I've had a couple book projects run into a brickwall somewhere along the line. Mostly for reasons I have never fully understood. Either the ideas just weren't working, or I lost interest. Personally, I think it was just an okay idea that never really came together. I wrote it about six years ago and just walked away from it. I think the idea is worth resurrecting. But I decided to post it after giving it a quick edit, instead of just ripping it up and startign from scratch. Or not. I'm hoping that some feedback will help.

So, herewith, is the first chapter of a book I started, with a working title of The Cycle of Rocks. Let me know what you think. Good or bad.

Chapter One

They’re circling me like buzzards over carrion, I thought to myself.

Two thugs in the early morning glow – one with a long, thin knife that, in my rapidly sobering state, looked like a samurai sword; the other with a sneer that looked more like constipation than menace.

And then it struck me: they’re not circling me. None of us are moving. My head's spinning.

In my mind, when the thought of facing an armed criminal, I'd take the knife away and kick their collective ass. Trouble was, I was suddenly feeling rubbery in the knees from too much free scotch

“Why don’t you two gentlemen come back a little later and we can discuss it,” I said.

“Why don’t you give us the money before we kick your ass,” the tall one said

The night had been going so well. I’d covered the lunacy that had been the Tyson-Holyfield rematch at the MGM Grand, rattling off 3,500 words for Box Seat magazine, my employer of the moment, and had retired to the blackjack table to forget about my problems. I’d been playing with a very nice, very pretty redhead named Marcia, who spoke with a definite Oklahoma drawl.

For the first and only time in my life, the cards ran hot in my favor. I won. On the last hand I’d ended up with more money than I could count riding on the turn of a card.

And there they were.

Face up on the green-felt table in front of me sat a pair of aces. Both were the Ace of Hearts.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before, Mr. Rockwell,” Marcia-from-Oklahoma had said. “Wow. I know it can happen – this is a seven-deck shoe. But with only the two of us playing . . .”

“Split ‘em and double down,” I’d said, careful not to slur the words. “And stop calling me Mr. Rockwell, will you? The name’s Tucker.”

Marcia heeded my request – all except for the name part. After four hours of being called Mr. Rockwell I was beginning to feel like a sixth-grade teacher just before morning recess. She had a pretty smile and a smooth way with the cards that showed a little style, a little flourish. She extracted two cards: the Jack of Spades and the 10 of Diamonds.

Double blackjack.

Marcia-from-Oklahoma had the nine of clubs and eight of spades showing and, by house rules, had to stand.

Funny. Now I was having trouble doing the same.

I took a deep breath to gather myself and walked with as much dignity as I could for the nearest seat at the bar. Not a bad trick for a dinosaur.

I’m an old-styled sportswriter for a weekly magazine – Box Seat – in an era when ESPN, CNN, Fox, MSNBC, CNBC and enough other letters to fill a king-sized box of Alpha-Bits saturate the sports enthusiasts with an immediate flood of sights and sounds. Each passing year, fewer and fewer people give a shit about what I have to say four or five days after a big event.

Before I’ve even written my 3,500 words the masses have seen the circus. Yeah, I'm old – old news. It used to be that the news magazine was the last word. Now we’re just last.


Marcia-from-Oklahoma’d given me a broad smile and stacked my winnings in front of each hand, the colored chips making a beautiful montage.

“Well, Marcia-from-Oklahoma, I think I’ll call it a morning,” I’d said. “If you would be so kind as to take care of cashing my winnings for me, I would be ever-so-grateful.”

I handed her a $100 chip, making mental note to include that as part of my expense account. “You’ve been a wonderful playing companion.''

She’d scooped my chips into a handy little caddy and given me a wink. “Glad to, Mr. Rockwell,” she’d said. Then she’d looked over her shoulder, making certain the pit boss was out of ear shot. “It’s been fun, Tucker,” she’d said in a whisper.

Being a VIP does have its advantages, and this was one of the few times I have availed myself of them. This morning, good old Tucker Rockwell was a Vegas VIP.

For the past week I have been trotted out for advertisers. I've been asked who'll win the big fight more times this week than I could possibly count. It’s as if I'm supposed to have prescient knowledge of the outcome. Instead, to all who ask, I answer unequivocally: “Don King.”

“Can I get you something?”

My eyes slowly focused first on a pair of high heels and worked their way up two shapely legs. They stopped at cleavage, which, like the Grand Canyon, was deep and wide. It also was bent over the table to place a coaster in front of me.

“Coffee with cream,” I said to the breasts, immediately feeling guilty. This plastic surgeon had absolutely no sense of proportion.

Anyway, feeling guilty had been my specialty this morning. I was gambling to keep from being in the same room with my ex-wife-wannabe's proposed settlement agreement.

I was being divorced, and she’d decided that, along with covering a Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield, we should finalize the division of our respective properties. Compared to me, Holyfield got off lightly. He'd only had a bite taken out of his ear. Hiding the damned proposal in my suitcase was a little like Mrs. Armstrong asking Neil to balance the family checkbook while he was on the way to and from the moon.

A coffee cup had appeared in front of me, accompanied by the breasts., who were demonstrating a different kind of self-assertiveness.

“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Rockwell?” they’d asked. The breasts obviously were clued in on my VIP status. Perhaps that made me a Very Impressed Pervert, I thought.

“I keep asking you people to stop calling me that,” I’d said, disappointed at not hearing an echo. “Mr. Rockwell was my old man. I’m just Tucker. Better yet, call me Rock.”

“Okay, Rock,” she’d said, dropping a pretty face into my field of view. “I’m Vonnie. Is there anything I can get you?”

“Where are you from Vonnie?” I’d asked.

“Right here in Vegas.”

“Well, Vonnie-from-Vegas, do you know a good divorce attorney?”

She’d smiled a knowing smile and patted the back of my hand.

“I know a divorce attorney, but he’s not a good one. If he’d been any good I wouldn’t be working here. He’s as big an asshole as my ex.”

“Tell me about it,” I’d said, shaking my head out of empathy or sympathy – or maybe just for the exercise, I couldn’t remember.

“Maybe later,” she’d said winking.

“Your winnings, Mr. Rockwell,” the suited gentleman said, handing me an envelope.

I took the money and decided to give up correcting people about my name. And for the umpteenth time that night I’d thought about that old adage: Unlucky at love, lucky at cards. At least, I think that was how the old saw went.

I drank the coffee and got another sample of Vonnie’s breasts during a refill. I wondered if she listed them as dependants on her taxes.

I took a deep breath and sighed. Maybe a walk in the desert air would help clear my head, I’d thought.

And so here I was, with two ugly assholes.

“Don't fuck with us.”

I was filled with rheumy-yet-macho thoughts once again. I would do to them what I’d expected Holyfield to do to that ear-biting freak a few blocks over at the MGM Grand. My legs felt steady enough standing still, but standing still was going to get me killed. Feeling macho, or may be just feeling the scotch, I aimed a kick at the nearest crotch, but my balance and aim were a wicked combination. As the kid sidestepped my kick, I fell backward.

The sun was coming up; I was going down.

For what seemed like an eternity, I floated there in mid-air. I noticed the sun coming up over the mountains as I fell back. I saw a United Airlines jumbo jet taking off from McCarran Airport. I saw the morning sky and counted a half-dozen clouds.

And that was when I got my ass kicked.

Thus endeth chapter one.

More soon.