com/
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LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/shelly-frome-8a784029
Goodreads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1358660.Shelly_Frome
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Shelly-Frome/author/B001K8VQXQ
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