I still have no idea whether anyone reads this part of my website, though I have received lots of positive feedback about the site itself. But in any case it's time for an update.

Most importantly, I want to thank everyone who attended readings, and has written since MM came out in June. I've made many wonderful new friends around the country, which turns out to be one of the most satisfying aspects of publishing a book. Thanks also to the Mystery and Independent Bookstores around the U.S. for their extraordinary support.

One question that almost everyone asks is whether Barry Manilow has said anything about the book. The answer is, not yet. I understand he has a copy, but has not had time yet to read it. I did hear from Barry's management, Stiletto, and they seem to have liked the book and appreciate it's pro-Manilow sentiment. I'm still hoping to hear from Barry himself one day

Finally, as many of you know, I have a sequel in the works, called "I Right the Wrongs." The paperback of MM should be out next winter, and it will include an excerpt from the new book. But for those of you who bothered to come back here for an update, here's a bit of a teaser. Thanks again for visiting, and please write to say hello some time.

EXCERPT FROM I RIGHT THE WRONGS

“Vegas,” I say, raising my beer.

“Vegas.” My bandmates, Preet Sing and Terry Fretwater join me.

“Vegas can bite me,” our fourth, the exceedingly pregnant Maeve O’Connell, grumbles from across the room. She is splayed out on a threadbare, sagging couch, confined upon medical advice to horizontality.

“I ain’t drinking to Vegas.”

“You’re not drinking period,” I add.

For her soon-to-be son’s sake, Maeve has taken leave of her essential pleasures: alcohol, caffeine, tobacco, young women, and, most agonizingly, the Mandys, our Manilow tribute band. We’re gearing up to play a gig at a bar in the Mandalay Hotel in Las Vegas, the day before Barry appears in concert there, his first show in two years. It is our shared dream to perform for the man, to receive his blessing, and to take our Manilow mission to unbelievers everywhere.

We’re in the wretched, windowless garage, behind one of Preet’s father’s convenience stores, that serves as our studio and clubhouse. It’s 9:30 p.m. and, though May is two days away, the temperature outside is around 90 degrees. Inside, with our amps cranked and Preet’s colossal computer rig whirring furiously, it must be 100. I’d like to pour the beer on my head, but we’re auditioning girl singers, so I don’t dare. It’s been some time since I had a proper date.

“Who’s next?” I say. Preet glances at his notes.

“Joe.”

Maeve, who describes her place of birth as a town where the necks are red, the men are named Ned, and the children are inbred, sniggers and drawls, “This ought to be interesting.”

I wipe a line of sweat off my forehead. “If you don’t pipe down Preet’s going to snitch you off to Aineen.” Maeve’s home-confinement-enforcing twenty-six year old daughter.

Our ad in the local alternative paper makes clear we’re looking for a woman, to replace Maeve temporarily, to get us through Vegas. Joe better be wearing lipstick. Terry kicks open the door.

Joe is not wearing lipstick. Joe has a goatee.

Joe says, “I sing in falsetto,” and shrugs.

Terry looks to me for approval, but it’s too hot to have an opinion. We pop a beer for our guest and take him through the introductory drill.

Listen carefully, Joe. We’re not impersonators, got it? We don’t do dress-up or camp. We don’t do irony. And we don’t do covers. We do homage. We’re a tribute band. We’re translators, envoys, missionaries. Probably you’re a wonderful person. You may even be able to sing. But if you don’t get what we’re doing, if you’re not truly and unapologetically on the bus, you’re wasting our time.

Joe looks bewildered. He does not appear to have the slightest idea what we’re talking about. He glances around the rehearsal space, blank-faced, looking for a bus I suppose.

“Everybody ready?” Terry asks. We toss the newbie a softball: Weekend in New England. He has a terrific voice, evocative of Aaron Neville. But there’s nothing about the performance that convinces me he’s here for Manilow, that he shares our vision.

My cell phone, parked on Preet’s keyboard, cuts shrilly into the middle of the song, which sputters and then expires. Preet answers.

“Ferdy,” he says, holding out the phone. Ferdy is my grandfather. He turns a spry and cantankerous ninety in a week.

I wave away the call.

Preet tries, but fails to cut off the old lunatic, who shrieks his way through some sort of narrative that ends with a series of demands. The content is a mystery to me, but the tone is unmistakable.

Preet folds up the phone and tosses it at me. “The cops just arrested Marcus Manners.”

“No shit,” Terry and Maeve say.

“Now there’s a stunner,” I say. “Who’s Marcus Manners?”

“The leading high school quarterback in the state,” Preet reports. “Apparently he’s also Bea’s godson.”

Beatrice Johnson married my grandfather a year ago. She is a charming and accomplished woman of some two hundred and eighty pounds, eighty-three years, and twenty-four grandchildren.

“He’s about to graduate from Hills,” Terry explains. Hills High School, the most upscale of the city’s public schools.

“And why do I care?”

“Ferdy says you’re the kid’s lawyer. They’re all downtown waiting for you.”

“All whom?”

“Not clear.”

“Did he say what the deal is?” I ask.

“He mentioned a dog. And O.J. Simpson. It was a bit hard to make out,” Preet says. By now Joe seems genuinely alarmed.

I grab my keys. “The name again?”

“Marcus Manners.”

I walk to the door. Joe has his back to me. I point at him, and then slash my index finger across my throat.

***

My name is Gordon Seegerman. I’m an assistant public defender for the City of Santa Rita, California. I’m assigned, as I have been for nearly a decade, to the misdemeanor division. Each morning I wake up, drive sixteen minutes to my dank office in the basement of the Santa Rita municipal building, and settle into my job as a cog in the creaky wheels of the criminal justice system.

A file appears on my desk. A man has been arrested for a petty crime---stealing a slice of pizza, or being drunk in public, or showing his genitals to someone who isn’t interested. I meet the man. I pretend to commiserate when he explains: they got the wrong guy; they planted the evidence; the witness is lying; I was holding the stuff for my cousin.

I nod a lot. I tell him everything is going to be fine. Later I discuss the case with a deputy district attorney. He or she makes the standard offer: seven months county jail or 100 hours community service or a stay at a drug rehab facility. In turn, I make a half-hearted, short-lived, and uniformly ineffectual attempt to improve the deal. I take the plea offer to the client, who yells at me, says he wants a real lawyer, tells me I’m an idiot or worse. And then, in a few days, he pleads guilty.

I take as few cases to trial as humanly possible. I avoid promotion--to the felony division, to the serious cases--like the flu. What ambition I have I save for my music, for my commitment to Manilow. What energy I have I exhaust, mostly, handling my dad, who, perhaps simply to irritate me, ten years ago developed a rare form of Alzheimer’s. Imagine a five year old after a few glasses of wine---that about describes my father.

My job is my job. I lay low. I try not to attract too much attention. Every two weeks I’m pleasantly surprised to find that the City has deposited a sum of money in my bank account. I can’t say I believe this money is earned, but I’m not inclined to return it.

***

Two blocks short of the Hall of Justice complex--courts, district attorney and public defender offices, Santa Rita Police Department headquarters--I stop my frail, front-bumperless, white Toyota station wagon at a light. The windows are closed, and the air-conditioning is turned up so high it’s strafing my forehead. I therefore can see, but cannot hear, a woman on the corner talking into a cellular phone. She’s mid-thirties, dressed for work at a place where dress matters. I have seen her before, but I can’t think where. She’s stick thin, with a perky, but not large bust, heavily made up, blond. Her nose curves abruptly at its end. Her shoulder length hair hangs straight, at attention, paralyzed by product.

She pulls the phone away from her ear, fixates on the sidewalk for a moment, and then fires her mobile at the pavement. I’m rooting for her to stomp it. But she drops to her knees, returns the phone to her bag, and buries her face in her hands. Meanwhile the driver behind me lays into his horn, and I’m off.