Welcome to the World of Ghosty!

Ghosty: This Fenceless World can best be described as Jeeves and Wooster meets The A-Team, if Wooster was an Edwardian-era ghost, Jeeves was a hot Asian assassin, Face was a snarky B-movie scientist, and Murdock was a Nietzsche-quoting unfrozen caveman.

I wrote it in 4.5 months, I'm happy to say, and it's a vast improvement over my first novel, Maniac Tuba. I am already researching the sequel, as well as preparing for Script Frenzy in April.

My goal is to find a publisher this year; failing that, I will self-publish. In either case, please return to check for ordering details.

Below is the first chapter. Enjoy!



CHAPTER ONE

There should always be a reason to hoist oneself up in the morning. I’m usually pretty talented about finding one.

“Morning, Miss Thammavongsa,” I said.

“Good morning, sir,” said Miss Thammavongsa.

She made a wai and set her tray on my bed-table.

A lovely girl, she, efficient and loyal and smarter than a tree full of owls and all that. Always there with a solution for a problem or a blade for a foe, Miss Thammavongsa was the goods. This morning, as every morning, she was in my boudoir with a cup of the java bean and the London Times. She was as lucid and well-groomed as if she had gotten a full eight hours, got up at the crack, meditated for a few in some Zen garden, and had a cup of the steaming at her leisure. Moreover, she was ever as professional as any valet or personal gentleman I had in my service in the past, and I have had scores, I assure you.

I sat up in bed and took a long snootful of the coffee. Meanwhile, Miss Thammavongsa opened the curtains—dashed bright out today!—and spread out the newspaper on my lap. Certain habits are too bally precious to give up under any circumstances.

“What time is it, old egg?”

“Eleven o’clock, sir.”

“Rather early, I should say! I must be getting mature in my doddery.”

“Very droll, sir. How was your evening? I trust that you and Dr. Robaire enjoyed yourselves.”

“We did at that,” I said. “Did you know he has a new longcoat he wears now? He looks like one of those blighters from the spaghetti westerns and what not. Very impressive looking, I must say. I should like to have one for myself.”

To the untrained, Miss Thammavongsa’s face would seem to have retained that porcelain impassivity, but to a keen observer such as myself it was evident that she found my wish wholly undesirable. In fact, as I am well-schooled in Thammavongsian facial expressions, it would not be an exaggeration to say that she shuddered. Still, she said:

“As you wish, sir.”

“I think you would have been as impressed as I was, Miss Thammavongsa. He cut a splendid figure. Tell me true, have you ever given any thought to spending time with our Dr. Robaire? I’ve always felt that the two of you would make a corking couple.”

“Oh, I should think not, sir.”

“Well, why not? You’re an attractive young lady, full of frothy vigor, brighter than all get out—if I may say so, you need an outstanding male to pass the days with when you’re not dispatching your duties with me. I think it’s a capital idea, personally.”

Miss Thammavongsa smiled modestly, and tucked a stray strand of raven hair behind her ear.

“But sir, my heart belongs to another.”

Well, dash it all, isn’t that the pip when you try to put two people of like minds and hearts together and nothing comes of it? It should have come as no surprise, really, but you can’t blame a chappie for trying.

“No matter,” I said. “Miss Thammavongsa, what’s happening on God’s green today?”

“Locally or internationally?”

“Let’s start with the important stuff.”

“Very well then, sir,” she said, and a disengaged veil dropped across her face. She pulled her PDA from out of her dress jacket. “It appears imminent that Violet Pendershaw will be taking on the role of Psylocke in that new feature film, after all. As you requested, we were able to convince Hull-Winward to be flexible.”

“Thank you for that, by the way. A ghastly shame if she doesn’t play that role, I’d say.”

“Indeed,” said Miss Thammavongsa. “Although, if I may say so, Mei-Zhing would have also performed admirably.”

“Pish! Violet Pendershaw is a goddess who was born to play that role. Onward and upward, Miss Thammavongsa. What other business?”

“Sussex lost to Manchester United 1-0 on a first half goal by Ethan Mularkey. Trent Verlaine broke his ankle and is expected to miss the rest of the season.”

“Dash it all!” I exclaimed. “See what we can do to replace him. Find one of those Brazilian coves everyone’s always raving about. How did my horses do, Miss Thammavongsa? With the recent unpleasantness, I wasn’t able to hit the derby yesterday.”

“Most unfortunate, sir,” she said. “I think you will find the requisite information in today’s Times. I think you shall be pleased.”

“Phantom Rider won, didn’t she?”

The barest trace of a smile graced Miss Thammavongsa’s lips. Or perhaps a facial tick. Difficult to tell which, sometimes.

“I’ll let that be a surprise, sir.”

I thought about it. No matter how many years passed, there was nothing like the feeling when one of your horses got across first. I did so wish I could have been there to witness it firsthand, but as you know, duty calls. And when duty calls, by Jove, Bingo Elkins answers it. Unless, of course, duty calls at an unreasonable hour, under which circumstance duty should wait patiently in the sitting room or perhaps come back later in the afternoon. Gentlemen know these things.
I struck a chipper tone.

“The news of the day, my gal Friday, if you would.”

“Very good, sir,” said Miss Thammavongsa, her mien livening up considerably. “The situation we talked about in Chile is deteriorating—that will need to be taken care of before long, I might add—our interests in Australia are holding steady for the moment, and…”

Usually when Miss Thammavongsa became all hesitatish, that meant trouble was on the way. Not this time, though, happy to relate. Just the opposite.

“Tactical Industries—”

“Hold on, what. That sounds like one of ours.”

“It is, sir. Tactical Industries—”

“A little goggled here, Miss Thammavongsa. What do they do again?”

“They are a multi-layered consortium that finances much of the research and development that—”

“Oh, right. I think I follow now.”

“Tactical—”

“Based where?”

“Sir?”

“Where are they based?”

“They have offices all over the world, sir. For tax purposes, they are based in Andorra, as many of our interests are, but for all intents and purposes, their headquarters is in New Mexico.”

“America,” I said.

“Yes, sir. That is where New Mexico is located.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d have said that the old girl was cheeking me.

“Anyway,” I said, “what’s new with T.I.? Making rannygazoo new inventions, no doubt? Something to help the world toddle along a touch better?”

“Not exactly, sir. We received a call this morning informing us of breakthrough developments in something called Project Isis. Do you recall anything about this project?”

“Can’t say I do, little bird. Unless it’s that barmy thing Dr. R was gabbing about last night at the Drongo Club.”

“Oh dear,” Miss Thammavongsa said. “And yet I’m not surprised.”

Well, I can tell you that at this moment, the proverbial bulb went on above the old lemon and, frankly, I was delighted. I nearly leapt through my comforter.

“You really ought to be more observant, Miss Thammavongsa. You could take a lesson from old Bingo, what? This can mean only one thing. Dr. Robaire’s team of boffins must have hit upon the solution while he was over here taking a much-needed hiatus. A pity old Robey missed it.”

Miss Thammavongsa looked almost quizzical. Almost.

“Missed what, sir?”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t know,” I said. “Whatever it is he’s working on. Science, and all that rot. All that rot, Rot. Get it?”

A word of exposition for the uninitiated—Miss Thammavongsa, of course, is not her full name. Her full name is Rot Thammavongsa, a mouthful for a chap like myself, but apparently not that bad for your average Thai appellation. Still, Rot is a frightful name for a lass, if you ask me, even if it means rose in Thai. Long ago I toyed with the notion of calling her “Ro” for short, but such a liberty seems rather ingratiating and déclassé, so mostly I soldier on and keep it professional.

“Well played, sir. So you don’t remember what he said, then?”

“Not remotely, Miss Thammavongsa. It was hard biscuit and cricket night at the Drongo. What with that and the absinthe, a fellow can get jolly forgetful.”

“But you don’t drink, sir. You can’t drink.”

Miss Thammavongsa is usually exceedingly decorous, judicious even, with her observations about yours truly, but this one struck me as rather rummy. Just because a fellow goes for a burton and doesn’t have a decent nip for seventy years or so doesn’t mean he has to give up nights on the town with his chums, sitting at home in a mournful mood, or worse, finding some windswept manor house to go bumping-in-the-night in.

“I say, Miss Thammavongsa, shame on you,” I said in my most beakish tone. “You’re only as dead as you think you are. Or, in your case, as alive as you think you are. Hmm. That made a lot more sense in my head.”

Nevertheless, the point was made, and made well, and I may even have detected a little remorse on the poor dolly. Again, blasted hard to tell with this one.

“Mai pen rai, sir. I meant no offense. You are correct, of course.”

“Think no more of it,” I said. “But now that you mention it, I am dashed curious now about all this hubbub. Robey will be disappointed he missed the news.”

“What makes you think he has, sir?”

“I’m afraid the Green Fairy had commandeered the rudder on his ship last night, so to speak, and she was piloting it into the shoals when I put him in the limo. He was in no posish to receive any kind of breaking news last night, and I’m right certain he’s in less of one to receive it today.”

“How unfortunate, sir. Then again, one supposes he’ll find out soon enough.”

“Right-o!” I exclaimed, and this time I did leap through my comforter. This action was not as immodest as you might think, as I was already in my favorite tuxedo jacket and bow tie. See, one of the perks of being among the dearly departed is that you never have to worry about your wardrobe again. All your suits are eternally pressed, cleaned, and mended, and when you throw in the security of never again getting grape jelly on your favorite cummerbund, it’s an all-around lark of sorts. “Let’s toodle on down to Sandbanks. I’m sure if we leave now we can give Old Robey a proper wakey-wakey. Be a sport and pull the car around, would you?”

“The Aston Martin or the Jaguar?” she asked.

“The Aston. And let’s put the hood up. It’s uncommon sunny today, yes?”

“As you wish, sir,” Miss Thammavongsa said, and then, spying my stylish Balmorals once made with genuine crocodile, she—there can be no other word for it—cringed. “Oh dear.”

“What is it, Miss Thammavongsa?”

“Your shoes,” she said. “I confess I never quite get used to them.”

It didn’t take a big brain to pick up on her verbal irony, as it were.

“Why yes,” I said, “they are a spectacular pair. I recall having loved them very much as a mortal, and the two, that is, three of us are very happy here in the afterlife. So give over with the whinging, Miss Thammavongsa old girl, because they’re here to stay. Let’s be on our merry, shall we?”

“As you wish, sir,” Miss Thammavongsa said, with just a whiff of a sigh.