The Strand

By J. Will Baxter

The Strand is a classic mystery with one important difference. The investigation produces more twists and turns than a sports car racing chicane. The setting is Southern Californias South Beach area, where an unprecedented bank robbery occurs. The robbery is unusual. The solution is equally unexpected. There are so many twists and turns in the story that the authors working title for it was Chicane.

The story begins with the upheaval in the life of a senior Los Angeles Advertising executive Mr. Peter Decovilles comfortable but lonely life. It continues with a travelogue type introduction the beach area and life. California South Beach life in the 1960s is pleasurable describe in humorous detail. Then a monumental city event occurs: a bank is relived of its cash.

The bandits modus operandi is almost as twisted as the tale of his discovery. Peter Decoville decides he is the man to solve the crime in hopes of further his fading career. The task is not easy. He is aided in his efforts by a Mensa-level newspaper manager, a donut-infested police department, a silent auto mechanic, an automobile entrepreneur, and a less than precocious friend.

The writer does not scare want to alarm people, but the story does have a light under tone of values. It is not intrusive, however, but the reader must not expect one who has seen the world, written plays, poetry, and history to avoid any hint of morality in his writings. Can you?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781514490594

J. Will Baxter

J. Will Baxter is a neophyte entry into the world of creative book writing, but not at all new to creativity or the world in which it resides. Mr. Baxter’s earlier non-work related creative efforts were in the areas of play writing, essay, and poetry. The author has also had some success in social media. His worldwide opinion blog, a history-oriented website named Sand the Decks (though it has nothing to do with porch maintenance), averages over ten new registrations per day. Not a record, but the site is ten years old. Mr. Baxter has spent much of his creative life as an advertising executive in California and as marketing manager for the world’s largest airline in New York City. His life experiences include travel to every continent in the world (except Antarctica). In the last decade his concentration has been centered once more on world travel, visiting places not investigated while working as an airline executive. Mr. Baxter has long considered his time in California to be the most enjoyable ever experienced, hence, his second book is centered in Southern California, but I never wrote anything about it for all the wrong reason. He had places to go, things to see and people to meet. Now he has gone to the places, seen the things, and met the people. “It is time to talk about it.”

Book preview

Copyright © 2016 by J. Will Baxter.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 06/23/2016

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

740787

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

The Metamorphosis

The Bumble Bee and the Breeze

CHAPTER TWO

The Daily Breeze

Vladimir Polasky Motors

CHAPTER THREE

Terrance Theodore Young

Charles Brown

CHAPTER FOUR

The Oar House

Ahmenson Stick Up

CHAPTER FIVE

Past Isn’t Prologue

CHAPTER SIX

The Fog Slides in from the Flats

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Bank Dick

Ponchos to the Rescue

Providence Kills My Story

Van Nuys Airport

CHAPTER EIGHT

Charlie Brown’s Garage

CHAPTER NINE

Scoop Decoville

Effect and Cause

CHAPTER TEN

The Solution.

CHAPTER ONE

The Metamorphosis

During life, everything matters; something matters; nothing matters. At this juncture of my life, nothing matters. It doesn’t matter that after forty-one years as a copywriter and eighteen years at the Dancer, Waters and Sample Advertising Agency in Los Angeles, I never rose above senior copywriter. It doesn’t matter that I have probably wasted forty-three days of my life squared on the smog-infested Santa Monica Freeway. Hell, I was on the Santa Monica before there was a Santa Monica Freeway. And most of all, it doesn’t matter that I lost my job.

When life mattered, I had Viola to come home too. Now I only have a home to come home to. Still, no pity needs to be wrapped in a fancy-papered birthday box for me. My doesn’t matter life has sufficient shine to avoid my concluding it. There are still a few pleasures that I have stashed in my memory vault from the time when my wife and I were.

If I drop dead tomorrow, few would care and in truth, I would probably be one of those few. It is the memories, good and bad that carry me through the day. They keep me from ending the tiresome barrage of a fog covered California winter. It is winter now.

Now days, I treasure most my alone times. I can let my imagination again share hopes and dreams with my heaven kidnapped wife. If I was sure death would put me at Viola’s side, I would end everything today. I remember when I heard Ayn Rand say about her husband, If I thought there was a chance in a million that my death would put me by his side for eternity, I’d take it. I have often thought, one chance in a million wagered against an eternity of happiness with my wife, is probably an excellent bet for me to make. Unlike Rand, I’ll make the wager someday.

For now, I get a thrill sitting on the Strand’s concrete wall fronting my small apartment high above the beach and listening to the unending roar of the Pacific. I pretend that Viola is sitting next to me like in the happy days. Though without her, I still eek enjoy from the warm Santa Ana winds as they drift to the ocean from the flat lands above. I must confess, I feel a hint of guilt from my solitary enjoyment until a salt breeze plants a Balinese kiss across my cheek. I am sure it is sent to me by Viola.

Almost every evening Viola and I would rush to the Strand wall to watch the sunset. Viola always got home from work later than I. As I sit here on the wall waiting for her to join me, I must confess to a little voyeurism. I admit to sitting on the wall, looking over my shoulder through our beach apartment’s front window. In our living room was a big freestanding mirror. From it I could catch a glimpse of Viola as she changed before joining me on the Strand wall. I could see her clearly then and I can see here clearly now.

No, I won’t be missing Los Angeles or the flat lands. I hate the smog. It is up to no good as far as I can understand. Viola didn’t think that way though. She always took the positive view. It produces the beautiful sunsets, she would say as a smile cracked across her perfect lips, Maybe it’s worth it. She always looked at wrong things in the right way.

I probably should mention where I exactly survive, Manhattan Beach, California. Until half my life was taken from me, it was quasi-heaven. Now, without her it has become Purgatory. Our simple Manhattan Beach condo-apartment has grown from a bargain to too expensive over the last few decades. We didn’t mind too much when we had two incomes, but now we are down to none. It seems evil to bring it up. It sounds like it is her fault or something.

Without my copywriting income, my impending dependence on a government social security stipend is not going to be sufficient to keep the sunrise and sunset in my eyes every day. Our savings cannot not begin to be expected to cover the cost of water, electricity and the condo fees over the next few decades. The bottom line, if I want to keep the trickle of life’s remaining pleasures flowing, finding a new job is the only idea my melancholy mind can conceive.

The job I lost was on Wilshire Boulevard, a few miles north of MacArthur Park, where I never saw any cakes left out in the rain (as the song goes) and across from the La Brea Tar Pits, where no one ever went to eat lunch or cake. I enjoyed the work. That should surprise no one, since I lasted so long at the typewriter. But I must admit, in defense of old Dancer, Walters and Sample (DWS) ruthless decision, my best work was decades behind me.

The only memorable headline I ever wrote was ten years ago. I came up with the headline Think Small for a newspaper advertisement. I wrote it for a California statewide appliance store that was trying to sell a line of small refrigerators. Even that success was a bit of a failure. Lloyd, Litchfield and Bernbach, a competitor of Dancer, stole the headline and used it to push the Volkswagen Beatle. The copywriter, who stole it, became a hero while I remained a chump. I got over it, but it took a while. Well, maybe not.

As early as the late fifties, a new set of young Turks was preparing to assault the advertising establishment. Television was taking hold and I was a print media man. I hadn’t had a copywriting award in any of those two score or so years at Dancer. There were no trophies on my office book shelves nor on any pedestal (which I don’t have) at my home either. I should have made the changes. I could see it coming plain enough. Still I deserve some kudos, I think. I still had a copywriting job at my advanced age. It turns out I don’t.

It was the morning of November 15, 1968, Porter Jarvis called me into his office and informed me that my services as a Senior Copywriter were no longer needed at Dancer. I knew the phony reasons he would give before he gave them. I’d heard them before as others passed into advertising oblivion. We have lost this account or that account. The truth is that DWS was always losing accounts, but always gaining some as well. The losing accounts theme was a standard and not so historic reason to let someone go. The corollary, winning of new accounts, was always a reason for hiring someone new and younger.

This particular fabrication served to me revolved around Dancer’s loss of the nation Rex Drug Store account. But that loss had happened months before I was given the axe. Therefore, I honestly did not feel threatened by the loss of that account. There even existed a couple of reasons for me feeling safe. I was currently working on the new Korbel Champagne account. I always like working on something new. I thoroughly enjoyed it and I thought that showed in my work. I assumed I was doing well. I assumed incorrectly.

With feign remorse, Mr. Jarvis politely informed me of my doom. My services were not needed at Dancer any longer, not as an Account Executive, Traffic Manager or Mail Boy. They probably didn’t want me as a janitor, either. He piled on his superficiality by expressing his profound regret. There is no regret more profoundly felt than one easily remedied. At a little past nine in the morning, I was out the door of Dancer, Walters and Sample, never wanting to return and never wanted to return.

My hasty morning departure meant there would be no farewell party. There was no need for one anyway. Hell, I wouldn’t have gone to it either. I saw nothing to celebrate and could think of no one I would miss. The phony accouterments of such a gathering were never in my set of social skills anyway. I’m a copywriter not a politician. If I had been a politician I would have been firing people, not being the one offered the blind-fold.

I went out the building’s main entrance revolving door with a month’s severance pay and three weeks accrued vacation time plus a small but appreciated pension. Notwithstanding my regret of losing daily gainful employment, my only other cause for anger was the timing of the firing. It took place before the Thanksgiving holiday, my favorite holiday, since it meant a 4½ day weekend with pay. I guess in a way that tells my problem, I had begun to look forward to holidays instead of slogans.