Dying For A Little Class

By Tj O’Connor, author of Dying to Know & Dying for the Past & Dying to Tell

Dying is overrated. Having a little class is not.

Stop scratching your head. If you’re a struggling author like me, this will all make sense. If you’re a successful author like we all hope to be, pay attention and remember that catchphrase.

 

When I was a young boy, I had a tough upbringing at times. I read everything I could get my hands on to hide and maintain a little peace of mind. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it did not. I’ve said this many times, but my early favorites were the works Franklin W. Dixon and his Hardy Boys, Gordon Shirreffs’ The Mystery of the Haunted Mine, and Barbee Carleton’s Mystery of the Witches Bridge. They were huge stories to me and set me on the path to writing. There was a bigger influence, too, and that book came full-circle from my childhood to grab my attention this past week.

That book was Six Days of the Condor by James Grady.

Sometime in the early 70s, my older brother gave me a well-worn paperback copy of Six Days of the Condor. We didn’t have a lot in common back in those days; he was already escaping life in that small town and I was pining for my chance. James Grady’s first novel was my first “mature” novel that took me from the Hardy Boys mysteries into the world of the CIA, murder, intrigue, and thrillers. Six Days was at the beginning of a career that took Mr. Grady into journalism, politics, government, and Hollywood and continues to span decades of success. His is a story well worth catching up on.

For weeks while by brother was home visiting, we spent evenings on the front porch reliving the book and talking about politics, spies, and all that. I was, for the most part, totally lost. But, when you’re a young adventurer like I was, you keep up. This was the first time I’d connected with my brother in years, and my grandfather—who soon passed far too young for my liking—joined the discussions and spun his own tales of World War II in the pacific. That summer was one of my best memories as a kid.

To say that Six Days of the Condor affected me is an understatement.  

My young world exploded. The Hardy Boys—sorry pals—went into a box. I spent hours in the library trying to learn all I could about this new thing called the CIA and everything I could read about our government, politics, and espionage. My research—hold on youngsters, there was no internet or computers—took me days in the library to learn that the best authors were in my new love of thrillers and intrigue. I found them—Alistair MacLean, John le Carré, Mickey Spillane, Robert Ludlum, Raymond Chandler …

Holy crap! Frank and Joe Hardy never packed heat or had the hot babes! They never infiltrated Nazi strongholds or shot it out with rogue spies in Washington either. Where had I been? Grade school, of course. But, boy, was I catching up.

Six Days of the Condor opened my world to great fiction and put the icing on the cake for my future. I was going to be an author. I was going to join the CIA. I was going to fight bad guys and have real life adventure. Me. This poor, barely-passing-English-kid from an unheard-of tiny town in upstate New York. Yes, me.

We all have our heroes and reasons we are who we are. Surprisingly, so many of us get them from great books. Oh, I won’t go as far as to say that James Grady made me who I am or was the single driving force behind my past thirty-six years. No, but it’s in the top three reasons and, without question, was the turning point in my young life from that constant, nagging question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” to a dream for chasing.

Why do I belabor this point? Because I’ve been a very lucky guy these past years and I don’t ever want to forget that. I was reminded of that this past Wednesday.

I never joined the CIA. But, for more than a decade, I was an agent with the OSI and ran investigations and anti-terrorism operations all over places most people only read about in books. I chased murderers, spies, and terrorists with some of the finest, most dedicated people I have ever known. Then, during the next few years in the private sector, I have had the fortune to have a mentor—Wally—who is one of the last surviving OSS—World War II’s Office of Strategic Services—operatives in the world and a former senior spook at the CIA. Through the years, I’ve met big shots all over—senior government (of many nations) leaders, politicians, movie stars, rock stars, et cetera, et cetera. I’ve even had the great fortune to know some amazing authors, too, many of whom have become my friends—like bestselling author, Stephen Frey, who has become a friend and influence on my books. And, all along the way, I sort of just took it in stride, never thought of what it meant or what it might come to.

Until last Wednesday.

Last Wednesday morning, I sat down to do some bill-paying work, and a note popped up on my computer from … James Grady. Holy crap on a peanut butter sandwich! Mr. Grady had—for some odd reason—found my mention of him in a blog about how I got started writing and doing my life’s work. He sat down and sent me a Facebook note to say hello. By coincidence, he is currently promoting his latest book, The End of the Condor, the next long-awaited sequel to Six Days of the Condor. In his note, he said something very important—and it is the reason for this blog—One day it would be humbling to have someone comment about me and that I should remember his words. We exchanged a couple more notes and the Ethernet returned to normal.

I heard you loud and clear, Mr. Grady. And thank you again.

I am not now, nor have I ever been, a fan boy. I’ve worked around—and even protected—celebrities and power-brokers in my life. It sort of becomes “just business.” Yet, there is something about one’s childhood heroes that breaks down the dulled senses and makes you feel like you’re thirteen years old again.

And yes, it was humbling—for me, too.

Mr. Grady took his valuable time to drop me a note and give me a little recognition. Of the tons of important and famous folks I’ve met, I can count on my fingers and toes those who ever did that. As an author, the simple fact that he thought enough about our craft and my work to acknowledge my start-up writing career was enough. But his message was ever more important.

So, what does a non-fan boy like me do when a childhood hero reaches out? Gush? Run around giggling like a school girl? (Maybe a little.) No, I grabbed my box of Midnight Ink Dying for the Past promo books (the second in my paranormal series that just released). I signed a copy with a nice note to Conan—a young aspiring writer from upstate New York—and express mailed it out. You see, Conan sent me a short story last year called The Great Pirate Adventure, which I commented on my Facebook page. He was, apparently, thrilled by that little bit of recognition. I’m not sure how old Conan is, but I hope he’s young enough to still be thrilled by a wanna-be author like me just saying hello.

Dying for the Past should be in Conan’s hands by the time this blog posts. I hope it meant as much to him as my note from James Grady. And, one day, I hope Conan writes his own novel or pursues whatever his dreams are. And, I hope he remembers my note to him and passes along that little class that Mr. Grady began this past Wednesday. 

So, as Oliver Tucker said in Dying to Know, Dying is overrated—and from me, having a little class is not.

Tj O’CONNOR IS THE AUTHOR OF DYING FOR THE PAST and DYING TO KNOW, available in books stores and e-books from Midnight Ink. His third paranormal mystery, DYING TO TELL, will be released January 2016. He is currently working on a traditional mystery and a new thriller. Tj is an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. He was raised in New York's Hudson Valley and lives with his wife and Lab companions in Virginia where they raised five children. Dying for the Past and Dying To Know are the first of eight novels to be published.  Learn more about Tj’s world at www.tjoconnor.com and on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/TjOConnor.Author

 

 

Dying is Toughest When It's Your Best Friend

By Tj O’Connor, author of Dying to Know, Dying for the Past, and Dying to Tell

 

As a mystery writer, death becomes almost cliché—at least, fictional death. It’s the heart of a story and everything surrounds it. We treat death as no more than a plot and the make-believe root of our writing lives. It’s easy to forget what death really is.

In real life, it’s truly a killer.

Saying good-bye is one of the hardest thing I’ve done in my life. It was no matter that it came at the end of a long, wonderful, and full life, either. It was still hard. Gut-wrenching. Sad.

I am generally a tough guy—not a muscled bouncer or martial arts Ninja—although in my past years I could be pretty tough, too. No, I control my emotions from others’ perception and choose to most often. Friends and family have thought me removed, even unfeeling at times. That’s not from a lack of emotion—no, not all—but from an ability to take those feelings and lock them up when it’s needed. Maybe it’s from years under an abusive father. Maybe it’s from my often tumultuous past life. Or, perhaps, it’s just my way of protecting myself.

But not with Mosby. Not when it was his time. I lost my way to the emotion-lockbox. My stone exterior crumbled to tears and pain—a weeping, trembling wreck. My boy—best friend and companion—was done. Mos, my 90 pound yellow Lab had reached the end of his 14-plus years and couldn’t go on. He had tumors, cancer, arthritis, and lord only knows what else—although you’d never know it. We cared well for him and up until the last week of his life, there had been little pain but for the arthritis in his knees. A few good meds and my carrying him up and down stairs whenever he wished took care of that. He repaid me with devotion. When not stalking me for a treat or meal, he was sleeping close to my desk or at my feet watching a movie. Never complaining. Never grumbly or irritable. Never far away. 

At the end, he was just done—his life was yesterday and there was no more to have. His body was failing and his dignity was nearly spent. His pure bred Lab companions—Maggie, the Chocolate, and Toby, the Black—were constant attendants. Toby walked at his side up and down the stairs whenever I was not near—gently pushing him against the wall to keep him from stumbling. Mags found me whenever the old boy needed something and I failed to noticed. He had raised them from pups and they were shouldering him in his last days.

People should have such compassion and loyalty. People should try to understand the love and devotion that Mos gave to everyone. I challenge you.

 

As a young dog, Mos grew up with five teenagers my wife and I raised in North Western Virginia. His favorite things were food, toys, family, food … and rules. If there was a rule in the house—for dog of child—he enforced it. If the boys were getting too rough around the basement pool table, Mos summoned me. If my cooking threatened to alert the smoke alarm, he barked a warning. If one of the other dogs were out of line, he sought their correction.

Except at Christmas time. Rules be damned.

 

Christmas with five teenagers was a free-for-all. And our kids always made sure they had a wrapped present for Mos and the others. And up until Christmas morning, they hid presents in their rooms out of sight and mind. Did you ever try to hide a dog toy from a Lab? Before Christmas Eve, Mos would have found each and every one of his presents and deftly opened them—so much for rules! One year, he opened my daughters closet door to dig beneath the family presents and retrieve his own. How? Because at an early age he learned to roll his nose between doorknobs and doorframe and open a door. How did he know which were his gifts and which were not? Practice.

His favorite game—other than eating—was hide and seek. One of my daughters, and later one of my grandchildren, often played with him often. She’d sneak away and hide, and within minutes, Mos had patrolled the house and sniffed her out. A bark, a pat, a treat, and he was on the chase again.  

Mos was the center of the family and for good reason. He played Frisbee with everyone. Stayed close for the beer pong and pool games. Was within arm’s reach of the grandchildren as they learned to walk and play. He even sat at the dinner table—yes, in a chair—to listen to evening banter and share in the laughs. But no responsibility was as important to him as being my co-author, office mate, late-night movie partner, and constant foot-warmer. Well, perhaps dinner-time taste-tester! Even at the end in my home office, Mos barked for me to help him move from wherever he was to wherever I was—that distance could be no more than feet. If that was in the basement gym, than damn the stairs and carry him down.

Mosby died Veteran’s Day—three months ago. It’s only been a short time and I still get up in the morning and step careful beside the bed for fear I might step on him. As I work in my den, his ashes are nearby beside a ceramic likeness and a photograph. It’s taken me these three months to have the clearness of vision to write these words. Yet, I cannot say good-bye. The starch of my emotions fail me with his memory so much that I cannot bury him—should we ever leave this home, I could never leave him behind.

What a sap. What a woosie boy. What a cry-baby! No—he earned every tear I’ve shed.

My only solace is that at 14 +, he did not go because of his ailments over the years that I lined up doctors to cure. He loved life and family and dinner and toys. He reveled in the love he received from all of us. His life had been so full, it could simply take no more. There was nothing more for him and he made room for another to find this home. In time—not soon—we’ll do that.

Life is like that. It gives and takes. I think you have to give first because when it takes, it’s too late to make up for the loss. You have to pay in advance. With Mos, we paid plus interest. I know he knew that. At the end, he found the strength to climb onto my bed—something he hadn’t done in over two years—and lay his head on my lap. He wanted me to know it was time ... and that it was okay.

Mosby’s his first love, Belle, passed this last week, too. Belle was Mos’ age and was my daughter’s dog. We got her thirteen years ago to be his companion while the family was at work. They grew up together and when my daughter married and moved across the county, Belle went with her. We, of course, had brought Maggie into the family by then. Like Mos, Belle succumbed to life. She was14 plus years, too, and had a full life. Losing those two so close together was devastating to us all. Strangely, one has to wonder if they were not supposed to be together. Dogs need companionship—perhaps here and there, too.

One can hope.

My current mystery series, The Gumshoe Ghost, has Hercule, a black Lab as a key character. Not because I wanted to fit into the cozy community or knew in advance having an animal was chic. I included Hercule because Labs are so much a part of my life that I couldn’t see my character not having one. In the future, the importance of a dog will have a new meaning.

I’m still surrounded by sweet, loving Labs (and another daughter’s Mastiff, too). They keep me company as I toil over my keyboard. They are a great comfort and as close to me as Mos ever was. Yet, no matter how close they are, there is still that void.

I hope it doesn’t leave too soon. Pain is a reminder of loss. I don’t mind keeping him around a little while longer—even if it’s painful. Nothing so important should be easily lost.

A lot of you will understand me having to commit this to words. For those of you who can’t—or who call me a silly man—you have no idea what you’re missing. Deep down, loss reveals something so amazing.


 Tj O’CONNOR IS THE AUTHOR OF DYING FOR THE PAST and DYING TO KNOW, available in books stores and e-books from Midnight Ink. His third paranormal mystery, DYING TO TELL, will be released January 2016. Tj is an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism, investigations, and threat analysis—life experiences that drive his novels. With his former life as a government agent and years as a consultant, he has lived and worked around the world in places like Greece, Turkey, Italy, Germany, the United Kingdom, and throughout the Americas—among others. He was raised in New York's Hudson Valley and lives with his wife and Lab companions in Virginia where they raised five children. Dying for the Past and Dying To Know are the first of eight novels to be published.  Learn more about Tj’s world at www.tjoconnor.com and on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/TjOConnor.Author

Dying for the Past - The Roots of this Sequel- Part I

By Tj O’Connor, author of Dying to Know & Dying for the Past

Countdown—39 days to the launch of Dying for the Past, my first sequel to Oliver “Tuck” Tucker’s debut in Dying to Know. Tuck is back in Book 2 and he’s on a new case with the help of his beautiful and brilliant professor-wife, Angel, and Detective Bear Braddock, his always faithful, always-protective ex-partner. Or maybe I’m describing Hercule, his black Lab companion. Both I think.

Tuck has just started settling down into his new life as a dead detective after wrapping up his own murder and ending the killing spree of a serial killer. Things have been going well for him—all things being considered that is.  

Tuck finds that being dead is often bittersweet. He explains a little in Chapter 1 of Dying for the Past…

 

“Sometimes, being dead is not so bad. Like poofing in and out of places on a whim without bothering with doors and stairs. And you never have to pee or get the flu again—big pluses. Then there are times, though, when dead is depressing and sad. It’s the things you miss—the taste of good wine, the adrenaline-rush of chasing a suspect, or the feeling when you’re in the middle of the dance floor with the most beautiful woman in the room. Those moments hurt.

A woman with shoulder-length auburn hair and sparkling green eyes stood in the middle of the mansion’s ballroom. Her long, silky gown was icing poured hot over sultry curves. All eyes fixed on her when she embraced a tall, distinguished-looking older man before a dance. He wore a tux—okay, yeah, he was striking with gray hair and a strong, muscular build, brilliant, rich, blah, blah, blah. Big deal. The two could have been on a wedding cake, but instead were the center of attention at Angel’s big band-themed charity gala, and leading a turn around the floor to Glenn Miller’s Moonlight Serenade.

 When they took their first step, I turned away …”

Then wham. Someone’s dead. Not just any someone, mind you, but a shifty rich guy with a carnation on his lapel and a beautiful, but angry young bride on his arm. The only things anyone knows about this mysterious philanthropist is that he has too much money, too beautiful a young wife, and one-too-many bullet holes in him.

“Mr. Carnation hailed a passing waiter for a refill of champagne. After downing the glass in a single gulp, he lifted Angel’s hand for a melodramatic kiss.

His glass shattered and spasms jerked his body all the way to the floor. His right arm thrust out and pointed at the crowd; his left still held the broken glass stem. His body twitched a few more times and stilled …

… I’d seen death before—and murder, too often. Not just my own, but dozens.

This one was unmistakable. It wasn’t the way Mr. Carnation collapsed in a jerky, melodramatic spiral to the hardwood. It also wasn’t the way his dull, lifeless face caught the dance ball light either. It was much simpler.

It was the blood pooling around his body and the bullet hole through his torso.

Someone murdered Mr. Carnation—shot him in front of two hundred witnesses. A killer jitterbugged in and gunned him down to Benny Goodman.”

In Dying for the Past, Tuck realizes pretty quickly that it’s all about just that—the past. For Tuck, his past started to haunt him (pardon the pun) after his murder. You see, being dead also comes with some perks—spirited perks, like touching crime scene objects that show him a few snippets of their meaning (though often veiled) and being able to move about without the delays of traffic or bad weather. He can pop in and out of places at a whim. He just has to know where he wants to be. No, he has no after-life intuition or clairvoyance—it always comes down to plain old detective work. Now, he has to figure out how to use his new-found talents and a couple unusual characters to solve the case.

“Across the room, standing alongside the dance floor, was an uninvited guest. He was a stout, striking man in a black pinstripe, double-breasted suit. He wore shiny, buffed wingtips and a gray felt fedora. The only thing missing was a big cigar hanging out of his mouth and a violin case. Then, he swept his hand across his jacket and revealed a heavy semi-automatic in a shoulder holster. Did someone invite Al Capone?

He looked at me and winked. Winked …

 … Voices hushed as eyes fell on the dead man.

Not me, though, I watched the crowd, looking for the killer and any telltale sign of the smoking gun.

But what I saw, or didn’t see, unnerved me more.

The gangster in the black pinstripes was gone … vanished—poof. He arrived just in time for a killing and left before the body hit the floor. No sign of his spats and black tie remained. He didn’t leave his fedora or heater behind either. He was as dead and gone as Mr. Carnation.

The question was, however, would he stay that way?”

In Dying for the Past, Tuck begins to learn some of his own family secrets. First, after witnessing the murder of Stephanous Grecco in front of his wife and a hundred people at the Vincent House—no one saw anything—Tuck finds himself searching for the killer and wondering what it all has to do with his own family tree. What does he find along the way?

·       Vincent Calaprese—the spirit of a 1939 mobster boss with his hooks into Tuck’s family tree.

·       Sassy—the eye-candy delight always on Vincent’s arm and always after Tuck’s eye.

·       Doc Gilley’s secret just within arm’s reach. Can Tuck get the truth out of him?

·       Someone stalking Angel, but what does it have to do with Steve and Bonnie Grecco—the new rich elite in Winchester? And what does André Cartier, Angel’s only family and mentor, have to do with all of it?

·       Why are the FBI, US Attorney’s Office, and a television ghost-hunter all converging on the Vincent House?

·       Also, why is Poor Nic Bartalotta—retired New York mob boss extraordinaire—connected to the Russian Mob and missing federal snitches?

·       Aove all, who will find The Book—Old Vincent’s gangster journal holding the secrets to a bundle in loot and the names and evidence on the who’s who of Washington D.C.’s World War II spies, mobsters, and corrupt-elite. You’d be surprised how many are still around these days.

The answers come from the past and the victims are Dying for the Past.

Stay tuned to this channel—same The Plot Thickens time, same Plot Thickens Channel. Next month, I’ll disclose some of the past behind Dying for the Past. Like …

·       What’s the backstory to Vincent Calaprese and his pre-World War II escapades?

·       What’s the story behind Tuck, Doc, and his wayward ancestors?

·       Why am I so connected to the past myself? What skeletons and secrets do I have hidden deep away?

If you can guess any of these answers, drop me a line here or email me at tj@tjoconnor.com

Be looking for Dying for the Past out on your bookshelves January 8, 2015!

Tj O’Connor lives in Virginia with his wife and three Labs. Dying to Know is the fourth of his eight novels and is currently available in bookstores and online. Dying for the Past, the first of two sequels, will be released in January 2015—available now for pre-orders. Tj is an international security consultant specializing in anti-terrorism and investigations. Learn about his world at www.tjoconnor.com and Facebook at www.facebook.com/TjOConnor.Author.