I read in the Arizona Range News that a well known publisher would be lecturing at the public library in Wilcox on Saturday, and I drove into town to check her out.
There was a good turnout at the library, and I watched as the writer/publisher placed copies of two of the books that she had written on display near the podium where she would be speaking.
The publisher went through her introductions and I was beginning to think that I might have a chance to pitch one of my manuscripts to her, when she began to talk about the mystery/crime division of her company.
An old female hippie wearing a beret saved me the trouble of asking what the publisher was looking for in crime fiction.
My wife elbowed me and shook her head when the publisher told the audience that the strongest “cuss word” she would allow would be “shit.”
The publisher went on to say that there should be very little violence and no sex in the crime fiction novels submitted to her company.
Before the lecture began, I had looked at one of the books on display that she had written. The back cover described her book as a hard hitting crime novel about a retired Marine Sergeant turned homicide detective, on the trail of a serial killer.
I waited for the break to make my get-away from the library. As we drove away my wife said, “I guess she wouldn’t be interested in your books.”
I told her I would just have to keep looking for a publisher. As I drove home, I pictured in my mind the retired Marine Gunnery Sergeant that played the drill instructor in the movie “Full Metal Jacket.”
I could see the gunny with a crew cut wearing a rumpled suit, as he pulls his .357 magnum on a deranged killer holding an axe that is dripping with blood.
The homicide dick says to the killer, “drop that darned axe, you turkey.”
The killer replies, “Why don’t you make me Mr. Funny haircut.”
The homicide dick is really mad now, as he shouts, “What is your major malfunction twinkle toes. Don’t make me cock this gosh darned pistol.”
“OK, OK, I give up. You don’t have to yell Mr. Potty mouth,” the killer tells the detective.
A few hours later, the homicide dick returns home to his young beautiful wife. She greets him at the door with a hearty handshake and a cup of hot chocolate. She is wearing flannel pajamas buttoned up to the top button.
After he drinks his hot chocolate, he tells her, “I got that dog gone serial killer tonight.”
“Gee whiz, that’s great,” she replies before going off to her twin bed.
The homicide dick reclines in his favourite chair and works on a crossword puzzle while watching a Charlie Chan movie from 1942 on the late show.
Leroy B. Vaughn the writer is not the hillbilly singer of the 1950’s, the former motorcycle officer from southern California or the dentist from Los Angeles, all with the same name. This Leroy B. Vaughn is retired and lives in Arizona, U.S.A.