The Writer's Club

By Richard Uhlig, Sr

When Norman Pope, a once best-selling author, discovers one of his writing students is missing, he investigates. Searching the student's manuscript for possible clues, he unexpectedly uncovers evidence of major corporate crime. Norman plagued by an enlarged prostate and writer's block soon has more pressing problems. He is framed for the brutal murder of his ex-wife and hunted by both the police and a corporate hit man. He hides out in an abandoned book depository in New York City. With the help of a good friend and his students from the Writer's Club, he battles back against seemingly insurmountable odds. As Norman prevails against his powerful enemies, the story twists upon itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Uhlig, Sr
• Release date: Jan 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463011317

Richard Uhlig, Sr

Richard Uhlig Sr. is an Osteopathic Physician in family practice. He has served as president of his state medical association, and as executive director of the Kansas State Board of Healing Arts. He has worked extensively with state medical societies in setting up programs for impaired physicians. He headed KSBHA committees for approval of foreign medical schools, for regulations of scheduled drugs, and for setting up physician guidelines in the treatment of breast cancer. He has been a member of the Harvard Health Care Professionals Follow-up Study since its inception.He has written a health book and three novels. He is a civil rights activist. Enjoys reading, writing, and exercise. He lives with his wife Pat in rural Kansas. They love animals: horses, dogs, cats, a pet coyote, a 24 year-old frog, and a raccoon that comes regularly to visit the trash can.He has a daughter who is a school superintendent and a son who is a writer of novels and movie scripts. He and Pat have four wonderful grandchildren.

Book preview

Prologue

Colette Stevens opened the door to her office and gaped at the vase of long-stemmed red roses garlanded in lush green foliage on her desk. She smiled at the sentiment. The flowers provided a much-needed pick-me-up after two hours of listening to middle management hierarchs ramble on about policy, motivation and strategic goals. Colette leaned over her desk and inhaled. The rich bouquet soothed her taxed senses. Her secretary opened the door, popped her head in the office and smiled. He’s on line one, Miss Stevens.

Thank you, Judy. Colette waited until her secretary closed the door before picking up the phone. Tanner?

Are we still on for tonight? His soft masculine voice made her tremble with excitement.

Of course, darling.

Listen, you don’t have to prepare dinner. I’ll bring pizza.

But I was planning… Colette glanced at her watch. Why not? I could use the extra time.

Pepperoni okay with you, Colette?

Sure.

She glanced into a small mirror on her desk and fussed with the loose tendrils of her hair. You got the address of my apartment?

Etched on my heart, baby, he murmured with a soft laugh. Did you get my flowers?

Her cheeks blushed. They’re beautiful, Tanner. I love them.

And I love you. See you at eight.

Her heart pounding with excitement, Colette opened her office door. Judy, I’m leaving early today. I’m expecting company tonight and I thought I’d pick up something on the way home.

Judy smiled. How about some wine to go with that gleam in your eyes?

Collette blushed. See you tomorrow.

Thankful for a quick cab ride home, Collette walked into her apartment and busied herself straightening up, everything in its proper place, table tops dusted, bed made, dishes put away. She bathed and put on her new black stretch pants that fit perfectly to the curves of her hips. Slipping on a blue knit sweater she fingered the simple chiffon corsage over the left breast. He’ll love it.

Promoted from bookkeeper at the bottom of the corporate rungs in Wichita to vice president of personnel in New York City, Collette not only enjoyed a handsome salary increase but she had fallen in love, suddenly and unexpectedly. She met Tanner just two weeks ago, when they bumped into each other getting off a crowded subway in Greenwich Village. The collision nearly knocked her off her feet. They both apologized profusely.

You’re not from New York, are you, the handsome stranger asked Colette.

No, I’m from Hawthorn, Kansas.

No way. Who’d believed it? I’m from Kansas too.

This is odd. Where abouts?

Tanner smiled. I’m from Clyde.

Why that’s just fifty miles from where I was born and raised.

Tanner walked beside her up the subway steps. You folks at Hawthorn have good football teams as I remember. But I don’t believe our schools ever played each other.

She giggled. No, but our forensics teams competed a few times.

That day was amazing, Collette thought out loud in her bathroom applying the finishing touches to her hair and makeup. How strange and wonderful, she mused, two Kansans standing on a crowded subway platform in Manhattan talking about Kansas and the world’s largest ball of twine, Hawthorn’s one claim to fame. A day later, he called her for a date. Tanner took her to a movie, then two evenings at the theater and two dinners out. He acted the perfect gentleman. When he kissed her good night in the taxi, Colette caught her breath and whispered, Next Thursday, dinner here at my place. Eight o’clock.

You’re on, baby.

At 7:45 PM, Tanner knocked on the apartment door and Colette opened it to the length of the security chain. And who is it, she asked, her heart racing with anticipation.

Pizza delivery man.

Colette unhooked the chain, opened the door, and pecked Tanner on the cheek. He wore a light beige sport coat and white shirt with an opened collar. His full black hair glistened in the light from the door.

Like some wine before we eat, she asked.

Sure. Nice place. Nice outfit.

Colette chuckled, Thank you, sir.

She pattered off to kitchen with the box of pizza, whispering the lyrics of Could Not Ask For More. Five minutes later she returned to the living room with a glass of wine in each hand to find Tanner sitting on the sofa fitting his hands into a pair of latex surgical gloves. On the cherry wood coffee table in front of him lay a white cloth and in the center of the cloth, a mound of white powder.

Colette stiffened. Tanner, what are you doing? What is that?

A glorious, disabling smile spread over his face. A little coke, that’s all, honey.

Her brow knitted with concern. She spoke with a bit of censure in her voice, Tanner, I don’t mind if you use a little. But not here, please.

He stood slowly and took the wine glasses from her hands and set them on the coffee table.

Why are you wearing gloves? she asked in a tremulous voice.

He kept smiling. It’s good stuff, baby.

Her gaze fixed on him when he picked up the cloth without spilling the powder. There was something strange in the way he moved, the way he looked at her. She shuddered inside as a chill ran through her.

He stepped towards her. C’mon, take a little snort.

Colette backed away. Still smiling, he followed her across the room with the cocaine-laden white cloth in his gloved hand. Colette backed into the wall near the door, and he pinned her there with his body.

Please, Tanner. What are you doing?

His left hand slid behind her head. All at once, he thrust the cloth and white powder into her face, over her mouth and nose, muffling her scream. He had immense strength in his hands. She wheezed, choked, and beat on his arms, all the while staring into his once warm brown Latin eyes, now hard and cold as steel.

Don’t take it personally, he breathed, it’s just a job. By the way, the name’s Ramon. His Midwest accent had disappeared.

Mama, help me, please, I’m dying! Just before everything went black, she dug her long acrylic nails into the back of his neck.

Bitch, he snarled as his hands slid to her throat. He squeezed crushing the cartilage in her windpipe.

Ramon’s hands relaxed. He stepped back and watched Collette’s lifeless body slide down the wall. He took a deep raspy breath, angry with himself for having lost his temper.

Kneeling over Colette’s body, he wiped away much of the white powder from her face. Getting up, he took a cellular phone from his coat pocket and punched in a number.

It’s finished, he said, removing a glove and rubbing the back of his neck. I’ll clean up here and head to the airport.

Chapter One

Norman Pope moved about the outdoor balcony of his Manhattan apartment watering his plants like a nurse dispensing medicine: a full swig for the germaniums, a measured sip for the cactuses; too much and they drown, and a through dousing for the thirsty Hibiscus. Norman’s toothless Shi-Tzu, Shakespeare, stretched out jaw on paws before the balcony’s French doors, followed his master’s every move with his bulbous, nutmeg eyes. The old dog wagged his truncated tail when Norman stooped and patted his head.

I can’t believe how long these plants have lasted, old boy. Some of them are as old as you.

Norman’s first wife, Dolly, loved her flowers and brought some home nearly every time she went shopping. Norman’s eyes were teary as he spoke to his canine companion. Holding this watering can is like holding Dolly’s hand again. He stiffened up his posture and reined in his emotions. Dolly wasn’t like Lori, Shakespeare. He gave a mused laugh at the comparison of Dolly with his second wife. Lori never liked flowers.

Norman shivered in his wool sweater and thick corduroy pants, his breath a fleeting vapor in the evening air. His second marriage had been a troubled one. He rubbed the dog’s head again. It wasn’t so easy on you either was it, Shakespeare? Remember when Lori threw that cup at me, hammered me with volume one of The Rise and Fall, when she came at me with that lamp, screaming decibels to high heaven. I only slapped her to quell her damn shrieking, but Mrs. Finley down the hall didn’t see it that way and called the cops. Got a night in jail for that one, and a lousy misdemeanor on my record. Lori locked you out here on the balcony that night. And you know what, Shakespeare, I miss that woman so damn bad it hurts.

Earlier in the day, Norman had called Lori and left a message on her answering machine urging her to come to Manhattan. After their divorce she moved to Boston, but they got together every few months. The first few days were always glorious; after that, they fought like Betta fish in a champagne glass. Short, petite, and busty, Lori was a temperamental woman of Black Irish decent, immune to logic and reason.

Norman wasn’t in love with Lori the way he had been with Dolly, but he couldn’t stand to be without her. Their relationship wasn’t perfect, but neither was life. He still had those fond memories of Dolly, nostalgic and yet frustratingly non-tactile, like gazing at old photographs. Lori was living flesh and could be here from Boston in a matter of hours.

He looked down at Shakespeare. Let’s face it old boy, my bottle of Viagra is losing its potency sitting there in the medicine cabinet.

He fished his cell phone from his pocket and punched in Lori’s number and spoke to her machine again. Please give me a call, honey. I need you like a diabetic needs insulin, like a bipolar needs Lithium, like… he stopped talking in similes. Literal in her intellectual outlook Lori didn’t appreciate the figurative. This time it’ll work, I promise you, honey, it’ll work. It was absurd to think he’d be thoroughly happy living with Lori again, but he’d learned happiness came in degrees. Besides, if she came back, he might start writing again.

He set down the watering can, rested his elbows on the balcony’s brick wall, and stared at the Manhattan skyscrapers outlined against a gray sky. Lighted cairns in the cemetery of the living, he called those towering edifices in his last best seller, nine years ago. He vowed he would make it work with Lori. He’d bite his tongue, suffer her non-sequiturs, and take long walks and cold showers—whatever it took. He was determined.

The doorbell rang and Shakespeare, tail stub erect and twitching, scratched at the French doors while emitting high-pitched yelps. Norman’s writing students were right on time with their manuscripts to read, notebooks to write in, and egos to guard.

Chapter Two

Norman’s usually quiet five-room apartment reverberated with the loud chatter of his writing students. Normally a silent endeavor, the art of writing explodes with noise when writers gather, especially unpublished writers full of questions and discovery, successes and defeats, wild notions and disappointments. No other kind of work, Norman realized, was so labor intensive, maddeningly quiet, and forlornly solitary. Let them talk for a while. The Novel Club met regularly ever two weeks at Norman’s apartment. Eager to be mentored by a world-renown novelist, Norman’s six aspiring students rarely missed a session. Although open and honest with his criticisms, Norman never disparaged a fledgling writer. There may be born writers, he’d say, but for most it’s hard work and character. And character means never giving up.

Five writers sat around his dining room table. His oldest student, Harriett Cummings, was absent. Harriet never missed a session. Usually she came early hauling in her chocolate brioche or pineapple-upside-down-cake, taking over Norman’s small kitchen, brewing up a pot of her eye-bulging gourmet coffee, and babbling about nonsensical things like the price of groceries, or politics, or the latest sensational news story. She exuded a mundane normalcy that most fiction writers shunned, but Norman embraced. Her matter-of-factness gave his shattered life a fleeting semblance of order. He glanced at his watch. Ten after the hour.

As noticeable as her physical absence was the lack of Harriett’s scent, that French perfume she called Romance in a Bottle, which trailed after her like a moving flower garden and lingered in the apartment for days afterwards. The smell of it made Norman sneeze and his nose run; it smelled nauseatingly like green apples and reminded him of the time he got his stomach pumped as a kid.

At twenty after the hour, Norman called the session to order with his usual grunts and throat clearing. Linda McCray, a shapely twenty-three year-old copy editor for the Times’ business page, read first. Norman had asked her to create some excitement in her writing, unleash some emotion, and come up with a few surprises, even a sex scene. The pages shook in Linda’s hand and her voice cracked as she read. She looked up often to gauge the response of the other students.

‘I shall catch a chill,’ she said when he pulled away the bed sheet. She laid there naked, her eyes beckoning; she so confident of her beauty, of the feel of her body against the mattress—that perfect body that all men desired. He bent over her, his breath like hot exhaust from some thrumming machine, his eyes afire. He pressed his mouth against her smooth face, sucked on her lower lip, and teased it with his tongue. She moaned as his body pressed hard against her. Then his teeth clamped down and his head jerk violently, ripping her lip from the delicate fabric of her face like a hyena rips flesh from bone. She screamed and drew back as he chewed and then spit her mangled lip onto the floor. ‘You mutilated me, you bastard,’ she hissed through barred teeth, her hands at her mouth.

Norman looked across the table at the young cop, Jack Hannahan. Over the years, Norman had other cops for students, some of them good writers. Like the others, this kid wanted to tell about all the unbelievable crap that goes on out there in the jungle. But Jack hadn’t found his voice yet, his introspections were stiff and unemotional; he was afraid to let go.

Okay Jack, whatdaya you think?

Jack looked at Linda and ran his hand through his cropped hair. I read it, earlier. It didn’t sound right then and it doesn’t sound right now, him biting off her fuckin’ lip like that.

Linda scowled at Jack. I told you he’s a psycho.

Sounds like Hannibal Lector, said Herbert Weiner, a portly pathologist who wrote crime and whom Harriett had affectionately nicknamed Herbie. You left out the blood, Linda. Lips are very vascular. It just isn’t believable without blood. Herbie glanced across the table at Norman. Say, where’s Harriett?

Norman shrugged and glanced at his watch. "Apparently,