Beneath The Ivory Tower by Warren Adler - Considering the Vetting of Men for High-Level Positions

 

He could actually mark in his memory the approximate moment when he finally put to rest both the torment and temptation of his infidelity. That was the moment when he knew in his soul that he had exorcised the devil inside of him, that his secret life was over, that his vow was irreversible. Was it the ambience of Venice? Was it the recognition that the absolute constancy, loyalty, and undying affection of his wife demanded a similar response from him? How had she conceived of the idea of this place being the perfect setting for the cure? The memory of Ellen, with all its anguish and depression, disappeared like an erasure on a chalkboard. The slate was wiped clean. His affairs with Rebecca and Gloria were relegated to barely a wisp of memory. It was a miracle, an epiphany. He was being granted a sense of renewal, a new beginning, a conversion. From that moment on, he knew he would be faithful to his marriage vows. He felt he had been forgiven. They had been sitting at a table in the first row of a café in the Piazza San Marco. The Venetian dusk was leisurely descending, blurring the contrast between the pink-and-white marble of the Doge’s Palace directly across the promenade. He could see the last gasp of the faltering light play on the bronze hide of the four horses over the central doorway of the basilica, the clock tower, and the boat traffic on the Grand Canal. Across the canal, the waning light caressed the Cathedral of San Giorgio and, of course, the most compelling exhibit of all, the human throng. Behind them, on a bandstand, a quartet of musicians in tuxedos played familiar lushly romantic selections from Mozart and Beethoven. As the people passed, some stopped to listen, their faces lit by smiles stimulated by the exquisitely joyful and mesmerizing ambience of this place. Had Alice imagined this effect when she conceived this anniversary vacation? In front of them, without embarrassment, couples kissed, squeezed, and hugged each other. Glee seemed catching here. Everyone was happy, he noted, filled with the contagion of the sensation. Alice squeezed his hand, and they leaned across the table and kissed. “Feeling better, baby?” she asked. Up to then, he had taken refuge in simulating a light case of flu, inventing just enough symptoms to maintain a kind of emotional and physical isolation. He had gone through the motions of touring the Doge’s Palace and other famous landmarks, offering only a modicum of vague interest. “What is it, Allen?” Alice had asked. “Something coming on,” he had replied, knowing where his indisposition lay. With genuine effort, he tried to shake it off but to no avail. “I hope I’m not spoiling things for you, Alice.” “You can’t spoil anything for me, Allen. I just want you up to par so you can enjoy the experience of this lovely place.” He was rarely ill, but when he did come down with something, Alice was always there with succor and sympathy. Her solicitousness reminded him again of her devotion and concern. She was sweet and kind and beautiful, and here he was pining for what he defined as a lost love. It was ludicrous. He was drowning in guilt. Then sitting there in San Marco’s square, sipping their Campari and sodas, he had had his epiphany. Looking at Alice in profile, her face showing only the barest hints of aging, he realized that she was in a real sense, his true mate, and his real destiny. As they say, he had come to his senses at last. Those others, all three lumped together now, were simply manifestations of mysterious longings that could hardly compete with the sincere comfort and intimacy of this enduring relationship with his spouse. 

Swans, he thought. Mated for life. At last, he had accepted the premise, her premise. It crossed his mind that she might have sensed his various infractions, his debasement of their marital vows, his cynical disloyalty, his absurd romantic notions, and what he perceived as his gargantuan sexual needs. But her air of innocence and her unflagging wifely devotion made such a possibility remote. He had been scrupulous in holding all suspicion at bay, had taken massive precautions to keep the savage wolf of revelation from her door. It shamed him to think of how far afield he had gone. The methods he had used to keep his secrets embarrassed him now. Good God, how could I, he cried to himself. His eyes welled with tears. Yes, he had escaped unscathed, and he was back forever where he belonged. He had polluted and defiled. He had given in to dark and destructive urges. He had betrayed someone whose unflagging loyalty and devotion were steady and pure. And he had come within a hair of soiling his nest beyond repair. By some miracle, he had avoided accountability, had been reprieved. Thank you, Lord, he told himself. 

“I’m ready,” he said suddenly turning to observe her expression, studying her air of mystified concern. “Ready for what?” she asked. “Renewal,” he said, caressing her thigh under the table. “It’s you who put the idea in my head.” “Did I? I don’t really need renewal, Allen. Nothing has changed for us.” “Why would you think otherwise?” “Even if one swan’s wings are clipped, they stay together,” she said smiling. “You’re my permanent cob.” “A what?” She giggled girlishly. “A male swan. And I’m called a pen, a female. And we have two cygnets. You see. I’ve done my research. Only when a cob or a pen dies do they look for another mate.” Talk of death seemed incongruous to the moment. But he let it pass. They ordered another two Campari and sodas. When the drinks came, they clinked glasses. “To another twenty-two,” he said, feeling suddenly that a great weight had been lifted from his psyche. “Four-four. For the dice rollers, that’s boxcars.” “Then let’s roll ’em.” They sipped their drinks and watched the lights of the vaporettos flicker as they plied their way along the darkened canal. “Has it been mostly happy for you?” he asked. Did this epiphany call for confession? He felt on the verge of it, wanting to unburden himself further. Clearing his throat, he started to speak but he could not form the words. “What is it, Allen?” “I just want to say…” He paused. “Yes?” She gazed into his eyes, waiting for him to speak. “Have I been a good husband?” he asked. “Do you have to ask that question? Of course, you have.” “Have you ever doubted my devotion?” “Don’t be silly.” “Or my loyalty?” “No way.” She shook her head, smiled and patted the hand that was caressing her thigh. Moving toward him, they kissed again deeply, their tongues touching. Then she disengaged. He watched her grow thoughtful. Again, he cleared his throat wanting to reveal everything. Second thoughts intervened. What was the point? There was no need for that, no need to inject pain into her life. It was over now. The curtain had descended on that other life. “Have I been a good wife, Allen?” she asked. It was a totally unexpected question. “Now, who’s silly?” he said. “I haven’t been a world-beater. Have I bored you ever?” “Never,” he said. Boredom hadn’t chased him into his secret life. Something else, something far outside her orbit, something inside him, something too powerful to resist. “I’ve done my best,” she said. “My world is my husband and my children.” “And my world is my wife and our children.” He was conscious of the lie but had established the rationale. Another person inside of him, like those Russian dolls that fitted one inside the other, had been the dissembler, the adulterer. He had finally dispatched this other person to oblivion, removed him from the sequence, beyond history and existence. There was a long pause as he felt the sense of renewal charge through him. Their gaze met. He noted that she was becoming reflective, as if searching for something inside of her to emerge. 

“Horas non numero nisi serenas,” she said haltingly, stumbling slightly. “I memorized that waiting for just this moment.” “What does it mean?” “I count only the happy hours.” He wondered about her intent. Did it mean she had had unhappy hours? He let it pass unnoticed. Nothing must mar the moment. They kissed again. She brought her hand down to his crotch. “I told you I was ready,” he said. She hunched her shoulders and laughed. “Let’s pretend we’re lovers having a secret affair.” He felt the blood drain from his face. “What?” He heard a distinct tremor in his voice, and his lips trembled. A knot formed in his stomach. “Why not? It will add some spice. Young lovers on a tear.” “Hardly young,” he said searching for a response that would calm him. “Not according to this,” she said, squeezing him there. “I don’t believe this,” he said. “Believe it. I think we should find a gondola,” she giggled. “You’re serious?” “Absolutely.” He paid for the drinks, and they walked arm in arm, through the narrow calles, searching for some off-the-beaten-path fondamento where the gondolas were moored. Finding one, he negotiated a price while she lounged in the gondola and waited, stretching out on the soft pillows, and partially covering herself with a light blanket. “Two hundred thousand lire,” he said, smiling as he got in beside her. 

“What are you smiling about?” “For what we have in mind, it’s double.” “How did he know what we had in mind? After all, we’re not exactly kids.” “Not by a long shot.” “Then how did he know?” “He’s a lascivious bastard. He winked to prove it.” “Good for him.” The gondolier pushed off, and the boat glided away from its mooring. “I like this,” she whispered, nestling close to him, looking up at patches of sky visible through the dark cliffs made by the villas that lined the rios. The gondolier moved the craft softly through the water away from the tourist routes, and soon they could hear only the lapping of the water against the stone siding. She had slipped off her panty hose, and he had pulled down his pants to midthigh. Taking it slow, they caressed each other. Nearby, people walked along the calles, talking softly, laughing. “This will gives us a memory for a lifetime,” she whispered. “A lifetime,” he repeated in agreement. “We’re twenty-two years into it,” she said, giggling again. “We’ll come back in twenty-two and do it again.” “You and me, kiddo,” she said, sliding under him, helping him enter her. Their change in position shifted the balance of the flat-bottomed boat. The gondolier deftly compensated for the changes. “Are we being illicit?” she asked. “Very.” “Good. I want to see how it feels.” The blanket partially hid their lower bodies as they maneuvered themselves into the missionary position. As they moved in tandem, he watched her expression, visible now that his eyes had grown used to the darkness. It did not take long. They held each other tightly, letting the pleasure roll over them in a simultaneous spasm. “That one hit the gong,” she said, when she had cooled. “Illicit works.” “Better yet. We gonged together.” “One big gong,” she said, giggling. He took the mutuality as a further sign of their renewal, their bonding. Tonight, he told himself, is the beginning of our new life together. The blanket had slipped revealing their nakedness. He heard nearby voices and the grunt of the gondolier as he tried to slow his craft’s course. Still, Alice held him in a tight embrace. Then just above them, on the higher elevation of the stone walk, she saw two faces peering down at them. They seemed colorless, almost ashen. An older couple, Italian faces. “Buon giorno,” she said aloud, slapping him on his exposed rump. Under them, they felt the surge of the gondolier’s thrust as his oar moved the boat swiftly out of range. Laughing, Harris scrambled to her side, and they both quickly rearranged their clothes, none too soon, because around the bend they could see the festooned lights of the Rialto Bridge. The gondolier docked the craft smoothly. “For good measure,” Harris said handing the gondolier additional lire as he stepped onto the fondamento. He saw Alice wink and the gondolier’s playful gesture of kissing his fingers and raising them to the sky. “Well worth it, my man,” Harris had said. They had crossed the bridge and got a canal-side table at a trattoria, where they toasted themselves with Valpolicella and ordered baccalà and anchovies and cicala di mare. It was part of the miracle, this recall of the smallest detail of those moments. Nothing escaped memory, the smell of the night air mingled with the aroma of cooking coming from the restaurants, the taste of the food and the wine. Every detail of that evening and their glorious time afterward in Venice was etched in his mind. When they returned after a week, he slipped easily into his regular routine. He no longer felt the pull of outside attachments. He was liberated. Not a stir of memory of his infidelities ruffled his thoughts. The image of Ellen Benton and the others quietly slipped out of sight. That part of his life had been laid to rest. Or so he believed. Until now.

~~~

Allen Harris provided legal counsel to a university when they were in the midst of a scandal which they hoped to keep within the authority of the Board. His negotiations were so effective that he gained the respective not only of the Board, but of the president who was asked to leave his position. Vetting of all potential employees or those to hold high-level positions had become even more important in this world of electronic mail, cell phones, et.al. And the board of trustees' members were extremely anxious to ensure that they thoroughly investigated the past for each of those who would be considered for the position of president. To do this, they hired a major security company to conduct the vetting process.

However, even at the beginning, the name of the lawyer, Allen Harris, was identified as one who should be considered, given his reputation and the fine work he had just done on behalf of the university.

Harris, of course, was gratified that he was even being considered and actually saw it as a perfect step out of the legal arena. His wife was thrilled and promised to become the perfect wife of the president. Only thing was, Harris had also participated in the same type of sexual scandal for which the past president was just fired--even if his indiscretions were in the past, the last one being about five years earlier.

When I was on campus and a question arose regarding a national politician's involvement, the Political Science Chair and I got into a discussion about what it meant for a politician. For him, he felt that anybody who had chosen to lead the country, giving up much of his own personal freedom, then the individual had an obligation to ensure he never crossed a line related to ethics or moral behavior. 

Harris was not too concerned, since he felt he had done an exceptional job in "hiding" his affairs. At least he was until he met the security investigator who would be vetting...HIM!  I diligently read about Harris' actions--how each meeting occurred and how he went about connecting with the woman with whom he was interested. Note that two were early in his career and he had not as much to lose professionally by being identified.

Bottom line, Allen Harris began to panic! Should he even say he was interested in the presidency? Should he feel secure that his early efforts for concealment were sufficient to prevent any discovery? Or, worse, what if, in its being announced that he was being considered for the president position, that one of his past lovers would see it as a way to get money or even to get back at him for being unwilling to divorce and marry that individual. By the way, there were three, the last affair having been at least 5 years ago.

Harris decided that the only way that he could consider actually accepting the position if he were chosen, was to feel totally secure that all three of the women would not reveal his past... So he set about hunting down each of his former paramours, hoping, by meeting them face to face to ensure he felt he could believe what they told him...

The majority of this book covers his searches, his internal memories of each woman, and the actual results of his searches... Frankly, I enjoyed reading how the man feels about this type of relationship. From that standpoint, ladies, this may be a very informative book for all of you.

And readers are so involved in his personal life, that when he learns that one of his lovers was now dead--and that another death occurred as well, then, just as I did, Allen's investigative juices started flowing and he started backtracking--adding up one clue versus another as to exactly what was going on...

Have to say, I personally didn't like how the book ended, although by that time I wasn't surprised. I prefer a happy ending, albeit, admittedly whatever I feel personally would make a happy ending...LOL

Still, Warren Adler was a brilliant writer who died at 91, in 2019. This book as will others, I am sure, will routinely be brought back for new readers who missed the book during earlier publications...

Some of you may remember one of Adler's more famous books, which received awards and was made into a movie... This book reminded me that I also didn't really like The War of the Roses... And yet, as I got past my personal issues* and sat back to really read and enjoy the book, I was surprised at just how "aware" Warren Adler is about people! In fact, in Beneath The Ivory Tower, his POV is by the main character, the lawyer who finds himself being considered for the presidency of a respected university. We watch as he moves through such a wide range of emotions that we almost feel like we are his friend and working with him to "clear his name..."

At the end, I was once again considering the culture of America...Sex meets us in music, on the television, in movies, even in advertisements... Allen never figures out what made him...stray...Perhaps it is all the sexy situations that surround most of us daily? No wonder, I wonder...Is Sex All That? Can a professional career be tarnished for some brief escapade, agreed upon by both individuals? Or do we have a right to blame all of those actions on writers, readers, and more that keeps sex on our minds, sometimes, most of the day?

This is an excellent book on which to ponder your thoughts and decide! Don't be surprised though if this is not an easy read, given the nature of the topic... You choose!

GABixlerReviews

*Having nearly 40 years on a university campus, as well as watching over the years of political sexual misconduct of one form or another, I've found that it is very difficult to deal with interpersonal relationships in today's world--where everybody is watching... And if they wonder about your success, for instance, they are quite willing to hypothesize that "she must have slept her way up..." as justification when a female peer gets promoted when they do not. I'm not saying that sexual activities do not occur. What I am saying is that, many times, reputations are affected where sexual affairs as described via gossip,  are actually, merely having lunch with your boss to discuss your next assignment... More at a later time... Re Open Memoir Sub-Title.

Warren Adler Presents His Only Cozy Mystery Novel - Flanagan's Dolls!

At that point the front bell tinkled and the Flanagans exchanged puzzled glances. An eight o’clock customer was as unusual as snow in July. Emily patted her hair, but Flanagan was swifter, having slapped away Caesar’s heavy head and padded through the long hall. At that hour, he knew, serious business was afoot. It was not the time for browsers, not in October. 

At first, he saw no one, until he heard the squeak of the main room floor. An older man turned abruptly, offering a startled, slightly annoyed look through thick spectacles. In one hand, the man held a brown slouch felt hat. In the other was a doll with a china head. Flanagan, responding to habit, dated the man as circa 1930s, with a polka-dot bow tie that could not hide a wattled neck, striped shirt, blue serge double-breasted suit with wide lapels, a gold signet ring on his pinky. 

Note: Dolls are NOT
 the One Requested

Frozen in time-period, Flanagan concluded, probably retired for twenty or thirty years. He had well-shaved shiny red jowls which shivered as he spoke. “I’m looking for a certain doll,” the man said, gazing down at the object in his hand. “Not this.” He was holding one with a long-sleeved taffeta dress with buttoned bodice and white laced-trimmed petticoat. She was wearing a hairdo with a wraparound braid. “That’s a shiny finish, porcelain,” 

Flanagan said, mostly to establish his authority on the subject of dolls, which was hardly awesome. “Doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want it. I’m not a collector,” the man said grumpily. “But I know what I’m looking for.” 

“A man with a mission. Good starting point,” Flanagan said. The man leveled magnified steel blue eyes on Flanagan, whose attempt at ingratiation fell flat, prompting the strictly business approach. 

“I’m looking for Bonnie Babe. ‘Bout twenty inches high. Brown hair. Brown eyes that close and a mouth that opens.” 

“Bonnie Babe, is it?” Flanagan asked. He could vaguely recall the item from his insurance days. People often made claims for antique dolls stolen or destroyed by fire. 

“Bonnie Babe,” the man repeated, lips tight. “For a child.” There was a brief flicker of alarm in his eyes, an excess of sudden blinking. Flanagan was on the verge of saying something facetious, but seeing the brief pain, held back. “Bonnie Babe, you said.” He had said it twice. 

“Remember the box. Bought it for my daughter when she was a child. Middle twenties, I’d say. Millie was photographed with it, you see. Now Charlotte wants it and I promised I’d find it.” 

“Have you got the picture?” 

“Back in Flint. If I saw it, I’d know it.” The man shook his head. “I promised it.” His determination was as real as his apparent frustration. Still the man did not smile and gave off unpleasant vibrations, which considerably sparked Flanagan’s disinterest. He was about to shrug the customer away. 

“It’s my granddaughter. She’s at Lakeside General for a heart operation. Leaky valve. Fair chance. Tricky.” His last remark seemed unsure and his eyes could not hide their worry. “She’s being prepped for an operation. I told her I’d try to find it. Not try, exactly. I said I’d find it. You know what a promise means to a little girl?” 

“Let me check my inventory,” Flanagan said, ignoring the answer. The oldest mush in the world, a doll for a little ailing girl. He felt that tug of storekeeper greed. Manna from heaven. The perfect customer. No browser, he. “Be back in a jiff.” Flanagan went back to the kitchen where Emily was rifling through the catalogues.

“Live one?” she asked. 

“To die for.” He chuckled. “Dolls. He wants a Bonnie Babe. Brown eyes that

close. Mouth that opens.” She tapped her teeth and her green eyes grew dreamy, which was her usual thinking mode, followed by running her fingers through her hair. 

“Not Bye-Lo?” 

“Bonnie Babe,” he repeated. “For his sick grandchild. She’s going to be getting a heart operation. Call it a desperate need.” Emily got up from the chair and headed up the winding metal staircase which led to their office, gathering speed as she ascended. He went back to the store, where the man still stood essentially in the exact same place. Nothing else interested him. 

“My wife’s looking it up,” Flanagan said, rubbing 

his chin. “Nothing else will do it?” It was a stupid question, he knew. When there was a want, a specific identifiable need, no substitute would ever do. He had learned that long ago and it had made his reputation as an insurance investigator. A missing object had a life of its own. Dollars could never compensate for its loss. He never understood what made people attach themselves to things, but then it wasn’t necessary to understand why the earth was round, either. He was not surprised when the man did not answer the question. Emily came into the display space with an illustrated book of doll collectibles, laying the open book on the checkerboard surface of a Victorian walnut games table. 

“That’s the one,” the man said, pointing a roughened finger. “Designed by Georgene Averill for the Averill Manufacturing Company in 1920. It was a biggie.” She thumbed through the back of the book and whistled. “Pricey.” “Cost me twenty bucks. Bought it for my oldest daughter. Handed down to my youngest, Millie. That’s Charlotte’s mother. Pretty beat up after five girls. Threw it away finally. It’s in a lot of snaps, though. I want one good as new and I don’t give a damn about the price. People in your business are a bunch of robbers. Selling old junk for such high prices.” 

“Even so, we can still be friends,” Flanagan muttered. 

“Not now, Flanagan,” Emily admonished. “Obviously the man is upset.”

“I’d pay it, though,” the man said, unrepentant. “Pay more. You name it. Especially if I got it fast.”

“We’d have to do a search,” Emily said. “There are sources.” “I need it fast and I’ll pay.” 

“We’ll do the best we can.” Again she tapped her teeth. “Maybe we can find one around town.” 

“We’re really good at poking around,” Flanagan said brightly. It was strictly a placebo.

“Remember. Bring me the real thing and I’ll pay whatever you ask,” the man growled. 

“It’s the fund thing in this business,” Flanagan said, knowing that the tiny barb would barely prick the man’s hard old hide. 

“We’ll try,” Emily said, bowing to pragmatism. They were so heavily invested in inventory they could not sell, being a middleman without risk was balm for her antique dealer’s heart. And Emily was not one to let a lucrative sale go by the boards. 

The man pulled out an engraved card and wrote a telephone number on the back of it with an old ink-filled Waterman and handed it to Emily. “That’s the telephone number of her hospital room. Her mother and me are there most of the time. Faster the better,” the man said. Flanagan looked at the card.

“T. Richard Ingersoll.” The bell was already tinkling before Flanagan could offer his good-byes. He followed Emily back to the kitchen where she poured two more coffees. “Aside from giving the girl a boost, we sure could use the do re mi. The time frame’s a bummer—unless.” 

“—unless we can find some old lady with self-indulgent parents who had the temerity to buy the little apple of their eye a nearly two-foot-tall Bonnie Babe.” He looked at the open book, turned it around. “Even a voice box in the lower back, a lace cap with satin ribbon and crocheted cotton booties.” 

“So who in town might have had one of these back eons ago?” 

All her little thought tics came into play now, the teeth tapping, fingers brushing through her hair, to which she added the soft shoe tap under the table. Her green eyes grew vague and fixed and her cupid’s bow upper lip curled in under itself. He knew better than to intrude, urging his own concentration on the matter of collecting dolls, looking over pictures of Baby Grumpy, Patsy Baby in Hamper, Lil Darlin, Bubbles, Tantrum Baby, Kaiser Baby, Dream Baby, although none could boast the heft, size and sweetness of dear old Bonnie Babe. As he expected, Emily began to verbalize her thought processes. 

What her mind’s computer was turning over, he knew, was the directory of old Lakeside Falls families, descendants of those who came to the great lake region to earn a living from the waters, either as boatman, woodsman, and traders, fruit farmers and, much later, as health nuts. As often happens to the converted, Josh had taken to the lore and history of his town and had made it his business to know everything he could about its origins and mores. 

Emily, too, had surrendered to the same urge. Her dictum was: If you don’t know where you come from, you’ll never truly know where you’re going. Familiar names of streets, storefronts, orchards, joined the listings. The Pratts, the MacPhersons, the Pettigrews, the Foxstones, the Downses, the Larsons, the Honnigers, the Goldmans, names that he, too, recognized from childhood days and their summer sojourns. 

But the Foxstones, Emily’s family tree, went back five generations, six if you counted Big Jim Foxstone who arrived in Lakeside Falls by getting drunk and falling off a coal barge on its way to Canada. Lord knows how many Foxstone seeds were sprinkled around Lakeside Falls before Big Jim got religion and sobriety from Emily’s great great grandmother, whose life and legend made today’s women’s libbers seem like shrinking violets. “It wouldn’t have been the Pratts, who lost their timber business back during World War I according according to Dad. The Goldmans, on the other hand, were great child indulgers. Sarah Goldman got a pony with solid silver harness for her fifth birthday. Of course, Lizzie Honniger got a dollhouse for her tenth that took up an entire room and was furnished with genuine antique doll furniture.” 

She grew silent, sipped the last of her coffee and tapped the table with her knuckles. “Lucy Downs. If anyone got a doll like that it was Lucy Downs. Of course, she was a few years older than me….”

~~~

Flanagan's Dolls

By Warren Adler

I was drawn to this book because of the title...my mother collected dolls that were real-life sized in her older years and I still have the one we named, Glenda. None of them were "name" dolls except for Shirley Temple, who we all loved as an actress. Still, it was fun to take Mom shopping and looking for older dolls that were not considered "collectible" but rather that she could enjoy looking back on as her own children...

Flanagan and his wife owned an antique store, but they didn't have any dolls to offer when a man came to visit their shop, looking for a specific doll, Bonnie Babe. The man had purchased the doll years ago for his daughter and it had been handed down among the family until it was so old that they had to throw it away...

But tragedy had struck--his granddaughter was in the hospital, waiting for surgery. She had seen so many family photographs of Bonnie Babe, that her heart was set on having Bonnie Babe with her as she was in the hospital. Her Grandfather would do anything--pay anything--to get that doll he had promised. His appeal was gruff, anxious, and almost demanding to the owners of the shop. Could they get that doll--fast?!!!

The interesting twist early in the story is that, almost immediately, it was the search for the doll that came to be the lead in for the murder mystery in which Flanagan becomes involved... 

All it took was the phone call to the potential owner of the doll and the realization that they might possibly own a very valuable doll that somebody wanted to buy... Or, it could have been just incidental, that Lucy Downs' son, who was a compulsive gambler, chose that time to get into his mother's doll collection and stole and sold five of those valuable dolls...

 Flanagan was thrilled when they found a doll to specifications so quickly, and he went to pick up the doll...

Immediately something was different from the original contact. No, they didn't have the doll...Sorry...please go away...

And when Lucy Downs soon died, it was Flanagan that didn't believe it was natural. He had watched her looking worse quickly as he had tried to deal with the doll issue... and it was he who was finally able to convince officials that she had been murdered...

I especially enjoyed Flanagan and Emily as main characters... They seem so suited for each other and the personal interaction, dialogue and romantic side of their marriage was explored fully and resulted in a novel that was still a Warren Adler masterpiece, but was also much more fun to read and become involved with. 

Adler is not genre-specific, but I must admit, I'd like to see another Flanagan cozy mystery. The expertise given to this retired couple may be more than the average "amateur detective" situation; however, the obvious enjoyment of this couple's life, as owners of an antique shop, is contagious. After all, who else but Adler would include a 13-gong antique grandfather clock among their inventory...and then try to explain to potential customers that the clock was "not" broken, but that it was unique...and made that way... Could Flanagan talk somebody into buying that particular clock? Well, he and his wife both certainly tried! Every beautiful clock needed a home.

The family drama was also very successfully done as we look into the lives of the Downs family and see that they had quite a unique situation that perhaps allowed so much confusion that death could occur so quickly and, perhaps, easily... After all, it was Flanagan who pushed to do a formal investigation into her death.

While some may not enjoy the addition of numerous puns between the starring couple, I found them quite endearing and a pleasant exchange between a loving couple that, frankly, was refreshing in today's world...Adler's wit appeared here as in no other book that he's written, I'll wager, based upon those I have read and their genres... In fact, the characters, good and bad, are worthy of praise. I found the other antique dealer in town--the one who had bought the stolen dolls--just as one would expect for unscrupulous sellers who thrive in a business where it is easy for deals to be made in favor of the seller, not the buyer...

This stop off into the Cozy Mystery genre was especially delightful and a surprise in light of other books by the same author... If you are a fan of Warren Adler, don't allow this one book to be bypassed. You will miss a unique voyage into another side of the writer, that is rarely seen... Appreciate it for that alone! And enjoy! But, yes, the mystery was tangled enough that I wasn't quite sure...whodunit! Highly recommended.


GABixlerReviews

Random Hearts, Latest Edition, Moves Directly Into Human Condition..by Warren Adler

The classic romance novel that inspired the Hollywood film starring Harrison Ford and Kristin Scott Thomas, written by the acclaimed novelist Warren Adler, well-known for his iconic novel turned international box-office hit ‘The War of the Roses.’  Soon to be a Stage Play...

Note: Watching the trailer, I quickly decided I preferred the book...

The aircraft fell in line behind a number of others. Outside, the snow continued to fall and swirl about, sometimes completely obscuring visibility through the windows. Leaning over him, she looked out. “Are we really going to take off?” “They know what they’re doing,” Orson said. A plane’s roar split the air. “Listen to that. We’ll be in the sunshine two minutes after takeoff.” 

“When I’m with you, there’s always sunshine,” she said, caressing him. The plane’s speaker crackled. “The flight tower has given us the go-ahead, folks. Sunny Florida, here we come.”

The pilot’s voice was followed by that of the stewardess reminding them to fasten their safety belts and put the seats in an upright position. They obeyed the instructions, although they kept the blanket over them. “I wouldn’t care if we just kept on flying to the end of the world, forever,” Lily said, entwining her fingers in his. 

“That won’t solve anything. We’d have to land someday,” he said, lifting her fingers to his lips and kissing them. The aircraft lumbered forward and began to accelerate. Some loose baggage bumped in the overhead racks. The great jets roared, and the plane’s body quivered as it charged ahead, flattening them against the seat backs. For an inordinately long time, the plane did not lift.

“Hard getting this baby off the ground,” someone said behind them. Orson felt Lily’s fingers squeeze harder as their bodies waited to sense the lift-off. When it happened, her fingers unclasped, and Orson looked out the window into the mass of white. 

Lily leaned over him. “Soon,” he whispered. She lifted the rose to her nostrils and breathed in its delicate scent. Then the plane began to buck and lose altitude. It became deadly quiet; the sudden terror had paralyzed everyone into silence. 

Even when the big plane sheared a railing off the Fourteenth Street Bridge along with the tops of five cars, there were no screams. Then the plane crashed through the ice with an enormous impact.

~~~

Random Hearts

By Warren Adler

I don't know of anybody better than Warren Adler to write on the human condition... Taking things, events, situations that happen routinely in America, he will take readers deeper into his characters, revealing the most intimate of emotions, internal thoughts, or physical actions, daring us to differ in opinion from what he sees as our reality, our lives, living together...

Even as I read, I reveled, knowing, almost immediately, each single event that was going to happen, including the ending. However, that did not prepare me for the "experience" of coming to know each of the individuals I would be meeting in the novel.

Almost immediately, two of the characters are killed in an airplane crash. With the brief introduction, we know that they are very much in love and looking forward to a brief getaway. They leave two spouses behind, not telling anybody where they were going. And they flew under aliases. They were lovers, having an affair... They loved their spouses...but...

And then the mystery begins...

I enjoyed the police officer who was assigned to the task of working with the victims of the crash. When the first body, a female, was found and had to be called a Jane Doe, due to lack of identification, he was somewhat relieved to break the chain of body review and relative notification... Finally, all bodies were recovered. A man was identified by his credentials...who was not scheduled on the flight...

Edward Davis knew his wife was to be out of town for 4 days. Vivien was a homemaker and mother and she and her son said goodbye to her husband as he was leaving for 4 days... As we read about their departure, readers begin to see questions about their relationship; i.e., the relationship between spouses. A good word as we read could be called...content...

So when their spouses were expected home, both Edward and Vivien began to worry. They had heard about the plane crash, but it had been headed for a destination that neither of their spouses was headed... They thought...

We watch as news finally reaches them; they are devastated. Sergeant McCarthy made a decision, which I supported, and brought those two people into a private room to tell them that their spouses were not named earlier because they were traveling under another name and that they had been together...

But answers were needed! And if nobody had known where their spouses were, then they bonded together to find out! How would you feel in this situation? All of the emotional restraints that had been held, sometimes on small things, but now, faced with betrayal, started being considered and pulled out by both Edward and Vivien. Each piece of information was shared...as each raged and vented their own emotions... Nobody else could understand...

Adler's sensitivity, his awareness, his ability to realistically create the overwhelming emotions involved--from each character--is exceptional. There is little doubt that readers will grasp the emotional impact of what is happening to the two remaining spouses. And the key to that readers response is Adler's unbelievable, created understanding of what happened, what the individuals were thinking, what the individuals wanted--revenge, and provided that turmoil for us to feel, to empathize, perhaps, but to also sympathize, with all of those individuals who shared this story...a secret story that the world would never know about, yet see the results...

I loved the ending and the moral to the story... I also loved that both Edward and Vivien were included in the emotionally wrought story so that both sexes were emphasized in this, a situation that exists in the human condition of interpersonal relationships... I think this just might be my last "Personal favorite for 2018!" Loved it!

GABixlerReviews

WE ARE HOLDING THE PRESIDENT HOSTAGE!!!

It is Always Time to Read Warren Adler...

But somehow this book caught my attention at this time...

“Win?”

 “Beat his ass.”

 She looked at him archly. He did not reflect the win. “So why so grim?” 

“Damn meeting with those relatives,” he muttered. The hostage problem was becoming a constant irritation, but he was managing it as he dealt with most problems. He had the ability to tuck things away in compartments, close their doors. Only this door refused to stay shut.

“Just be a good soldier,” she said.

“That’s the problem. A soldier fights.” He slipped into a T-shirt and pulled it over his chest with an angry gesture. Then he slid into his pants and pulled his belt tight around his waist. “They’re looking for it,” he said. 

“Maybe Harkins is right after all. Hell, he brags about his covert assets. Why not go in and secretly whack ’em. Nice clean surgery.” He stepped into his shoes. “All this crap about violence begetting violence. Morality bullshit.” “Hate to think of what you might dub immorality,” she said with a lilt, hoping to calm him.

 “Point is, we let them get away with it, no one’s safe. Especially us.” He turned to study her face.

“You think we’re really safe and snug in this place with all those Secret Service guys climbing in our soup?” He waved his arms. “And those cement barricades and walk-through detectors. A determined bastard would find a way.” 

Alluding to that possibility genuinely alarmed her. She turned from his gaze, deliberately hiding her fear from him. Under the circumstances, she had tried to follow a routine as normal as possible. But the idea of danger was never far from her thoughts. 

When Paul was a senator and they lived on Capitol Hill, he had bought her a little silver-plated .22-caliber pistol, which she had kept in a drawer next to her bed. She was alone a great deal and, although she detested the idea of it, she had not removed the gun from the house. Just in case, he had said. 

God forbid, she had thought. But she had kept it in its place. Worse, she had brought the pistol with her to the White House, where it had remained in the drawer next to her side of the bed, hardly a weapon to match the Secret Service battery of Uzi machine guns that surrounded them. 

“Times like this you almost wish you could be a dictator,” Paul said as he pulled up the knot of his tie. She knew he was trying to prepare himself mentally. 

“So what would you do differently?” she asked.

“I’d blast the hell out of everyone that aids and abets these bastards. Government, clans, financial supporters, families. Everyone.”

She remained silent, letting him vent himself. “Nixon wasn’t so dumb,” he mumbled. 

“Nixon?”

“Remember the Watergate tapes. He used to wish he were like the Mafia. They know how to get things done.” 

He kissed her perfunctorily on the forehead and stormed out of the room.

~~~

The President was frustrated--more hostages had been captured and held by this group or that. Always considered fanatic terrorists. Would it never stop? This time, however, by accident, a woman and child had been captured, when the intended target didn't show up and trouble began. The terrorists were pulling back but the woman and child, who had gone into the building's bathroom, was coming back out. They were grabbed and swiftly taken away. 

Thereafter, to protect their prize, they would drag the mother and child from place to place, sometimes even into vacant buildings, where they would be tied up and sat along the walls. The young boy was afraid, of course, but his mother knew something--she knew her family would not allow them to be hurt and would work immediately to free them. She spoke calmly to her son, ensuring him as best she could, though she, too, was afraid of what might happen in the meantime...

“I got good news and bad news,” he began. His eyes surveyed the faces around the table. He did not sit down, knowing that he was about to impart something momentous. He waited to create the perfect sense of drama.

 “Mafiosa,” he said, pausing for a long moment. “The man who has the President is Salvatore Padronelli, better known as the Padre, probably the most important don in this country. Second generation. A racket network of powerful proportions. The other three are his top capos, loyal to the death. One of them, the Canary, is a known murderer and hit man. The other, the Prune, has a rap sheet as long as your arm. The young one is Benjy Mustoni, known as the Kid, an ambitious enforcer. This caterer, poor bastard, was, as they say, given a deal he couldn’t refuse.”

“What the hell do they want?” “They want Maria and Joseph Michaels, the Padre’s only daughter and grandson.”

~~~

Maria and Joseph Michaels had been waiting for her husband when she was captured. But he had no power or ability to get her back--just as the familities of other hostages that were taken would be, without help from powerful people...

The President's staff had already been in negotiations, but nothing thus far had helped. Everybody knew the US policy: the government policy of never negotiating with terrorists, never giving in to their demands.  But that response was never satisfactory to relatives of the victims. The President had hated meeting with the families. They knew...and they knew he knew...that doing nothing was not an acceptable answer...

They found that out when that message was given to Maria and Joseph Michaels father. Padre Salvatore Patronelli, the most important don in America...

Because the leader of the Mafia was not willing to accept that America could do nothing. And he would ensure himself that he got his family back! By taking the President of America hostage and forcing action!

Sounds impossible, right? Well, not with Warren Adler's version of what the Mafia Don would do to save his family... It involved wearing explosives and walking right into a gala event sponsored by the President and his wife...

If you have read award-winning author Warren Adler before, you know already that what he writes is always unique, totally engrossing, and true-to-life. I enjoyed watching as the Mafia walks all over the Secret Service as they capture and then force the President and his wife into their living quarters, where they establish themselves for a visit, however long that would take! It was the President's wife that stole the show, in my opinion!

I highly recommend you take a break from the chaos happening in reality, and enjoy how things get done--Mafia style! Concerned about politics? Maybe even a must-read for you... it will lift you into an alternative fictional world that is a great place to be to watch the action! And good things do happen!

GABixlerReviews

Warren Adler is best known for The War of the Roses, his masterpiece fictionalization of a macabre divorce turned into the Golden Globe and BAFTA nominated dark comedy hit starring Michael Douglas, Kathleen Turner and Danny DeVito. In addition to the success of the stage adaptation of his iconic novel on the perils of divorce, Adler has optioned and sold film rights to more than a dozen of his novels and short stories to Hollywood and major television networks. Random Hearts (starring Harrison Ford and Kristen Scott Thomas), The Sunset Gang (starring Jerry Stiller, Uta Hagen, Harold Gould and Doris Roberts), Private Lies, Funny Boys, Madeline's Miracles, Trans-Siberian Express and his Fiona Fitzgerald mystery series are only a few titles that have forever left Adler's mark on contemporary American authorship from page to stage to screen. Learn more about Warren Adler at www.warrenadler.com.

Continued Success by Author Warren Adler Prompts Reading of The War of the Roses

'The War of the Roses' Continues Its Successful International Tour as Both a Stage Play and Musical Following its Flemish tour as a hit musical, the Italian rendition of 'The War of the Roses' as a stage play has opened to rave reviews in Milan's Teatro Manzoni... I'm happy to announce that 'The War of the Roses' stage play is thriving internationally - a deal to roll out the musical in 17 foreign language territories in Europe, Asia and South America was recently signed and while 'The War of the Roses' Italian stage play is currently running in Milan, it will also premiere in Rome. Here's what the Italian critics are saying so far... *translated from Italian Manzoni Theater, 'Roses War' with Ambra Angiolini and Matteo Cremon The Warren Adler novel of 1981, which became eight years later also a huge movie success, is also a starred comedy "...an extraordinary, refined and chaotic comedy at the same time, comical and cruel, ridiculous and crazy..." "Adler faces one of the most powerful and extraordinary human deflagrations: the separation of a man and a woman who shared a great love." "The real war, perhaps far more bloody, will take place within us, in perceiving victims and executioners within our unresolved half, brooding in the bowels of our consciences." "Adler helps us, with a smile, to face this war with courage and lightness." THE ROSES WAR IN MILAN On the stage of the Manzoni Theater is the famous Warren Adler comedy, which was a cinematic success of the late 80s. Protagonists of the show Ambra Angiolini and Matteo Cremon "From there is a crescendo of wickedness, anger, and mutual  frustration that lead to a self-destructive ending." "An apparent, idyllic calm that is uncommonly transformed, almost without any realization, into a storm. From paradise to hell." The Roses War. Manzoni Theater, November 9, 2017 "...Warren Adler naturally keeps the storyline and characters of the novel unaltered and creates, almost without wanting, a work perhaps more suited to a theatrical drama than a film, where drama and comedyare permeable at any time more than can be done in a remarkable film." "Lots of applause even on open stage, with numerous calls at the end, from a crowd enthusiastic in a theater out of stock in every rank of seats." "...the great chandelier, an important object of the whole affair, is rich and brilliant in showing a life that is only apparently apparent but also capable of causing death." The Manzoni Theater in Milan bursts The Roses War: the comedy that creates a great love "In this comedy we are confronted with pure emotions, human nature in all its cruelty, without veils and in the moment of greater weakness: the separation of a man and a woman who shared a great love." "The Roses War, the comedy written by Adler, manages to give us new readings of ourselves, perhaps with lightness and a slight smile on the lips, giving us the opportunity to bend to the other, to open ourselves to the next and to the outside world, where women and men will understand their limits, embrace them and choose to improve each day, for themselves and for each other." Read the Novel That Started It All... Buy Now ...and the Sequel... Buy Now Find your next book! Get exclusive ebook deals delivered straight to your inbox  Explore more at www.warrenadler.com Do you read book descriptions? After I had read a number of books by author, Warren Adler, and now on his newsletter list, I again learned about his popular book, which later became a movie, The War of the Roses. Not having ever been married, I had no real inclination to read about the divorce of a couple... I should have gone with my gut... As I consider celebrating Thanksgiving tomorrow, after finishing the book this morning, I find I do have something to be very thankful for--not ever having been married! When Adler's creative mind moves into "drive," he puts his all into the book he is writing. In this one, apparently, dark comedy. I have once again confirmed to myself that I have a warped sense of humor, also apparently, because I saw nothing funny about the story even while many others have praised it... Now here's the key, since I wasn't sure of the genre as I started to read it, I thought it was family drama and soon considered it horror. Readers, I did not like this book. As you consider whether to read it, realize that I am aware of my own prejudices and willingly share them when I come up with a book that I cannot personally recommend. For me, dark comedy is just making light of the real issues that affects some marriages and obviously lead to either enjoying the satire...or your own divorce...  Still, Adler's story is provocative, compelling, tense and intriguing... How far will this all go? You keep on reading thinking, wanting to intrude into the lives of the characters and...well, start slapping their faces, or heads, likes Gibbs does! I found I would be Ann, who seems to be the only sane one, and even she was obsessively interested in the husband... In fact, when trouble began between the spouses, she was quite willing to seduce and allow her dreams to expand into reality... But once she realizes what is really happening, she wants out... and tries to deal with it, given the position of governess she had held in the house... Adler presents a brilliant assessment of today's materialism, power, and position becoming more important, and/or corrupting what may occur in today's marital life. When possessions become more important than another individual's love and relationship, then, yes, a war may begin... I wonder, though, did Adler write it as a warning, even though the movie caricature apparently became more enjoyed than the book itself... Do check out other reviews...this may be just the book you'd like to read... GABixlerReviews