Happy New Year

 

Let's make 2022 a great year for everyone.

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah

Books make a thoughtful present and are a great entertainment value. They provide hour upon hour of personal pleasure, and then they can be passed on to another person. What could be better?

"The Shut Mouth Society is a fast-moving, well-written novel." David M. Kinchen, Huntington News

"Best makes this a compelling—indeed frightening—story. Deluge is a highly recommended natural disaster thriller, written with acute attention to reality and little, if any, needless melodramatics." Jack B. Rochester, Fictional Café

The Steve Dancy Tales

Goodreads: Nearly four thousand series ratings for 4.4 stars

The real story of our nation's founding.

"This is by far the BEST book on the origins of the U.S. Constitution . . . and it's a novel. But Best gets all the motivations and details right as any "history" book. Get this!"

Larry Schweikart, author A Patriot's History of the United States and over a dozen other history books

Tips from the best writers in history.

A great stocking stuffer for the writer in the family.

Order Today

Veterans Day Memorial

My father never met me. He died in WWII in the cockpit of his P-51. I wouldn't be here, except for a brief leave between flight school and his assignment to Iwo Jima. He provided escort service to the B-29s that bombed Japan daily.

I don't have many pictures of him, but this one was posted to a website honoring the 506th Fighter Group. My father is the furthest out on the wing.

My father and many soldiers throughout our history fought to preserve our freedom. 

I'd like to wish him and all of his compatriots that helped keep us safe and free, Happy Veterans Day ... and thank you.

Bridge Across the Ocean, A Novel by Jack B. Rochester

I like fish out of water stories. The Steve Dancy Tales is about a New Yorker trying to survive the Wild West and Bridge Across the Ocean tells the story of New Hampshire bicycle entrepreneurs doing the deal of a lifetime in Taiwan. 

Intellectual property thieves try to ruin the dream, but the real challenge is bringing the deal and a love relationship to fruition in a culture completely foreign to Yankees from New England. Bridge Across the Ocean delves deeply into the cycling sub-culture and presents a distinct perception of life and countryside when experienced from the saddle of a bicycle .

Will a love of cycling be enough to bridge the gap between American custom bike craftsmen and Taiwanese mass producers? Read the book to find out.

The Templar Reprisals at The Fictional Café

 

“The Templar Reprisals,” An Excerpt by James D. Best

Today, the Fictional Café has published an excerpt from The Templar Reprisals. You can view it here. 

The excerpt comes with a generous Editor's Note:

James D. Best is a prolific author, perhaps best known for his Steve Dancy Westerns, which have sold over 100,000 copies. Jim’s tagline for the seven novels (and one short story collection) is “Honest Westerns. Full of Dishonest Characters.”

But like many successful popular fiction authors such as Lee Child, Michael Connelly, Lisa Gardner and John Sandford (to name a few of my favorites), Jim has written some excellent works beyond the Dancy series: Deluge, The Shut Mouth Society, and now The Templar Reprisals. I’m a big fan of his work, not only because he’s a darned good writer but he also writes excellent, intriguing stories. He lives up a hundred percent to my favorite aphorism, “A good story, well told.” Herewith, the first four chapters of “Templar.” If you like what you read, be sure to visit Jim’s website, where you can find this and all of his works in paper, eBook and often in audiobook as well.

Welcome back to The Fictional Café, Jim

— Jack

In celebration of Constitution Day, an Excerpt from Tempest at Dawn

 

Chapter 40

Monday, September 17, 1787

 

Madison sat in his customary place with folded hands resting on the table. He didn’t intend to take notes today. In fact, he didn’t intend to take any more notes on any day. This signing ceremony would be the final act of the convention.

Madison noticed that his ink-stained hands looked prayerful. He thought this fitting because a reverential spirit suffused the assembly. The chamber remained hushed as the secretary read the engrossed Constitution in its entirety. At the conclusion, Franklin rose with a speech in his hand.

“Mr. President, I confess there are several parts of this Constitution I don’t like, but I’m not sure I won’t later approve of them. Most men believe they possess all truth and that whoever differs from them is in error. The older I grow, the more I doubt my own judgment and the more I pay attention to the judgment of others.

“When you assemble a group of men to take advantage of their collective wisdom, you inevitably bring together all their prejudices, passions, and selfish views. From such an assembly, can one expect perfection? It astonishes me that this system approaches so near perfection.

“Thus, I consent to this Constitution because I’m not sure that it’s not the best. My reservations were born within these walls and here they’ll die. I’ll never whisper a syllable about my uncertainties. I hope we all heartily recommend this Constitution. My wish is that any member who still harbors objections will, with me, doubt his own infallibility and put his name to this document.”

Franklin dropped his papers to his side and spoke in a commanding voice. “I move the Constitution be signed.”

The old man had made a fine last attempt to pull the three dissenters along, but Madison doubted that it would work. They would have to settle for artifice; by the unanimous consent of the states present ignored the two missing states and the seven delegates—counting those who had left—who dissented.

Gorham, looking nervous, asked for the floor. “Gentlemen, I wish that the clause declaring, ‘the number of Representatives shall not exceed one for every forty thousand,’ be changed to ‘thirty thousand.’” Hamilton immediately seconded the motion.

Washington rose to put the question to a vote, hesitated, and then expressed his opinion for the first time. “Although I have hitherto restrained myself, my wish is that the proposal be approved. Many consider the small proportion of representatives insufficient to secure the rights and interests of the people. Late as the present moment is, it will give me great satisfaction to see this amendment adopted.”

Madison turned to see Sherman’s reaction. Ellsworth tapped his forearm, but Sherman just smiled and made a flick of his hand. Sherman couldn’t countermand the sole wish expressed by the great hero of the Revolution, but Madison wished he had been rewarded with a flash of anger or at least surprise.

Without debate, the amendment was approved—in the manner so dear to Gen. Washington’s heart—unanimously.

Madison expected this to be the end, but Randolph urgently asked for the floor. Bristling with indignation, he stared at the Pennsylvania table. “I resent the allusions to myself by Dr. Franklin.” Randolph turned toward Washington. “I apologize for refusing to sign the Constitution. I don’t mean by this refusal to oppose the Constitution beyond these doors. I only mean to keep myself free to be governed by future judgments.”

Gerry felt obliged to explain his refusal. “This is painful, and I won’t offer any further observations. The outcome has been decided. While the plan was in debate, I offered my opinions freely, but I’m now bound to treat it with the respect due an act of the convention. I hope that I’m not violating that respect by declaring I fear a civil war might erupt from these proceedings.”

Gerry gave a disrespectful glance toward the Pennsylvania table. “As for Dr. Franklin’s remarks, I cannot but view them as leveled at myself and the other gentlemen who mean not to sign.”

Pinckney had lost his normal composure, but none of his arrogance. “We’re not going to gain any more converts. Let’s sign the document.”

King interrupted the initiation of the signing ceremony. “I suggest that the journals of the convention be destroyed or deposited in the custody of the president. If it becomes public, those who wish to prevent the adoption of the Constitution will put it to bad use.”

 “I prefer the second expedient.” Wilson looked directly at Gerry. “Some may make false representations of our proceedings, and we’ll need evidence to contradict them.”

 The last hour confirmed Madison’s suspicion that the fight for ratification would be divisive and mean-spirited.

The motion passed to deposit the journals into the hands of Washington.

Finally, all other business completed, Washington formally called on the delegates to sign the Constitution. The secretary had arranged the Syng inkstand that had been used to sign the Declaration of Independence on a green baize-covered table. Washington walked around the table and signed first. He then called the states from north to south. The delegates remained silent and reverential as they approached the low dais to apply their signatures.

When Virginia was called, Madison felt a tightening in his stomach. This Constitution would permanently bind his beloved country. When he picked up the pen, he looked at Washington, who stood respectfully to the side, instead of behind the table. The precedents set by this man would seal these words. Madison grabbed the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and signed with confidence. When he looked up, Washington gave him a nod that made Madison think he had read his mind.

Despite his illness, Franklin had remained standing after he signed, shaking hands with delegates and whispering an occasional aside. While the last members were signing, tears glistened in Franklin’s eyes. With an obvious struggle to control his emotions, he began to speak in a stronger than normal voice.

“Gentlemen, have you observed the half sun painted on the back the president’s chair? Artists find it difficult to distinguish a rising from a setting sun. In these many months, I have been unable to tell which it was. Now, I’m happy to exclaim that it is a rising, not a setting sun.”

Once the last signature was in place, no one wanted to spend another moment in this room that had dominated their lives for so many months. Besides, John Dickinson had left a banknote with George Read to pay for a celebratory dinner at the City Tavern.

Because of the momentous day, Franklin had abandoned his rented prisoners and intended to walk out of the State House. Madison grabbed one elbow, and Wilson took the opposite side to help the old man out of the chamber. Madison hoped he could protect Franklin from being jostled by the bubbling delegates, but Washington took a point position in front of their little group, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea.

“I want to thank you gentlemen for helping an enfeebled and diminished old man,” Franklin said.

“I witnessed your diminished capacity these many months,” Madison said. He became puzzled when this somehow evoked a hearty chuckle from Franklin.

The doctor glanced between Madison and Wilson. “I’m usually assisted by the inmates of Walnut Street Prison. It occurs to me that you men have been prisoners in this chamber.” Franklin chuckled again. “With the power vested in me by the State of Pennsylvania, I pardon and set you free.”

At that precise moment, with theatrics that seemed natural to Washington, the sentries threw open the doors to the State House, and Madison was assaulted by bright sunlight and a deafening roar. Hundreds of people cheered, clapped, and whistled at the sight of Gen. George Washington framed by the great double doors of the State House.

The threesome stopped a respectful distance behind Washington. This crowd was not going to part so easily. In fact, the sentries had skipped down the three steps and joined arms to hold back the surge of people.

“Our rambunctious session on Saturday told our fair citizens that we had concluded our business,” Franklin observed.

“Are you riding with the general?” Madison asked.

“Relax, boys. The general will know the exact moment to step off the stoop.”

True to Franklin’s prediction, Washington gauged the crowd’s mood perfectly, and when he stepped down, they gave the men a narrow path to Washington’s beautiful new carriage.

As they followed in the general’s footsteps, the people continued to cheer and applaud. A woman leaned her head past Madison to yell, “Dr. Franklin, what is it to be? A republic or a monarchy?”

The doctor hesitated in his step and looked over the throng of anxious people. His answer came in a firm, loud voice.

            “A republic—if you can keep it.”

An action snippet from The Templar Reprisals

I asked a friend if he had read The Templar Reprisals.  He explained that he preferred my Steve Dancy Tales. On further discussion, I discovered he had read none of The Best Thrillers. He insisted he only read shoot-em-ups. Well, this snippet from The Templar Reprisals is for him

“Trish, are you okay?”

“Yes, but I heard shots. Where are you?”

“Two cars ambushed me at our gate. Only one has given chase. The others may try to get through our security. Code Union. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Trish became quiet, but he could hear heavy breathing. Good. That meant she was racing to their saferoom. He and Trish had set up Code Union to mean race for their saferoom which was hidden in the master suite.

Early in his police career he had advised the wealthy on home security. Now, he was among the rich, so he had a state-of-the-art system. They lived on an outcropping in the San Ynez Mountains, and the only access was a serpentine road that twisted away from Santa Barbara. After a couple squealing turns, Evarts heard Trish say she was in. He ended the call. She was safe.

Now, how to deal with these assholes behind him?

He suddenly tapped the brakes and then accelerated, repeating the process several times. As he slowed, he hoped it looked like he had run out of gas. The chase car came barreling on. When it was fifty feet away, Evarts slammed on the brakes, coming to a complete stop, then put it in reverse and punched it. He aimed right at the chase car. To avoid a crash, the car swerved to the center of the road. Evarts swung the back of his pickup to meet the pursuit car’s right front bumper. The sedan was no match for the heavy truck. The off-center hit spun the sedan and sent it flying into the low brush off the road. Evarts broke hard, unsnapped his seatbelt, and as he threw open his truck door, pulled his Glock .40 handgun. Before the pursuing car came to a rest, Evarts was racing toward the car.

Not fast enough.

Two men flew out of the car. Both with guns. Evarts shot the driver before he could raise his weapon. The assailant on the passenger side rested his gun on the roof of the sedan and fired three shots. Evarts had already dived to the ground. He rolled twice and got to his knees opposite the driver’s wide-open door. Firing through the car, Evarts shot the second assailant twice in the stomach, then snapped to his full height to shoot over the roof. He put a single shot into the head of the assailant.

Katey Jo Gordon Wins “Ultimate Cowboy Showdown” on INSP

From INSP press release: 

Katey Jo Gordon is a fifth-generation cowboy who has competed in rodeos from the tender age of two and won her first competition when she was only five years old. Over the years, she earned a rodeo scholarship, and her triumphs riding on the rodeo circuit have reached the hundreds, with no signs of slowing down. Originally from New Mexico, Katey Jo now resides in Ryan, Oklahoma, and works alongside her husband and father on the family’s cattle ranch.

Katey Jo, a former U.S. Team Roping and American Junior Rodeo Champion.

 INSP is a fun channel dedicated to Western culture.

The Templar Reprisals now available in hardcover, trade paperback, and Kindle!

 

Book #3 in The Best Thrillers

To escape a deadly attack in Paris, a small-town police chief and his wife kill two terrorists.  This fateful clash draws them into a centuries-old feud between two secret societies. Returning to America, they discover the incident has followed them home. To survive, they must figure out who has endangered their lives and hometown.

Order today from Amazon!

Larry McMurtry 84 Dies—Author of Lonesome Dove

 

Lonesome Dove is one of my favorite novels and my favorite mini-series. You notice I didn’t qualify my statement by writing western novel or western mini-series. That’s because Larry McMurtry was a great writer, without any need for qualification. Writing is a craft, storytelling an art. Stories that live through multiple generations are not only compelling narratives but also are crafted to never take the reader out of the story with poor grammar, meaningless cul-de-sacs, bombast, or dullness.

“When a book, any sort of book, reaches a certain intensity of artistic performance it becomes literature. That intensity may be a matter of style, situation, character, emotional tone, or idea, or half a dozen other things. It may also be a perfection of control over the movement of a story similar to the control a great pitcher has over a ball.” Raymond Chandler

McMurtry was a master storyteller in complete control of his craft. That’s why I found the New York Times obituary disappointing. Although condescension drips from the obituary writer, some of that disappointment came from McMurtry’s quotes. A western is a western. Period. There are no anti-westerns. Only good stories presented smoothly with great characterizations or flawed stories carelessly written with flat characters. For the most part McMurtry did the former and on occasion soared to greatness.

New York Times Obituary: Larry McMurtry, Novelist of the American West, Dies at 84

Larry McMurtry, a prolific novelist and screenwriter who demythologized the American West with his unromantic depictions of life on the 19th-century frontier and in contemporary small-town Texas, died on Thursday at home in Archer City, Texas. He was 84.

Mr. McMurtry wrote “Lonesome Dove” as an anti-western, a rebuke of sorts to the romantic notions of dime-store novels and an exorcism of the false ghosts in the work of writers like Louis L’Amour. “I’m a critic of the myth of the cowboy,’’ he told an interviewer in 1988. “I don’t feel that it’s a myth that pertains, and since it’s a part of my heritage I feel it’s a legitimate task to criticize it.’’

Why must any author apologize for writing westerns. It not like there’s no junky poetry, crummy detective stories, yawn-inspiring historical novels, or utterly boring slice-of-life attempts at a literary masterpiece. Only a few authors in any genre have the skill to rise above the chaff to give the public an awe-inspiring venture into another time and place.

In another paragraph, the obituary writer uses a single word at the start to diminish an entire genre of literature. Yet! Like it’s surprising that a western author might know his craft or be friends with proper intellectuals.

Yet Mr. McMurtry was a plugged-in man of American letters. For two years in the early 1990s he was American president of PEN, the august literary and human rights organization. He was a regular contributor to The New York Review of Books, where he often wrote on topics relating to the American West. His friends included the writer Susan Sontag, whom he once took to a stock car race.

Readers became friends with McMurtry's characters. We knew them. We cared about them. We cried at their misfortune. That is a skill reserved to the very few. May he rest in peace.

Honest westerns filled with dishonest characters.

The Templar Reprisals Sample Chapter

 Chapter 1

Now available for preorder.

The Warrior Monks are Back!

Paris had lost much of its charm. Greg Evarts started to express his disenchantment with their favorite city but decided to keep his mouth shut. There was no reason to dampen his wife’s enthusiasm.

She shook her head. “I can’t believe they ruined my city.”

“It’s not ruined,” he consoled.

“It’s no longer magical. In my book that’s the same as ruined.”

“Trish, you don’t really mean that.”

They were strolling across Pont Neuf to the Sequana restaurant on Île de la Cité island. Early for their reservation, they detoured into a bastion. Originally, the series of bastions had been designed so pedestrians could get out of the way of large carriages. Now they served as observation points to view the River Seine. They leaned against the stone railing and Patricia Baldwin hooked her arm through his as they watched the dinner cruise ships float gently up and down the river. Evening light played off the rippling water and they could hear faint dreamy music in the distance. It was perfect.

“You’re right, I didn’t mean it,” she said.

Evarts smiled and put his hand on her forearm.

“I do miss the Paris of my college years, though,” she said.

“It’s still here. You just have to look harder.”

“Greg, we’ve been looking for two days. So far, we’ve only spotted an echo. The Middle East attire and the forest of selfie-sticks bother me, but the soldiers are truly off-putting. How can the most romantic city in the world maintain its reputation with dead-serious soldiers marching everywhere in urban formations.”

“We’ve been visiting tourist attractions. Unfortunately, they’ve become targets for terrorism. You’ve got to admit the district around our hotel is Parisian to the core.”

“A pricy hotel in a niche district. That’s not the Paris of my youth.”

Evarts squeezed her forearm, saying nothing. He didn’t want to argue. Not this evening. This was their anniversary, and four years of marriage had taught him that when his wife’s mood turned sour, say nothing, but give verbal or physical feedback to show he was listening. It worked. She smiled and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Originally built in 1607, Pont Neuf was the oldest standing bridge crossing the Seine and had a reputation as a meeting place for lovers. Île de la Cité was the birthplace of Paris and in those early days, the bridge served as the hub of the city. At that time, it was clogged with vendors, street entertainers, and petty criminals. Benjamin Franklin found the bridge so seedy that he refused to walk across it. Now the bridge had been cleared of people earning a living, licit or otherwise.

 It was quiet. It was peaceful. It was romantic. A picture perfect summer evening in Paris and they were positioned perfectly to enjoy the twilight. Evarts felt inner contentment.

A horrific scream. A woman’s. Then a chorus of screams. Men and women. People in a panic ran toward them. What the hell was happening? Something terrifying! Something right behind this herd of screaming people. Evarts grabbed Baldwin’s arm and jerked her to his other side so his body could shield her from the mob. He felt her pull him away from the charging hoard, but instinct caused him to resist. He swiveled around to examine the other direction when he heard automatic gunfire come from the Right Bank.

Damn! They were in the middle of a terrorist attack.

He pulled Baldwin below the stone railing.

People ran. People screamed. Evarts heard glass shatter, horns blasting, and the crash of metal against metal as cars slammed on their brakes or hit the gas. Tranquility had instantly turned into chaos.

Soon, their alcove started to fill with people trying to escape the hail of bullets. This was a two-pronged attack. One or more terrorists on the Left Bank had done something to chase people toward gunmen on the Right Bank.

Evarts thought fast.

If the gunmen marching across the bridge had plenty of ammunition, they would soon reach their bastion. He heard three or four automatic rifles. He wasn’t going to wait to be murdered.

“We’re going away from the gunfire!” Evarts screamed over the noise.

Baldwin immediately nodded.

Holding hands, they scurried around the perimeter of the bastion until they were on the edge that led toward the Left Bank.

He waited until he heard the gunfire lighten. At least some of the shooters were changing magazines.

He yelled, “Now!”

They ran as if the Devil himself was behind them. After a couple of strides, Evarts pulled his wife in a weaving pattern. He was scared. He became more frightened when he heard all the guns start up again. As he ran, he scanned the bridge in front of him. People were panicked. They stopped running away from whatever was behind them but couldn’t make the decision to reverse course. Most fell to the ground or dove toward one of the bastions. None ran with him. What was he heading toward?

As his visibility up the bridge walkway cleared, he gasped. Ahead were two blood covered men wielding curved swords. He scanned the area between him and the nearest terrorist. No weapons. Not a rock or brick or even an umbrella. He let go of his wife’s hand and never broke stride as he picked up a selfie-stick. He collapsed the stick and ripped off the swivel end as he ran.

The nearest terrorist charged, screaming.

Evarts feinted a block with the selfie-stick, but then veered and ducked under the swing of the sword. He thrust the selfie-stick upward into the throat of the terrorist. Evarts felt the jagged, broken end dig deeply into the terrorist’s neck. As both hands went to his throat, the terrorist dropped the sword.

The second assailant came fast, sword held high for a killing blow. Too fast for Evarts to pick up the discarded sword. He braced his legs to jump to the side when he heard his wife yell.

“Arrête ou je tire!”

The harsh scream carried all the authority of a policeman. The command to stop or I’ll shoot worked. The second terrorist turned and started to charge her until he saw no weapon in her hand.

He returned his attention to Evarts. Too late. Evarts had retrieved the sword from the ground and had already begun his swing.

Evarts used every muscle in his body as he slashed a crosscut against his opponent’s body. The downward driving force ripped through the upper ribs on a slant and almost came out at the hips.

He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed Baldwin’s hand and ran like hell for the Left Bank.

Honest stories filled with dishonest characters.

The Templar Reprisals Available for Preorder

The Templar Reprisals

Book Three in the Best Thriller Series

The warrior monks are back.

To escape a deadly attack in Paris, a small-town police chief and his wife kill two terrorists.  This fateful clash draws them into a centuries-old feud between two secret societies. Returning to America, they discover the incident has followed them home. To survive, they must figure out who has endangered their lives and hometown.

Preorder today on Amazon!

Over 100,000 Steve Dancy Tales Sold!

 

Honest westerns filled with dishonest characters.

More precisely, Steve Dancy sales have reached 100,455. I wish they had all been in February, but that's a cumulative total for many years. (1,436 books sold in February.) The Shopkeeper has also reached 700 Amazon customer reviews for 4.4 stars. The series has 1,495 Amazon customer reviews for 4.5 stars. 

Thank you to all my readers.