Robert Elias

The most violent element in society is ignorance.
- Emma Goldman

Men become civilized not in proportion to their willingness to believe, but in proportion to their willingness to doubt.
- H.L. Mencken

Technological progress often only provides us with
more efficient means for going backward.
- Aldous Huxley

FINALIST: DARK OAK MYSTERY AWARD

AUTHOR EVENTS:

Friends of Chester Himes Society, Oakland, CA

On Friday, November 18, I will be appearing at the West Oakland Community Center for the Friends of Chester Himes Society to do a book talk for my new novel, The Deadly Tools of Ignorance: A Debs Kafka Mystery.

1724 Adeline Street
Oakland, CA 94607
510-238-7016


Men of Mystery Celebration, Irvine, CA

On Saturday, November 5, I will be appearing at the 6th Annual Men of Mystery Celebration in Irvine, CA, where I'll join 40 other mystery writers to do a day-long (9-4) book talk/reading/signing for my new novel, The Deadly Tools of Ignorance: A Debs Kafka Mystery.

For Registration & Info:
James Day, 949-770-8673

For more Author Events, click on Book Readings, above right

OPENING CHAPTERS:

PROLOGUE

Nothing ever begins where you think it does.

I was sitting at my desk daydreaming, filling my mind with bizarre tasks such as composing imaginary lineups for old-time fantasy baseball teams. They say this kind of brainwork helps prevent Alzheimer’s. Should my staff ace be Walter Johnson, or the lesser known, but brilliant lefthander, Eppa Rixey? And who should hit clean up? Gehrig was pretty good, but I might go with Hank Greenberg instead. What about defense? Pete Reiser was flawless, but he spent less time on the field and more in the hospital--pulling pieces of the center field wall out of his head. Maybe Topsy Hartsel or Wildfire Schulte? I always liked those names, and baseball has a million of them. What would a team be without a Creepy Crespi, a Footsie Blair, a Sloppy Thurston, or a Flame Delhi?

It was early afternoon and I had to be at a talk across town, so I lugged myself up from my desk. Father Tom Licente would be hawking his get-tough agenda on a panel about “Neighborhood Policing.” A distinguished criminology professor, Licente had been asked to share the podium with a police officer, a victim-rights advocate, and an ACLU attorney. Fairmount University’s president, Urban Bonham, was seeking better ties with San Francisco communities, and pressured the whole Criminology department to show up.

Fog blanketed the city as I pulled up to Grand Cathedral for Licente’s talk. Located below Nob Hill, this Gothic-style church was modeled after the Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris. The church honored not merely the ancient saints, but also the modern: portraits of Albert Einstein, Thurgood Marshall, Jane Addams, John Dewey, and Robert Frost adorned the nave at the front towers.

Inside, I passed the baptismal font, and walked down the center aisle. A few people were scattered in the endless pews. Strolling further, I heard the faint sound of a bell from a side portico. I expected the smell of burning candles, yet sweet lavender filled the air. A sculpture of St. Francis welcomed visitors with outstretched arms, yet his face held a sad look of concern. His Canticle of the Sun had been recreated in the cathedral’s brilliant rose window. Glancing up, I sensed something out of balance, but I continued on.

Around the corner, a purple and beige carpet invited guests into a reproduction of the Labyrinth at Chartres—a quarter-mile maze providing respite for those seeking silent meditation. I’d walked it last year and remembered disappearing into another realm for a few precious minutes. This time the “Closed” sign was posted, and the entrance gate was pulled shut. But when I touched the wrought-iron door, it gave against my hand, and I slipped in.

A peaceful feeling overtook me, and I savored the solitude. Fewer candles were lit this time, so I had to walk gingerly to negotiate the twists and turns. A slight crackling noise came from up ahead, and the sound of droplets slowly hitting the floor. I felt transported back to another era.

Fearing I’d overstayed my trespass, I turned to leave and my shoe bumped against something solid. I struggled to see in the faint light.

Across from me, a candelabra lit up a small statue. I took it, bent down, and brought the candles slowly toward the floor.

I lurched back in horror at the sight of Tom Licente’s distorted face. I reached down and felt his body, which lay sprawled along the wall. It was cold and lifeless.

“Help!” I yelled. “I need some help!”

A sickening wave of nausea washed over me, and I braced myself against the wall until it passed. Hot wax dripped from one of the candles onto my pants and bare ankle. I smothered it, then was jolted back to the ghastly scene before me. Moving the candlelight around Tom’s body, I saw his legs splayed, unnaturally, under him, and one of his shoes half pulled off. His black cassock was torn under the left arm and pulled out of his pants in the back. Some cash was strewn along the floor, and more spilled from Licente’s wallet nearby. There was no murder weapon in sight, but I knew better than to move Tom’s body to take a closer look.

I brought the light back up to Tom’s head and gasped. His face had a grotesque look--his tongue out, his eyes frozen open, and blood splattered on his nose and scalp. I saw no gaping wounds, but his neck was raw and skinned as if something had been tied around it. He looked like he’d been choked from behind and banged against the walls, as he wrestled to escape his attacker.

A cold breeze blew in, and I winced at the foul smell of burning sulfur. I had a fleeting thought about the murderer, but whoever it was must have been long gone, given the icy stiffness of Tom’s body. Despite the draft, my shirt was soaked with sweat, and the candles nearly slipped from my clammy hands. Nobody responded to my calls for help. The shock of my discovery left me unsteady as I rose, and staggered toward the exit.

Short of breath, I made my way down the adjoining hallway to the cathedral office. Rather than explain, I just grabbed the phone and dialed 911.

“This is Debs Kafka;” I blurted to the voice on the other end. “There’s been a murder at Grand Cathedral.”

The church secretary let out a cry of disbelief.

Help arrived quickly, and I led two uniformed officers to Tom’s body. Soon they were joined by paramedics who filled out their report for the Coroner’s Office. More cops arrived and set up floodlights to illuminate the crime scene, and the forensic team was summoned. A couple of detectives took me back to the cathedral office, where they questioned me about my gruesome discovery.

Mortified, the Grand Cathedral officials canceled the forum, but part of the audience had already filed in, including most of my department colleagues. Apparently the last one to talk to Tom was the department secretary. The night before, Tom had told her he would go straight to Grand and spend the morning praying and preparing. You’d think, as criminologists, the Fairmount faculty would be immune to this kind of thing, yet they seemed genuinely stunned. Several students huddled nearby?a couple of them weeping. President Bonham arrived, but then disappeared.

As I sat in the main cathedral, my heart raced from the ghastliness of it all. The silence was more eerie than comforting. I’d never discovered a dead man before, and it wasn’t something I’d soon forget. I was haunted by the ghoulish look of desperation on Tom’s contorted face. Who could have done such a thing? I couldn’t believe Tom Licente was gone. He was a decent and dedicated man, apparently defenseless against his assailant. What could have brought this violence to his doorstep, and then snuffed out his life?

With the recent death of my lifelong friend, I’d had my fill of murder, but here it was again. I felt a desperate need to do something dramatic, yet couldn’t imagine what. Eventually I pulled myself up--feeling defeated, and walked toward the exit in a daze. Leaving, I looked up again and realized what had troubled me on the way in. In the Canticle, the Sun was balanced by the Moon and the Earth. Fire was balanced by Water and Wind. But Death was up there, on its own, with Life nowhere in sight. I shuddered in the cool shadows and walked out.


CHAPTER ONE

The Day Before

Lately, my life’s been like one of those foreign films with subtitles. The action has slowed down, and I feel like I’m talking in another language. People just look at me, and stare. I guess it’s because I’ve been asking some uncomfortable questions around here about what, exactly, we’re all doing.

Four years ago, my best friend was gunned down, murdered for no apparent reason on a back street in east Oakland. He was a good man, a loyal buddy, about to get married and try to make a life for himself. An innocent bystander, he was caught in the crossfire of some feuding drug dealers. When Jake Holzer died, I was living back East, in my last year at Bucknell University. Like a lot of people, I was looking forward to graduation, hoping to make my mark in the world. But it was Jake’s death that eventually brought my direction into focus.

Sitting in my shabby graduate assistant office at Fairmount University in San Francisco, my arms and legs seem too long for my desk and chair. It’s summer in the “City by the Bay”--so of course I’m wearing a flannel shirt. Even so, it’s stuffy inside, so I welcome the breeze from the open window. I guess I’m lucky to have a window, but the office paint’s peeling and the furniture’s worse for wear.

I live in a houseboat in nearby Sausalito, across the Golden Gate, when I’m not crashing my girlfriend’s apartment in the city. Before coming out to the West Coast, I was a broker’s assistant on Wall Street and a free-lance photographer for a while, but now I’m studying to get my PhD in criminology. It seemed like the right thing to do, at least until recently. Now I’m not so sure.

I’m troubled by what I’ve been finding both on and off campus. The University’s filled with people who never leave their office—professors like Carolyn Hanks, a law-enforcement specialist who’s never set foot in the poor neighborhoods where cops do most of their policing. Faculty and administrators are at each other’s throats over Fairmount’s proper ties with the Catholic Church. People like Associate Dean Paul Knoflick worship the Vatican, but this rankles the liberal theologians on campus. Cops and court officials have little clue about preventing crime--sometimes they even admit it.

And everyone else seems in a daze, mindlessly entranced by shopping malls and a steady stream of new gadgets. Ignorance prevails; it seems on purpose.

A ring interrupts my silent ravings. The phone has several settings; each sound is more annoying than the other. This is no accident. It’s part of a plan to drive us all stark-raving mad. This ring is especially grating, so I answer it.

A scratchy voice--I can’t tell whether from a man or a woman--asks, “Is this Kafka? Debs Kafka?”

“Yes, that’s me.” Unusual name, I know. But my Dad’s hero was the old labor leader, Eugene Debs, and he couldn’t resist giving his son the name.

“Look, I think you’ll want to know about this. You have a girlfriend Nicole, right?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“And she’s an English instructor, right?"

“Yes, but I really need to know who’s calling.”

“She’s having an affair with one of the professors.”

“Is that so?” I say, sarcastically.

“Can’t tell you who. Just thought you’d like to know.”

The phone goes dead. Now you know why I rarely answer it. When’s the last time it was anything good?

I know it’s not true about Nicole. Probably just some prank caller, maybe someone who’s bummed out about a grade. Hell, that could be any one of dozens of my students. Even so, my male insecurities are roused, and I dial her up.

I met Nicole Vermeer at a University Christmas party a year ago. To say we instantly clicked would vastly understate the situation. Nicole’s a gorgeous sight, but she’s the kind of woman who seduces you with her brains and her eyes. She had a look that cored me like an apple, and I was hers. We lasted less than an hour at the party, and minutes later found ourselves rolling around on her office floor. Not quite love at first sight, but we threw ourselves at each other like there was no tomorrow. But there was a tomorrow and many wild months after that. Yet with passion comes uncertainty, and we’ve had our share of conflicts. Lately we’ve been close, or at least I thought so.

Nicole answers on the second ring, and I say, “Hi, honey, you’ll never guess what I just found out.”

“No, wait Debs, I was just going to call you. I have some bad news.”

“Yes, I know, someone just phoned me. How long has this been going on?” I answer, betrayal suddenly tearing at my heart.

“How long has what been going on? Look, I’m trying to tell you something before you find out from someone else.”

“I already know. You’re having an affair with one of the profs. Who is it?”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Look, Nicole, I know we’ve had our ups and downs. But this . . .”

“Okay, it’s true. I’m having a passionate fling with Tom Licente. It’s been going on for six months, and I can’t get him out of my mind. He’s such a stud muffin.”

Licente is the Criminology Department chair--my department head. A longstanding feature at Fairmount, he’s known for his conservative Catholicism—not surprising for a Laurentian priest, although he’s a little more “out there” than usual. Despite our different backgrounds, he’s a decent man at heart, and I like him. But he hasn’t taken real good care of himself, and he must be pushing 60, more than three decades Nicole’s senior.

“It’s not funny, Nicki.”

“No, it’s not, and you’re an idiot, Kafka. I’m not involved with anyone else. Why would you think that?”

“Well, I didn’t believe it, but . . .“

“You’re such an ass, Debs. But honey,” she says, changing her tone, “I do have something to tell you. Frank Parsons escaped from prison last night.”

Parsons killed my friend Jake Holzer. He was serving a life term in Vacaville, having narrowly avoided the death penalty.

“I’m so sorry, Debs. I know how much Jake meant to you. Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I respond, trying to ward off the shock. “How could this happen?”

“They don’t know yet. They’ve launched a manhunt. I guess they’ll find him soon enough, but I’m frightened.”

“What do you mean?”

“Debs, Parsons had his eyes on me the entire trial. Except to support you, I’d never have stayed in the courtroom. I’m afraid for you, too. After you testified for the prosecution, don’t you remember when he was sentenced and they led him away? He turned to you with those crazy eyes and said something."

“Oh, Nicki, whatever it was, I didn’t give it a second thought. But I’m so sorry you felt threatened by him.”

“It didn’t matter until now. I know Parsons was watching us. I don’t want to think about what he might do if they don’t catch him first.”

As if things weren’t bad enough. The escape seems like a betrayal, like an injustice to Jake. Yet he was the least vengeful person I knew. I could even see him making excuses for Parsons. It’s true he didn’t purposely kill Jake; it was yet another narcotics deal gone bad. But now Parsons suddenly looms larger. I can’t believe what Nicki is saying, yet I can’t completely reject it either. Nicki doesn’t scare easily. A minute ago, my biggest worry was a disgruntled student or, at worst, being dumped by my girlfriend. But now I wonder who really made that phone call. Was it Parsons? If so, what does he want?

“Nicki, we’re getting carried away. Listen, since you’re only involved with Licente,” I tease, “I’d like to come over to your place tomorrow, maybe about five. We can talk this out, and see what to do. Please don’t worry.” I try to disguise the uncertainty in my voice.

“I’m sorry--maybe I’m overreacting. Come as soon as you can, okay?”



I phone Sinclair Hayes, a court clerk I met last year while interning at the San Francisco District Attorney’s Office. Working in the bowels of the system gave me a rude awakening. The process bears little resemblance to the rosy notions about American justice. It’s all about cutting deals, wading through huge caseloads, attorneys half prepared, dazed judges, and one down-and-out defendant after another. Although immersed in the process, Hayes often confided his own misgivings and the routine outrages that took place. At least we had those concerns in common, and we’d kept in touch.

“Hey, Debs,” Sinclair answers. “I know why you’re calling. That scumbag Parsons got loose yesterday.”

“What’s going on?”

“Well, the good news is he’s a moron, so I doubt he’ll stay on the lam too long. The bad news is that we should’ve had him back in custody by now. Each day that doesn’t happen, we risk losing him. Dozens of cops are on the job, so they’re taking him seriously.”

“I wonder whether he’d be a threat to someone he’s known before.” I pause. “Oh well, I’ll just tell you. Nicki thinks Parsons harbors a vendetta against us, and that he singled us out at the trial for helping convict him.”

“That’s strange, given your minor role.”

“Oh look, Sinclair, never mind. It’s nothing. Can you just keep me posted on the search? I’ve got to go.”

So the real world of criminal justice raises its ugly head once again, up close. I guess it’s better than the abstract criminology I spend most of my time on. It makes me angry. I know why someone like Parsons could escape. The prisons are overcrowded, mostly with non-violent drug offenders ever since the war on drugs and “three strikes, you’re out” laws. The prisons can’t cope with the flood of bodies—several million Americans in some kind of custody on any given day. Most of it nets petty drug users--criminalizing behavior that’s taken as normal or, at worst, as a medical problem in other advanced societies. In the meantime, America's real violence goes unaddressed in any serious way. These wars have never worked; surely it’s time to try something new. It’s times like this that lure me in again—something has to be done about this crazy system.

And if Nicole’s right, then I may have more on my hands than merely my own little policy crusade.


But as I gaze out at Fairmount’s ivy-covered walls, I wonder how I can stay in this nuthouse. My colleagues do the strangest things—just last week a fistfight nearly broke out because some psychology professors felt they were doing more than their fair share of student advising. Our senior historian, Clyde Parker, insists Benito Mussolini was just misunderstood. Over spring break, a Math professor, John O’Reilly, left as a man and came back as a woman named Joan—which was fine, except he hadn’t bothered to warn his students about his little operation. Other faculty waste their time arguing minutiae, and jockeying for meaningless positions in the University hierarchy.

Do we academics have anything to contribute besides trivial department politics and backbiting? Shouldn’t universities be solving public problems?not ignoring or compounding them? I see glimmers of hope. But not often enough.

I’m trying to think this through, but there’s this spaceman outside my office window with his daily torture. He’s outfitted with one of those infernal leaf blowers strapped to his back. With his gasoline engine spewing fumes into the air, he’s making a noise like the boiler room on an ocean liner, all to deflect a few leaves from one side of the sidewalk to the other, only to reappear the next day. This qualifies, of course, as advanced technology. And everyone just accepts the damn thing.

“Turn off that blasted machine!” I yell out the window. “How can anyone work in here with all that racket?” I try to keep calm. “I’m sorry,” I say, more gently, “I realize you’re just doing your job. But could you do this area tomorrow?” Johnny Rocket just shrugs and walks off. Probably wearing ear plugs and didn’t hear a word I said.

I look around my dumpsite of an office, and realize I’ve been sitting here for several hours. I feel cooped up. I want to be outside, breathe in some clean air, smell the grass. Yes, the grass.

I know exactly where I want to be. Out on a freshly mowed diamond, fielding a sharp grounder at short, diving into the hole, making the backhand stop, and heaving a long, off-balance throw to nip the runner at first. To take in the pungent blend of grass and red clay. To get up and do it all over again. To field and throw, to hit and slide, to out think the other team. Every day. As a way of living. And get paid for it.

I might have actually been able to do this. Once. God, I love baseball.


CHAPTER TWO

Notorious for loving sex and women, Henry Miller claimed it was actually friends who made all the difference. A life without friends is no life, he said, however snug and secure it might be. Now I’ve lost two friends, in the worst possible way.

Yesterday I was joking about Tom Licente. But now he’s gone.

Still shaken by Tom’s death, I wince in the afternoon sun, which greets me outside Grand Cathedral, as I leave the murder scene. As promised, I head over toward North Beach.

Nicole claims I have my little peccadillos, such as my aversion to new cars. For me, an automobile is new if it was built after 1960. That was the year of my first car, a Mercury Comet. With the horsepower of a ride-around lawn mower, it was a dream machine. But in the end it was too new for me, so I swapped it for a 1957 silver and white Studebaker Silver Hawk two-door, which I bought from a San Francisco cabbie who fixes up old cars on the side. With its trim European design, leather seats, and simple wood-paneled dashboard, it’s my comfort zone. It was scandalous when the “Big Three” automakers drove Studebaker out of business in 1963, but I can still get parts, and driving the Hawk is a hoot.

But not today. I drive, with a heavy heart, up Taylor Street, toward Nicole’s apartment, looking for Filbert. To the left, Filbert Street rises dramatically, becoming the steepest street in this city of death-defying ups and downs. Fortunately I need to go right, where I’d normally encounter a perennial San Francisco problem. Leave it to Nicki to live in the absolute worst parking area in the city—so bad that for years, just for fun, North Beach has held an annual parking contest to see how many spots can be found within the allotted time. Precious few ever are.

But it pays to have friends in high places. Sinclair got me a coveted pass to the local police garage, only two blocks from Nicole’s place. I get nervous going in there and usually get stares at my Studebaker. But it always works out. The attendant—decked out in blue mechanics overalls?no doubt secretly wishes that he, too, had a good old car like mine.

I walk over to Jasper Place, more of an alley than a street, and ring number 17. I’m late again, but Nicki’s used to that by now. Besides, I’m never very late. I’d more likely be on time if I knew the time, but I refuse to use one of those digital watches. All the watches these days weigh five pounds, burdened down with gizmos for brewing coffee, picking hot stocks, reading the barometer, timing a pitcher’s fastball, and who knows what else. I want a timepiece with hands, not a blinking and beeping computer screen. And I want to wind my own watch, and not rely on batteries that wear out in a month. I suppose there are some good old watches still around, but I haven’t run across any so far. Besides, I have an uncanny natural sense of what time it is. I just forget to think about the time until I’m already late.

“Sorry I’m late, but. . .”

“Skip it Debs. Get in here and hug me,” she demands.

Normally, Nicole’s a tall, cool glass of water, but she greets me smaller now, with a weary look, her brows pinched, ruining the view of her brown, almond-shaped eyes. Even after hundreds of times, it feels good holding her. While strictly business at work, Nicole wears the most enticing clothes at home—tonight it’s a red cutoff halter top and tight black cotton pants. She has a faint smell of musk and fresh limes that always draws me in close. I kiss her slender neck, savoring her warm, light-brown skin.

In the home decoration department, Nicole and I are night and day. I have a lounge-around pad, filled with pillows and old-fashioned, overstuffed sofas. I’m neat enough, but I’ve accumulated a lot of stuff. Nicole’s style is sparse, with sleek, but functional furniture and high-tech lamps in every nook and cranny. Everything’s in its place. Modernist, abstract paintings dot her walls. If she’s Architectural Digest, then I’m more like Restoration Hardware.

“You look all drained out,” Nicole continues.

“Yes, I have more bad news.”

“Oh no, it’s about Parsons, isn’t it?”

“No, Nicole, it’s worse. Apparently Tom Licente has been murdered.”

“Oh my God! I feel so bad about making fun of him yesterday. How could he be dead? Everyone seems to love the guy.”

I tell her I thought so, too, explaining what happened. She takes pity on me finding the body. Even so, she can’t resist eventually getting back to Parsons.

“Hope I didn’t sound too out of control this morning on the phone,” she says, reaching out to stroke my arm.

Actually, I like her best when she’s out of control, but I say, “No, not at all. But I can’t figure out why Parsons would pick us.”

“You’re being too rational, Debs. It’s a gut feeling. Chalk it up to his need for revenge. Even though you had little to do with his conviction, he thinks you were central to his case. He knows how close you were to Jake; maybe you symbolize his fate in prison. And he obviously knows we’re together.” She pauses. “What was that phone call you got?”

“Someone said you were fooling around. I thought it was a prank, but you’re so unpredictable, Nicole,” I say with a wink. She takes my hand warmly, but I guess I want even more reassurance. “I still can’t believe we mean anything to Parsons.”

“C’mon, Debs. Parsons seems much more likely than somebody who’s playing a joke on us. He wants to divide and intimidate us. It’s his chance to torment us, if he can.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to stay in bed, under the covers, with the doors double bolted; that’s what. Your country is filled with violent psychopaths. I don’t want to be alone.”

“I’m not sure we’ll be able to find anyone who wants to stay with you, especially under the covers,” I say, gently pulling Nicole into the bedroom. I manage to get a little smile from her, and her pursed lips carve a tiny crease on each side of her mouth, which she raises up to kiss me. We flop down, and pull up the blankets. Despite Nicole's practical tastes, her bedroom’s an exception. With scented candles, satin sheets, a big down comforter, and soft music on the stereo, it’s a sensual retreat. And it’s delicious to be so close to her.

“If you’re really worried,” I say, “then I’ll see if Sinclair can get some surveillance on your apartment. And if you keep holding me like this, I might stick around, as well.”



Lying there helps. Nicole drifts off to sleep, and my thoughts turn from Parsons and Licente to her. I’m reminded how precious Nicole has become. More than anyone, she’s changed my life. I thought I was a cosmopolitan hotshot, pounding the glamorous streets of New York and then San Francisco, but she quickly showed me how little I knew. Films, painting, astronomy, wine, wildlife, music—her interests seem endless. More important, she understands people better than I ever will. Seeing things through her eyes has opened up a whole new world for me.

Born and raised in Amsterdam, Nicole has taken me beyond my parochial American experience. Her mother’s an accomplished Dutch naturalist. Her father’s a disenchanted African American expatriate who fled the racial tensions of 1950s America. He found friendlier shores in Holland, and made a nice life for himself as a cabinet and piano maker. As the outsider, he insisted Nicki take her mother’s last name--Vermeer.

Nicole’s Dutch upbringing gave her a much different social environment than mine. What’s scandalous to us is often viewed as commonplace in Holland. Soft drugs are sold at the local bars. Sexual hang-ups are virtually unknown. A strong sense of community prevails, but it’s anything but stifling. Instead, real freedom prevails—not merely the vacant slogans we often get in the States.

At the University, my foreign students often know more about the world, and even the U.S., than most of my American students. Hearing about the Dutch system from Nicole helps explain why. As in Europe generally, it offers a more international education. But despite its high culture, Holland doesn’t parade itself or Europe as the center of the world. It’s a message we Americans might well consider for ourselves. After grade school, Nicole got an anthropology degree at the University of Amsterdam. She moved to Britain to get her master’s in English Literature at Manchester University.

On her few visits to the U.S., she was both fascinated and appalled. Her curiosity got the better of her. She’s not always sure she made the right decision, but she was finally lured by California’s sun, beaches, and offbeat characters. She set herself up in Santa Barbara, studying in the English doctoral program at the University of California. After a three-year battle between her surfboard and her books, the latter won out, and she finished all but her dissertation. She put herself on the job market, interviewed at Fairmount, got the Assistant Professor job, and--thankfully for me--took it.

Before I know it, I’ve dozed off, too. It’s ten o’clock before we both stir. “Hey, I’m starved. Let’s go out.“ Feeling better, she agrees.

Even late on a Tuesday, North Beach stays hopping. With our pick of inviting eateries, we settle for our old standby: Mario’s Bohemian Cigar Store, at the corner of Columbus and Union. No longer a tobacco shop, this century-old hole-in-the-wall serves chianti, cappuccino, and focaccia sandwiches sent from heaven. We order one of each, and settle ourselves at one of the tiny tables looking out onto Washington Square Park.

The café’s almost full. The fresh coffee beans are intoxicating. A couple sits with their young daughter, who’s demonstrating how much it’s past her bedtime. A group of middle-aged men are having an animated conversation in Italian—sounds like a dispute over the Giants’ pitching rotation. At the bar, two attorneys in pin-striped suits down a nightcap after a late evening at work. Two women are making out in the corner.

Across the well-lit park, the spires of the Sts. Peter & Paul Catholic Church rise up—the scene, in the early 1950s, of one of the city’s most famous weddings: of Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe. As a kid, DiMaggio played stickball on the playground around the corner. When the city tried, a few years ago, to rename it after Joe, the late ballplayer’s executor held out for a more impressive memorial—winning few friends in the process.

“How’s your book coming?” I ask. Having finished her thesis, Nicole is revising it for publication. She’s written about expatriate African-American and Asian-American authors who have blossomed in self-exile in Europe. She’s explored how their conflicting identities shape their subjects and their writing. She wonders whether the “Great American Novel” could be written by an American abroad, or whether it already has been.

“Slow, too slow,” she answers. “Sometimes I think I’ve bitten off too much. And stripping the academic jargon from the dissertation has been harder than I thought. Why couldn’t they have just asked me to write the thesis in plain English in the first place?”

“But you’re a whiz at the language.” I respond. “You just have to keep plugging away. Think about how much worse you’d feel if you were in my shoes. I don’t even have a thesis topic yet.”

“I know. I just have to fight off the usual distractions. I need to get this out of the way so I can write my own novel. Then I’ll get it published, and overnight I’ll be famous, right?”

“Hey, you’re already famous. I’m not sure the world can stand much more.” She smiles softly, but I can see her mind is still elsewhere. I wonder whether to take it personally. I want a stronger connection with Nicole, and sometimes it happens. Other times it seems more fleeting. Is this about us or about Parsons?

Speaking of the devil, the small bar TV flashes right across from us. The bartender raises the volume for the news, and the headlines jump out one after another: “Escaped Killer Still On the Run” and “Fairmount University Priest Found Dead.” It’s the last thing we need to see, but the stories spill out and we find ourselves unable to turn away. The police express frustration about the Parsons search. They’re still developing leads in the Licente case.

My little outing with Nicole is over. Hand in hand, we head right back to her apartment. She seems reluctant to go in. When she finally does, she grabs the baseball bat in her umbrella stand, and peers around every corner and into every room, checking all the locks and windows.

Obviously I’ll be staying the night. Fine by me. Maybe this danger thing will be good for us--as long as there’s no real danger involved. I don’t know what to think. It’s been a roller-coaster day, but it feels good to be settling back down in bed together. Maybe things can end on a good note, after all.

We exchange a long kiss, and I take in the perfume of her skin. Nicole flips off the light, and the darkness flows around us. With an “Oh” and a sigh, she leans over without looking, and hits the button to listen to her phone messages. There’s only one. As Nicole reaches out for me, it plays out loud.

“Hi, Nicole,” it begins, in an indistinguishable voice. “I bet you wonder how I got your number. You think your boyfriend won’t find out what you’ve been doing. But I’m afraid it’s too late for that. You’ve hurt me for too long. Now you’re going to learn how it feels. In a big way.”

READING GROUPS
Discussion Questions for:
The Deadly Tools of Ignorance:
A Debs Kafka Mystery

(1) What is the theme of the book?
(2) Which characters are the most intriguing? Why?
(3) What are the “tools of ignorance?”
(4) How does “ignorance” figure in the book’s theme and plot?
(5) Does the setting affect the story? If so, then how?
(6) How does the protagonist, Debs Kafka, feel about modern technology? Why? What is a “Luddite?” (Hint: It’s NOT someone who’s opposed to all technology; look up the history of this concept)
(7) What is the book’s attitude toward academia? Why? Do you agree?
(8) What is “tough love” and how does it play out in the book?
(9) What’s the book’s attitude toward criminal law, law enforcement, and the courts? Why? Do you agree?
(10) How do you feel about the murderer? Does he evoke hatred? Pity?
(11) How do you feel about the victim? Was Tom Licente innocent?
(12) What is the book’s attitude toward the Catholic Church, its policies and practices? Why? Do you agree?
(13) What is the prevailing battle within the Catholic Church? Can you describe the combatants and their competing philosophies?
(14) Does the protagonist, Debs Kafka, make the right decision to try to pursue his childhood dream? Should people do this more often, or is it unrealistic?
(15) What did you learn about baseball from this book? Does it take on any dimension beyond being merely a game? Does Zack Quinn remind you of anyone?
(16) What’s the role of redemption in the book? Do any characters or institutions gain redemption, as the story plays out? What about Frank Parsons?
(17) What do you think of Kafka’s relationship with Nicole Vermeer? Should men want intimacy, or are they better off with a cool veneer?
(18) Should gambling be illegal in sports and in society generally? Are there double standards in how we handle such things?
(19) How do you feel about legislating and enforcing morals crimes such as betting?
(20) Would you like to see Debs Kafka continue as a character? If so, then where do you seem him going next?

THANKS FOR READING MY BOOK! Please send me your feedback on the book and on these questions. And, if you’d like to communicate with me as a part of discussing the book, please let me know: eliasr@usfca.edu