By Jeffrey Cohen, Damon Abdallah, Books in Motion
The lifetime of Aaron Tucker - freelance author and stay-at-home dad - is whatever yet uninteresting. in reality, Aaron manages to discover himself in far more chance than your average mild-mannered Jewish man. He lands in a homicide research whilst a number one conservative flesh presser is located useless in his DC resort room, chanced on through his mistress after her lengthy post-coital bathe. She (a former item of Aaron's affection) asks Aaron to discover the killer. Aaron does not see himself as an investigating genius yet he's taking the project, which does not take a seat good along with his relatives.
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Additional resources for A Farewell to Legs: An Aaron Tucker Mystery (Aaron Tucker Mysteries, 2)
I don’t know what it was that convinced me to go. At Bloomfield, NJ’s prime example of a high school in the mid-1970s, students divided themselves into the usual cliques: the jocks, the cheerleaders (who existed mostly to sleep with the jocks, thus serving to doubly tweak the rest of us), the brains (this was years before nerds were invented, and decades before computer geeks), and the remedial students. And then there was Us. Myself, Mahoney, Friedman, Wharton, and McGregor. We were a group because we didn’t fit in with any of the other groups—we fell between the cracks.
Louis put his hands behind his head and lay back on the pillow. This thing with Cheri was already starting to get old, he thought. Six weeks, and she was pissing him off as often as his wife. At least his wife had waited until they were married a couple of years before she started complaining that he wasn’t romantic enough. So he’d gotten her pregnant again, and then she had so much to do watching the boys that she didn’t have time to nag about his ignoring goddamn Valentine’s Day. Cheri, though, was another story.
From downstairs, I could hear the doorbell ring, followed by Leah’s shrill shriek. ” Abby and I started wearily toward the stairs. ” Jeff Mahoney, all six-foot-whatever of him, was scrunched into the passenger seat of my 1997 Saturn four-door. He had pushed the seat back as far as it went, and still his knees were threatening to hit his chin. “It’ll be fun,” I said unconvincingly. ” “And we didn’t like them then,” he reminded me. “You’re not going in with a terrific attitude,” I pointed out. .