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1. Thou shalt deliver thy load on time:

a. Even when dispatched 5 minutes after delivery is due.

b. Night or day-whether black ice, deluge, fog, or flame.

2. Bestow pity upon thy dispatcher:

a. Whenever he proves himself a raving jackass…

b. Forgive him, for he is weak.

3. Honor thy truck:

a. Neither is it a damnable beast, nor doth it conspire against you; nor can it outrun the wind when screamed at.

4. Love the delivery dock:

a. Know the dock foreman’s black heart is filled with compassion.

About three or four years ago I worked a contract that required me to drive through a less than desirable part of town. One particular freeway underpass housed the man I would later come to know as Harley.

I think Harley was about my age, maybe even a little younger. He certainly could not have survived these conditions if he were much older than 50. He had lost most of teeth. He couldn’t seem to stand fully erect and when he walked to a car to accept a hand out his movement was restrained as though each step towards the charity caused him physical and emotional pain.

I went to my local grocery store the other day. I needed some shaved deli meat for my famous “Killer Roast Beef Sandwiches.” The deli counter is right there when you walk in and the scene was a typical early evening gotta-get-somethin-for-dinner rush. I counted six people ahead of me but when I pulled my number I found myself the twelfth seeker of the hand sliced grail. A large woman jostled me out of her line-of-display-case site, whining something about not being able to see the Gorgonzola.

Tough as a tire iron and proud as a parson in paradise, Jeff Sanders, Private Investigator, was good at his job, always cool and always composed, never rancorous or rattled on the witness stand. Fit at 40, he was a wiz at bending the truth toward the side that hired him, but he never blatantly lied. “No yellow Jellyfish, that Jeff Sanders,” the Chief of Police always said. He should see me now, Jeff thought.

I woke up groaning, drum beating painfully inside my head. Tongue thick and dry, body drained - not unusual for a Saturday morning.

I wanted to return to my dreams, but imagined I smelt coffee. Thirst winning; I dragged myself out of bed. Donned my threadbare maroon toweling robe, pushed my feet into my old-flapping carpet slippers and set off to investigate the unexpected aroma.

My dizzy descent downstairs was torturous, each step making my head pound. The smell of freshly ground coffee driving me on - more attractive than the stale ale surrounding me.

This is James Ross’ first exploration into the literary world, and he should pat himself on the back for producing a very well designed and executed story. I like my heroes heroic and my villains villainous, and Ross delivers.

Jack ‘Scooter’ McAlister gives the world the impression that he has it all, this Bostonian businessman exudes wealth and success. But is it reale His magazine business is not doing as well as it could, and the problems of jiggling a wife and a mistress, are wearing thin on him. His favorite exit would be to sell the once popular magazine and run off with his mistress. Unfortunately one look at the financials are enough to scare off all but the most resilient of buyers.

Between the twenty story buildings on Riverside Drive and West End Avenue, 88th street was lined with five story brownstones - most of them single family homes. The street in front of the houses was lined with sycamore trees protected by five foot high protectors made of vertical iron staves held together by horizontal iron bands. The staves ended in spear points at the top and were painted green. Later, after the War, most of the paint had worn off and we\’d grab the top section of the staves and bend them toward us to show how strong we\’d grown.

As I have intimated in previous offerings, the research that goes into writing a historical novel can be almost minimal, or can entail weeks and months of endeavor. If one wishes to write about something as remote as the caravans carrying silk in the ancient days over the Silk Road through China, Tibet and associated areas, the work required could be substantial. One of the best novels set in similar surroundings was Thomas Costain\’s The Black Rose that sold over six hundred thousand copies in its first printing. Costain had a long and varied career as an editor and for several years as director of 20th Century Fox\’s story development department. He retired at 57 years of age to devote his time to writing, and his fiction was notable for its reliance on historical facts, but always pertinent to his story.

Lucky Strike Green had come home from the War, as had Dubble Bubble gum and the pink Spaldeen