Deeper Dish: A Closer Look

I thought I would share a few excerpts from my new novel, Deeper Dish, which is now available on Amazon.

At Deveraux Place . . .

. . . (a Lincoln Park mansion owned by Drew Deveraux’s Aunt Viva, who is currently out of the country on a spiritual journey of shopping), the handsome hunk is staring at the perfect cock of Kip Cardigan, who is still softly snoring after their three rather intense lovemaking sessions during the night. Drew is thoroughly exhausted, but he isn’t complaining as he looks at the beautiful appendage of pleasure lying quietly against the man’s right thigh. He never tires of gazing upon the sweet nudity of Mr. Cardigan, whom he has had a casual affair with for the last seven months. This arrangement has worked quite well for both of them: No strings, no commitment, just great sex on a regular basis.

“What are you doing?”

“Just admiring you,” Drew tells his carnal companion, who sits up to kiss him.

“I like being admired,” Kip confesses as he grabs his lover. “One more for the road?”

Realizing he is about to be easily seduced again, Mr. Deveraux puts a hand on Mr. Cardigan’s hairy chest.

“What’s wrong? I know you want to,” says Kip, whose frisky fingers now begin to drive him crazy.

“I do . . .”

Mr. Cardigan nibbles on a tender earlobe (which is always a highly successful maneuver in the art of foreplay), but their passionate proceedings suddenly come to a screeching halt with Drew’s unexpected—

“I love you.”

Uh-oh (less than thrilled to hear these three little words interrupting his morning delight, Kip decides to ignore this unfortunate bump in the sexy road by immediately going down on the man).

“Did you hear me?”

Loud and fucking clear.

“I love you, Kip, and I want us to be together.”

Mr. Cardigan stops sucking to smile at his gorgeous—but increasingly annoying—lover: “We are together, sugar, and in a few minutes we’ll be so close, you won’t be able to tell us apart.”

“I want to share my bed with you every night of the week—”

Please don’t go there. Don’t say it. Don’t ruin—

“I want you to move in with me.”

Oh shit.

Kip sadly realizes that a fourth roll in the hay will not be forthcoming.

Back at 369 West Roscoe . . .

. . . having chugged Joshua’s three remaining Pabst Blue Ribbons in their fridge, Hank Honeywell isn’t feeling so hot either. But instead of getting sick, he becomes even more upset and breaks a few dishes on the kitchen floor. When this emotional release doesn’t do the trick, he moves on to the bedroom, where he discovers a mysterious locked trunk in his former roommate’s closet.

“You asshole!” the young man yells after he finally breaks the lock with a hammer and opens the lid to discover hundreds of record albums, which causes something to snap inside of him. Joshua’s unwillingness to share his collection of music only serves as an analogy for his obvious disinterest in Hank, who now goes off the deep end and begins throwing random LPs out the window:

Goldie (Goldie Hawn’s 1972 solo album)

Rock Gently (Rock Hudson’s 1971 solo effort)

The Star of “The Flying Nun” (Sally Field’s 1967 solo recording)

All go sailing on to Roscoe Street, followed by:

Blue Hawaii (Elvis movie soundtrack)

To Sir, With Love (soundtrack featuring Lulu’s big hit)

And then—without even looking—he tosses out the movie soundtrack to the musical, Bye Bye Birdie, while . . .

Twelve floors below . . .

. . . Detective Sam Sweeney is strolling along the sidewalk when he’s suddenly attacked by an unidentified flying object.

“What the—?”

Upon further investigation—as he rubs his bleeding forehead—the confused cop discovers his assailant to be a rather fetching Ann-Margret (on the cover of a record album).

What the hell is going on around here?, he wonders as he watches more LPs fly through the air. And then he sees an album (Meet the Brady Bunch) hit the windshield of a moving car, which goes out of control and drives on to the sidewalk.

“Hey, lady, watch out!” Sam warns a female pedestrian before he lunges to push her out of the way of imminent danger.

“Hey, mister, are you okay? Please wake up.”

Someone is gently slapping Sam Sweeney’s face as he opens his eyes to find himself staring up at a beautiful black woman, who smiles and says: “Welcome back, baby.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Sandy Beach. You saved my life.”

“I did?”

“You pushed me out of the way of that car over there.”

He looks to where she’s pointing at a Pontiac Grand Prix stuck in a nearby hedge.

“You’re my hero, honey. What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

“Well, Sam, thank you.” She kisses him on the cheek. “Now how are you feeling? You hit your head pretty hard there on the curb.”

“I think I’ll be fine.”

Miss Beach helps him to his feet, but they then have to duck as yet another LP—Introducing Dean Jones (a 1968 solo album by the star of The Love Bug and That Darn Cat)—suddenly sails over them before nailing a lamppost.

“Where the hell are all these records coming from?”

“Up there I think,” Sandy tells him while pointing at an apartment building window, from which a few more albums are tossed.

“Whoever it is is in big trouble,” Detective Sweeney says before he goes to investigate—and discovers that Miss Beach is following him. “What are you doing?”

“This is where I was headed before you rescued me.”

“Really?”

“Swear to God. My friend Bixby lives here.”

“I hope he’s not our culprit—or your next visit might be to a jail cell.”

“What are you—a cop?”

“Detective Sweeney at your service,” he tells a surprised Sandy while flashing his badge.

And as she follows him on to the elevator, Miss Beach wonders if it’s finally time to leave Howard Haze in the past and look to new horizons—especially those whose tight jeans accentuate a positive ass.

At the Hazes . . .

. . . Charlotte has arrived back home to find her new daughter-in-law has moved in.

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise.”

“Is it?”

“Of course, my dear, you’re part of the family now,” she tells Helen. “Our home is your home.”

“Thank you.”

When Charlotte now decides to fix herself a drink to officially welcome the new Mrs. Haze, the girl agrees to a pre-lunch cocktail but feels the need to clear the air again about their kiss at the reception.

“I thought we decided to forget all about that,” Charlotte nervously laughs.

“We did—but you’ve always been there for me ever since my mother died, so I just want to make sure that we’re okay.”

“We’re wonderful, dear. Our friendship isn’t going to be ruined by one silly kiss—is it?”

Helen smiles and shakes her head.

“Of course not, we’ve been friends far too long to ever let that happen.”

“I’ve always admired you, Charlotte.”

“You have?”

“You’re the perfect wife and mother.”

“And you’re much too kind.”

“It’s true. You take care of this huge house without any help, you volunteer as the official Welcome Wagon Lady of Winnetka, and you still find time to take visitors on tours to see your brother’s grave.”

“Oh, they see more than just his final resting place. I point out all his favorite spots in town and the various locations used in his last film” (the Gideon Love Memorial Tour—by appointment only—is still quite popular twenty years after his tragic death).

“Kitchens of Distinction,” Helen sighs with fond memories of Mr. Love’s final flick, which was filmed in Winnetka. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“Gideon, Liz, Rock. What a cast. Too bad the critics weren’t kind.”

“What do they know? They hate everything.”

“At least the public embraced it. My brother did have his fans,” Charlotte says while wiping away a tear.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned him.”

“No no, I love talking about Gideon.”

“Just like I love talking about my mother.”

“She was a wonderful person.”

“Did you love her?”

“Of course I did. She was my best friend.”

“Were you in love with her?”

“Helen—”

“Before you kissed me, you called me her name.”

“I did? I don’t recall.”

“You said I remind you of her.”

“You do. You look so much like her . . .” The two women stare at each other until Charlotte finally admits: “I was in love—with your mother.”

“Did she love you?”

“Helen, it was all so very long ago.”

“Did you ever kiss her?”

“Once—only once—but then I married Charlie and she married your father and we all became such good friends. We both had our families to consider, our children . . . and then she was gone . . .”

Embracing her weeping mother-in-law, Helen holds her close until her tears subside.

“I’ve never told anyone that,” Charlotte confesses. “My love for your mother has been locked away for so long . . . until now . . .”

And then as the grandfather clock in the foyer suddenly strikes twelve—announcing the most popular time for lunch—the two Mrs. Hazes hungrily devour each other’s lips once again.

At 369 West Roscoe . . .

. . . the record-throwing culprit has been cornered by Detective Sam Sweeney and his new sidekick, Sandy Beach, who got the building manager, Nurse Nell Carmelle, to open the locked door of Apartment 12B.

“Hank, why don’t you slowly put down Miss Peggy Lee and step away from the window before anyone else gets hurt.”

The distraught young man shakes his head and cries: “No! I can’t! I gotta throw out every last one of them!”

“Haven’t you ever heard of a trash can, kid?” Nell receives an angry glare from the cop. “Hey, I’m only trying to help.”

“Oh no! Not Judy At Carnegie Hall!” Sandy suddenly screams.

“I’m sorry,” the boy sobs as Miss Garland takes flight and Miss Beach collapses in shock.

“Oh, honey, he just tossed Judy out the window!” she informs Bixby Schwartz as he now enters the apartment with a shirtless Nick Perrini. “One second she was here—the next, gone.”

“Hank, what do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m sorry, Bixby, but I have to get rid of everything that belonged to him.”

“Oh, my dear boy, you don’t need to do this” (especially after Hank picks up a 1974 Broadway musical flop starring Robert Preston and Bernadette Peters).

“What’s Mack & Mabel?” asks Nick.

“Only Jerry Herman’s best score,” Chicago’s eminent show tune enthusiast explains.

“Who’s Jerry Herman?”

Bixby cannot believe what he is hearing: Has this child been living under a rock? Unable to fathom how anyone could not know the composer of Hello, Dolly and Mame, Mr. Schwartz is anxious to educate the young man about the marvelous world of musicals. However, he realizes that his first priority is to prevent Hank from harming others with his shocking disregard for all music—and rescue one of his favorite shows from the boy’s itchy fingers. “Original cast albums don’t grow on trees!” he wants to scream—though wouldn’t that be wonderful?

“Once I’m through pitching all of these, I might as well be next,” Hank announces to the room.

“Oh my God!” Sandy gasps as they all realize the troubled boy might soon be joining the discarded LPs.