Class of ‘67

First a couple of Corona tidbits: From March 12th through April 19th, the NYPD recorded 612 commercial burglaries — a 122% increase from 2019. This week last year the city there were five murders to 2020’s 10. I guess the only solution, at least to politicians, is to keep letting criminals out of jail… Thousands in Southern California swarmed beaches to cool off. Temperatures have soared, nearly reaching 100 degrees in some parts of L.A. County. I hope this helps determine if heat kills the virus.

It took me more than an hour to again figure out how to number pages in a MS Word file. I’d thought I’d never have to do it again but, needing something worthwhile to do to fill time while NYC is on lockdown, I’m taking a crack at a thriller. The title is Class of ’67. So far it’s less than 20,000 words, which makes it a novella. It won’t grow much more. It takes place entirely in Brooklyn, 2019, per-Corona. Here’s an excerpt, the entire Chapter 19. Many of the chapters are a single page:

Sandy Cohen walked out of Methodist Hospital with a big smile on her face. Her youngest daughter had just given birth. She dialed her cell phone. “It’s a boy!” she told her husband, who was home with a cold.
“Hurray!” he said and sneezed.
“Good thing you didn’t come. See you soon. Try not to get in any trouble.”
“Be careful. Look in every direction.”
She walked toward 6th Avenue. She regretted not having used the parking lot. She’d let her constant practice of saving every dollar possible rule her. She squinted into the distance. Her eyesight was getting worse each year. She especially had difficulty seeing at night when glasses were no help at all.
As she approached her car she spotted a man beside it, smoking a cigar, its fumes flowing her way. Even though her husband had smoked them for years before being forced to quit by the doctor, she’d never gotten used to the acrid odor. She waited there, hoping the guy would leave. She assumed he was a husband out simply for a smoke, but she wouldn’t take the chance given what had happened to her classmates. So intent on him was she that she failed to detect the approach of footsteps behind her. She gasped as a man brushed passed her.
“Boo!” he said, walking away, chuckling.
It was awhile before her heart rate returned to normal. Soon the man with the cigar left. She started the car from where she stood and waited a moment before approaching. She wondered if there were a way of turning on the interior lights using the key. She regretted not having asked her husband, who understood those type of things. She walked gingerly, as if on eggshells. She opened the door, stepped back, and gazed into the rear seat and onto the floor. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Once seated, she put the car into Drive and sped away. What’re you doing? she thought, decelerating; crazy. She shook her head. She supposed her husband would laugh once she told him about this. She decided to keep it to herself. It would be another of the secrets she’d kept throughout their forty-five-year marriage.

What’s a thriller without a red herring?

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