Rubee woke them at 0630 when the Merchant Marine hailed them.
Once he was up and dressed, Marc was all business. It seemed odd for him to be so professional when they had just been so intimate, but she knew something was bothering him.
As Matilda followed Marc to the docking bay where the ship was locking on, she noticed he was armed. The energy weapon he wore was hardly standard Guild issue. On the maximum setting, it could take down a 300 pound man, putting a sizable hole in him.
“Expecting an army? You can kill a xar beast with one of those.”
“I wish I had something bigger. If I order you to fire, Commander, you fire. No questions. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marc opened the door to the docking bay. The other ship had attached and the airlock was pressurizing. As the door spiraled open, Matilda sensed a shudder pass through Marc. He raised his weapon, covering the entrance.
Slowly, with a casual air, a man entered the airlock. Nearly as tall as Marc, he was leaner of build. His curly, dark brown hair fell to his shoulders. He stood still while Rubee scanned his identification tag before releasing the force shield in front of him.
He wore a black eye patch over his left eye and a scar ran from his left temple to the corner of his lips. It was an old scar, worn and somewhat sunken. A slight stubble of beard shaded the lower half of his face, all but the scar line, leaving a pale crescent in the dark. His uncovered eye glittered, black and dangerous in his ruggedly handsome face. Holding his arms from his sides, he waited as Rubee scanned him for weapons. Finding none, she gave clearance for him to pass.
He stepped forward, lighting a dark, thin object. The pungent odor of a cheroot filled the confined space. Squinting past the smoke, he gazed into Marc’s eyes. Marc’s weapon remained pointed at the other man’s head, his calm expression strangely predatory.
Their visitor sized Matilda up with a glance, dismissing her as non-threatening. He puffed on his cheroot thoughtfully. A crooked grin cracked his face in half, the scar pulling his left lip up at an odd angle.
“Marc, it’s been a long time.” He held out his hand.
Marc remained aloof, not taking his eyes off the visitor, lowering his weapon or acknowledging the proffered hand.
“Kind of a cold reception, isn’t it?” His voice was rasping and low.
The smile was replaced by a slight frown, a hint of sadness in the obsidian eye. Then the same placid expression took its place. Nothing in Marc’s face betrayed what he was thinking or feeling.
Marc spoke calmly. “Commander Dulac, please show Colonel VanLipsig to the lounge.”
“Of course, sir.” Looking puzzled, she did as he asked, feeling his eyes on her.
Marc followed, covering the man from the rear. When they had seated themselves, Matilda ordered three cups of joe from the synthunit. Marc kept his weapon out on his knee with his hand resting upon it. The other fellow leaned back, seemingly unconcerned and at ease. Taking a sip of the joe, he grimaced, glancing down at his cup before matching his gaze with Marc’s.
“I know we parted under difficult circumstances, but is this really necessary? I’m here to do a job, nothing more.” He carefully kept his hands in plain view, moving slowly, talking with deliberate ease.
Marc looked at him blankly. “I thought you were dead, Wil.”
VanLipsig nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “You were sure you killed me.” His voice was flat, toneless, unemotional. He shrugged casually, tilting his head to the left. “I got better.” There was a flash of a chilling smile.
“The reports….”
“The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated,” VanLipsig quipped, dark eye glittering mischievously.
Marc’s fist dented the metal table with a furious blow. “Dammit, Wil! Can’t you stay dead?”
VanLipsig threw back his head, laughing caustically. The laugh became a long, high pitched, chilling howl. Matilda felt a shiver run through her to the very bone. She did her best not to show it, but a subtle shift of her bearing betrayed her. His gaze penetrated her soul, laying it bare, finding it wanting.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the lady, Marc?”
“No.”
Marc hid his anger, but Matilda knew he was furious. His attitude toward VanLipsig was puzzling. They seemed to have known one another for years, obviously parting on less than amicable terms. Though VanLipsig seemed to harbor no ill will, Marc certainly did.
“May I present myself, ma’am? I’m Colonel Wilhelm VanLipsig, also known as the Lone Wolf. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” He attempted to look humble. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” His glance flicked to her name tag and insignia, dark eye lingering hungrily on her chest. “Commander Dulac.” His mouth formed the words, enjoying the feel of the consonants on his tongue.
He waited patiently for a response. Getting none, his eye locked with hers, curious, intrigued. “Do you speak?”
Matilda studied him quizzically, raising an eyebrow. “There seemed little to say.”
Wil chuckled deep in his throat. It was a seductively menacing sound. He put his feet up on the table between them, relaxed, but all business.
“So, what’s this load I’m supposed to pick up?”
Matilda glanced at Marc, his blank face betraying nothing. He gave no indication that he was going to speak, so she took over the conversation.
“Trimagnite.”
VanLipsig, who was staring openly at her full breasts, raised an eyebrow. He grinned wolfishly, dragging his gaze to meet hers.
“Really? Nasty stuff.” He sounded almost gleeful.”How pure?”
She met his eyes with a challenge as his smile became predatory. Her personal scanner showed him the basic specs. His brow furrowed slightly as he read, then he handed it back to her, whistling softly in surprise.
“Show me the full scan.” All joking aside, he stood expectantly.
Matilda ushered VanLipsig to a console and typed in the commands. He leaned over her right shoulder, his face mere inches from hers. His scent tantalized her. It was disconcerting, made all the more disturbing because he was dangerously handsome, well built, virile, wickedly seductive and extremely close. Forcing herself to look back at the screen, she felt his warm breath on her neck, tickling her skin in a very sensuous way.
He leaned forward, tapping the console, watching as the view and number readout changed. The very air between them was charged with energy. His shoulder brushed hers from behind, making her shiver
VanLipsig put his hand on her shoulder, brushing her neck slightly with his thumb, leaning in as if to kiss her. He checked himself abruptly, nearly brushing her ear with his lips. His breath stirred wisps of hair, tickling her neck.
“I’m sorry, Commander. Are you cold?” His raspy voice seemed loud, although he whispered.
She ducked out from under his arm, stepping aside. “No, I’m fine. Really. Thank you.”
Marc stood a few feet away, his eyes on the other man, saying nothing. The muscle in his jaw worked rapidly, bulging and relaxing as he fought for control.
Wil seemed unaware of them both as he read the screen, making mental calculations; sensuous lips moving as he spoke to himself. He nodded, clearing the screen, turning to them with a dazzling smile.
“No problem,” his smile broadened, but didn’t reach his eye. “I’ll just get my bots to work, then.”
He made for the door, but Marc stopped him with a powerful arm across his chest. Wil halted, pressing aggressively against Marc’s elbow.
“Old man, you know that’s dangerous.” Wil’s body stiffened defensively.
Marc glared at him, cold fury erupting. “By God, Wil! I killed you, you bastard!” Marc pounded the table next to him, scattering the cups of joe.
Wil didn’t even blink. “I told you, I got better.”
Marc’s huge fist shot out suddenly from shoulder height, all his weight behind it. Wil caught Marc’s fist, twisting up and away from his jaw, forcing Marc’s arm to bend back on itself, elbow by his ear.
“Don’t make me do this, Marc. “
Wil held Marc’s arm, their muscles swelling and knotting as they fought for control. Marc tried to free himself from the other man’s unyielding grasp. Suddenly changing tactics, he swung at Wil with his left hand. With an audible crack, his enormous fist connected with Wil’s face. Neither man seemed to notice. Marc drew back, swinging again from the left.
Wil dropped Marc’s right hand in order to block the blow. He grabbed Marc’s arm in an elbow lock. Using the force of the attack, he spun Marc to face him, slamming his fist into Marc’s abdomen.
Instead of recoiling from the blow, Marc moved in, utilizing Wil’s momentum and his own greater weight, to put his opponent off balance. He threw Wil to the floor, hitting him with a bone grinding body slam.
Wil exhaled sharply as he grappled with one hand in Marc’s hair. Wil forced Marc’s head back at an odd angle. Marc’s face grew dark red as he gasped for breath.
Matilda reacted instinctively, her weapon trained on Wil automatically. Stance defiant, her eyes glittered with dark fire.
“Let him go,” she spoke quietly, teeth clenched.
Wil held Marc’s head, but stopped twisting.
“Why don’t you put the gun down, Ma’am, before you hurt yourself?”
Wil’s face registered momentary surprise when she didn’t immediately comply. Instead, her grip shifted on the weapon, her aim true, right between his eyes. The astonishment was quickly replaced by a placid expression. VanLipsig allowed himself a glance in her direction. Her face held a determination equal to his own. Slowly, he let go of Marc, who straightened up, shaking his head.
“Move away from him.”
VanLipsig stood in one fluid motion, taking two steps back. His hands were shoulder height, out from his body. He made no sudden movements, his demeanor passive.
“Now would one of you testosterone glutted males tell me what the hell is going on?” Her dark eyes flashed dangerously.

You can purchase this book at Amazon com., on Smashwords or in the Nook store at Barnes and Noble. Click here: <a href=”http://www.amazon.com/Lone-Wolf-Dellani-Oakes/dp/193517150X/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1326728932&sr=1-2″>

Old Frank would have never let those mistakes reach the printed page–or a digital page, had there been a digital reader in his day. He did his dirty work off dirty paper. Frank was a venerable proofreader, the pride of Moore Business Forms and the bane of my typesetting day. With his sparse conversation and implacable will, he could have been the lead in the Melville story, Bartleby the Scrivener.

Frank occupied a tiny office one floor down from my typesetting machine. The omnipresent clanking from the printing presses stopped right outside his door, as if his enervative stare could even stop sound waves in their path. I would visit Frank several times a day because every page I produced had to pass his inspection. And inspect he did with his little rheumy eyes, his bright desk lamps, his magnifying glass. Nothing got past Frank.

One time, the boss gave me a multi-page job laid out on blueprint sized paper. When the boss unfolded it and spread the pages to show me, I nearly quit on the spot. Half the copy was covered in coffee stains and most pages were covered with a patchwork of cut-outs haphazardly taped together. The specs were scrawled in what looked like the Aramaic alphabet. When I protested, and I did so vociferously even at the cost of being fired, the boss told me to ask Frank for help.

What followed was a brainstorming session with Frank. He never wavered from his certitude that the coffee stain on the lower left of page four was actually a product name, or the seam between two shreds of tape meant that the margin was one inch wide. And so it went. And went again for days. Until the job passed muster.

The moral of the story is Frank cared about what left his desk to be published. And I cared too, even if I complained. We wanted to get it right, whether it was an insurance form, a booklet of product specifications, or the tiny label on a bottle of medicine. Think about what a typo might do on some of those things.

In a book, even if it’s not a textbook or a scholarly nonfiction book, errors should matter. After writers expend so much time and pour their life out on to the pages, shouldn’t the end product read as perfect as possible? There’s no lemon law for books. After all, a hardcover only costs about thirty bucks, so if the publisher doesn’t do quality control, who does it hurt?

What do you think? Do writers care anymore? Do publishers?

Mickey is the author of the Kendra Desola mystery series including Deadly Traffic and School of Lies, published by Second Wind LLC. Visit her website for more information. www.mickeyhoffman.com

Another little tidbit left out of history books is that the Mongols loved debating almost as much as they loved a good fight—but not as much as they liked drinking. A Franciscan monk named Rubruck arrived in the court of Mongke Khan in 1254. Rubruck had been sent by the French King Louis IX and had made several attempts to explain his brand of Christianity to Mongke, who followed an Assyrian Christian branch. Mongke decided to let Rubruck try to convince him and others by participating in a debate.

A Buddhist monk, a Muslim cleric, and Rubruck began their debate in front of a large audience. There were strict rules to the debate which even disallowed antagonistic language. They debated for hours and rested and drank between each round. The debate is recorded as ending when all parties gave up the idea of being able to convince the other sides and diversely began, with their associated groups, to sing hymns, recite the Koran and meditate, all in a drunken stupor. This behavior may seem unharmonious and unrefined, but it compares most favorably to the pogroms and inquisitions underway elsewhere.

While Rubruck was debating freely in the Mongol court, his king, Louis IX, began a campaign of intolerance against the Jews under his control. Louis, later given sainthood for his piousness, rounded up about 12,000 Jewish texts and illustrated manuscripts and burned them. And in 1255, the Pope for the first time granted permission for the torture of heretics by priests.

During this time, Rubruck arrived home with Mongke’s words: Mongke believed that like humans have many fingers, God also gave man their many differences.”

I find it ironic that the history books portray Mongols as the barbarians when, in fact, Europeans could have learned some extremely valuable lessons from them. Would Jews have been better off if the Mongols had been able to conquer and hold Europe? Certainly European civilization could have advanced more quickly without all those religious wars. For example: Arab sciences and math would have been adopted centuries earlier, for the benefit of all. And Spain would have profited greatly had they kept their educated Jewish and Muslim citizens.

Well, that’s my take on medieval life. What do you think?

Mickey Hoffman is the author of two mystery novels, Deadly Traffic and School of Lies, published by Second Wind LLC. and available on Amazon.com, Smashwords and BN Nook. For details please check out my website: www.mickeyhoffman.com

I know him Or, I did. For the first time I look down at myself. Although I haven’t changed, the young man in front of me can’t be here. But he is and that’s the trouble. I’ve aged but he’s still young. Before I get my brain untangled enough to sort things out, Second Suit identifies himself as FBI and begins to speak but I’m not really hearing anything. My eyes are fixed on the impossibly young man, who happens to be Jared, my first serious boyfriend in the time zone back when time made sense. I’m hearing Tall Suit now. Jared’s being charged with murder and he’s given me as his alibi.

Yes, now I remember. I was with him. We sneaked into his mother’s house and while she dozed in her easy chair, snatched one of her Billie Holiday records and took it into his room to play. Without going into details, he took me home in the wee hours of the morning. But that happened long ago. Even if he’s been in two places at once—-one in this timeline and one in mine–and has really murdered someone, why has the FBI waited until now to arrest him? Wait, what is “now” anyway? The now where I’m 18 or the one where I’m past wanting to admit how old I am?

Agent First Suit is still talking and I’ve missed most of a very long accusatory speech directed at Jared. Now he turns to me and asks me if I can support the alibi. In the only sense I know of, I say yes. Suit doesn’t like this. Somewhere between “I know you’re lying” and “Just because you’re a teacher doesn’t mean I believe you” comes another switch….

To a police station this time, an interrogation room with one of those one-way windows. Inside the room sits First Suit and a burly, red-faced man teenager who’s snarling his innocence. The more he protests, the more assertively the agent demands answers. I feel the presence of someone close behind me and whirl around. A female officer, a fictional character straight out of my novel, is asking me, “How well do you know Phillip Crandle?”

Do I? I am not even sure who I am at the moment. In which time, past or present, should I search my memory for a Crandle? The officer tells me Crandle was picked up with the murder weapon and Jared will be bumped down to an accessory once Crandle admits guilt. Or possibly even let go. Fine, so what do they want with me? I’ve been plucked from my time and although no one’s said so, I feel an implied threat to cooperate. Or what? If these people operate with logic, it escapes my comprehension.

I shudder I peer reluctantly through the glass into the interview room. First Suit has removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He’s sipping from a mug, eyeing Crandle, who keeps up a constant stream of denial and abuse and looks very, very capable of homicide. The face comes to me in an instant, as if a card dealer turned up a card I knew he had all along. I recognize the kid now–a student in my first period class. In my present, not the past. But who am I to quibble about these little details? This mash up of time isn’t my responsibility

So I give the officer enough background about Crandle to make any sane person want to lock him up for 500 years. And what does it matter, if he did it or not, because this time—-this universe?—-isn’t real. It can’t be.

Suddenly, I’m in a court room, one more Elizabethan than 21st century. Jared’s mother, dressed in funereal black, is at my side. We’re in the first row along with Jared’s whole family. She clutches at my hand and thanks me for helping to save her son. She whispers her certitude that when the jury sees the two accused men, side by side, they’ll realize Crandle committed the murder himself and Jared has been framed.

But I haven’t saved him. Not yet. He’s in the dock along with Crandle and a man who I can’t seem to see–no matter how hard I stare he looks more like a shadow than an attorney. And the courtroom has filled with angry, sword-wielding people, shouting for blood. Whose? Since when do they put two people on trial at the same time? Since this “when” I guess.

The clerk of the court announces the judge and I pull my hand free and lean to face the bench. At that moment it becomes clear to me I’ve made a big mistake. The judge will give these people the blood they’re demanding. Someone will die after this trial. Jared can’t have committed the crime. But Crandle couldn’t have done it any more than I could have because he wasn’t even born yet the night Jared introduced me to Billie Holiday. Crandle will die anyway, because of me. I jump up to rush the bench.

And then I wake up.

Author’s note: This, apparently, is what I get from watching episodes of NCIS and Star Trek, and reading a fantasy novel on the same day.

Mickey is the author of the mystery novel School of Lies and the soon to be released sequel, Deadly Traffic. Please check out www.mickeyhoffman.com for details.

7:15 What fun! I knock over the garbage and everything spills out all over the kitchen. Such rolling, sliding and dripping fun!
7:30 Daddy wakes up.
7:35 Daddy sweeps and mops kitchen, puts garbage bag back.
7:40 I guess he wants to play! I knock over the garbage bag and spread everything out. What a game!
7:45 Daddy walks into living room muttering something about peace and quiet. I follow him.
7:47 Daddy picks me and gives me hugs and kisses as he carries me into dining room.
7:47-8:15 See entries for 7:45 and 7:47. We play this game three more times.
8:15 I lie contentedly on Daddy’s desk. Daddy is in the kitchen. Suddenly, a gigantic tornado sweeps into the room. Several of Daddy’s heavy books crash to the floor and papers fall into the trash basket. I jump up startled. After all, I’ve never experienced a tornado before. I don’t think Daddy noticed it.
8:30 I join Daddy in the kitchen. A mouse squeaks in the cupboard. It’s so loud, why doesn’t Daddy hear it? I jump into the cabinet to quiet the mouse as only I can, so Daddy can read the paper without getting disturbed. Ooops, the mouse knocks over some dishes in its haste to beat a retreat. Lucky for the mouse, nothing breaks. Daddy gets up and rescues me from the cabinet before a dish can fall on me.
9:00 Daddy feeds the fish. I help. I like frozen fish food! Daddy stops feeding and gets the toy mousie to get me out of the living room. He thinks he’s tricking me. I humor him because we play mousie for 15 mintues.
9:15 Daddy annoints me Master of the Universe.
9:30-11:30 I sleep contentedly. Daddy seemed tense and nervous when I went to sleep. I must try to comfort him later because he was so nice to me all morning.
11:35 See 7:15 and 7:40. But Daddy won’t play now. There’s garbage on the floor. My goodness, that’s not very sanitary. But I lack the opposable thumbs to clean it up. Maybe Mommie will play with me.
11:40 She seems busy. Well, I have my priorities. Back to sleep…

Happy Holidays everyone! I hope you enjoyed this little story written by a person dear to me.

The tear-shaped wedges at corners. The set of triangles that jut out at pedestrian crosswalks. The large, solid circles where narrow streets intersect. Some have signs on them. Others have inlays of fake stone. Some have withered plantings. One particularly bizarre circle has a row of stunted biomorphic sculptures that look like they were cut from tin cans. These attempts at decoration are as dispiriting as they are futile.

Mostly, what these concretions accomplish is to obstruct a driver’s view. They also cause cars to veer into oncoming traffic to avoid hitting the pedestrian walkways. If you can’t park on one side of the street and want to make a U-turn to park on the other side, forget it. The lump is in the way. The answer? I was blithely told by a traffic dept. employee to make my turns in the intersection. An intersection that hasn’t been taken up by a lump of concrete, ostensibly. Did it ever occur to them that there might be more accidents from cars making U-turns that way than there were before the drivers had their driving calmed?

So as I write this, they’re hard at work on my street, creating a tear-shaped chunk near the corner. They’re pouring the concrete right now. I’m itching to go over and see if someone’s cousin Luigi is lying inside the wooden pour forms. Not that I really believe anything that insidious is at work here. But with the city budget so tight they’ve closed down fire stations, you’d think the city would spend money on more important things than traffic control on a side street. Especially a street in a somewhat downtrodden, downtown area. (If we had a councilman living on the block, maybe…) But, somehow, there exists a public safety need for this new concrete! More urgent than a fire station! Scarier than a house on fire! And, apparently, for rabid northern California drivers, mere stop signs and traffic lights aren’t good enough

When I first learned of the planned incursion on my corner, I couldn’t understand it. Maybe I’d missed something? So I called the city and asked a friendly bureaucrat how many traffic accidents have been logged at my corner—the one that’s being endowed today. There was a long silence, so I repeated the question. Then after some keyboard clicking the answer came. “None.” The rest of the conversation went along the same fruitful lines. Sadly, the transcript isn’t available. It was recorded and has been filed in the Division of Illogical Decision Making on a top secret shelf.

So I leave you to draw your own conclusions. Why the burst of activity requiring all the man-hours and expensive equipment? The only answer I’ve got is that someone high up in the city government is related to someone else who runs a concrete business. Maybe not a mob relationship, but that is heinous enough in my book.

Mickey Hoffman is the author of the mystery novel School of Lies and the upcoming Deadly Traffic. Visit her at www.mickeyhoffman.com

The lights were on in Zazzi’s Hair Palace, advertising its presence in a garish scribble of neon. The block also held a secondhand appliance store, a tiny burrito joint, a paycheck loan business, and an apartment house that looked like a cheap motel. A man wearing a bandana got up from the metal table outside the burrito place, threw his trash in the general vicinity of a garbage can and strolled away like he owned the street. Kendra wanted to tell him if he wanted it, he could have it.
At Kendra’s insistence, they left the Mustang parked under a streetlight in front of the money store where the steady stream of customers might prevent it from being stolen. They walked until they were directly across the street from the two-story building that housed the hair salon. A CLOSED sign hung on the door.

“You sure this is the place?” Kendra asked. “Must be the wrong address. It doesn’t look like anyone lives here.” With luck, he’d see it her way and decide to leave.

“There’s an apartment on the second floor, see?”

A hefty and very permed blonde woman came into view behind the plate glass window. She was wielding a push broom, thrusting it like an assault on the floor. Her armpits were unshaved, and leg hairs poked out of the gaps in her fishnet stockings. Her upper arms, bared from a sleeveless top, were the size of Kendra’s thighs. She had a hard look about her mouth, a look that said she’d earned it through years of low expectations coming to fruition. Kendra had seen the same expression on parents’ faces during expulsion hearings.

“Wow, I wonder what she’s wearing for Halloween?” he mumbled.

“Shh! You better talk to her, not me. Something tells me she’ll be happier with attention from the opposite sex.
He tried the door, found it locked and tapped on the glass. The woman ignored the intrusion at first but when he kept it up, she yelled, “We’re closed!”

Kendra watched, half-admiring, half-disgusted as her companion flashed a smile good enough to get him a star on the sidewalk in Hollywood. The woman gave him a slow, top to bottom look and invited them in. Amazing. At her age, didn’t she know better than to open the door to a stranger on the basis of a sexy smile? But then, given the way she looked… Anyway, Ms. Zazzi appeared more than capable of defending herself if the necessity arose.

“Sorry to bother you. I’m looking for someone,” he said as the woman relocked the door. The click of the dead bolt made Kendra’s breath catch. Escape route gone!

“I was hoping you were looking for me,” said the woman with a suggestive bat of her false eyelashes. She fished a pack of cigarettes from a purse on the counter and offered them around, lighting up when there were no takers.
Kendra had to admit he really knew how to get what he wanted.

Deadly Traffic will be published soon. Visit www.mickeyhoffman.com for more information.

“What is it, Nicole? Aren’t you assigned to VP Favor this period?” Zant gave her a quick head to toe appraisal. Nicole was squirming in front of him, working her fingers into the back pocket of her exceedingly tight jeans. She surely was a “babe,” as the students said. Zant wasn’t so far removed from those years that he couldn’t easily remember how it felt to be in class with girls like her. Next thing you know, she’d be calling him a dirty old man, but what should he do with his eyes? These kids thought a dress code was a cipher to be broken, not a clothing guide. He forced himself to look at her face, at that lovely wide mouth.

“I already told you that I won’t have you reinstated as a candidate, Nicole. Once you get a suspension, you can’t run for office.”

“This’ll make you change your mind.” Nicole held out an envelope decorated with her signature cartoon and moved forward to edge around the side of his desk. In a lower voice she continued, “Yesterday, after school, I was on my way to interview a teacher for the school paper and I saw the Special Ed. teachers having a little get-together in the room next door. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but when I heard what they were talking about I thought, like, maybe I’d help you out a bit, you know?” She upended the envelope and slid out two cassette tapes.

When Zant didn’t rise to the bait, Nicole made a gesture to put the tapes back. “Or, maybe you already know what they’re planning to do?”

He could see his pet tarantula in its tank, crawling mere inches from the girl’s arm. He was struck by the irony that the girl was a predator in her own way as well. However, her proposal was not without interest. The gleam in his eyes contradicted his careful words. “I don’t make deals with students, Nicole. Save your business skills for your senior vocational task.” He picked up his Army insignia paperweight and fondled it.

“Well, Mr. Zant, I think that you’ll find it very worth your while to listen to this. Tell you what, you can have ‘part one’ now. After you hear how their meeting was going, I just know you’ll want ‘part two’.” Nicole leaned forward, revealing several inches of cleavage. She dangled the tape before him. “I’m totally sure you’ll want to show your appreciation by putting my name back on the ballot and then I’ll give you the second tape. You know I should be senior class President.”

The VP gave her his most professional smile. “I’ll give it only my best, Nicole. Hand it over and go.”
“I knew you’d see the light, Mr. Zant.” She dropped the cassette into his hand and bounded out of the room, leaving a cloud of perfume behind.

Cripes, he thought, that café latte girl was much more than her six feet of trouble. The tape seemed to jeer at him from his hand. Clearing his head, he locked it into a drawer. He’d listen to the tape later. That had been a real interesting little scene. The tape must have been made on the sly. It was probably illegal to even have it. Even if it actually did contain useful information, he had no intention of reinstating her as a candidate. He’d find a way to get the second part of the tape.

For more about this book and the upcoming sequel, Deadly Traffic, visit my website, www.mickeyhoffman.com

I’d put a link here but WordPress doesn’t seem to be doing links at the moment……..

Dear Jizzy,
Since you’re one of those supersized felines, I feel for you. A dome? Buckminster Fuller is so passé. It’s hard to understand but cats have been singled out for this hideaway treatment. When’s the last time you saw a human throw a box over a dog doing its business? And I’d like to see them hold umbrellas over their heads when they’re on the toilet. Sorry, I did not mean to give you that image. Forget I mentioned it. But, to answer your question, my advice is to do this: Stick your head into the offending cavern and howl as loud as you can. If this doesn’t give them the message you’re ready for step two. Pretend to get stuck inside. Just make sure they’re in the room in case you really do get stuck in there! If they haven’t remembered to fasten the top down you can get inside and play bucking bronco with the dome. One of these ideas should do the trick. If not, I’m afraid you’re gonna have to miss the pan by a few inches. I know that probably won’t be well received but it will get a message across. Remember, you’re a BIG kitty and you should be able to throw your weight around.

Dear Gabby,
My human tied up the cords from the mini blinds so I can’t chew them anymore! What can I do to get the cords back? They took away my favorite game. —Monroe the tabby

Dear Monroe,
You can always hope that the cords will come unhitched, but really, shame on you, you know that’s not a safe game! What if you get your paw tangled up, you’ll be hanging there until someone comes to your rescue! And have you ever thought what would happen if the dog finds you there, all trussed up? Imagine how humiliated you’d be! What I suggest is finding something else to substitute for the cords like the fringe on the rug, leather shoe laces, or your human’s ponytail.

Dear Gabby,
Last week my human mommy bought a little plastic blob and stuck it on the side of the toilet tank. It stinks really bad and now she won’t let me drink out of the toilet! She said something about germs. Are there germs in the blob thing? —Royce, Border collie

Dear Royce,
Ah, another human with a defective nose. They just don’t have our refined smelling abilities. Perhaps that’s why they keep messing with the air. It’s a wonder they can find things or recognize anyone after playing around with so much perfume. But don’t get me started on those air fresheners, many of which are actually poisonous to pets. In your case, if your mom is keeping the lid down there isn’t a whole lot you can do and you wouldn’t want to drink that water now anyhow, it’s completely ruined. Heaven knows what’s in it, roses, lemons, bleach, UGH, it could be anything! You’ll just have to make do with your water bowl or the garden hose. These are trying times indeed.

Dear Gabby,
I heard my humans say that I am getting too interested in “the birds and the bees”. They aim to take me to the vet. Did I do something wrong? —Baxter, Whippet puppy

Dear Baxter,
This is a very delicate area (no puns intended). You are totally innocent of all crimes except maturing. Watch a few episodes of Dr. Phil and you’ll almost be glad they’re doing this to you. Dames are nothing but trouble.

Mickey Hoffman is the author of the mystery novel, School of Lies, and the soon to be released sequel, Deadly Traffic.
You can visit her at www.mickeyhoffman.com

Bathtub: A deep bed often filled with water and stinky, foaming substances. When it’s filled up, you’ll want to distract your owner from wanting to put you in it. Sink a claw into one of the big towels hanging nearby and let it drop in. If there’s no towel, pounce on the shower curtain so it falls inside. They’ll think you’re in full play mode, and if they see you acting “wild” they’ll really forget about fur washing! If you’re lucky, afterward they’ll leave the tap running and when the tub is empty you can jump for a nice, refreshing drink.

Bowl: A toy that comes in many shapes and sizes. It’s best attributes are the wide open tops and rounded sides that allow you to stick in a paw and slide out whatever is inside. Really a great invention!

Catnap: A human resting behavior that has been mistakenly named after something we cats do when we have done all of our chores and want to catch a few winks. Humans, however, seem to “cat” nap instead of doing something else, often something they don’t really feel like doing.

Computer: Mostly a lighted box with accessories, one of which is a mat with little lumps operated by tip-toeing on them. Another box spits out papers and it’s a real hoot to see if you can catch them before they wind up in a boring pile. Some computers come with a wonderful variety of chewable cords. It’s best to explore all of this in the dead of night because your owner might be somewhat possessive about these items.

Desk: A smooth, flat surface good for practicing your home run slide. Some models also have drawers just chocked with moveable toys. Many humans kindly increase our fun by hiding the toys under piles of papers so we can ferret them out. Occasionally, small food offerings are also left there for us.

Door: A flat, and often hard to move slab that we are always told we’re on the wrong side of. Humans seem to have stronger feelings about one of the sides of some doors and do not understand the necessity of being able to move from one side to the other. You will notice, however, that the litter boxes with domes never have doors on them at all. I say, what’s good for them should be good for us.

Houseplant: A live plant our humans have brought in for us to inspect and show them how to enjoy. It is obvious that they need this help since they don’t seem to know that these things are exactly the same as the wheatgrass they are always giving us to chew on.

Litter Box: A tray filled with often hilarious substances (what will they think of next?) given to us for our “convenience” and apparently for our amusement. The contents can be dug up and kicked about or flung over one shoulder in some instances. What fun! The humans often try to imitate us by digging into the litter themselves, but they never leave it in quite the right shape.

Scratching post: A pole usually shaped like a tree trunk, but lacking the challenges of one. Although it’s painfully obvious what our humans want us to use these for, we get much less attention using the posts compared to when we do the exact same thing on the sofa, so why bother?

Train Your Human in Just One Weekend!
A short course in human behavior by Delia Wippet —– Order Now!

Train your human to:
• never run out the door without you.
• understand your directions the first time.
• stop secret, midnight eating and chewing.
• allow you take things out of his/her mouth.
• fetch your misplaced tennis balls and toys.
• let you exercise wherever you want.

Mickey Hoffman is the author of the mystery novel School of Lies and the upcoming sequel, Deadly Traffic.
Visit her website at www.mickeyhoffman.com