Welcome to our third week of celebrations for the amazin
In today's
episode post, we're going to take a look at the Buck Baxter Mysteries, plus Harm's Way, all from Geoffrey thriller/mystery books. We also have Geoffrey's personal story, and of course there's also a chance to win one of his books.
First up,
Buck Baxter, Love Detective
Blurb:
Welcome to Wilde City, 1924—a crane on top of every skyscraper, a party in every club, a romance on every dance floor, a shooting every night, a broken heart on every street corner and a dirty secret behind every window with the curtain drawn. It’s the kinda town that keeps Buck Baxter, private detective, in business.
For despite his fondness for a cold gin and a pipe stuffed with cannabis, Buck is the best gumshoe in Wilde City. Why? Because he has rules: never make friends, never make enemies, and never ever fall in love. That is until the day playboy nightclub owner Holden Hart swings into town. He’s suave, he’s charming, he’s chivalrous… and he’s exactly the kinda man that Buck will break all the rules for.
From the romance of the Rainbow Palace atop the Wilde City Tower, to the dazzling debauchery of the gentlemen’s parlor The Velvet Viper—from the history surrounding the sinister convent on the hill better known Hell’s Bells, to the lantern-lit opium barge, The Peking Empress, run by the mystical Madame Chang—could Buck be about to unravel the greatest mystery of them all…
The mystery of love?
Excerpt:
Picture this—
Wilde City, 1924, a crane on the top of every skyscraper, a party in every club, a romance on every dance floor, a shooting every night, a broken heart on every street corner and a dirty secret behind every window with the curtains drawn. It’s a city crammed with tough guys, dangerous women, loud jazz, and illegal booze; the kinda place where everyone carries a hipflask in their pocket and a spare pistol in their sock, no matter whether they’re dealing opium in a dark alley in Little Chinatown or dancing up a storm at the Rainbow Palace atop Wilde City Tower. You want a good time, you come to Wilde City; you wanna last a long time, you go someplace else. Because here in Wilde City there’s only three types of people: the lovers, the famous… and the dead.
Me, I ain’t famous, and last time I checked, I wasn’t dead either. And as for love, well I ain’t felt that in a long, long time. Sure, I’ve blown more than just money on the rent boys at the Velvet Viper; Satan knows there’s more than a few holes to slither down in that sinful snake pit. But I’d never really had anyone that I’d consider… cherished. Well at least not since I was a boy. But that’s a story for later.
So if I ain’t a lover, and I ain’t famous or dead, I guess that sorta makes me a nobody. Which is kinda what you need in my line of work. The name’s Buck Baxter, Private Detective. I stay low and keep my eyes open. I watch every shadow. I listen for every footstep, every whisper. I don’t make friends, I don’t make enemies, and I sure as hell don’t fall in love. I just get the job done fast, collect my payment, and move on to the next case.
At least that’s how the game used to go.
It all changed the night he blew in to town, announcing himself in a blaze of fireworks and a shebang so big it seemed the whole of Wilde City descended upon his glittering nightclub to hail the new prince of parties. His name was Holden Hart, and maybe I never would have met him if I didn’t get the telephone call from one Miss Winnipeg Whitmore.
“Mr. Baxter? Are you Mr. Buck Baxter?”
“Speaking.” It was just before nine. I was at my desk in my rundown old office that doubled as my apartment, sitting there stark naked but for my trusty black trilby. The night was so damn hot and sticky you could pour it in a barrel and slap a molasses label on it. I couldn’t stack enough ice in my glass of gin. The cannabis I’d smoked earlier was starting to sweat from my pores. If I held my face any closer to the electric fan on my desk, it might have shaved the stubble off my cheek.
“My name’s Miss Winnipeg Whitmore. I have a case for you, but I must be assured of absolute discretion. It’s a somewhat delicate matter that needs investigating, and I’m a very private person.”
“It’s your lucky day, Miss Whitmore. I’m a very private detective.”
“Do you accept cash?”
I clinked the ice in my gin. “Greenbacks, booze, pot, pistols… Lady, if I can trade it or spend it, I accept it.”
She seemed a little flustered by that. “Oh. Well then. Cash it is.”
* * *
Bright and early the next morning, there came a curt knock at the door. So bright and early in fact, I was still asleep on the sofa. I rolled off in a tangled sheet and hit the floor, my head pounding, and my cock already wide-awake. I grabbed my trousers and slid them on, then pulled on a worn, sweat-stained undershirt and snapped my suspenders over my shoulders. I was still tucking myself in, trying to push my erection down, when the knock came once again.
“Be right there,” I called before splashing the melted ice in my glass over my face. There was still a trace of gin left, and it burned my eyes. “Ah, shit,” I whispered to myself, wiping my red eyes dry with the back of my forearm and reaching for the door.
Evidently, my efforts to look remotely presentable failed.
The woman at the door looked somewhat shocked at my appearance. She herself came across as extremely prim and proper, in a dour kinda way. A real Mrs. Grundy if you catch my drift. On closer inspection, she was perhaps in her mid-thirties, but at first glance she had looked much older, what with the tight curls in her hair, the white-gloved hands clutching her white handbag, the pale blue blouse buttoned up to her neck, and a skirt that reached all the way to her ankles. I felt all hot and itchy just looking at her.
“Miss Whitmore, I’m guessing.”
She looked past me to the office apartment behind me. I could see her eyes scanning the room, and I knew exactly what she was seeing: the sheet on the floor by the sofa; the worn curtains and frayed rug on the bare boards; the empty gin bottle and glass on the desk; the pipe sitting in a silver dragon ashtray filled with the ash of last night’s cannabis hit; the bath tub and john in the far corner with the rusty plumbing running up the walls.
She looked even more shocked when she got to that.
I shrugged and by way of explanation said, “There used to be a wall there, but I live alone and it was kinda in the way, so why bother with the formalities?” I suddenly thought aloud, “Oh, do you need to use the restroom?”
“Gracious, no!” she gasped with no hesitation whatsoever. “Perhaps this was a mistake.”
She turned and started to leave when I said, “Suit yourself, Miss Whitmore. There’s plenty more gumshoes in Wilde City. Like Bones Mahoney, who spills all his leads to the editor of the Wilde City Chronicle. Or Freddy Finkster, who solves his cases with the help of the local authorities. Or Snitch Taylor, who… well, the name says it all, really. So go ahead. Take your pick. Although when it comes to a ‘delicate’ case such as yours, discretion and privacy may not be their strong suits.”
Miss Whitmore stopped in her tracks, slowly turned, and took a deep, silent breath.
“Why don’t you step into my office?” I asked.
Get the book:
Secondly,
Buck Baxter and the Disappearing Divas
Blurb:
Something sinister is happening at the Maharaja Majestic Theater on Broadville Boulevard. The domineering actress, Dominique Darlington, has vanished without a trace, the opening night of the theater’s new production of The Snake Charmer’s Slave is now in jeopardy, and six suspects are about to have the pleasure of meeting Buck Baxter, Private Detective, as he investigates whether there’s a killer on the loose… or a phantom at the opera?
Could it be the handsome leading man, Errol Hemingway, who’s responsible for the disappearance of his leading lady… or perhaps it’s that sweet, doe-eyed understudy Olivia Overton? Is it the theater owner himself, the tall and mysterious Raja Khan who has committed the crime… or the show’s investor, the autocratic aristocrat Serafina Somerset? Or is it possible that the meek and mild stage manager Stanley Small, or the flamboyant and frustrated director Barnabas Blake, are guilty?
And what of Buck’s romance with playboy millionaire Holden "Harry" Hart? Will Buck get a backstage pass to access all areas of his one true love… or will this be the final curtain for Buck and Harry?
Follow the clues, and you might just solve… the mystery of the disappearing divas!
Get the book:
And third in our line-up,
Harm's Way
