When I sat down to write Beg for Mercy, I found I
so loved these characters that the story spewed out like water from a fire hose. I was helpless to slow down and take an objective look at whether the story even made sense, never mind compelled a reader to keep turning the pages.
As I finished each chapter, I sent it to a
group of friends and family members who faithfully returned critiques, corrections and encouragement, and eagerly (or so they claimed, bless them) awaited the next installment.
So, for Sue Peek, Hilda Alvarez, Renee Branski,
Mona Risk, Tina Stitzer, my brother Bob Andrews and my sister Sue Sinclair, thank you for helping me bring Mercy and the Balboa gang to life. I couldnât have done it without you.
Iâve never been certain Iâm human. Oh, the X-rays and blood tests are normal, and no doctor, not even my gynecologist, has ever suggested otherwise, but itâs not my body thatâs different. Not in any way you can see, at least. Most people have no reason to suspect Iâm moreâor lessâthan I appear to be. But none of them really know me. Sometimes I get tired of being cautious. But not so tired I let my guard down. Ever.
Thatâs probably why I go to Jimboâs. Balboaâs most notorious dive is not the kind of place that invites curiosity.
In the summertime, the population of Southern Californiaâs Balboa Peninsula swells as the beachfront condos fill with vacationing families. The trio of tiny three-car ferries circle continuously, and those who choose the longer overland route discover that the two four-lane roads leading onto the peninsula rapidly merge into one congested street and that all parking spaces are full by ten in the morning.
Evenings, when the beaches have emptied and the tourist traps have closed their doors, the heartier visitors migrate to pubs specializing in tropical drinks and steel bands. They drink Red Stripe beer and dance to reggae in their bikinis and sarongs, glowing from sunburn and tequila shots.
In the midst of this festival atmosphere, Jimboâs staunchly refuses to be festive. Its windowless single room, decorated with faded photos of men holding prize-winning fish caught half a century earlier, has little appeal to any lost tourist who stumbles into its dimly lit interior. Occasionally, some brave souls might try to blend in with the locals and sit at the bar for a draft beer and a pickled egg, but they seldom ask for a refill. If they stay long enough to need them, the bathrooms will probably scare them off. The graffiti, never painted over, is legendary.
I was sitting at the bar sipping a BudweiserâJimboâs sells no other beerâand listening to Sukey prattle on about her latest flame, Rocko. Sukey is crazy for big, beefy guys who are long on muscles and short on brains. We definitely do not compete for the same men.
âHeâs gorgeous,â she gushed. âI canât wait until you meet him!â
I smiled and nodded. Weâd had this conversation many times before. Sukey is the most wonderful person in the world, but sheâs a bit high-maintenance for most men. Sheâll call them twelve or fourteen times a day at work and give them adorable nicknames, often involving food. In my experience, most men donât want to be called âcupcakeâ in front of their drinking buddies.
âAre you supposed to meet him here?â I asked, already knowing the answer. For Sukey, a date meant he had said he might stop in. If he showed up, it would count as the first step toward commitment. If he didnât have a girl on his arm, that is. I really hoped that wouldnât happen tonight. Sukey is usually a happy drunk, but a crying binge was not out of the question.
âHe had some other things he had to do first,â she said. âBut he should be here soon. Iâll just call him.â She fished around in her massive purse for her cell phone. Wondering how many times she had already called him today, I put a hand on her arm and looked around for a means of distracting her. âCupcakeâ would find out about Sukeyâs telephone habits soon enough. Maybe I could buy her a little time.
âWhoâs that guy over there?â I asked, pointing to the back of a head I didnât recognize. Sukey knew everyone in town and was an excellent source on anything male.
âOooh, Iâm glad you reminded me,â she said, forgetting the cell phone. âThatâs Sam. Heâs the guy who bought Butchieâs business. He doesnât come in here very much. And heâs exactly your type.â
I didnât consider Sukey an expert on my type, but the change of subject was welcome. âI missed Butchieâs retirement party. Isnât this guy from Florida or something?â
âKey West.â Sukey sipped her margarita. âHis fatherâs got Alzheimerâs, and Sam came out here to take care of him. Samâs dad and Butchie were best friends in the Korean War or something. Samâs really nice but kind of boring.â This meant that when Sukey had flirted with him, he hadnât flirted back.