It wasn’t until many years later that I finally got it and I’ve now updated the tired old expression to read; “The author’s children don’t read books!”

I think the first time I really became aware of what is going on with what seems to be waning interest of our kids generation in reading of the printed page, was when my own three children - all in their 20 ' - thanked me for their signed copies of my latest novel, The Scrimshaw, but somewhat guiltily confessed, they'd probably never read it.

What!?

Hey, wait a minute, I write novels and my own kids aren't even going to read them? What gives? Have my schoolteacher wife and I somehow managed to produce an illiterate brood of offspring? Well to be fair, they do read - sometimes. However, my boys read only non-fiction business books and my daughter, as she tells me, is not 'into', my genre.
But as I began to look into this reading reluctance more closely, it seems that there is a definite trend away from reading for enjoyment in the under 30 population. And Harry Potter aside, most kids would rather watch TV or play video games, then read.

And it's not just a limited to the 'too busy' 20 Something's.

While at a book signing earlier this week, I got to talking with a young mom and her three grade-school age children, all of whom she admitted, hate to read. And not even the magic and hype of around the marvelous Harry Potter could break through their reluctance to forsake the 'Tube' for the printed word.

As near as I can ascertain, these advanced cases of 'literary phobia' seem to revolve around one a central theme. Reading is work. Videos are fun.

Oddly enough, the reading aversion doesn't seem to extend to reading off of a computer screen. But before my fellow authors start effervescing about 'e-books' replacing the printed word, I'd have to respectfully and sadly disagree. It's not necessarily the medium that delivers the story, novel or essay; its the words themselves. The generation that has been raised on the flashing lights and blaring sounds of video games, music videos and TV commercials, don't like reading blocks of words - unless they flash, move and sing.

In a nutshell, almost everyone I spoke to under the age of 30 feels that all reading means work; for school, the job, or in navigating on-line forms. And work that they are perfectly willing to do by the way for things like on-line registrations, i-pod warranties and the endless minutia involved in setting up a My space, Face Book, or any other number of on-line, ‘tell-all’ forms detailing everything from sexual orientation to shoe size.

In an attempt to ascertain whether or not it's the story line or plot of novels that turns today's generation off from recreational reading as a form of entertainment, I've actually discussed the plots and story lines of some of my favorite books and authors with many of these very nice and very bright, young people. Often they get really interested in them and when they do, can you guess what question they asked me? "Is it out on DVD?"

Sigh

But maybe it's our fault. Maybe all of the electronic flashing, and jumping, noisemaking cyber entertainment and communications devices with which we've flooded our kids generation, has atrophied their ability to visualize and enjoy a written story using nothing but - imagination.
On the other hand, who knows, maybe it will all work out. Maybe undreamed of new technologies will come along to save the day - and imagination.

Perhaps we can imagine a future day when some new remarkable electronic cyber device will give kids the opportunity to imagine their own story and create it in words, pictures and sound. Perhaps in the form of holograph as in Star wars.

So buck up my fellow boomers. Maybe by the time we're all hanging out in the nursing home and cackling about our 'glory days' spent blowing out our brain cells back in the groovy '60s and '70s, our grand kids will be creating literary flights of fancy that will bring a imagination and storytelling back full circle.

Let’s hope!

Ric

Ric Wasley

Author/Musician

•The Scrimshaw – December 2008

Reviews:

http://www.manicreaders.com/index.cfm?disp=reviews&bookid=2688

•Shadow of Innocence - 2007

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=ric+wasley&x=9&y=21

Also by Ric Wasley: Novels

•Newport Blues (limited Edition)

•Acid Test – 2004

Novellas and Short Stories:

• At my Window with a Broken Wing - Novella – 2009

Rites of Romance Review: http://rorreviews.wordpress.com/2009/01/28/at-my-window-with-a-broken-wing-by-ric-wasley/

• Embers - 2008

• The Night - 2008

• Long Black Veil – 2009

Authors Note: Shortly after I wrote this piece, our own dear Red Evans passed away, so this column is also dedicated to his memory and rich sense of humor. 

Two weeks ago, the world, and mine in particular, became a little bit poorer. The best author ever, died.
And before you start wondering how that could be when Shakespeare, Ernest Hemmingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald have already gone to that great bookstore in the sky, remember that this is an opinion piece – Mine. And for my money all of these literary icons have been joined by one more: George MacDonald Fraser.
For those of you out there who are scratching your head and saying, “Whaaaat?”, George MacDonald Fraser was the author and creator of the Flashman series of books.
Name still doesn’t ring a bell? Well let me ask you a question then. Do you like meticulously researched history? How about rip-roaring adventure novels? And do you like books that can make you laugh so hard that you fall out of your chair? (I’ve done it!).
Imagine a series of a dozen novels set in the world of the British Empire under Queen Victoria, that skewers the pompous, self-satisfied movers and shakers that dominated the seats of power during the last half of the 19th century. Books that are so well written that I have all twelve in the series and read at least two or three a year and will continue to do so. How many authors have you read that you could make that statement about? This is the only one for me.
To give you a rough idea of where Fraser was coming from, imagine an anti-hero who embodied every cowardly and venal trait that the Victorians railed against and you have the hilariously funny and totally cynical protagonist, Harry Flashman, or “Flashy” as he is know to the better part of the British empire.
What makes Flashman’s adventures a delight to observe is that while presenting a dissembling and hypocritical face to the stuffy Victorian world, he is always painfully honest with himself and us – his readers. Flashman quite candidly relates his life story throughout the series and tells with great amusement and complete candor about shirking his duty at every opportunity, while pursuing his primary goal in life – carnal relations with any and every member of Victorian societies ‘fair sex’. And along the way, he also often stumbles into the company of the most exalted and often infamous characters straight out of 19th century history. His desperate romps take us from the court of Queen Victoria to that of the Empress of China. And along with side trips to the brothels of Paris and New Orleans, Flashman explores all of the guilty pleasures that life has to offer. The fact that he invariably gets caught and winds up paying a terrible price for his ‘beastly pleasures’ does not detour him one bit from trying it again as soon as the next opportunity presents itself.
Now if all George MacDonald Fraser had done were to create a character that embodied the worst of human behavior, it would make for a very depressing read.
However, Frasier’s genius was in creating an anti-hero who could laugh at not just the smug pompous examples of proper Victorian society, but at himself as well.
But amusing as Flashman is, it is the history that really drew me in. As a former history major, I have to say that I have never seen history so meticulously researched outside of a history textbook. And presented in such a delightful and adventurous way so as to make the most mind-numbingly boring world treaties or stuffy state dinners, come alive with adventure and raucous humor.
In fact ever since I picked up the first book of Fraser’s Flashman series as a college senior way back in 1969, I have always known that I wanted to write and to use history the way that George MacDonald Fraser did: as an exciting, vivid backdrop for fascinating characters who stream across the pages, warts and all. In short, to entertain.
I may never get to the place that Mr. Fraser made his own, but I do want you to know George that as you sit at your cosmic writers desk in the sky, chuckling at our continuing foibles and hypocrisies, you have inspired this writer to keep trying.
You will be missed.
Ric
Ric Wasley - Author
· Shadow of Innocence - Kunati - April 2007
· Acid Test - 2004

http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Ric_Wasley

In the spirit of the upcoming holiday season and Christmas, I’d like to give some of my reader friends the gift of The McCarthy Family Mystery series.

I know that during this hectic season, it’s always a challenge to get everything done that’s on your list, so I thought I could perhaps help you out with at least one of them. In particular, what to get that reader on your list. And/or – what to read in that long line at the post office while you wait to dump your packages into Santa’s sleigh via the USPS.

The contest rules are simplicity itself. And best of all… everyone wins!

Just read all, some or even a review of; the latest McCarthy Mystery, Shadow of Innocence, then write a short review (between 1 sentence and 1 paragraph) and post it here or e mail it to; ricmrp@comcast.net.com, and the best entry, will win a complete set of the first two books in the McCarthy mystery series; Acid Test and Shadow of Innocence! Plus the winner will also receive an ARC (advance review copy) of the next exciting book in the McCarthy series; The Scrimshaw - due for release next fall and have the review reprinted on our website and other review pages.

But… unlike most other contests, in this one – everyone wins!

Everyone who submits a review, will receive a signed and personally dedicated, book plate. And the bookplate can be inscribed to anyone you wish. You, a friend, relative, dog, cat, gerbil … anyone!

So start reading and writing and… good luck !

All the best,

Ric

Ric Wasley – Author/Musician

· Shadow of Innocence - Kunati - April 2007

· Acid Test - 2004

And please check out my McCarthy Family Mysteries free sample chapters on Amazon and Google!

Baby Boomer article series: http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Ric_Wasley

*******

New from Kunati Publishing: SHADOW OF INNOCENCE - The Newport Folk Festival provides a groovy backdrop for this fun and exciting mystery set in the music and drug soaked sixties. The Baby Boomers and everyone else are sure to enjoy this appealing mystery featuring a pair of musician partners in love and danger. Don't miss Shadow of Innocence From Kunati Publishing.

Available now on; Amazon ,Borders, Barnes & Noble and at bookstores everywhere.

********

Ric Wasley has spent almost forty years wandering through corporate board rooms and honky-tonk bars. He now divides his time between writing mystery novels and observing the really ‘juicy parts’ of the human condition.

.

The year was 1967 and my band was opening for the Kingsman (of Louie – Louie fame). We knew all about Rock & Roll and could rip a rift from one end of a stadium to the other..

The Stones were king as well as ‘Mo-town’, Eric Clapton’s blues, the ‘Folk’ of Dylan and folk/rock of the Byrds.

We had redefined musical taste in everything from concerts to commercials for the next milleniumn and it was fine with us,

Ever since those golden/vinyl days we Boomers have had the self-satisfaction of knowing that we have set the standards for rock and pop music for the foreseeable future.

After all, who could displace us? Certainly not the pallid, wimpy ‘Disco’ groups of the late Seventies or the self-conscious’, gimmicky wanna-be’ groups of the nineties. After all, we were – no strike that – are (well we still are, right?) the generation that invented Rock & Roll!

We are the generation that said “Bleep-You” to convention and the status quo. We changed everything from morals to music to the way as Shakespeare would have put it – “the world wags on.”

So I’ve gotta admit in retrospect that I might have been a tad bit ‘closed minded’ when one of my kids told me about a new ‘break-out band’ that they’d heard in one of the rowdy bars that I used to play in when I was a musical young punk growing up in Boston back in the sixties.

They played a few cuts off of a CD but I’m ashamed to admit that for one of the pioneers of musical freedom four decades ago, I was sadly close-minded. I mean what could these twenty-something ‘head-bangers’ have to offer the generation that invented the youth culture and put sex, drugs and Rock & Roll on the societal map.

Well guess what… LOTS !

Yes – we Baby Boomers gave the world a culture of new social mores and a musical heritage that will last a lot long than we will. I mean, hey, we gave society words and music that are used for everything from commercials to Webster’s dictionary. The feelings and once idealistic dreams of the sixties have not only become part of the lexicon of contemporary society, but in many cases – the law itself!

In other words fellow Boomers, we (as Pogo would have said) “have met the enemy and he is …Us!”

So it was with some surprise that I came to the realization this weekend at a wedding for one of my sweet nieces … And many, many continued best wishes for happiness, Betsy! …that the musical envelope is continuing to be pushed. And in more creative ways then we ever could have dreamed.

And that brings me to the point of my rant – no, my observation … ( Jeeze Ric – about freakin’ time ! ) The world continues to have both interesting and innovative expressions of music and society whether we buy into it or not.

You see the group that my kids thought I’d like (and I would have if they hadn’t suggested it first) is a fantastic Punk Rock, Folk/Irish group called the Drop Kick Murphy’s.

Now bear with me for a minute here. When I say punk-rock I’m not talking about some pimply faced Goth types with more tattoos than ‘Popeye the Sailor’ and at least as many piercing as a striped bass in a Sunday afternoon fishing contest.

No – what make this group “wicked awesome” as we say around Boston – home of Standels, of ‘Dirty’ Water fame, is that they actually combine Folk, Irish traditional, hard rock, head banger, punk and … whatever – with a creative blend of traditional folk and hard driving contemporary Pop/Rock/Folk/Punk sound that makes them all at once children of the sixties folk/pop and at the same time a totally new mix of the gritty best of the new wave punk/rock rebel iconoclasts.

In fact if The Drop Kick Murphy’s had been around in the ‘old days’ of the 60’s vinyl R&R that I recorded on, I probably would have worn out at least two of their CD’s this weekend!

But bottom line is that those of us who pioneered ‘Do our own thing’ – and - ‘keep an open mind’, should probably take a good long look in the mirror every once in a while to make sure that we’re still practicing what we preach.

I finally did - and my reward was a fantastic new group to my personal pop/rock list. Right up there with Dylan, Beatles and Stones.

So in the end this ‘Old Dog’ put his musical parameters through their paces and learned another trick or two. I recommend it.

All the best!

Ric

Ric Wasley – Author/Musician

· Shadow of Innocence - Kunati - April 2007

· Acid Test - 2004

http://www.kunati.com/shadow-of-innocence-hip-myster/

New from Kunati Publishing: SHADOW OF INNOCENCE - The Newport Folk Festival provides a groovy backdrop for this fun and exciting mystery set in the music and drug soaked sixties. The Baby Boomers and everyone else are sure to enjoy this appealing mystery featuring a pair of musician partners in love and danger. Don't miss Shadow of Innocence! From Kunati Publishing . Available now on; Amazon ,Barnes & Noble and at bookstores everywhere.

The rules are pretty simple. Keep the readers heart pounding from start to finish !

I'd really like to hear what you think and I love reader input, so take a look and and then leave me a comment.

Thanks and wish me luck!

Ric

                                         ----------------------------------------------------------------

OK .... here's my scene. It's taken from my new novel Shadow of Innocence.

It's always been one of my favorites because after I got through writing it about 4 AM one night, I left it out on the table for my wife to read, as she always did when she got up the next morning.

When I finally woke up that morning (or probably afternoon) she came running in and said, "How could you do that to poor Bridget?!" (my female lead)

"What?" I said. "Having her riding on the back of a motorcycle while being shot at?"

"No!" she said. "Having her riding on the back of a motorcycle while being shot at - and... stark naked!"

Right then, I knew I had a keeper.

Here it is.

                                                     **********************************

“Mick,” Bridget said as she climbed to the back of the BSA, “you

forgot your guitar.”

“No, I didn’t,” Mick said as he quickly primed the bike’s carbs and

stamped on the recoil starter. “We’ve got to travel fast, and light. See

that guy over there? I got a strong hunch he’s not coming this way to get

our autographs.”

A man in a black suit and white turtleneck jersey stepped through

the club’s back door and looked at them.

It was not a friendly look.

The BSA’s engine caught, Mick squeezed the hand clutch, popped

the bike into first gear and headed for the curb cutting between the

club’s back entrance and the street.

A big black Pontiac Bonneville convertible blocked it from curb to

curb. Mick stopped for a moment. That car—the same one he’d seen at

the police station. And now it blocked their only way out of this alley.

But a Pontiac was just a big old piece of Detroit steel. Mick had a

650 cc bike.

He opened the throttle all the way.

“Hold tight!” he shouted over the roar of the engine.

Bridget ducked her head, gripped Mick’s waist tighter, and buried

her right cheek in the back of his coarse denim jacket. She murmured

an old prayer. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and

at the hour of our—”

She screamed as Mick wound the big machine all the way into first

gear until the front wheel left the pavement.

The Bonneville’s driver, seeing the motorcycle careening straight

toward him, jammed the car into reverse and tried to back up. The car

had barely moved when Mick leaned left and slung the big machine

over on one wheel. He headed straight for the only chance they had to

escape, a stack of wooden pallets between the club wall and the curb.

The back wheel of the BSA chewed its way up the stack of pallets,

skidded down the top of the Bonneville’s hood, and out into the busy

traffic of Route 28 where a station wagon with a pair of horrified parents

and a back seat of screaming kids screeched to a stop in front of them.

Mick regained control of the bike, kicked into second gear, and headed

north up Route 28.

When he’d put at least ten miles between him and the Bonneville,

he pulled off the highway, downshifted into third gear, then second,

and coasted the bike to a stop under a streetlight, swiveling his head

to Bridget. She had a dreamy smile on her face, and the pupils of her

normally emerald-green eyes had shrunk to pinpricks.

Oh, shit!

That first swallow had done it. She was tripping. And from what

he knew about this stuff, which only the hardest of hard-core, out-of-control

grunts had used in ‘Nam—and some of them after—it was very,

very bad shit.

As a matter of fact, he felt a little woozy himself, and he’d barely

touched his lips to the glass.

Someone was gonna pay for this.

But first, he had to get Bridget to somewhere quiet, and safe before

she started tripping. And it wasn’t gonna be here, because the rearview

mirror lit up as a pair of headlights came over the hill.

Yeah, the Pontiac was still on their tail.

“Damn, I thought I lost them.”

Mick revved the bike and looked around quickly. The road they

were on crossed under the Mid-Cape Highway then wandered down

to the 6A Shore Road. As the headlights drew closer, he spotted what

he’d been looking for. A small black and white sign that read, Beach–1

mile.

The headlights were closing fast. Mick stepped down into first gear

and skidded the tires off the sandy road, and roared flat out for the

beach.

“WHERE THE HELL did I think we were gonna go?” Mick muttered

as he coasted to a stop at the end of the beach parking lot. He felt

Bridget slide off the back of the bike as he sat there, feet planted on

either side of the motorcycle, watching the small waves retreat with the

outgoing tide.

Damn . Looks like the only option is to take the bike onto the beach.

Maybe he could make it.

But could the Bonneville do it, too?

“Hey, baby. Whoa, momma! Bring some of that over here, sugar!”

Mick looked across the parking lot. Half a dozen cars formed a

rough semicircle. Fifteen or twenty guys sat on car hoods or leaned

against their fenders. Even if Mick hadn’t seen the piles of empties

strewn around, it was evident from the sound of their voices that they

were all more than a few sheets to the wind.

What the hell were they hooting about?

Then he turned around.

Bridget. In the middle of the parking lot. Dancing. Stark naked.

“Oh, Jesus!” Mick muttered.

Her beautiful white body moved with fluid grace as she sang some

ancient song in Gaelic.

She turned her face to the moon and pirouetted on one dainty toe.

It was beautiful, almost spiritual, though it was obvious that

the ‘drink-till-you-puke’ crowd on the other side of the parking lot

entertained no such ‘spiritual’ thoughts.

Three of the group sauntered over, laughing, nudging one another.

Mick pulled the bike onto the kickstand and quickly gathered up

Bridget’s discarded clothing.

“Hey, little chick,” leered a fat-gutted kid with long, scraggly

sideburns, “come over here and do that dance on my face.”

His two buddies guffawed and poked one another. The fat kid made

a grab for Bridget’s swaying body. The next thing he knew, he was flat

on his back.

“I don’t like handing out sucker punches, pal,” Mick growled, “but

I’m just about out of time and patience tonight, so you and your buddies

back off.”

“Kenny, Brad,” the fat guy shouted, struggling to get up. “Jump ‘em.

C’mon, guys!” he called to the rest of the group across the parking lot.

Mick had been in enough firefights to know when he was

outnumbered, and he sure as hell was now. He pushed Bridget behind

him and she put her arms around his waist, still humming the strange

Celtic chant.

Mick tensed for what was coming.

Suddenly he remembered one of his father, Big Mike’s, favorite

sayings, “It’s an ill wind, boy-o, that don’t blow no good for someone.”

Because that ill wind screeched into the parking lot and skidded to

a stop twenty feet away. The doors of the black Bonneville opened, and

two men in dark suits and narrow ties climbed out.

“Piss off, you little bastards,” the shorter of the two growled to the

crowd of half-in-the-bag kids.

The kid with the scraggly sideburns was good and ready for a fight.

“Fuck you, shorty!”

The short, brutally compact one backhanded the fat kid and walked

toward Mick and Bridget, pulling a blue-steel automatic as he walked.

Mick froze.

The guy with the gun drew a bead on Bridget. Mick tried to push her

behind him. The man smiled as if rearrangement of his targets suited

him just fine. He raised the gun and—

“What the fuck?” A ‘Tall-Boy’ Budweiser can smacked into the

back of his head. His finger jerked down on the trigger and the bullet

burrowed into the sand.

The second gunman drew his automatic and leveled it at the crowd

of drunken teenagers, who lobbed half-filled beer cans and bottles at

them.

Mick had only seconds. The shooting was about to start. He pulled

Bridget to the bike, stuffed her clothes into the saddlebags, and sat her

on the rear seat. He pushed the motorcycle down off the kickstand,

clicked the clutch into neutral and let the bike coast noiselessly onto

the beach. The tires sank in the soft sand, but he held off starting the

bike until he heard voices yelling louder. One of the dark suits stepped

around his partner, turned to the jeering crowd and aimed.

A BOTTLE SMASHED in front of the gunman. He raised the barrel

and barked out, “Here’s one for you, kid.”

Before he could shoot, his partner, still rubbing the back of his head,

pulled the hand holding the pistol down. “Not them, Vinnie. Mr. C.

don’t want nobody else popped—at least for now. Just them two on the

bike.”

“What about those little pricks throwing the cans and bottles?”

“If they get too close I’ll put a few slugs close to their feet, that’ll

sober ‘em up.”

Vinnie turned to the beach and drew a bead on Mick’s head. He had

him sighted perfectly. He couldn’t miss. The bare-assed broad on the

back of the cycle was gonna get splattered with her boyfriends brains in

about two seconds and then it would be her turn. He drew in a breath

and slowly squeezed the trigger.

“Mr C. said don’t whack ‘em—yet. Just put a few holes in ‘em that’ll

put their asses in a hospital bed.”

Vinnie frowned. They were moving away. He was losing his shot.

He re-sighted the gun, this time aiming for Mick’s leg. He pulled

the trigger.

“CRAP!” MICK SCREAMED as the bullet took a chip out of the

left heel of his boot.

“Time to go!” he yelled, stamping down on the recoil starter. He

steadied the bike with both feet as it fishtailed through the sand.

One, two, three more shots rang out.

The bike zigzagged through the soft sand. The next shot was close.

Too close. They’d have to abandon the bike and run for it if this kept up.

Finally they made it to the hard packed sand of the tidal flats and

the knobby tires bit down. The moon peeked out from behind a cloud

revealing miles of flat, firm, silvery sands stretching out in front of

them.

“Yes! We’re home free!”

His left rearview mirror exploded in a shower of glass, followed half

a second later by the loud bang of a pistol shot.

Mick jammed the foot-gear lever into second and leaned forward,

accelerating onto the hard, wet sand. He’d shifted into fourth gear, and

the speedometer needle nudged sixty miles an hour before he risked a

look in his remaining rearview mirror. His heart sank. The headlights

of the big black car raced across the sand after him.

Shit! The wind flattened his long hair back. Can I outrun the

bastards?

Something whizzed past his head, and he heard the almost

instantaneous pistol report again. The next one might go right through

his poor naked lady behind him.

A ribbon of silver shimmered up ahead.

He set his jaw and shouted, “Hold on really, really tight! And do

another one of those Hail Marys, or Celtic chants, or whatever you

think is up to looking out for fools and idiots.” He headed the BSA

straight toward the shallow tidal stream that crossed the silvery beach.

Throttle wide open, the big bike hit the rushing water at over

seventy miles an hour. Mick almost bit clear through the bottom of

his lower lip.

Not more than five feet into the stream of outgoing tide, both of the

bike’s big knobby tires hydroplaned and there was no way to steer, or

slow. Or stop.

He put his head down, fought to balance it and hoped his whackedout

lady would keep her hands fastened around his waist.

The BSA hit the hard, packed sand across the stream at a

hydroplaning eighty-two miles an hour. The back wheel dug in,

throwing up seashells, sand and water. Mick gritted his teeth until they

felt like they’d splinter right out of his head as he fought to keep the

big machine from sloughing out of control and spilling them onto the

beach at a bone-crushing eighty miles an hour.

He held on for almost another quarter mile, screaming at the top of

his lungs and praying to the capricious gods of motorcycles and fools.

A quarter of a mile from the stream, he braked to a stop.

The kickstand wouldn’t hold in the wet sand, so he slid down onto

one knee, holding onto the dripping metallic blue frame, and vomited

into the seaweed-speckled sand.

“That was too frigging close,” he mumbled, wiping his mouth with

the back of his hand. He spat out the last of his too-distant dinner then

reached down with one shaking hand and scooped up a handful of sea

water from a tidal puddle. He sucked the bitter, fishy liquid and swirled

it around in his mouth.

“Damn,” he coughed as he spat it back into the sand. Nausea came

over him again. It had to be that drug, and he’d tasted just a little bit, not

one-tenth of what poor Bridge had—

Bridge!

She was gone from the bike’s back seat, but she couldn’t have gotten

far. She must be…

There. Walking into the retreating sea, a hundred feet away. Her

arms outstretched, palms and face turned to the silver-sliced moon, she

was still singing that haunting Celtic chant.

“Oh, Christ,” Mick murmured. He let the bike drop and started

unsteadily after her.

The outgoing tide, now up to his knees, slowed him. “Bridget!” he

called, just before a 9 mm slug cut a shallow crease through the dungaree

denim of his right thigh.

He looked over his left shoulder. The black Bonneville was just the

other side of the tidal stream. In the light of the moon, a gunman knelt

on the hood.

“Bridget!” he screamed and covered the last few yards that separated

them. She turned toward him, an eerie, lost, Celtic Princess smile pasted

on her face, and he charged through the surf and tackled her.

They rolled into the outgoing waves. A second slug from the sniper’s

rifle hissed through the water, inches from where Bridget’s pale bare

skin had been only seconds before.

They came up sputtering and coughing.

“Come on!” Mick cried, pulling her wet, slippery hand. “We’ve gotta

move—fast!”

A part of her mind seemed to come back for a moment, and she

nodded. Mick kept hold of her hand as they ran back to the bike. He

pulled it upright and fired it up as he felt Bridget’s wet, fish-cold body

slide up behind him.

A third slug kicked up the wet sand three feet from the front tire

while Mick punched into first gear and wound the bike down the beach.

The echo of a fourth shot caught up with them, but they must be out of

range, because he couldn’t see the slug hit.

He went a few hundred yards further and turned back in a partial

semicircle.

The tiny figure of the gunman climbed down off the hood of the

Pontiac and got inside. The black car reversed for about a hundred

feet then came forward at top speed, straight for the tidal stream that

separated them.

Mick sat astride the bike, breathing heavily, foot poised over the gear

shift pedal. The big black Bonneville hit the stream at around fifty miles

an hour, throwing up a huge spray of water, seaweed, sand, and crushed

razor clams.

It stalled. Right in the middle of the frigging stream!

Mick let out his breath. “Yes! Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

MICK SLOWLY CRAWLED to the top of the windswept sand dune

using the soft sand and tough sea grass to make the belly-crawling

moves he’d taught his ‘cherry’ PFCs back in ‘Nam. He parted the salt-encrusted

sea grass on the dune’s crest.

So far, so good. No sign of the black Bonneville. He sighed and slid

down over the dune’s tiny, knife-like blades of sea grass.

Unbelievably, they were alive.

Bridget was sitting where he’d left her, staring at the moon, tears

running down her cheeks. In the light of the near-dawn moon, the tears

looked silver.

“Oh, my frigging word,” Mick said.

He dropped down onto his knees in front of Bridget and took her

naked, wet body in his arms. He pulled off his damp jacket and wrapped

it around her. Then he pulled her clothes out of the bike’s saddlebags

and laid them out in the shallow depression of the sand dunes’ most

protected spot.

She shivered. She was coming out of it.

So wrapped her in the clothes and in his arms, and as the silver-tears

moon sank behind the western dunes, rocked her to sleep.

*****************

I think the first time I really became aware of what is going on with what seems to be waning interest of our kids generation in reading of the printed page, was when my own three children - all in their 20 ' - thanked me for their signed copies of my latest novel, Shadow of Innocence, but somewhat guiltily confessed, they'd probably never read it.

What!!?

Hey, wait a minute, I write novels and my own kids aren't even going to read them? What gives? Have my schoolteacher wife and I somehow managed to produce an illiterate brood of offspring? Well to be fair, they do read - sometimes. However, my boys read only non-fiction business books and my daughter, as she tells me, is not 'into', my genre.

But as I began to look into this reading reluctance more closely, it seems that there is a definite trend away from reading for enjoyment in the under 30 population. And Harry Potter aside, most kids would rather watch TV or play video games, then read.

And it's not just a limited to the 'too busy' 20 Something's.

While at a book signing earlier this week, I got to talking with a young mom and her three grade-school age children, all of whom she admitted, hate to read. And not even the magic and hype of around the marvelous Harry Potter could break through their reluctance to forsake the 'Tube' for the printed word.

As near as I can ascertain, these advanced cases of 'literary phobia' seem to revolve around one a central theme. Reading is work. Videos are fun.

Oddly enough, the reading aversion doesn't seem to extend to reading off of a computer screen. But before my fellow authors start effervescing about 'e-books' replacing the printed word, I'd have to respectfully and sadly disagree. It's not necessarily the medium that delivers the story, novel or essay; its the words themselves. The generation that has been raised on the flashing lights and blaring sounds of video games, music videos and TV commercials, don't like reading blocks of words - unless they flash, move and sing.

In a nutshell, almost everyone I spoke to under the age of 30 feels that all reading means work; for school, the job, or in navigating on-line forms. And work that they are perfectly willing to do by the way for things like on-line registrations, i-pod warranties and the endless minutia involved in setting up a My space, Face Book, or any other number of on-line, ‘tell-all’ forms detailing everything from sexual orientation to shoe size.

In an attempt to ascertain whether or not it's the story line or plot of novels that turns today's generation off from recreational reading as a form of entertainment, I've actually discussed the plots and story lines of some of my favorite books and authors with many of these very nice and very bright, young people. Often they get really interested in them and when they do, can you guess what question they asked me? " In is it out on D V D? "

Sigh

But maybe it's our fault. Maybe all of the electronic flashing, and jumping, noisemaking cyber entertainment and communications devices with which we've flooded our kids generation, has atrophied their ability to visualize and enjoy a written story using nothing but - imagination.

On the other hand, who knows, maybe it will all work out. Maybe undreamed of new technologies will come along to save the day - and imagination.

Perhaps we can imagine a future day when some new remarkable electronic cyber device will give kids the opportunity to imagine their own story and create it in words, pictures and sound. Perhaps in the form of holograph as in Star wars.

So buck up my fellow boomers. Maybe by the time we're all hanging out in the nursing home and cackling about our 'glory days' spent blowing out our brain cells back in the groovy '60s and '70s, our grand kids will be creating literary flights of fancy that will bring a imagination and storytelling back full circle.

Let’s hope!

Ric

Ric Wasley

Author

Shadow of Innocence

Kunati - April 2007

http://EzineArticles.com/?expert=Ric_Wasley

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New from Kunati Publishing: SHADOW OF INNOCENCE - The Newport Folk Festival provides a groovy backdrop for this fun and exciting mystery set in the music and drug soaked sixties. The Baby Boomers and everyone else are sure to enjoy this appealing mystery featuring a pair of musician partners in love and danger. Don't miss Shadow of Innocence From Kunati Publishing. Available now on; Amazon ,Barnes & Noble and at bookstores everywhere.

For those of you who have been asking, last weeks trip down my slightly foggy memory lane to Club Passim was lots of fun and almost a little spooky.

The very charming manager Betsy, had tracked me down through Shadow of Innocence and had asked me and alter ego Mick McCarthy to stop by for their Holiday bash. It was really fun and met some old friends and made lots of new ones. And, the folk music is still just as good as I remembered!

The spooky part actually came when I parked a few blocks away from Palmer Street to see if I could remember the way after a long absence. At first things looked sort of familiar but with new buildings and parks where I remembered smoky basement cafe's and music clubs. Then I stopped and decided to let Mick take over. I looked at the Square through his eyes as he would have seen it in 1968 in Shadow of Innocence and it turned out, he knew the way just fine. Mick led me across the Square to Church Street, a quick right down the narrow cobblestones of Palmer and into Passim's. Steam on the inside of the windows from the espresso maker inside. The smell of wine and beer. Laughter and lots and lots of great music.

Yep, I was home.

Hello Readers :

I've been getting a lot of requests for additional information about the McCarthy clan so I thought it might be kind of fun to let them introduce themselves and say a few words about their roles in their latest adventure, Shadow of Innocence.

The immediate and extended McCarthy family is headed by the 'old man' himself, 'Big Mike' McCarthy, former Boston PD patrolman, Sergeant and Detective grade cop. Now due to a forced early retirement, he's out on his own as a private detective working out of a small office in Harvard Square, Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Then there's his wife, the former (and now again through divorce) Miss Felicity Parker Prescott of the Beacon Hill Prescotts, who on a whim back in 1938 married the big, good looking Irish cop who rescued her from a mugging on the Boston Commons. The culturally mismatched marriage was doomed from the start but as Miss Felicity is fond of saying, "It did produce three lovely and talented children." Francis, Bronwyn and Michael Jr.

Francis McCarthy (Frankie to his father and Franklin to his mother) is a Harvard graduate and junior partner in the venerable Boston law firm of Hayward, Elliott & Delbert. Next, there's kid sister Bronwyn, a freshman at her mother’s Alma Mater, Radcliffe. And last but certainly not least, the middle child Michael Jr.…Mick. Oh, and we can't forget about the extended McCarthy family and Mick's two wild cousins from Southie, Kevin and Danny McCarthy.

But let’s have them say a few words about themselves and Shadow of Innocence. And of course that means starting with the 'stars' of the novel, Mick and Bridget. Although they may be liberated products of the swinging sixties, Mick is just old fashioned enough to insist on 'ladies first', so we'll start off with Bridget. Now Bridget isn't technically a McCarthy―­yet. (Oops, she's blushing―­­­and tapping her foot. Not a good sign, so I'd better get on with this.) Like I said, she's technically not a McCarthy but she and Mick are a team in every sense of the word and as close as two people can get spiritually, emotionally, physically and…ah, yeah…well, I'll just let Bridget tell you in her own words.

Bridget: Well then, to get right to it. I was christened Bridget Ann Connolly in St. Mary's Church in Ballykill, County Cork, Ireland. I've got five brothers and I'm not ashamed ta say that we may not have been the top rung on the ladder but my Da' has always done what’s needed to survive – even if it’s meant cuttin’ a few corners here and there. We never lived high on the hog mind you, but there was always a hot dinner on the table. And to all of those gossiping biddies who asked where he and my oldest brother Colin went all those nights, well they can just take their suspicious little minds and …ah, sorry, I get a bit carried away sometimes. Let me leave that lie.

About me. As I said, I grew up in County Cork and was educated by the Sisters at St. Thomas School who made sure we knew our Latin and Greek and never hesitated to use the ruler if we didn't. But I can't complain because when I was seventeen I was entered into an international scholastic contest by the school and wound up winnin’ a four-year scholarship to one of the most prestigious women's colleges in America―Radcliffe College.

That's where I met Mickey ― I mean Michael. His mother hates it when anyone calls him Mickey. That probably explains her 'feelings' for me. But I'm ramblin’ then, aren't I? Anyways, I guess I fell fer the big darlin' fool the moment I laid eyes on him. It was in the Club 47 down on Mt. Auburn Street just off Harvard Square. A few of us were collectin' money to help the children up in Belfast that had been orphaned by the 'Troubles', and he was there with his two rowdy cousins, listenin’ to the music.

Of course I acted like I didn't even notice him, even though he gave me every last dollar in his wallet. I knew he was watchin’ me the whole time until we left and I was more than a little perturbed that he didn't even ask for my name. But what I didn't know then was that he was pretty good at findin' things out, and a few weeks later who should I see sittin’ at one of the tables I was waitin’ on in the Blue Parrot where I worked, but himself. I was pretty cool to him at first, I gotta admit. I mean, after all, there he sat with some blond chippy at his side, starin’ at me with this big foolish grin on his face.

But...well, I guess that's just somethin’ about Mickey. He can make me mad and sure does it often enough but I can never stay mad at him for long. And just between you and me, it's the makin' up as makes it all worth while. And...and well, that's all I'm gonna say about that. But if ya really want ta know why I'm so perishin’ besotted with the lad, I guess yer just gonna have to read Shadow of Innocence. Well, and it's been nice chattin' then and thank you very much.

Next of course is Mick and although he says that he doesn't really feel comfortable about expressing his feelings―except to Bridget―maybe he can fill us in about how he and Bridge got involved in detective work .

Mick: Hey, what's shaking? Yeah, I guess I can tell you about that. And probably a little about me, if you’re interested. Let's see…I'm twenty-two, I've got brown hair, and these weird gray-blue eyes. I ride a BSA 650 and am totally zonked out over a cute little 5' 2" chick with the greenest eyes on either side of the Atlantic Ocean.

I'm the middle kid in our family, for whatever difference that makes. In one of my psych classes, the professor is always babbling on about how birth order runs your life and all that crap, but I don't buy it. Although I gotta admit, being raised half McCarthy and half Prescott is weird enough to fill up a psych textbook all by itself. Mom wanted me to be one of the Prescott aristocracy. And Pop? He just wanted me to be a man.

I guess that's why I never could seem to be able to figure out just what the hell I wanted to do with my life. I mean my mom and the Prescotts had it all neatly worked out. They sent me to Andover and got me into Harvard and then I was supposed to join Frankie at Hayward, Elliott & Delbert―or one of the Prescott holding companies. Mom even had the perfect little wife picked out for me, one of the partners’ daughter's―Paige Elliott. Yeah, my whole life had been planned right down to the last little detail. The only part that Mom didn't plan for was the part where I got kicked out of Harvard for fighting and then the part where Pop got so pissed at me for getting kicked out that he told me, "If you love fighting so much, why don't you join the army!"

And I did. Vietnam in 1966. An all expense paid tour, courtesy of Uncle Sam. When I managed to survive three months without getting my head blown off, they made me corporal. And when Mendez, our platoon sergeant, got his blown off, they gave me his job. Strangely, even though most of it was ninety-nine percent mind-numbing boredom followed by one percent pure terror, I actually seemed to be good at it. At least that's what my guys told me. And I kept most of 'em in one piece too―until that day in June on that jungle trail when everything hit the fan and...

Bridge says I've got to let it go. Keep telling myself it's over and to leave it there. And believe me, I want to. And most of the time when I'm busy and we're doing a case or I've got an interesting class―oh yeah, Bridge even got me to go back to Harvard part time. You know as long as I'm busy, doing something that counts, then it's OK. It's just at night sometimes. Sometimes when I dream...they come back.

Damn! Sorry. I'm not thinking about that anymore. Anyway...oh yeah. Here's what got me thinking about 'Nam. My best friend and corporal, Smitty from Harlan County, Kentucky, has this cousin Cody, who got himself accused of murder down in Newport, Rhode Island. Seems that Cody was in a band that was playing down at the Newport Folk Festival when he met a beautiful little blond fox who just happened to be the only daughter of the most wealthy and powerful man in Newport. And everyone saw good old Cody, grinning from ear to ear, leave the club with her that night.

Sounds pretty sweet, huh? Problem was, the next morning she just happened to wind up dead. That's when I got a phone call from Smitty and that's how me and Bridge wound up taking a little trip to Newport. Man, I'll tell you, it was...ah, but you can read about the whole thing in Shadow of Innocence.

I'm getting too longwinded anyway. Just let me say that I may bitch about my family. But then, who doesn't? They're OK. But the one who really keeps my head screwed on straight―well as straight as I'm ever gonna get it ― is Bridge. No, I'm not gonna go all poetic and romantic on you but she is one dynamite, smart, gutsy chick. And cute as they come too. I know that most guys would think it was weird. You know, teaming up with your girlfriend on a case that can get pretty rough sometimes.

Did I mention that she's got five brothers and a father who are as tough as they come? And let me tell you, outside of my old squad, there's no one who I'd rather have watching my back. And come to think of it, I rather enjoy watching her back too. And her front. Actually, I don't believe that there's single part of Miss Connolly that I don't enjoy watching. OK, now I really do have to shut up―before I dig this hole any deeper for myself. Anyway, you can get all the details in Shadow of Innocence and I can promise you, it's a wild ride.

Then of course, there's the head of the McCarthy clan, 'Big Mike' himself. But in solidarity with his son, he's deferring to his ex-wife―but more importantly, the mother of his three children―the former Mrs. Michael McCarthy, Felicity Parker Prescott.

Felicity: Thank you. Well, where to begin? Let me see…as you already know, I'm Felicity Parker Prescott of the Beacon Hill Prescotts and the Back Bay and Brattle Street Parkers on my maternal side. I graduated from Radcliffe College with a degree in French Literature and took an active role in running many of the Prescott charitable foundations prior to my marriage. I suppose that I should comment on that, shouldn't I?

Well even now, I really don't feel that I have anything to reproach myself for, except perhaps a certain youthful impetuosity. I mean after all, if you had been put through the ordeal of being molested and threatened by hooligans and had feared for your very life, and then at the last moment had been heroically rescued, wouldn't you feel grateful? And if your young Galahad had been a handsome, young police officer who quite literally swept you off your feet and escorted you back to Beacon Hill―well, who could blame you for becoming infatuated?

I must confess that I was just a tad bit flighty and 'spur of the moment' in those days, and perhaps when Michael asked me to marry him three weeks later, I may not have thought things through as carefully as I should have. My analyst even says that I secretly did it to spite Daddy. What nonsense. Why would I ever do that? I have always had the greatest admiration for Daddy―his certainty, control and authority.

Why, I should imagine that those were some of the same qualities that I sensed in Michael. And of course the fact that he was big, strong and handsome certainly didn't hurt either. Unfortunately, the one area that Michael wasn't able to live up to Daddy's example was in business. And as much as I'll always love Michael, I won't deny that I was somewhat frustrated that he insisted on remaining a policeman―even after Daddy offered to put him in charge of security for all of his Massachusetts companies. Why, he didn't even want to accept the Brattle Street house that Daddy gave us for a wedding present. Where did he expect us to live―in South Boston, for heaven sakes? As I recall, it really wasn't until we had our first child Franklin that he finally seemed to reconcile himself to living on Brattle Street.

Ah well, as the poets say, "C'est la vie.” And we did have three lovely and talented children. And I love them all dearly, of course, but well…I do have to confess that sometimes Michael Junior takes after his father just a tiny bit too much. I mean he has numerous admirable qualities. He's highly intelligent, and I don't mean to brag but all of the Prescotts and Parkers were renowned for their scholastic abilities. And he has obviously inherited his father’s courage and physical prowess, but unfortunately also his father’s temperament and reckless disregard for his own personal safety.

Oh, and one other thing―and please, I don't mean for this to sound rude or snobbish, but ― well, how do I put this delicately? I'm afraid that Michael Junior has not inherited his father’s sense of setting his sights on a woman who exceeds his own social sphere (as his father did) or at least equal it. No, I'm afraid that Michael Junior must have some sort of throwback tendency to the McCarthys, because against all reason, breeding and advice, he seems to be utterly infatuated with a…a little Irish…waitress.

I know I should be more discreet about my feelings because Michael becomes furiously defensive about her, and apparently she does go to Radcliffe on some sort of a charity scholarship. And of course I certainly do believe in charity and good works and helping the underprivileged...but all the same, an Irish waitress? And must he insist on dragging her along with him everywhere he goes? Why, even when he's doing detective work for his father ― which I am not happy about by the way ― he brings her with him. She was even with him in Newport when Bronwyn and I were visiting Bunny Cortland and Margaret Vanderwall. Although I suppose in all fairness I must admit that she showed herself to be remarkably resourceful during that absolutely terrifying incident in―well, I've probably gone on long enough. You can read all about it in Shadow of Innocence. Toodles!

All right, now that we've heard from Miss Felicity, let's get 'Big Mike's' take on his wife and family. Mike, would you like to refute anything that your wife said?

Michael McCarthy Sr.: If by refute, you think that I'd ever say that anything my wife and the mother of my children says isn't the gospel truth, then I'm thinking that you’d better rearrange your thinking before I have to do it for you. Let me make this crystal clear. Anyone who ever says a bad word about Felicity is gonna find that it's a hard job picking up their teeth with broken fingers.

And everything she says about me is true as well. I've got too much pride and too short a fuse. All I can say is that I tried my best to be a good father and a good husband, even though I probably fu―ah, fouled up most of the time. If I'm being honest, I should also admit that I knew from the start that I was outta my league. I mean, why would a classy lady like her even give a big dumb Irish cop like me a second look anyway?

Sure I rescued her from those two weasel-faced punks that were trying to rob her. Humph! Yeah, that was a good night for taking out the trash. Well, I was young then, just made detective grade and I guess I was real anxious to prove what I could do. So I went after those two with nothing but a lead shot filled sap against a .32 and a .45 automatic. But hell…truth is, one look at Felicity and I would’ve gone up against those two with a toothpick and a Dixie cup. She was that beautiful.

Still is. Well, that's all water under the Charles River Bridge, but like I said, she's a damn fine woman. And she's right. We do have three great kids. I mean, what's not to be proud of? Frankie―I mean Franklin―is a big shot lawyer with that Delbert and Hayward crew. And Bronwyn, why she's a freshman at her Momma's school. And of course Mickey's gal Bridget goes there too. And Bonnie (that's what I used to call her when she was a little kid), is beautiful and smart. Gets that from her Momma too. But she's also got some guts and determination when the chips are down. Like in Newport.

And then there's Mickey. He's probably the most like me. And that means he's probably gonna bump up against a lot things that he's gonna need all of the smarts and guts that he got from either side of the family to handle. But that's one thing I can help him out with, and I always try my damnedest to make sure that I'm watching his back.

I know that his mother's not a hundred percent thrilled that Mickey's helping me out on some cases. She wants him to be a lawyer like his brother Frankie. But I told her it was good lawyer training for him to know his way around a booking room. She's still not really onboard with the whole thing, but after what happened in Newport…in those cellars…hell, I been a cop for over thirty years and I still don't like to think about it. Jeez! The way that sick, crazy psycho just―enough! You can read about the whole whacko thing in Shadow of Innocence. Just make sure you read it someplace with lots of people ― and lots of lights on. So long.

Well, that sounds rather ominous. But let’s see if perhaps Bronwyn has a bit cheerier perspective.

Bronwyn: Oh, wow! I mean, like I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to say. Oh, about me and the family and all? Well, I'm nineteen and I'm a freshman at Radcliffe and even though my mom talked me into going there 'cause she did, I like it OK. The one thing I did insist on was that I live in the dorm and not at home. I mean after all, I lived away at boarding school and I certainly didn't want to go backwards in independence, for crying out loud.

What else? Well, I'm the youngest in the family and the only girl, so I guess I kinda get away with a lot. Well, at least with my dad and my brothers. Especially my dad. It's like poor old Pop always gets tongue tied around me. I think it's because he and Mom got divorced when I was twelve.

Mom, on the other hand, is always on my case. I mean, like I love her and all, but sometimes she can really be a major pain. You know, she gets all freaked out when I go off to a concert or hang out at a different school for the weekend. And she always thinks that all the kids I hang out with are ‘bad influences’. Unless of course, they're the 'perfect little angels' of her old fossil friends. Right. As she always says, "I prefer for you to socialize within your own social class, dear." Oh barf! What does she think I am―still ten years old?

Do you know who I kinda wish I could be like? My brother’s girlfriend, Bridget. She's really cute and really smart and sorta like a big sister to me. The funny thing is that 'cause she's also really petite and looks kinda young, a lot of people don't take her seriously. But boy let me tell you, they're making a big mistake. I've seen her in action, down in Newport. And trust me, you don't want to get Bridget Connolly mad at you.

That's why I did all that stuff there and went with her and Marcy, even though it was the scariest, creepiest thing I've ever done. And to tell the truth, there was one point there that I really didn't think we were going to make it out alive, and all I wanted to do was―well, wait 'til you get to that part in Shadow of Innocence, you'll see. All for now. Catch you later.

Whew! While the tone was cheerier, it doesn't seem as though the same can be said for the subject matter. Perhaps someone more business-like can shed light on the more staid side of the McCarthy family. Francis―or is it Franklin?

Francis, aka Frankie, aka Franklin: It's Franklin Prescott. Yes, I realize that I was baptized Francis McCarthy, but at twenty-one, I legally changed my name―with the full support of Grandfather Prescott, I might add―to Franklin Prescott. As Mother and Grandfather correctly said, the Prescott name still opens many doors in Boston. And it most certainly did. The gilded doors to Hayward, Elliott & Delbert, for instance. And I might also add, a junior partnership that is, in the words of Stephen Delbert, "on the fast track to a full partnership”.

So perhaps I can be forgiven if I find the antics of my younger brother―and sad to say, even my father―a bit too…well, melodramatic. I mean, really. Father and son detectives? It sounds like an old movie starring Humphrey Bogart or George Raft. I'd like to see the pair of them grow up, but I really don't expect it to ever happen. So I guess I'll just have to look to my own resources in continuing the Prescott legacy and leave the rest of my swashbuckling family to their own rambunctious devices. Such as those in Shadow of Innocence. Well, you'll see what I mean when you read it. And now you'll have to excuse me. I've got a board meeting in ten minutes.

Well, I guess that just about wraps it up for the McCarthy family. So on behalf of the entire clan―what's that? Oh, sorry. Yes, yes, how could I forget 'Big Mike's' nephews and Mick's two wild cousins, Kevin and Danny McCarthy? Guys, a few words for our readers?

Danny McCarthy: A few words, huh? Yeah, sure, that'll work. So you might as well start with my kid brother Kevin, ‘cause that's about all he's got. A few words. And if you want some that are reasonably clean and more than one syllable, he's gonna have a very few words.

Kevin McCarthy: Nice mouth, kid. And after I've gone and saved yer ass more times than you got fingers and toes to count up on.

Danny McCarthy: Yeah? Well, just remember, little brother, that for every time you saved mine, I've helped you out of at least two or three bar fights when you were getting the crap pounded outta you.

Kevin McCarthy: Little brother? Jeez! Eighteen freaking months older than me and he thinks he's Elvis Presley and Ted Williams, all rolled into one.

Danny McCarthy: OK, Kevy. Enough! We're supposed to say something about us and all the stuff that went down in Shadow of Innocence. So while you try to think of something to say that doesn't start with the letter 'F', I'll kick it off. My name is Danny McCarthy. I've got one younger brother, Kevin, and 'Big Mike' is our uncle. Sometimes we help him and our cousin Mick when they got something that needs to be done. And it might not be something quite legal. Your turn, Kevin.

Kevin McCarthy: Jeez, thanks a bunch, big brother. Well, I'm Kevin McCarthy and I been gettin' the short end of the stick since 'Mr. Know-it-all' was born eighteen freaking months before me. I'm also the tough brother and can dish it as well as take it. Hey, knock it off with the wisecracks Danny―or you and me are gonna go, right here and now. Anyway, like I said, my name is Kevin and my specialty is liberating muscle cars from jerks who don't know how to drive them. And helping nice objects like TV's and stereo's find a new home.

Danny McCarthy: That's freakin' great, Kevin. Why don't you just sign our names into the police blotter right now and save 'em the trouble of looking for us. Anyway, 'bright boy' aside, we really do help Uncle Mike and Mick quite a bit. Like down in Newport with the stuff that went down in Shadow of Innocence. Man, I'll tell you, that was some weird freakin’ scene. But like everyone else has said, you can read about the whole thing in Shadow of Innocence. See ya there.

I hope you've enjoyed these little profiles of the McCarthy family and I know that they're all looking forward to having you join them in the wild, scary but exciting ride that is the novel, Shadow of Innocence.

R.W.

Ric Wasley