For several years, Martin has been one of San Francisco's homeless and unemployed citizens, undertaking odd jobs when offered and eaking out a living selling the Street Sheet. Then, when two people are killed -- one another homeless person and the other an apparent member of the financial community -- it's up to Martin to discover who ... and why ...

But, at 5 foot, 4 (with lifts in his shoes), homeless and unemployed, Martin Villas is an improbable hero ...

Still, sometimes ... a bum just has to do what a bum has to do!

Published by Mystery and Suspense Press / iUniverse

Buddy, Can You Spare A Crime
ISBN:  0-595-21373-3

Okay, here it is, right up front ... I'm homeless ... I haven't had a regular job in six years and I haven't had a home for five ... Okay?

Relax, I'm not going to hit on you and I don't have anything catching ... unless you think poverty is contagious? It might be ... there's certainly enough of it going around.

Look, if it'll make you feel better, you can consider me "economically disadvantaged" or "domestically challenged". That any better for you? 'Cause it's all feels the same to me.

Of course, things are a little different now ...

It was September - San Francisco's finest hour. You freeze all summer, then September rolls around and it's suddenly sunshine and Indian summer.

I'd had a pretty good week so I wasn't entirely broke but I was hungry and I was looking forward to a hot shower - which was reason enough to be over at the Fourth Street Mission. Wednesday it's sandwiches and soup ... if you get there early enough ... before the sandwiches run out - then it's just soup. Likewise the hot showers - get there late and no hot water.

So, I got there early ... when there weren't more than twenty or thirty other "disadvantaged" persons waiting ... plus a couple of police.

It didn't take long to find out why the visitors in blue were there.

Mark - he runs the Mission - saw me enter and hurried over. "Come in, Martin. Coffee?" He didn't wait for an answer but grabbed me by the arm to draw me inside, asking: "Heard about Jacobs?"

"Jacobs?" I knew who he meant - a tall, heavy-set man with a lot of hair and beard - most of us called him 'Scrounger'. "What about him?" I saw a policewoman coming toward us.

"Somebody stabbed him," Mark blurted the words. "Over on Spear, across from the Rincon Center ..." The Rincon Center's not exactly the heart of the financial district but part of it. More important, my regular pitch was on Spear ... across from the Rincon. You could find me there most days - for a few hours at least.

"Do you mind, Mr. Lowe?" the policewoman interrupted him, then turned to me. "You're Martin Villas, is that correct?"

I nodded, looking up at her - no, I wasn't sitting down, she was easily five-ten, black and attractive ... it's just that when you're only five-four, you spend a lot of time looking up.

"Would you mind stepping over here?" she invited. "I think Detective Pohl would like to talk to you." She gestured at a man across the room, seated at one of the dining tables. He looked like he'd been there a while. You know, tired - like he'd been talking to a lot of people and not exactly enthusiastic about one more interview.

I could relate to that - I didn't feel too enthusiastic myself.

"Go on, Martin," Mark suggested. "I'll get you some supper and coffee."

I nodded agreement and went where the officer indicated. She escorted me - politely, not touching me but staying one step behind and slightly to one side. Kind of funny, really - the idea that she thought I might be dangerous or something.

The detective was dressed casual - sports coat, slacks and a plain earring in his left ear. He looked young, healthy ... and totally out of place.

He looked up as I approached, then gestured for me to take a seat.

"Martin Villas?" the detective asked for confirmation and making a note before continuing, "I'm Detective Lieutenant Chavez. If you'd sit down, I'd like to ask you a few questions. I understand you knew Terrance Jacobs."

"Uh, what happened?" I took my knapsack off, laying it on the table next to me where I could keep an eye on it. I pulled a chair out and sat. "Mark said he'd been hurt. Where is he."

I didn't care much for Jacobs but ... it was like he was family. I didn't know if he had any real family - whatever, he was still one of ours. In a way, I kind of felt responsible for him. Jacobs had been new to the street - lost his job with an ad agency, couldn't find another, couldn't keep up the payments on his condo and his car, had no real talents ... so, just like the rest of us, he joined the ranks of the unemployed, undomiciled and unwanted.

Plus I guess I'd felt sorry for him - you don't have to like someone to feel sorry for them. Anyway, I'd tried to show him the ropes - you know ... where to get a meal, places to sleep, tips on how to keep from being picked up.

"Mr. Jacobs is dead," the detective offered, softening his voice for a moment. "I understand he was a friend of yours?"

"A friend? ... Not really ..." Why I felt like apologizing, I wasn't sure. "I knew him ... I know a lot of people ..."

Detective Chavez nodded briefly, then asked, "Could you tell me when you last saw Mr. Jacobs?"

"Uh, yesterday morning ... I guess ..." I stammered, trying to make sense of the question. "Over on Hyde - he was picking up The Sheet ... The Street Sheet," I amplified.

Mark set a cup of coffee down next to me. Creamer swirled on the surface like oil on a puddle.

I reached for the cup, then shifted to a two-fisted grip, surprised to find that my hands were shaking. I took a sip of the hot, milky beverage, then realized there was more than sugar and creamer in the mix.

I almost asked Mark to take it back - I didn't drink much ... but my hands had their own ideas and clutched at the cup like it was salvation itself.

What was it? Yesterday morning - early - when I'd last seen Jacobs?

I'd been up early - 6 A.M. After coffee and a couple of yesterday's 'day-old' sweet rolls, I'd headed across town to the Homeless Coalition to pick up copies of the Street Sheet, planning to move down to the Financial District to hawk a few copies.

If you're not from San Francisco, you may not know the Sheet - for that matter, even if you are a San Franciscan, I reckon the odds are against you seeing it. After all, San Fran has a population of millions and they only print 30,000 copies of the Sheet a month ... it's not exactly like people are forming lines around the block to get one.

Still, the Sheet is an advocate for the homeless - something our dear Mayor J likes only slightly more than he likes homeless people. If you're homeless ... unemployed ... it's free - you can pick up fifty copies a day and go out and sell them ... at a dollar a copy ... and the money's all yours.

Sound's great, doesn't it?

Except that the Sheet's only published once a month - four pages - and carries no advertising. And the cartoons aren't exactly funny either. Well, around the first of the month, you may be able to sell fifty copies a day ... for a day or two.

By the middle of the month, it's not so easy.

Still, this was the 15th of the month and, for a lot of folks with jobs, that's also payday ... which means they have money in their pockets. Besides, I didn't have much up - not today, anyway.

I guess Jacobs had the same idea since we almost bumped heads ... well, my head, his chest - when Jacobs came barging out of the Coalition office, not watching where he was going and I dodged to keep from being run over.

"Hey, Villas," he'd greeted me. "Gonna score a few papers, eh."

"Morning, Jacobs. Just trying to make a buck."

"Yeah, same here. Thought I'd try the shopping centers," Jacobs offered hopefully. "How 'bout you?"

"My usual stands," I responded - Jacobs knew my habits. "Look, why don't you try the Wharf - the weather's warm and there're still lots of tourists around. Try the north end of the parking lot ... or the Maritime Museum ... maybe you'll get lucky." I wasn't sure why I kept helping this guy - guess I kept hoping he'd listen once in a while ... except he never seemed to.

Jacobs tried hard but - even at the first of the month - he never seemed to be able to move very many copies of the Sheet. I didn't know but I suspected that part of his problem was that he tried too hard - he just couldn't get it into his head that you couldn't force people to buy the Sheet ... and that no amount of hype - advertising - was going to convince them.

I'd tried to tell him but he wasn't a very good listener ... he always had some sure-fire scheme ... like the plans he'd proposed for turning the Sheet into a parody of the National Inquirer ... or his ideas for selling advertising in the Sheet - talk about ideas that went over like a lead balloon.

"Try down at the Embarcadero Center, around lunch time," I suggested. "Then move up to Fisherman's for the afternoon." I was trying to be helpful but I wasn't about to suggest sharing my regular spot on Spear.

Like I said, it was the middle of the month - a bad time to start with - and I didn't need the competition. Besides, some of my regulars buy a copy of the Sheet every week or two. Some of them simply pay me but don't take the paper ... except at the first of the month when there's a new issue.

"Yeah, maybe so ..." he thought about my suggestion. "Hey, see you this evening at the Mission?"

"Maybe," I hesitated - I hadn't really made any plans but the chances were I'd be there. "Good luck with the papers." I slipped past him and went in.

Inside, I wasted a few minutes chatting, giving Jacobs time to mull things over and head on ... wherever he decided.

When I came out, I didn't see Jacobs anywhere. The day was still foggy but looked like it would clear later. The fog holds some heat in - for really cold, you need a clear, cloudless sky at night. A good fog at night's almost like a blanket over the city. Still, until the sun got down to street level, the air was still cool and a little damp so I turned up my coat collar and headed for the BART station at Main and Market.

Overall, I had a pretty good morning - I caught a lot of people coming into work as they exited BART ... fifteen papers in a couple of hours wasn't bad at all.

By nine-thirty, the flow of pedestrians was slacking off - people arriving for work this late, would have other things than charity on their minds so I headed on over to the park across from the Ferry building where I treated myself to a cup of coffee. I'd brought the day-old rolls in my pack ... well, they were two days old, now, but still pretty good ... but I didn't figure they'd last another day - may as well pass them around while they were still eatable.

Doubling back toward Spear, I cut through the park where I met Ron. He's been sleeping down near the construction site at Howard where the new light rail terminal's going in. Not a bad spot in warm weather but, once the rains start, he'd be hustling for a dry cubby.

Ron was too polite to ask - the rule on the street is you share what you have but you don't hit on your fellow homeless. Steal from them, yes, but you don't hit on them. Still, it didn't take a genius to figure he was hungry. I produced the tray of rolls - only seventy-five cents a dozen at the day-old store - and watched while he wolfed the lion's share.

And I pretended not to notice when a couple were slipped into his pack - no point in embarrassing him.

I'd told Ron about the Mission before - and several other places, for that matter - but ... I don't know ... he just never showed up - least wise, not that I knew of. Besides, you can't force help on someone that doesn't want it - another rule on the street.

It was getting on toward eleven when I left the park - time to catch the lunch crowd. The fog had lifted and the day was warming up nicely.

It was only a block over to Spear and I headed for my regular pitch across from the Rincon Center. There's a triangular cul-de-sac - just a little corner between two buildings - where I can stand out of the traffic without being hard to spot.

I'd made another seven dollars - three of them had actually taken the paper - when The Broker showed up. I didn't know his name, he'd never introduced himself - The Broker was just what I called him to myself ... he looked the part - brown hair with traces of gray, glasses, stocky, always wore a gray suit, liked colorful ties and pin-striped shirts - tasteful but hardly conservative - wore Italian loafers - good ones - I should know, back when I'd been regularly employed, I'd made a lot of shoes ... back before the plant closed and I'd wound up on the street.

Anyhow, I didn't know his name but I'd see him two, three times a week - usually around lunch time - and, generally, he'd stop to say 'Hello' and chat for a minute. He'd also 'buy' a paper once or twice a week - a good customer but I liked him for other reasons ... mostly because he didn't treat me like I was invisible or like he was doing me a favor by buying a paper. Hey, I'll take the money either way but ... well, a fellow likes to keep his pride - cause, sometimes, it's about all you've got.

"Hey, how's it going," he greeted me a little too loudly, then dropped his voice. "Hang on to this for me, okay?" His left hand was slipping something thin into my stack of Street Sheets while his right took a copy off the top. "Don't look, just slip it in your bag - I'll catch you tomorrow or Thursday." He dipped his free hand in a pocket, then passed me a folded bill. "This will cover it," he concluded, "and a little extra."

Without looking, I accepted the bill and slipped it in a pocket. I wasn't sure what was going on but the Broker was a nice guy ... and I figured he'd explain later.

"Same ol' news," he raised his voice again as he shook the paper open. "Maybe we can get rid of the idiots and their Matrix program in the elections. Think there's a chance?"

"Be nice," I agreed. "But I don't know." The Matrix program was Mayor J's brainchild for sweeping the homeless under the carpet ... or running us out of town. It hadn't worked and wouldn't ... but it was a damned nuisance.

"Well, talk to you later. Got to get some lunch. Take care."

"You do the same," I agreed and watched him dodge a couple of ladies who were talking instead of watching where they walked.

A few minutes later, I stooped down and, making it look like I was extracting some more papers from my pack, allowed the what's-it to slip out of the stack and into the bag. I fished around for a moment, letting my fingers explore the object while moving it to bottom of the knapsack. By touch, it felt like a small wallet - or card case. The material felt like cheap leather - the stuff they call 'split' leather. I couldn't tell what was inside ... something stiff.

I didn't know what this was all about but he was a good customer so I figured I owed him one.

For a moment - just briefly - I wondered if he was a cannon - a pickpocket - and I was being pressed into service as his drop. Didn't make sense though. If he'd wanted to ditch the wallet, he could've dropped it in one of the trash barrels. Besides, cannon's like crowds - thick ones like the Bart terminal at rush hour, not the scatter of people along the street. And they don't work one area over and over - the Broker was a regular. Like I said, I'd see him most any day - naw, he was just a straight, had an office somewhere near by.

I shrugged the thought off and 'sold' a few more papers while the lunch crowd lasted but, by one-thirty, I was ready for a break.

Maybe you think it's easy work selling papers ... but you try standing in one place for three-four hours at a stretch. Remember, for a rest, you get to walk between locations. Besides, I needed a restroom and the closest one - one where I was welcome, anyway - was three blocks away.

Looked like being a pretty good day - probably thirty - thirty-five dollars. I hadn't kept track of my take and I wasn't going to check - not here on the street. It's like the song says: "time enough for countin' when the dealin's done." Okay, maybe it's not the same thing - but even street people can get mugged ... 'specially short street people.

Paranoid? Maybe so but I still preferred it that way - safety first.

I stowed the remaining papers, gathered up my pack and struck out toward the Bay Bridge, then turned down Folsom, thinking ... dreaming ... about lunch. There's this little Chinese cafe I know about - a three course meal for $3.50. That includes rice or noodles but it's filling ... and the tea's free ... So's resting your feet ... and the restroom.

The rest of the afternoon - I got there about three - I spent down at the Employment Office. Not that it did any good - a couple of hours wasted sitting around before being told to come back tomorrow. I'd looked through the paper too but ... zilch. Know anybody who wants to hire an experienced cobbler? Yeah, I didn't think so. And, if there is an opening, they're offering minimum, they want 30 years experience and, if you're over fifty, don't bother applying anyway. Not that I'm insisting on cobbling - I'd take anything that would pay.

Except that I'm not qualified for the warehouse positions - read 'too short, too small', they want gorillas ... young ones. Besides, it's a union shop.

And I can't type ...

And ... well, there's always something ...

Even if it's only that there are fifty people applying for one opening ...

Hey, I'm not complaining. I eat pretty regularly even if it isn't always fancy. And I have a few bucks stashed away. And my hours are my own and I get lots of fresh air and exercise. I don't do too badly.

Like today - I figured it hadn't been too bad a day. My expenses had been reasonable - I'd spent a buck for coffee and three-fifty - well, three-eighty with tax (no tip) - for lunch and I'd probably taken in thirty ... thirty-five dollars - I hadn't counted yet. Deduct another four or five for supper - there was a grocery not too far from my cubby - and it still looked like I was ahead at least a Jackson ... maybe more.

Like I said, not too bad a day. Besides, tomorrow, I had a good morning's work lined up, cleaning a storeroom.

It was nearly six when I got to the warehouse and let myself in. Bill was still in the office - paperwork.

I said hello and offered to bring him something from the grocery but he declined, saying he was about ready to leave and asked how my day had been.

Okay, I assured him and went up the stairs to my penthouse.

Even among the homeless there are different social strata - economic levels, if you prefer. Some, like Ron, sleep outside - on park benches, under some shrubbery, wherever they can find. Others took whatever shelter they could find ... by the night. Some - if they're lucky or on public assistance or can hustle enough from day to day - sleep in 'residential hotels' ... what are more commonly referred to as 'flea bags'.

The really lucky ones - and don't knock it unless you've been there - have a cubby somewhere.

That can be a lot of things - an old car or truck ... a room with a friend ... a hidey-hole in an abandoned warehouse ... anything as long as it's private, dry and you don't pay rent. Hey, if its also warm, then you've got a really nice cubby.

And if you've got running water - you know, like a working toilet - then you're in luxury. Real upper-class homeless.

In short, a cubby's somewhere that you're safe and you're not going to be kicked out of because you've had a bad day ... or because you're down with the flu ... or just plain too tired to hustle.

My cubby was a carpet warehouse. Just for the record, I was on the books as a night watchman. I even got paid - $100 a month. Bill said that it saved him that much on insurance. Tip - some store owners pay guys to sleep in their doorways or loading docks. They figure it scares off burglars and the generous ones pay five or six bucks a night.

Truth of the matter? Bill's a nice guy, gripes at me first of every month when he hands me a check - claims it's an exorbitant amount to pay for an four-page paper that doesn't even have decent comics - hey, I warned you didn't I? Homeless cartoons just aren't much for chuckles.

For my part, aside from keeping an eye on things at night, I keep the place cleaned up - the break area ... and the two restrooms, of course. And I make coffee every morning before the crew comes in.

In return, I've got bed and bath accommodations. Hey, maybe the bedroom isn't exactly Home and Garden - it's the loft area above the office - but it does have nice carpets ...

The bed's more of the same. Don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking it - a thick pile of plush carpet samples is pretty comfortable ... and pure luxury compared to dossing under a hedge. Add a good down-filled sleeping bag for warmth and you're talking homeless luxury.

An army surplus ammo chest double as my private locker and my entertainment center, holding my clock-radio, a small reading lamp and my television set. The television - the six-inch color portable had been a Christmas present from the warehouse crew - I kept locked up when I was gone. It was about the only thing I had worth stealing and, since there were strangers in and out all the time, a little prudence seemed appropriate.

Still, I had most of the comforts of home ... which wasn't bad for a homeless bum, right?

Of course, I don't have cable but then I don't have room service either.

I flipped the light on, sat down on my 'bed' and started emptying my pockets to add up the day's 'take'. I had a set of coin measures in my 'locker' - plastic tubes with funnel tops that measured pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters ready for rolling. The occasional half-dollar or Susan B. Anthony I counted by hand - it wasn't hard.

After taking care of the coins, I started straightening out the bills. Like I said, I didn't count them while I was on the street - just stuffed them in my pockets.

I started unfolding them, making a neat stack. One fiver - one of my 'regulars' down at the BART station was a generous guy, a wad of ones ... and a neatly folded one hundred dollar bill ...

Nobody passes out hundred dollar bills ... not on purpose ... or do I mean 'not by accident' ...

That was when I remembered The Broker ... it had to be him.

I reached for my backpack and dug for the wallet.

The wallet was more of a card case - you know, a narrow bifold that holds a few credit cards, maybe some business cards? Not really wide enough for bills.

I'd been right - the leather was cheap, split-cowhide with a fabric backing. Wasn't much in it. No cards, no cash, just a funny plastic and metal thing about the size of a credit card but thicker.

I pulled the 'card' free from the case and looked at it more closely. Along one end there was a double row of little holes. That part of it looked like a harmonica - for mice.

The two flat faces were metal - kind of a gold color - while the edges were black plastic. A black arrow on one of the flat faces pointed at the end with the little holes. On the side opposite the arrow, a plastic label - not the raised kind, the real thin ones those new label makers do - had a string of numbers - twelve digits in black on red tape.

Other than that, whatever it was, it was unmarked.

I pressed on the corners, tried sliding the metal faces, held it under the lamp to look for clues ... nothing.

If it opened ... or did anything ... it was a mystery to me.

But it looked like I'd been paid a century note to hold on to it.

I slipped the card back into the wallet, then hid the wallet and card together in the stack of carpets I used for my bed. I figured that was as safe a place as anywhere.

I put the rest of the money in my locker ... then pulled out the five and ten ones. With a hundred bucks in the hideaway, I could afford to splurge on dinner.

Next morning, I started a pot of coffee for the crew, heated water in the microwave for a shave and wash-up, then warmed up a Danish - fresh, this time - for breakfast. If I'd had any dreams during the night, I couldn't remember what ... certainly no premonitions or anything like that.

Over a second cup and a second Danish - I was living high this morning - I ran down a list of things that needed doing.

First item would be the bank. I wasn't going to keep a C-note hidden in my mattress and depositing it - along with the rolls of coins - would bring my balance up a glorious four hundred and thirty-five dollars. Hey, don't laugh, it had taken me better than two years to save that much.

And all it would take would be a few bad weeks to chew a large hole in my assets.

Second item was the gizmo - the whatever-it-was the Broker had passed me.

I had a day's work lined up - cleaning a storeroom over on Delancy - and wasn't planning on being on Spear - still, he'd said "...catch you tomorrow or Thursday..." so it didn't sound like there was any big rush. I didn't know what the thing was - or why it was important enough to earn me a C-note - but there didn't seem to be any hurry about returning it. I'd be back on Spear on Thursday. For now, I could leave the thing-a-ma-bob where it was.

Overall, I was feeling pretty good. I finished my coffee, then pulled five ones from my stash - lunch and emergency funds. This was a work day and, for lunch, I figured a po-boy from the 7-11 would sit nicely.

I still had a few copies of the Street Sheet in my pack and, since they weren't expecting me on Delancy until nine or so, I headed over toward the Financial District to catch the early traffic coming in on BART.

Later, after hitting the bank and still four bucks rich, I grabbed a coffee on my way over to the cleaning job. For the moment at least, I seemed to be on a roll.

The cleaning job took longer than I'd expected. It wasn't just a storeroom but involved a lot of heavy - and worthless - display cases that had to be dismantled before they could be moved at all.

The end result was a lot of pieces of things stacked in the alley which would have to be picked up and hauled away but, inside at least, things were as spotless as they'd get short of sand-blasting.

At any rate, the owners' were pleased ... and so was I with the forty bucks they paid me.

It was nearly four when I finished - too late for most things but, if I hurried, I could make it over to the Mission in time to grab that shower before dinner.

Considering the work I'd been doing - and the fact that San Francisco can get warm in September - I hurried ...

... which was how I wound up recounting my last two days to the police.

Detective Chavez listened politely enough and asked a few questions but I got the impression that he wasn't expecting a whole lot. I didn't do anything to improve his expectations.

Nothing against cops, you understand - certainly they'd never done anything to me ... if you don't include a $78 ticket for illegal camping because I fell asleep in Washington park one day ... and then a week spent in the slam because I couldn't pay the ticket.

You know it costs $300 a day to stick a homeless person in jail? That means that my week's vacation cost the City of San Francisco a bit over $2000 ... and the food just wasn't that good.

You know what I could do with that $2000? It may not be much to you ... but I could live on two grand for months ... longer even.

So, I gave Chavez the short version - not being evasive or anything, just sticking to what seemed relevant. Naturally, I didn't mention the Broker - he certainly had nothing to do with Jacobs. And there wasn't much else. I hadn't seen Jacobs since yesterday morning and I'd spent all of today cleaning a storeroom ... what was there to say?

Besides, Jacob's being killed kind of shook me up ... and not just because I knew him ... because I kept thinking it could been me.

Look, if being a coward's what it takes to stay alive ... I'll make like a coward, okay. It's not like I had a hell of a lot of incentive to be brave.

It wasn't until Detective Chavez began asking me if I could account for my whereabouts around noon - since that, apparently, was when Jacobs was knifed - that I realized I'd finished the coffee as well as a plate of sandwiches Mark had slipped in front of me.

"Relax, Detective," Mark was vouching for me. "Martin's the last person in the world you should suspect."

"Maybe so," the officer considered. "But Jacobs was killed at Mr. Villas' regular spot, stabbed from behind and all of his belongings missing ... What about it, Mr. Villas? How did you feel about Jacobs trespassing on your turf? Mad enough to kill him?" He was looking across the table at me with an intense scrutiny - as if his gaze could extract some kind of an answer.

I'd rather not know what I looked like with my jaw hanging open ...

Four hours later - after my temporary employers had been located - they lived in Daly City - and had vouched for my whereabouts during the bulk of the day - Mark gave me a lift back to my cubby.

All in all, it had been anything but an enjoyable evening. I did get my shower - with a policeman standing outside to insure that I didn't drown myself ... or escape through the drain or something - but that was the high point of an otherwise monotonous encounter. Not to mention that most of the hot water was gone by the time I got free of the inquisition.

On the whole, maybe I got off easy - after all, I did have an alibi. And Jacobs was only a street bum. Not like the police were going to get really worked up about him, right?

And it wasn't like he was a close friend or anything ...

Then again, neither was the Broker ... but I didn't find out about him until the next day ...

* * * end of sample chapter * * *

Buddy, Can You Spare A Crime is published by Mystery and Suspense Press / iUniverse and can be ordered online from the iUniverse Bookstore, Amazon.com or through your local bookstore.

The adventures of Martin Villas will continue in Little Girl Lost and in Crime du Vin, both to be published in the near future.

In Little Girl Lost, Martin discovers that going from being one of San Francisco's homeless and unemployed to working for a covert Federal agency is a major change ... but not nearly as major as becoming a surrogate father to a runaway teen-age impresario in pigtails.  Then, when the teenager is the near victim of a poisoning with a synthetic narcotic that is already claiming a number of lives around San Francisco, what was personal becomes official and it takes more than the homeless community to protect a little girl lost.

In Crime du Vin, employing homeless people to search dumpsters for evidence or to perform surveillance stakeouts is one thing but, on being asked to act as road manager for a group of homeless people who will be featured in a series of television and media ads for a major California vintner, Martin Villas finds that there are matters even more cutthroat than the advertising game, that a body in a wine vat is only the beginning ... and that being a road manager is the least part of the job.

* * *

In Cooks' Tour -- available now from Mystery and Suspense Press -- a guided chef's tour of Thailand becomes the scene of a series of very strange events including a very bad burglar, drunken mushrooms, romance and drugs ... but it's up to the non-chef in the group, Joan Maguire, to play a very non-traditional Ms. Marple and unravel the complexities of a cross-cultural crime and an international mystery.

Review of Cooks' Tour                  Sample Chapters

In A Death In Memory -- available this fall from Mystery and Suspense Press -- a man awakens in a San Francisco hospital after being shot in the head.  Alexander Tambeau -- as he is later named -- has no personal memory and no identity ... but he's far from a blank slate. As Alex sets out to create a new life and also to discover who 'he' was, he finds that not all murders are a death in memory only.  But, if Alex can't prove murder -- since the body has recovered -- he can still identify the murderer ... and he can make the punishment -- very aptly -- fit the crime.