There are a handful of writers of my generation (Generation X) who write literary fiction about the times and travails of people our age, our “generational experience”, if you will. One of those writers is Jonathan Tropper, who was born two years after me, in 1970. I’ve read everything Tropper ever wrote, which is only six novels in about twenty years.
As a novelist, Tropper comes from the Hemingway school of writing, which is to say: write what you know, and only what you know. All of Tropper’s books have a distinctly autobiographical feel. His characters are predominantly upper-class, well-educated men who live in or near New York City. That describes Tropper to a T.
Tropper also writes only about characters who are roughly his age at the time of composition. His first book, Plan B, is about a 30-year-old man struggling with an early mid-life crisis. The book came out in 2000. Guess how old Tropper was in 2000.
Another Tropper novel, This Is Where I Leave You (2009), is about a 30-something man who is dealing with the death of his father and the end of his marriage. Tropper turned thirty-nine the year that book was published.
The last Tropper novel, One Last Thing Before I Go (2012), is about a 40-something man who is looking back on the mistakes he made as a parent, spouse, etc. Oh, and the lead character has also received medical news that hints at his impending mortality. Those are all very 40-something concerns.
Tropper’s books are shelved under various categories on Amazon. One Last Thing Before I Go is categorized under “Doctors & Medicine Humor”. (Like that’s a big genre, right?) Really, though, all of Tropper’s books are best described as “male literary fiction”.
There aren’t many male authors doing this kind of writing, because there aren’t many male readers reading it. Most men who read fiction prefer something more along the lines of Clive Cussler or Michael Connelly.
Nothing wrong with Clive Cussler or Connelly. As chance would have it, I’m presently reading Cussler’s Treasure, and Michael Connelly’s Fair Warning. (Yes, I read multiple books at once.) But not every novel has to have a serial killer or a fiendish plot to take over the world to be worth reading.
There has not been a Jonathan Tropper novel since 2012. Tropper is still around. (He’s only fifty, at the time of this writing.) But he’s transitioned into screenwriting, per his Wikipedia page. His latest endeavor, The Adam Project, is a science fiction film slated for release in 2022. I’ve made a note to check it out.
I’m going to take a wild guess and speculate that there won’t be another Jonathan Tropper novel—at least nothing like the ones he’s previously written. This might be a market issue; but it might also be that Jonathan Tropper, having answered all the personal questions that his novels were meant to explore, has no more novel-length stories to tell.
I’ve launched a new series: Clint and Jennifer Huber Mysteries. These novels are classified in the “amateur sleuth’ category.
The first book in the series, 1120 Dunham Drive is out.
Introducing Clint and Jennifer Huber: amateur sleuths who must investigate a very personal mystery—the web of obsession, betrayal, and violence surrounding their “dream house” at 1120 Dunham Drive.
The problems begin with a former owner who refuses to leave quietly, and strange disturbances during the middle of the night.
Oh, and there’s something sinister about a room in the basement.
1120 Dunham Drive is a suburban mystery/thriller that will keep you guessing to the last page.
Preview the book below!
To thirty-four-year-old Jennifer Huber, the house at 1120 Dunham Drive seemed pretty close to perfect. If only, she would later think, there had been something wrong with it—something that would have sent her and her husband Clint running, never to return.
That wasn’t the way things worked out, though. On a sun-scorched Saturday afternoon in mid-July, the house at 1120 Dunham Drive drew the Hubers in.
Or at least the house drew Jennifer in. The seduction began in earnest in the realtor’s car, as Jennifer, Clint, and Tom Jarvis (the realtor) pulled into the driveway.
“It’s a Tudor!” Jennifer exclaimed.
“And what would that be?” Clint asked.
“This style of home,” Jennifer replied. “This is what they call a Tudor-style home.”
Jennifer had a fairly extensive knowledge of residential architecture, and she had studied the house’s spec sheet on the Internet the previous night. So she already knew that this would be a Tudor-style home. Her surprise had been feigned: It had simply been a gambit to prod Clint into showing some more enthusiasm about what they were doing today.
“You’ve got to admit, hon: It looks good from the road.”
“It’s a good-looking house,” Clint allowed.
Built in 1940, the house had a look that was simultaneously homey and classic: It had steeply pitched gables (a prerequisite of the neo-Tudor style), decorative half-timbering on the exterior walls, and brick inlays around the ground-floor windows.
“Let’s have a look-see,” Tom Jarvis said, turning off the engine of his Lexus and opening the front driver’s side door. Jennifer didn’t wait for either Jarvis or Clint.As soon as the vehicle was parked, she was out of the overly air-conditioned back seat and racing ahead of the two men.
“It looks like somebody really wants a house,” she heard Jarvis say conspiratorially to Clint.
Who wouldn’t want a new house? Jennifer thought. That’s the sort of thing we work for, after all.
That thought reminded her of the job she hated and the secret that kept her bound there. She pushed these thoughts away. Today was a happy occasion. She wasn’t going to think about her job at Ohio Excel Logistics. Not on a Saturday afternoon like this.
“Check this out,” Jennifer said, pulling her husband Clint by the hand. “Japanese maples.”
The front garden did indeed have three Japanese maples, plus several small pine trees, and a whole lot of ivy. It was the sort of landscaping that took years to develop—either that, or a whole lot of money.
“Connor would like the yard,” Jennifer observed as Tom Jarvis bent down and retrieved the key from the lockbox on the front door.
“He probably would,” Clint replied.
“And best of all, it’s in the Mydale school district.”
Their son, Connor, was going to be a first-grader in a mere two months. The public schools in Mydale were regarded as the best in the Cincinnati area.
And then there was the most important thing about the house—the factor that made this a real possibility: The asking price of the home at 1120 Dunham Drive was within the Hubers’ range. Most of the homes in Mydale were a lot pricier.
By now Jarvis had unlocked the door. He smiled and held the door open for them.
Jarvis smiled again as Jennifer walked by and looked down. He wasn’t overly obvious about it, but the realtor had clearly taken the opportunity to check her body out.
It wasn’t the first such glance that she had noticed from the real estate agent. Nor was it all in her imagination. Clint had remarked the other day that Jarvis had taken so many liberties with his eyes during their real estate office meetings and home viewing excursions, that he owed them an additional ten percent off the asking price of whatever house they eventually settled on.
She asked Clint if it made him jealous—Jarvis looking at her that way. Clint had scoffed in reply: Jarvis was an old guy, basically harmless.
Jarvis was indeed older than them, maybe in his mid- to late-forties. He was balding and could have dropped ten pounds; but he still carried himself with the swagger of an ex-jock. Jarvis had probably been a “hound” back in the day; and his manner strongly suggested that he still considered himself a claimant to that title.
As Jennifer walked into the cool house and out of the midsummer heat, Jarvis closed the door and briefly loomed over her. He finally looked away, but not before allowing himself a furtive glance down her blouse.
Okay, that one was a bit much, she thought, but did not say.
Since roughly the age of thirteen, Jennifer had noticed that a large number of men noticed her. That seemed to go along with being thin, blonde, and reasonably pretty. Most of the time it wasn’t a big deal; and for a period of her life it had been undeniably flattering.
But she had been married for most of a decade. She was a mom now; and she was devoted to Clint.
Or at least she thought she was. Would a woman who was totally devoted to her husband and son get herself into the jam she was in at work?
Is there something wrong with me? she wondered. Do I give off the wrong signals?
Her unpleasant thoughts were pushed aside by the interior of the house. The front hall was high-ceilinged and spacious. Their footsteps echoed on the hardwood floor. Unlike many older houses, this house wasn’t dark and dingy. Quite the opposite, in fact. The windows of the downstairs flooded the first floor with natural light.
“I think I love this house.” Jennifer declared, setting aside what she knew to be her habitual skepticism about being sold anything at all. Clint, who was standing beside her, gave her a curious look.
Then the realtor said what Clint must have been thinking:
“Well, Mrs. Huber, you’ve only just seen the front yard and the front hallway. But that’s a good start.”
It’s like he doesn’t want me to get my hopes up, she thought. They had toured numerous homes with Tom Jarvis—most of them homes that Jennifer and Clint had preselected through exhaustive, late-night Internet searches. Practically none of those homes had given her instantly warm and fuzzy feelings.
But this one did. And Jarvis wasn’t exactly right about her having seen only the front yard and the front hallway. Having spotted this house online and grasped its potential, Jennifer had pored over the available photographs of its interior and landscaping. She had bookmarked the home’s portfolio in her web browser, and had returned to it numerous times, in fact.
On the drive over from the realty office, Tom Jarvis had said that the situation surrounding this house was “complicated”. He had started to explain; but apparently the act of giving an explanation was complicated, too.
“For now let’s just keep our options open,” he’d said. But what exactly did that mean? Was Tom Jarvis planning to ultimately steer them toward another house? Maybe a turkey of a house that could only be unloaded on a naïve young couple making their first home purchase?
Well, she thought, the unknown motives of a self-serving and mildly lecherous real estate agent were not going to dissuade her if this house turned out to be as perfect as it seemed. Real estate agents were always working their angles, she’d heard. None of them, she had been warned by friends, were to be trusted.
She didn’t want to make a negative generalization about an entire profession. Still, she and Clint would have to be careful. The Internet was filled with horror stories about dishonest and prevaricating real estate agents. Tom Jarvis knew they were first-time homebuyers. That might lead him to the conclusion that they could be easily led.
One thing was undeniable: For some reason, Tom Jarvis didn’t want them to purchase this house.
Most writers tend to change over time. Stephen King’s most recent offering, If It Bleeds, is quite distinct from his early breakout novels like Carrie, ‘Salem’s Lot, and The Shining. If It Bleeds is almost like a book from a different author.
King is one of the best-known examples of writers who’ve changed, but there are many others.
I haven’t been writing and publishing for as long as Stephen King, of course. But I’ve been at it for about a decade now, and that’s long enough for my story interests and narrative style to undergo significant changes.
Relatively early in the game, I wrote and published a short story collection, along with three novels: Blood Flats (2011), Termination Man (2012), and The Maze (2013).
The short story collection, Hay Moon and Other Stories, has remained on Amazon since 2011. Readers have liked it, and it sells fairly well, as short story collections go.
But the aforementioned novels were a different matter. These are all standalone novels, and in a mix of genres. A marketing nightmare. Although reviews were generally positive, sales languished.
These three novels are all long books, well in excess of 100K words. (Blood Flats is about 180K words). This past year I decided that it would be a good idea to take the books off the market for a time, give them a thorough reread, and decide if they needed to be altered, republished as originally written, or scrapped.
I’ve written so much in the intervening years, that rereading these books was a bit like reading three books written by another person. I remembered the general plots of each novel, of course; but I had also forgotten huge swaths of the stories.
I was pleasantly surprised to find out that all of these novels are, well…pretty darn good.
I subjected these books not only to an author’s reread, but also to an external proofread. A handful of typos were found and corrected (though not many).
I’ve rereleased these books and put them back in Kindle Unlimited. Here they are, with Amazon links and descriptions:
Blood Flats:Lee McCabe is on the run from the law, mafia hitmen, and rural meth dealers. A gun-blazing chase through the badlands of Kentucky.
Termination Man:Sex, lies, and corporate conspiracies! A workplace thriller for fans of John Grisham and Joseph Finder.
The Maze:Three ordinary people step into an alien world of magic and nonstop danger. A modern-day parallel world fantasy with the soul of a thriller!
If the above story descriptions appeal to you, then I think you’ll like each of these books. And you can presently read them for free in Kindle Unlimited.
Mark Baxter was determined that he and his wife, Gina, were going to crack the nut of their household budget.
Laid out on the kitchen table before them were a pile of bills, a desktop calculator, and a yellow legal pad.
Mark had drawn a line down the center of the top sheet of the legal pad, dividing it into two vertical columns. In the lefthand column, he had tallied up their monthly take-home pay. They were both second-year teachers at Ambrose E. Burnside High School, a school in the Indianapolis Public Schools district.
In the righthand column he had listed their expenses: mortgage payments on the house, their college loans, groceries, utilities, and everything else.
The total on the left was only slightly larger than the total on the right.
That was a problem.
Gina, moreover, wasn’t paying attention. That was another problem. Her brown eyes kept darting to the open doorway between the kitchen and the rear hallway. She was twirling a length of chestnut brown hair between two fingers.
Gina had been distracted of late—and not just because of their perilous household finances. Mark knew part of the reason for her distraction; but he suspected that there was also something that she was keeping from him.
Why would Gina be looking toward the rear hallway?
The rear hallway of the house terminated at the back door. Gina was probably thinking about the intruder again.
Mark didn’t believe in the intruder, and Gina did.
That was yet another problem.
In recent weeks, Gina had become convinced that someone was entering their house during the daytime hours, when they were both teaching classes at the high school.
She claimed to notice that some items in the house were slightly awry, as if an outsider had been rifling through them. Closet and cupboard doors were left ajar at unfamiliar angles.
Or so Gina had claimed.
Mark had taken his wife’s concerns seriously—at first. He checked all exterior doors and windows for any sign of a break-in or tampering.
And he had found nothing.
Mark also pointed out that the supposed burglar had not taken any of their few possessions that were actually worth stealing: the laptop they used jointly, the antique brooch that Gina had inherited from her Grandma Tortelli, etc.
Even the cigar box, the most obvious target for a thief, had been left intact. This was the old Dutch Masters box that they kept atop the dresser in their bedroom. It always contained between fifty and a hundred dollars of emergency cash.
Any self-respecting thief would have taken the cigar box, Mark observed.
But the thief had not taken the cigar box, nor anything else—so far as either of them could ascertain.
Mark therefore concluded that there was no thief, no intruder.
“Earth to Gina,” Mark said. He waved his hand from side to side in the air, as if trying to rouse her from a trance.
“I heard something,” Gina said. “At the back door.”
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me that one of the problem students at Burnside has followed us home again.”
She didn’t laugh at the obvious joke. She flinched, in fact.
Mark wondered: Was one of the students at the high school in fact bothering her? Was that her problem?
“I’m telling you, Mark, I heard something back there.”
The damn intruder again. Mark rarely spoke a cross word to Gina, but he was getting fed up with talk about the nonexistent burglar. Whatever else was going on, there was no evidence that anyone had been inside their house.
“Gina,” he said gently, “I don’t think—”
And then Mark heard it, too.
It was the sound of someone rattling the back door. Exactly what Gina had said, more or less.
Mark stood up. Gina started to stand, too.
“Where are you going?” they both asked, more or less simultaneously.
“I’m going to check the back door, of course,” Mark said.
“I’m going with you!”
Mark had a sudden mental image: an intruder—a real one, this time—pointing the muzzle of a gun in his wife’s face.
He didn’t want to go there.
“No. You stay here. I’ll take care of this.”
He exited the kitchen and entered the back hallway before Gina could offer further protest.
Speaking of guns, Mark didn’t own any.
Not that he had any principled objection to them. Indiana, after all, was a Second Amendment state.
Mark had grown up in Merrillville, in the northwest corner of the Hoosier State. Merrillville was within the orbit of the progressive-minded, gun-controlling megalopolis of Chicago. But both Mark’s father and his grandfather had been outdoor sportsmen. By the time he was twelve years old, Mark had been comfortable handling firearms.
Mark and Gina had purchased their first home in an inner-city neighborhood. Though most of their neighbors were decent, working-class people, the neighborhood was far from perfect. There were predatory elements. It wasn’t uncommon to hear sirens on a Friday night. Just a few weeks ago, the Indianapolis police had broken up a drug den not three blocks away.
Once or twice Mark had toyed with the idea of buying a gun. It would have been easy. No state official in Indiana would deny a gun permit to a school teacher with a spotless record.
In the end, though, he had judged a gun to be an unnecessary expenditure, given their financial state. Moreover, he’d never really believed that he needed one.
The back hallway was flooded with the sunlight of a late March afternoon. The back door was a plain wooden door with a four-pane window.
Mark could see no man-size shadow lurking in the window, but who knew what might be outside?
He strode forward and grabbed the knob, twisted it, and pulled the door open.
As he stepped out into the cool sunshine, he tensed his muscles for a fight. He stood on the back stoop, and looked to his right and then to his left.
No one there.
The spring-loaded back door slammed shut behind him. From a few blocks away, he heard the air brakes of a school bus.
They had a small back yard, and there were not many places to hide. There were two maple trees, but their trunks were not thick enough to conceal an adult. There was a large bush that had only begun to bud. Mark could look right through it.
No one there.
At the very back of the yard, there was a high wooden fence. It belonged to the property behind them.
Could someone have rattled their back door, and then run across the yard and climbed over the fence?
Only if the prowler happened to be a very fit U.S. Navy SEAL, Mark figured. And even a SEAL would be challenged by that fence.
He had undoubtedly heard something. Both of them had. But the evidence was right here—or rather, it wasn’t here. Mark had no choice but to conclude that there was no one in their back yard.
After giving the yard a final look (there was not much to look at), Mark turned and opened the back door, to go back inside.
And he saw Gina, standing there with a butcher’s knife.
Gina was holding the knife aloft, as if preparing to meet an attacker.
“What are you doing?” Mark asked, indicating the knife. He stepped inside the house, exercising care to stay away from the tip of the blade. He recognized the knife from one of the drawers in their kitchen.
“I wanted you to have backup.”
Mark involuntarily smiled. His wife was no milquetoast.
“What did you find?” she asked.
“Really,” he said. “I checked. There’s no one back there.”
“But we both heard a sound at the back door.”
“We did,” Mark allowed. He had been thinking about that. “Sounds carry inside the city. All these houses. The echoes bounce around. While I was out there, I heard a school bus jam on the brakes a few streets over. It sounded like it was right on top of me.”
“But there was no one out there?”
“No. Say, could you put that knife down?”
She relaxed, and lowered the knife.
Mark wasn’t completely satisfied with his own explanation, about the sounds carrying. But it was time to put this talk about prowlers aside. They needed to get back to those two columns of numbers on the legal pad.
“Anyway,” he said, “let’s resume our discussion of the budget.”
Then the doorbell rang. At the front of the house.
“I’ll get it,” Gina said.
“And you’ll scare the hell out of the Girl Scouts—or whoever it is—with that knife. I’ll get the door. Wait for me in the kitchen, okay?”
With visible reluctance, she relented.
“Be sure to look through the peephole before you open the door,” she called after him.
Mark didn’t use the peephole, though—even though he figured that Gina was probably right.
It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon. Children were still arriving home from school for the day.
If we have to be afraid under those circumstances, Mark thought, then what’s the point of having a house?
He pulled the front door open. The person on the front porch wasn’t exactly threatening, but he was nothing Mark would have expected, either.
He was about the same age as Mark and Gina—probably in his mid- to late twenties. He had a mop of reddish blond hair, and a scraggly beard of the same color.
He wore a rumbled blue blazer over his lanky frame. Mark saw threads dangling from the cuffs.
His trousers—a shade of blue that didn’t match the blazer—were too long.
Mark glanced down at the man’s feet: He was wearing mud-stained tennis shoes that had once been white.
“How can I help you?” Mark asked.
The stranger flashed Mark a smile, revealing several gaps where there should have been teeth. Mark was immediately reminded of documentaries he had seen about drug addicts, how narcotics destroyed their teeth.
“No,” the stranger said. “The question is: How can I help you? Joe Johnson’s the name, and credit counseling’s my game!”
Mark was on edge now.
Only a few minutes ago, he and Gina had been discussing their household budget. Then the sounds at the back door.
And then this guy shows up, claiming to be a credit counselor.
But nothing about him added up. Mark might be a high school history teacher, but he had had his share of interaction with professionals in the finance industry: banking officers, loan agents, and the like.
None of them were anything like this Joe Johnson.
Then there was the fact that Joe Johnson sounded suspiciously like a made-up name.
“Were you at my back door just now?” Mark asked, getting right to the point.
“Me?” Joe Johnson said, pointing a finger at his sparrow chest.
“You’re the only one on my porch right now.”
“Absolutely not,” Joe Johnson said, shaking his head.
Mark didn’t entirely believe him. But there was no way to prove the matter, one way or the other.
“Okay,” Mark said—though it wasn’t okay. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m a personal credit counselor!” the odd-looking man said.
Mark listened to about a minute of the spiel. None of it made sense, really.
A personal credit counselor? Seriously? This guy?
Whoever this Joe Johnson really was, whatever his game was, there was no way Mark was going to let him within a stone’s throw of his and Gina’s finances.
“I’m sorry,” Mark said, interrupting him, “but I’m really not interested.”
Mark had expected that that would be the end of the matter. Like Gina—he was no milquetoast. In high school, about a decade earlier, Mark had played both football and baseball. He’d been in his share of fisticuffs. Few men tried to bully him.
And he could have knocked this Joe Johnson off the porch without even trying, had he been so inclined.
But Joe Johnson, for his part, wasn’t quite ready to call it a day.
“If I could just come inside,” he said, “and talk to you and the missus.”
Now Mark’s hackles went up again—just when he had been ready to dismiss Joe Johnson as a harmless flake.
“I didn’t say anything about a wife,” Mark said. “And no, you can’t come inside.” Mark’s tone wasn’t exactly hostile, but he was done playing nice.
Joe Johnson seemed flustered again. “A guy living in a house like this,” he stammered, “in this neighborhood…I figured you’d be married.”
Mark considered that. Possible. But he was done with this discussion, nevertheless.
“Thanks anyway. But I’m not interested.”
“Could I at least get you to take a card?”
Mark didn’t want a business card from this man. But Joe Johnson was already reaching into the front pocket of his rumpled blazer.
Anything to get rid of him at this point, Mark thought.
“Okay. I’ll take one of your cards.”
Mark reached out and took the proffered business card.
Then Joe Johnson spun on his heels, and walked away.
Mark watched him depart. He couldn’t help it. There was so much about the man in the shabby blue blazer and soiled tennis shoes that didn’t add up.
Joe Johnson made quick steps up their walkway to the main sidewalk, where he made a sharp right turn.
Then he kept walking. He didn’t turn at the house next-door, nor the house after that, either.
Yet another thing that didn’t add up. If Joe Johnson was working door-to-door, then he would have stopped at at least one of those other houses.
But Joe Johnson wasn’t doing that.
He just kept walking. His pace seemed to accelerate the farther away he got, in fact.
So the door-to-door man wasn’t an actual door-to-door man. Joe Johnson—or whoever he was—had come into the neighborhood for one purpose: to call on Mark and Gina Baxter.
Mark looked down at the business card in his hand. It was printed on plain white card stock:
There was a telephone number, which—Mark would have been willing to bet—connected to an over-the-counter burner phone. Also a Yahoo email address.
No company name. No website. No logo.
It simply didn’t add up. None of it.
When Mark walked back into the kitchen, he found Gina sitting at the table. She was looking at the legal pad, the numbers that governed their lives and future.
“Who was that?” Gina asked.
She made a face. “Come on. It was someone.”
Mark crumpled up the business card and tossed it into the trash container beside the refrigerator.
“Just a salesman,” he said. “I got rid of him. Anyway, let’s get back to the budget.”
One hundred and eighty miles north of Indianapolis, in an alley on the South Side of Chicago, Vic Torino knelt over the body of Alina Wells.
The young woman had been dead for about eight hours, based on the information that law enforcement had so far.
Beside Vic was Sgt. Dennis Haskel, of the Chicago Police Department. Haskel was also kneeling over the body.
The alley was blocked off by two squad cars of the CPD, and two uniformed officers.
“I knew she was your CI,” Sgt. Haskel said, “which is why I called you.”
Vic nodded without replying. Alina Wells had indeed been working for Vic as a CI, or confidential informant. She had been helping him gain an inside hold on Tony Mendoza’s criminal organization. But that was all over now.
Vic had seen many corpses; but when you had known the person, it was different. Alina Wells’s body was clad in a pair of faded, ratty jeans, and a shirt with red and white horizontal stripes. Both of her feet were bare. Her clothes were soaked by the previous night’s heavy rain.
Vic couldn’t help wondering about Alina’s final moments…And to think that she had been talking about turning her life around, the last time Vic had met with her.
Alina’s face, preternaturally pale with death, was framed by the helmet of her blonde hair, also rain-soaked. Alina Wells had been twenty-four years old, though her heroin habit had made her look considerably older…even while she was still alive.
Vic drew one palm over the top of his bare head, wiping away a sheen of cold rain droplets. The previous night, a Canadian front had descended on Chicago from Lake Michigan, bringing in the chilling rain and near freezing temperatures.
So much for springtime, Vic thought. The rain was only now tapering off to a spittle. Vic was an Arizona native, and he often swore that he would never get used to the weather in Chicago.
“Thanks,” Vic finally said to Sgt. Haskel, “for the phone call.”
Vic Torino was a twenty-year veteran agent of the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration. People often said that Vic was built like a fireplug. He had a swarthy complexion, an immaculately shaved head, and a thick black mustache.
Vic looked down into Alina’s lifeless face. He wasn’t responsible for her death—not directly, at least—but her involvement with him might have been a contributing factor.
“She probably OD’d,” Haskel speculated, without much emotion. Haskel, like Vic, was a longtime veteran of law enforcement. He had seen his share of bodies in alleyways, no doubt.
“She probably did OD,” Vic agreed. “But I think she had some help.”
Sgt. Haskel shrugged. “We’ll see what the coroner says.”
Vic stood up. There was nothing more he could do for Alina now (as if he had ever really done anything for her, he thought). Alina would leave the alley in a van of the Cook County Medical Examiner. There would be no ambulance, of course.
He thanked Sgt. Haskel again, and made his way out of the alley. The CPD would handle the crime scene from here.
Vic had to contact his other confidential informant—Rosita Cruz. She was the only one he had left now.
Before he departed, he took one last look at Alina Wells’s lifeless body, and silently swore revenge on Tony Mendoza.
On his way back to his office, Vic sent a text message to Rosita Cruz. He told her only that he had an urgent need to see her.
He sent the message using a texting app, which would not be traceable to his DEA phone. Rosita was involved in various illicit acts of commerce to support her habit, just as Alina Wells had been. It would not be unusual for her to get such a message from an unidentified, apparently male, contact.
Vic’s office was located on the tenth floor of the Kluczynski Federal Building in the downtown Chicago Loop. He shared an office space with two dozen other DEA agents. There was nothing to complain about here, though; his desk afforded him a view of Lake Michigan.
When he reached his desk, Vic was still reeling from the news about Alina Wells, the sight of her body in the alleyway.
He couldn’t yet prove it, but he knew that Tony Mendoza was behind her death. This was not the first time that a confidential informant associated with Tony Mendoza had conveniently died.
Vic had been tracking the Los Angeles-based drug kingpin for the past year. Tony Mendoza and his organization controlled a sizable portion of the heroin that found its way to Chicago, and from there to more than a dozen other cities in the Midwest, including Indianapolis, Detroit, and Cincinnati.
Mendoza had ties to the Sinaloa Cartel, one of the brutal syndicates that controlled the narcotics trade in Mexico. But the domestic drug market within Mexico wasn’t worth that much. El Norte was where the real action was. The Mexican cartels all existed to serve the U.S. market, which was many times wealthier, and many times hungrier for illicit drugs.
And so it was with Tony Mendoza. He divided his time between California and various points in Mexico. He had an alibi for all those trips, of course: His parents had both been born in Mexico, and he had many ties south of the border.
DEA agents in Los Angeles, in coordination with officers of the LAPD, had acquired warrants, and carried out at least two searches of Mendoza’s Bel Air residence in recent years. They had found nothing. Tony Mendoza was smart enough to isolate himself from the actual merchandise and violence of the drug trade.
Likewise, the Chicago branch of the DEA and the Chicago PD had busted plenty of street-level dealers who ultimately got their heroin from Tony Mendoza. But none of these arrests had served to build a case against the California drug baron. None of the street-level dealers had even been in the same room as Tony Mendoza. Their heroin supplies came through a complex network of middlemen.
Vic needed to land someone high enough in the organization to have a direct, provable connection to Tony Mendoza.
He had thought that Alina might get him closer to such a person. But now Alina was dead, and he was back to square one.
Vic’s desk phone buzzed. He picked it up.
“Vic. Ah, I see you’re back in the office.”
Ralph Morris—his new boss. Morris had been transferred to Chicago from Washington only two months ago. He and Vic were already locking horns—over a variety of things, but especially Tony Mendoza.
“What can I do for you, Ralph?”
“Could you come into my office, Vic?”
“I’ll be right in,” Vic said, terminating the call.
He stood up from his desk. It was shaping up to be a very bad day, indeed.
Ralph began by grilling Vic about Alina Wells. He, too, had heard about her death from sources in the Chicago P.D.
“I understand exactly what you’re trying to do,” Ralph said. “You’re trying to get the big score. There’s a lot more glory to be had in taking down a continental drug baron than there is in taking down dozens of smalltime dealers. I get it. But sometimes our work involves dismantling networks piece by painstaking piece. You need to learn that.”
“What are you saying, Ralph?”
But he already knew what Ralph was saying—or at least he had a very good idea.
“I’m saying that you screwed the pooch, Vic. That’s what I’m saying.”
Ralph waited a few beats for Vic to react. When Vic remained silent, he went on.
“No, Tony Mendoza didn’t personally murder your CI. Someone at the street level in his organization did. Obviously. And had you taken down that person weeks ago, Alina Wells might still be alive. Also, as an added bonus, there’d be one less drug dealer on the streets of Chicago.”
Vic felt his frustration rising, but he held it in check. They’d had this conversation before. Nevertheless, he did feel compelled to present his side of the argument—again.
“If I—if we—take out Tony Mendoza, then we take away a double-digit percentage of the heroin supply for the Midwest. That could be a pretty big thing.”
“For a while,” Ralph countered. “The Sinaloa Cartel is a very resourceful outfit. They’ll find another Tony Mendoza in a matter of weeks, if not days.”
Vic had no ready answer for that. Moments like this forced Vic to wonder if he wasn’t giving in to his own vanities.
His pursuit of Tony Mendoza had become personal. A certain degree of that was inevitable in law enforcement, but if you took that impulse too far, it could cloud your judgement.
“I want you to refocus,” Ralph said. “Concentrate on wrapping up the local dealers. Let the LA office focus on Tony Mendoza. If we bust him anywhere, we’re going to get him in LA. That’s where he spends most of his time, after all.”
“I’m working with another CI,” Vic said. “She’s going to get me an inside contact in Tony Mendoza’s organization. At the upper levels. Then we can take the whole network down.”
Ralph was obviously not impressed. After all, Vic had made this promise before.
“You have another week,” he said. “Then you shift your strategy: to reeling in the Chicagoland dealers.”
Three hundred miles southeast of Chicago, and one hundred miles southeast of Indianapolis, fifty year-old Jim Garrett sat behind the wheel of his maroon 1981 Monte Carlo.
The car was parked in the rear parking lot of a truck stop on I-75, just south of Cincinnati, right over the Ohio River and the Kentucky border.
It was a chilly day in Cincinnati with sleet. The sleet clouded the windshield of the Monte Carlo, but Jim sat there with the engine turned off. Sometimes the engine light came on when the car idled for too long.
On the seat beside Jim was a Glock 19 semiautomatic pistol.
Jim Garrett was unusually fit for a man of fifty. While in prison he had acquired the habit of lifting weights. There was little to do in prison but pump iron.
Jim was tall and lean. He had long, salt-and-pepper hair, and a thick horseshoe mustache. He also had a natural tan. His mother—long dead—had often told him that there was some Cherokee in the family tree, but Jim was suspicious of this claim.
Jim gripped the steering wheel of the Monte Carlo anxiously. He looked at the tattoos on his fingers, also acquired in prison.
He was always a little anxious when he was about to buy heroin. He and his supplier took precautions. More than once, though, Jim had learned the hard way that the law is often one step ahead of you.
He didn’t want to go back to prison again. He would use the Glock 19 before he would let any officer of the law put handcuffs on him.
He was sure of that.
But that was hypothetical—at least for now. What was real at the moment was that Jim Garrett was a heroin dealer, and he wasn’t making much money at it.
Jim Garrett sometimes reflected that he was living proof of the old adage, crime doesn’t pay. In his youth he had believed—for no good reason—that it was his destiny to be the lead man in a heavy metal band. He had even tried this out, going for a few auditions, but they laughed him away when they found out that he couldn’t play any instruments, and he couldn’t really sing, either.
Then, almost at random, he had turned to a life of crime. Small-time stuff at first, none of it ever going anywhere. He was arrested a few times, but nothing ever stuck.
Six years ago they had busted him on a burglary charge. That stuck. He spent almost three years in Ohio’s Lebanon Correctional Institution.
For the past two years Jim had been out of prison. He was trying his hand at something new—dealing heroin.
For years he had been hearing about how much money there was in narcotics. So he had decided to jump in and get his share. He had been disappointed almost from the very start.
There were people making money in the drug trade, surely, but not this far down the supply chain. By the time the heroin reached Jim, various middlemen along the way had already taken their cuts, jacking up the price to the point where the margin was extremely small.
Jim had read somewhere that the average street-level dealer is a twenty-one year-old man who lives with his mother. Jim was more than twice that age. His mother was long gone, but he was barely getting by.
A hell of a place for a man to find himself at midlife.
He thought about the man he was about to meet: Toby Gates. Toby was a young guy, a low man on the totem pole of the network headed by Tony Mendoza. Toby Gates was nothing, really. But Toby used his association with the LA gangster as an excuse to lord it over Jim at every opportunity.
Jim bristled at the thought of treating with Toby again.
As if summoned by Jim’s thoughts, Toby’s car—a blue Honda—appeared on the access road that ran beside the interstate.
Let’s just get this over with, Jim thought.
He looked at the Glock on the seat beside him. He could leave it in the car. It wasn’t necessary. Toby was annoying, but he had never been aggressive.
Then he thought again: You didn’t go unarmed to a meeting with a member of Tony Mendoza’s organization—even a low-level putz like Toby Gates.
Jim picked the gun off the seat, tucked it inside his jacket, and stepped out of the Monte Carlo.
Toby leaned back against the side of his car as Jim approached. He wasn’t going to give an inch, wasn’t going to meet Jim halfway. That was his manner.
The little putz, Jim thought.
Toby Gates was short and on the pudgy side. His flaxen hair was almost white, like an albino. Jim often thought that Toby would literally fry if exposed to direct sunlight, like a chubby vampire.
When Jim got close, Toby delivered one of his favorite jabs.
“Hey, old man. Movin’ a little slow this morning, aren’t you?”
“Toby, I’ve got twenty-five years on you, and I could still outrun you, out-lift you, and kick your ass. So why don’t you just keep your comments to yourself today, huh?
“Whoa,” Toby said. “Looks like someone didn’t get their bran flakes and Geritol this morning.”
“Just keep pushing it, Toby.”
Jim took a quick look around and over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching them. The front parking lot of the truck stop was behind them. There were plenty of big commercial rigs, but also smaller vehicles whose drivers stopped at the truck stop for fuel, drinks, and snacks. There was both a Subway and a McDonalds attached to the truck stop.
But none of these transient people was likely to pay attention to two men meeting briefly in the back parking lot. That was the advantage of this location.
The interstate ran beside the truck stop, but it lay atop a steep slope, and set back from the crest of the incline. A trucker in one of the big rigs might be able to see them. None of the drivers in pickup trucks or passenger cars would see them without some real neck contortions. And all those vehicles were whizzing by at around 70 m.p.h.
Jim had the money for the heroin all counted out in advance, and tucked inside an envelope that was folded in half once.
The usual procedure was for him to palm the envelope and make as if shaking hands with Toby. Toby would take the envelope and pocket it. Then Toby would hand him a small package containing ten grams of heroin.
Still leaning against his car, Toby held out his hand to shake. He took the envelope. But instead of pocketing the money and handing over the heroin, he held the envelope in his palm and said:
“How much money is that?”
Jim restrained a sudden, almost irrepressible urge to grab Toby by the collar of his windbreaker and slam him against the Honda. What was he trying to pull? Did he want them to get caught?
“What do you mean: ‘How much money is that?’ You know damned well how much money it is. The same as always: enough for ten grams. Come on. The weather sucks today, with this sleet, and I want to get going.”
“Ah,” Toby said, “‘enough for ten grams’. you must be unaware of the new policy.”
“New policy? What the hell are you talking about?”
“The new policy is: There’s a new minimum: twenty grams.”
“That’s right, old-timer. You want wholesale prices, you buy wholesale quantities.”
Jim was so flustered at the moment that he overlooked Toby’s use of the appellation, “old-timer”.
“And when did this go down?”
Toby shrugged. “I don’t know, exactly. But I know it’s the new policy.”
“Does Ice know about this?”
“Of course Ice knows about it,” Toby said.
Ice was Toby’s immediate superior. Although the whole network was ultimately headed by Tony Mendoza, there were various hierarchical layers in-between, even at the local level.
“Ice knows about this,” Jim repeated. “That’s what you’re saying?”
“That’s what I said. And the policy applies to everyone. Across the board.”
Jim was highly doubtful of that. Toby loved nothing better than yanking Jim’s chain, and it wouldn’t be beyond him to make up a fish story in order to do so.
If he had known in advance, he could have purchased twenty grams today. It wasn’t that big of a deal, really.
But he didn’t have enough money on him to purchase twenty grams. He would have to go home, and get into his cash reserves.
Toby wouldn’t wait for him, of course. So he would be without supply, until this little flaxen-haired putz deigned to meet with him again.
And he was almost certain that Toby was lying. He had caught Toby in lies in the past.
Then Jim felt his temper snap, like a tiger being let out of a cage.
No, he thought, that isn’t going to happen. I’m sick of being jerked around. If Tony Mendoza were here, jerking me around, maybe I would take that. Maybe I’d have no choice. But I’m not going to take it from Toby Gates.
“No, Toby. I have another idea: I say you’re going to sell me ten grams. Today. Right now. If the new minimum is twenty grams, then we can do it that way next time. But today you’re going to sell me the usual amount. It isn’t fair to change the minimum amount without telling me in advance. That’s bullshit, in fact.”
Jim stepped closer, towering over the younger man. He raised both hands slightly, as if readying himself to give Toby a shove.
Suddenly, Toby’s face turned bright red. Toby was seized by what was obviously a fit of great consternation.
He had really gotten under the little putz’s skin, apparently.
In fact, Toby was downright speechless. He started to speak, but he was unable.
Enough of this, Jim thought. This shouldn’t be so complicated.
“Just give me the ten grams, Toby, and take my money. Then you can go home and play video games, or beat off to Internet porn all day, or whatever it is you do.”
But Toby’s face turned yet another, deeper shade of red. He sputtered out something that Jim couldn’t understand.
Toby let the envelope filled with Jim’s money fall to the ground.
What happened next happened very quickly. Jim would later reflect that it happened too fast for him to even begin to think about the consequences at the time.
Toby reached inside his coat. In the context of a heated argument over a heroin deal, that could only mean one thing.
Toby was about to draw a weapon on him.
Jim had never been in an honest-to-goodness gunfight. During his time at Lebanon, however, he had talked to several men who had had that experience, and who had lived to tell about it.
They all said the same thing: When guns are drawn with an intent to shoot, the man who acts decisively is the man who walks away. The man who hesitates is the man who doesn’t walk away.
Toby’s hand was still inside his coat when Jim pulled out the Glock 19.
Toby saw the gun, and his eyes went wide. His face still bright red, he sputtered out something, which Jim still couldn’t understand.
I regularly listen to a handful of podcasts for indie authors. These shows rely heavily on guest appearances. Usually the guests are indie authors who have found success, and are willing to share their secrets.
About three years ago, T.S. Paul started appearing on these shows. I knew immediately that he and I were two different kinds of people, and different kinds of authors. I could also tell that he was a bright guy, and worth watching. I figured that I could learn from him.
T.S. Paul rejected much of the standard advice for indie writers. He didn’t believe in review-begging, for one thing. (Several times I heard him say in interviews, “I don’t care about reviews.”) He didn’t believe in making any of his titles free for mass giveaways, either. (He also once said, “I don’t believe in free.”) Continue reading “R.I.P., T.S. Paul”
“WriterTube” refers to the YouTube community of writers. Basically, it is an ongoing discussion about writing and (mostly self-) publishing with YouTube as the platform.
The vast majority of the WriterTube vloggers and commenters are teen girls and young women who are interested in the romance and young adult fantasy genres. I’m a 52-year-old man who writes and reads suspense, horror, and thrillers. WriterTube therefore isn’t a big draw for me, on either side of the camera.
Nevertheless, there are exceptions. From time to time, I have tuned in to the videos of Jenna Moreci. She was recently interviewed by Craig Martelle, whom I follow.
Most indie writers nowadays spend all of their time writing new fiction, and relatively little time building an online platform. Many indie writers have no fixed online presence beyond their Amazon sales page. As a result, they must spend disproportionately on various ads, mailing lists, and the like. Continue reading “Jenna Moreci and WriterTube”
Five dark tales of crime, supernatural horror, and suspense…
In Tennessee, a father and his adolescent daughter must battle two evil men who harbor sinister intentions toward one of them.
In Zacatecas, Mexico, a recent college graduate takes a job as a private English language tutor for a wealthy family. But the entire household is hiding a horrible secret.
In Virginia, a young stockbroker’s colleagues insist that George Washington, the First President of the United States, is alive and well in the twenty-first century.
In rural Ohio, curiosity compels two travelers to stop at an abandoned schoolhouse with an evil history, and a reputation for ghostly activity.
In western Pennsylvania, a junior high student learns that his beloved teacher is not what he purports to be.
A collection of five unique stories, each of which contains an unexpected twist.
Here’s a quick breakdown of the stories in this collection:
“The Van”: While traveling through Tennessee, a single father and his 13-year old daughter encounter two men who take an unwholesome interest in one of them.
“Thanatos Postponed”: A recent college graduate takes a job as a private tutor at the estate of a wealthy businessman in Zacatecas, Mexico. But there is something horribly wrong in the palatial residence high in the Sierra Madre Occidental mountains.
“I Know George Washington”: A young man’s new work colleagues insist that George Washington is alive and well in the twenty-first century.
“One-room Schoolhouse”: A young couple stop at an abandoned schoolhouse in rural Ohio. The schoolhouse is reputed to be haunted.
“Mr. Robbie’s Secret”: a beloved English teacher is not what he appears to be.
Like all of you, in recent weeks I have been more preoccupied than usual with current events. As a result, the content here since mid-March has focused on the daily news.
The name of this site, though, is Edward Trimnell Books. I chose that name for a reason. Commentaries on the news will always have a place here. (I’m rather opinionated, as you may have noticed.) That said, this site isn’t, strictly speaking, a news site. I primarily write books, many of which you can find on Amazon.
This is a business for me. I’m an author, of course; but I’m also a micro-publisher.
Nevertheless, these are tough times for many readers. The COVID-19 shutdown has cut US economic activity by about a third. Unemployment now hovers at an unbelievable 18%. Hopefully the economy will be reopened soon, and the raw numbers will improve. Many people, though, will need time to recover from this unprecedented interruption to normal life.
In light of these highly unusual circumstances, I would like to make all of my books available to readers for free.
I realize, though, that Kindle Unlimited won’t be the right option for some of you. And as much as I love Amazon, people were reading online long before anyone ever heard of a Kindle.
One of the purposes of a website is to provide free online content. Without something for people to read, a website is nothing more than a glorified online brochure.
That’s what all too many websites are. I’ve always wanted this site to provide more to the reading community—especially in times like these.
I initially explored the idea of making more of my existing catalog available here on the site. The problem, though, is that I can’t make content freely available to you here, as well as in the Amazon Kindle Unlimited program. Amazon requires that all Kindle Unlimited titles be exclusive to the Amazon platform (in electronic form). I am bound by the terms of that contract, and I intend to abide by it.
So I had another idea…
The Edward Trimnell Books Online Books Project
I’ve therefore decided to start making some titles available here on the site exclusively—or in advance of bookstore publication. These will not be serials, technically speaking, but I’ll be posting them a chapter at a time, as I write them. And you’ll be able to read them here for free.
I have several titles in mind for the first round of online books. These will be a mixture of fiction and nonfiction. The fiction books will span several of the genres that I usually write in (thriller, horror, mystery). I also have some short stories planned.
And for those of you who have enjoyed all the news commentaries over these past few weeks, fear not: At least one of the titles I have in the works concerns politics. But whereas the daily blog posts typically deal with ephemeral headlines, the upcoming book one will dig deeper and involve more theory.
The plan is to serialize several diverse titles at once, so that at least one of them will be something you’ll be interested in reading. As I say on ETB’s About page , I don’t expect anyone to like everything posted on this site, but everyone should be able to find at least something that they like. That’s one of the advantages of a variety format.
How can you support the Online Books Project?
No, this isn’t a prelude to asking you for money.
Some sites that provide free content immediately turn around and panhandle you at every turn—usually via requests to support them on Patreon.
I don’t necessarily have a philosophical opposition to Patreon (or similar crowdfunding intermediaries, like Kickstarter). I’ll probably put up a Patreon page eventually, for readers who would like to voluntarily contribute. But if I’m going to make that an upfront requirement, I had might as well just put everything on Amazon first. A Patreon paywall is still a paywall.
But I still have bills to pay, just like everyone else. Can free content work with paying the bills? In part, yes.
One of the really cool things about online content is that “free to the reader/viewer” need not mean “unpaid to the creator/publisher”. This principle goes all the way back to the origins of the Internet-as-we-know-it, in the 1990s.
In the beginning, at least, the Online Books Project will be sponsored the old-fashioned way: through the placement of a few unobtrusive ads.
Some of these ads will be for my books on Amazon. If you really like what you read here for free, consider purchasing a book of mine that isn’t part of the Online Books Project. You may also want to purchase an edited, proofread version of a book that appears online first. But that’s totally up to you.
The Online Books Project will also be sponsored (sparingly) by banner ads and affiliate links to third-party products. I don’t fundamentally have any difficulty with the idea of supporting free content with third-party ads. That’s what newspapers, magazines, and television have done since time immemorial.
Online ads have (not without some justification) gotten a bad rap in recent years. That’s because some sites have totally overdone the concept.
The online versions of The Independent and USA Today come to mind here. These sites are littered with dropdown full-screen ads, autoplay video ads, and many more extremely intrusive forms of advertising.
Edward Trimnell Books is old-school all the way. Just like I hate social media (why would anyone want to bother with Snapchat or TikTok?), I’m also allergic to newfangled forms of online advertising. I keep the ads here low-key, like they were up till about 2003.
Those are my basic ideas about the Online Books Project.
I’ll be posting new content and new chapters daily, more or less, so check back often!
Dean Koontz has been an incredibly prolific writer. There are now people saying that he is also a prophetic one.
Koontz’s 1981 novel, The Eyes of Darkness, apparently describes a “pneumonia-like illness” called “Wuhan 400” that will “spread throughout the globe” in 2020, per the above pages.
(Note: I saw this in my Facebook feed. I have read several of Dean Koontz’s books, but not this one. So I’m assuming that the pages photographed above are authentic.)
I’m going to call this a coincidence. But I’m also going to call it a very odd series of coincidences: A nearly forty-year-old novel predicting a global pulmonary disease that originates in Wuhan China in 2020 is arguably just a few too many coincidences for comfort.
In a move of colossal stupidity that is sure to produce anger and/or eye-rolls from all quarters, Penguin Random House is arbitrarily changing the covers of old literary classics to depict African American characters in the places of white ones. They are doing this to demonstrate how “woke” they are during Black History Month.
I have to agree with KJ below: Why not just promote African American authors during Black History Month?
Good for them. This was a really dumb publicity stunt. It could only have come from the minds of self-congratulating white progressives, who are always eager to use African Americans for their own virtue-signaling purposes.
About a year ago, I wrote a blog post about how rising ad costs are leading to the reconsolidation of the indie publishing space. As the market for indie published novels has become over-saturated, indie publishers are relying more and more on advertising to gain visibility for their books.
This has coincided with Amazon’s decision to compete with Google and Facebook for the multi-billion-dollar online advertising market. And Amazon, like Google and Facebook, owns Internet real estate where many parties want to place virtual billboards.
This has inevitably given rise to new forces of consolidation: Many authors are joining cooperatives (otherwise known as content mills). On the ad side, ad brokerage firms like AMSAdwerks have arisen. For a monthly fee, these companies will manage the day-to-day, hour-to-hour complexities of managing large ad spends on the Amazon platform.
This is a far cry from indie publishing as many people envisioned it a decade ago—solo author-entrepreneurs putting their books up for sale, and readers organically finding them. What we are seeing now in indie publishing is the peak of a bubble economy—not unlike the dotcom bubble that occurred at the turn of this century.
Rising ad costs are a major factor behind the bubble; and they’ll likely be the factor that finally bursts the bubble, leading many indie authors to either quit, or resign themselves to being hobbyist/weekend authors.
Oh, and Kindle Unlimited is also a factor. Kindle Unlimited has trained readers to devalue books, and authors to compete on sheer volume.
In recent years, the formula in indie publishing has been: a.) write a long series b.) dump that whole series into KU, and c.) spend heavily on advertising, in the hope that KU page reads exceed advertising costs.
To be sure, some extremely successful indies and writer collectives have been making this formula work; but even the big dogs of indie publishing are now starting to balk at high advertising costs.
Case-in-point: Mark Dawson, the author of the bestselling John Milton series, revealed that he spent $500,000 on Amazon Media Group ads alone in 2019. Even Dawson (who also runs a popular ads course for authors) calls this amount “ridiculous”.
Dawson also noted (in a roundabout manner) that the high ad spends now necessary on Amazon amount to a sort of double payment to the retailer. All Amazon vendors (which is all indie authors are) pay Amazon a commission on goods sold on the platform. When we pay for Amazon-based ads, that represents another payment. (Or, if we buy ads on Facebook, etc, we’re subsidizing Amazon’s traffic.)
Such are the realities of the “pay-to-play” model that has emerged in recent years. To be clear: There is nothing sinister or fraudulent about any of this. This is simply supply-and-demand at work.
Amazon owns the most successful retail platform in the world. The company has learned that in some sectors (like indie fiction publishing) it can often make more money from an eager seller willing to buy advertising, than it can from a customer who might purchase that seller’s product.
Indie authors are now becoming a significant profit center for Amazon. Some, to be sure, are making money for Amazon by selling large numbers of books. But more, I suspect, are making money for Amazon through their purchases of Amazon ads.
I’m not familiar with the majority of the authors. Quite a few of them, though, seem to be authors of competing books (also about the Mexican migrant experience) that have not achieved similar commercial success.
I just bought my first audiobook at Chirpbooks.com—a title by Karin Slaughter, for $0.99.
Chirp offers a constantly changing selection of audiobooks at steep, limited-time discounts. I downloaded their listening app. So far, so good. It’s easy to use and the listening experience is quite good.
Based on what I’ve been reading online, the reaction to Chirp within the writing and narrating community has been mixed.
On one hand, there is a long overdue need for a viable competitor to Audible. From the consumer’s perspective, Audible’s membership is somewhat expensive and restrictive. From a creator’s standpoint, it’s inflexible; and the entire setup makes it difficult for indie creators to compete with big names from New York publishing houses.
On the other hand, I have seen some concerns that Chirp represents a “race to the bottom”—which has certainly occurred in the ebook market (thanks in no small part to Kindle Unlimited).
I don’t think that is Chirp’s agenda, though. Chirp offers only a limited number of discounted titles at any given time. This doesn’t seem to be an effort to lower all audiobook prices to $0.99, or even $4.99.
Chirp will, I believe, find the most traction among audiobook users who have very broad tastes, and who are willing to exercise flexibility in what they listen to. These are the listeners who probably would have been getting most of their audiobooks at the library, anyway.
But if you want the latest title from a bestselling author, the odds are high that you’ll still have to buy it at full price—and probably from Amazon/Audible.