Opening the door a crack, I saw that my dock had come unmoored. The ancient wood was pitching and rolling in the storm-tossed waters. I slipped into a pair of sneakers. I doubted I could save the dock, but the rowboat was tied to it, bobbing frantically. I didn’t want to lose it. A lot of memories were tied up in that boat.
I figured I had only a small window of opportunity to go after the boat before the black waves swallowed it whole. I stewed for a few seconds as my rational brain tried to send “Are you insane?!” messages to control my limbs. But I overcame common sense and self-preservation, throwing on a jacket as I dashed out into the rain.
My tennis shoes squishing and slipping in the mud, I skidded down the hill toward the water. I squealed, falling on my butt with an undignified splat at the water’s edge, my feet sliding into the mud and slime. Groaning, I pushed up with my hands and sprinted down the dock. It felt like some sort of American Gladiators challenge, the wood bobbing and bucking under my feet with every step, soaking my feet to the ankles. My shoes were so slick, I almost went flying off the end of the dock when I tried to stop. Lightning split the sky just across the shore, striking a tree.
“Great,” I muttered, barely able to hear my voice over the roar of the storm. “Water, metal boat, lightning. Nothing can go wrong here.”
My soaking wet clothes plastered to my skin, I struggled to unravel the wet rope from the docking post. The boat clanged against the dock under the force of the waves, adding another layer of noise to the already deafening storm. It was taking on water, making it that much heavier to drag along the side of the dock toward shore. The wet nylon cut into my hands as I struggled to pull it. My shoes slipped out from under me and I had already prepared for the plunge into the icy, black water, when those now familiar hands caught my shoulders and stopped my skid.
“What the hell are you doing running around in this!” Monroe yelled. “Are you crazy?”
“I think I’ve made that abundantly clear!” I shouted. He laughed, shook the soaking wet hair out of his face like a shaggy dog, and took the rope from my hand. With him pulling the rope and me pushing the bow, we managed to drag the boat to the shore and pulled it far up out of the water.
“Thanks! Sorry for putting your life in danger, again!” I cried, making a break for the house.
“Come on over,” he yelled. “I’ve still got power.”
Sure at first that I’d heard him wrong, I hesitated. But he pulled on my arm until I followed him to his well-lit cabin. He even held the door open for me, so I had to assume he had actually invited me in. Monroe shrugged out of his jacket and shook the water out of his thick black hair like a dog. “Wanna beer?”
“Please. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a thunderstorm get this bad up here. Hey, why is it that I lost electricity and you didn’t?” I asked, sliding out of my sodden shoes and jacket. My jeans were soaked, but I was not going to ask him to borrow a pair, because a beer and an implicit offer not to hate each other does not a pants-borrowing relationship make. “Totally unfair; you’re a renter for God’s sake.”
“I’ve got a backup generator,” he said. “The McGees warned me about the thunderstorms.”
“Oh, sure, bring logic and forethought into it,” I grumbled.
“It’s clean, I swear,” he called, tossing me a towel from the bathroom. I made an “uhff” sound when it hit me in the face. He grimaced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got bad reflexes. And a beer would be great, thanks,” I said, studying what he’d done with the McGee place. Not a lot. The furnishings were the same, clean and old and worn. I’m pretty sure the blue rag rug in front of the fireplace was older than me. But there were new bookshelves lined with several editions of every title by a crime writer named F. Monroe, plus a smattering of Carl Hiaasen, Edgar Allan Poe, and Mickey Spillane. On the walls, there were a couple of posters touting upcoming releases of Dead as Disco and Drunk Tank Duets, both by F. B. Monroe. Editorial memos from an S. Taylor of Fingerprint Publishing were neatly stacked next to his laptop.
“Either you are F. B. Monroe or you’re doing a damn fine job of stalking F. B. Monroe,” I called.
I heard Monroe grunt in response. I’d read Monroe’s first book, Cross Creek, years before. He’d been touted as the emerging author of 2002, penning the tale of two teenage boys fleeing a foster home to hitchhike cross- country and find their wayward parents. It was heartbreaking and haunting, and passages still came floating back to me on occasion years later. Unfortunately, I bought it from the super-discount table of my local bookstore, because despite a massive marketing push by his publisher, the book failed miserably.
It felt like there were tumblers in my head, falling into place. It was bizarre trying to reconcile my mercurial neighbor with the gentle storytelling I’d enjoyed. I felt like I’d been inside Monroe’s head, that I’d invaded his privacy somehow … beyond what I was doing at the moment by inspecting the contents of his desk and walls.
From what I’d read, it took Monroe two years to write anything else and then, when his next novel was finally picked up by a publisher, he refused to do any press for it because he didn’t want to talk about Cross Creek’s gigantic failure. He refused to have his picture on the dust jackets, even when his quirky, absurdist crime stories became huge hits. It was as if he was rejecting the public before they could reject him again. Or he was just a hermit who hated attention. Now that I’d met him, I realized either option was plausible.
Wandering along the edge of the room, I studied the pictures of the people I assumed were Monroe’s family, smiling dark-haired brothers with their arms slung around a grinning Monroe. It was strange to see him with short hair and under-control sideburns. He looked… happy, which was kind of off-putting.
There was a framed picture with a bunch of guys in police uniforms posing with a uniformed Monroe. And in another shot, the same cops seemed to be mooning the camera in a hospital room. Stacked in a pile on one of the bookshelves, I found a half-dozen awards and plaques honoring a Sgt. Francis Bernard Monroe of the Louisville Police Department with special service awards.
“Your real name is Francis Bernard?” I asked as he handed me a beer. “I would want to be called Lefty, too.”
“I didn’t exactly want it,” he grumbled, taking a plaque out of my hand and putting it back on the shelf. “But you can’t stop cops from giving you a nickname when you get shot in the ass stopping a liquor store robbery. I got off better than my buddy, Uniball, though. I got home that night and I am grateful for it.”
My jaw dropped. “You got shot in the ass?”
Well, that explained the limp. And now I was thinking about his butt again.
“Left cheek.” He nodded, taking a long pull of his beer. When I laughed, he got indignant. “You know, some people have died from being shot in the ass.”
“Well, I can’t call you Lefty, especially not now that I know how you got the name. Can’t I just call you Francis?”
“Nobody calls me Francis,” he growled, flopping on his couch.
“Wolverine?” I suggested.
“Huh?”
“Never mind, I’m just going to stick with calling you Monroe,” I told him, carefully sitting so my wet jeans didn’t rub against his upholstery. We were sitting in opposite corners, as far from each other as humanly possible. It was like a first date, only he’d already seen me naked, which served as an incredible ice breaker. There was no way I could be further embarrassed after that.
“I read your first book,” I said.
“So you’re the one,” he snorted.
“Tragic coming-of-age tiles are a hard sell these days.” I shrugged. “But I liked it. I’ve never spent time with a homeless teenage boy before, but somehow I feel like I’ve known one. Besides, you can’t be too bitter; you seem to be doing really well with your sardonic crime stuff.”
“People love inept criminals.”
“It’s more than that, Mr. False Modesty,” I teased. “The New
York Times called you a softer Elmore Leonard. It says so, right on that poster.”
He made a face, but I could tell he was pleased that I’d noticed. “I hate that quote. It’s irritating as all hell. Just because I don’t write about drag queens getting dismembered with a hatchet doesn’t mean I’m soft.”
“I said softer.”
“So I take it you’re adequately impressed?”
“Oh, no, I haven’t read anything you’ve written since Cross Creek,” I assured him.
“Well, thank you for your support,” he muttered.
“It’s just that the crime books seem so macho, I guess,” I said. “I thought about buying Karma Collects. But then I saw the cover and didn’t know if I would like it.”
“I knew it!” he cried. “I knew the puddle of blood shaped like a peace sign was too much. I told my editor I
