JUST RELEASED!

I just released Rough Diamonds, a sequel of sorts to Las Vegas Turnaround (you don’t need to read the first one to enjoy this one). It’s a thriller, but weird and funny. I know you’ll love it! Below is a brief description of the novel, along with an excerpt.

You can buy the book here:

If you enjoy the novel, please consider writing a glowing review on Amazon, accompanied by a five-star rating. (This will both stroke my immense ego and help in future marketing efforts.) I thank you in advance.

If you don’t like the book (perhaps you’ll find it offensive in some way), then I’ll gladly refund your money. Just send your receipt to kurtjbooks@gmail.com along with a 250-word explanation. Seriously.

The fiction novel, Rough Diamonds, follows stolen uncut diamonds from Chicago to Las Vegas as they pass through the hands of outlandish characters:

• The Swede – A Chicago Outfit guy with a penchant for rare porcelain figurines who steals the diamonds from the Mafia.

• Emmy – An Outfit guy in Las Vegas tasked with fencing the diamonds. Emmy has a family now with a strange stepdaughter and eventually wants out of The Life. He chases down the diamonds with Swede.

• Skinny – A homeless heroin addict and street thief who steals the diamonds from Emmy and eventually ends up in the flood channel tunnels below the streets of Las Vegas with an organized gang of homeless people.

• Cory – An aspiring comedian, high school student, and janitor at Tramps Nightclub who finds the diamonds on the dance floor after they’ve fallen from Skinny’s pants pocket. He and Emmy’s stepdaughter have a thing.

• Deedee – The Tramps’ manager and former prostitute who gets the diamonds from Cory and locks them in the safe.

• Niven – A friend of Skinny’s who’s moved off the streets and is now into larger heists. He robs the safe at Tramps and takes possession of the diamonds.

• Tanya – Emmy’s stepdaughter, who goes out with Cory. Each week, she dresses differently, from hippie chick to cheerleader to Goth to preppy, in an effort to find herself.

• The Rat King – A Homeless Vietnam Veteran who lives in the tunnels under Las Vegas and runs a gang of homeless people. The Rat King takes the diamonds from Niven.

The story comes to a showdown in the tunnels. A gun battle ensues, followed by rain above ground, creating a flood underground that washes away everything.

One of my favorite characters is Skinny. Here’s the intro scene for that scoundrel:

Skinny stood out front of the Aladdin Casino near the alley that divided it from Bally’s. Back in the alley was an emergency exit, his getaway, where he’d jammed a throwaway hotel keycard between the door’s bolt and strike plate. The sun had risen to its peak, high above, and the tourists walked past in groups metered out by the crosswalk lights. He waited under some Arabian-looking cornice, next to a palm tree that offered some shade from the heat. He waited for the onesie-twosie tourists to pass, the slackers who couldn’t keep up with the groups released by the green crosswalk light. He looked for a necklace, a gold watch with a twisty band, or a designer handbag.

He also watched people’s eyes as they passed, watched to see if they saw him. None looked his direction—none could offer up a description. Skinny thought it was his superpower to become unnoticeable—invisible—and, in a way, disappear. It wasn’t like the Invisible Man or anything; he couldn’t actually make himself transparent; he wasn’t Scotch Tape. Most people just didn’t see him. He knew because he noticed. He once stood outside the Flamingo Hotel with a cardboard sign that said HOMELESS, PLEASE HELP, and after hours of standing, or often slumped with his knees tucked to his chest, he was lucky to collect five dollars. He needed twenty-five for a bag of smack just to get through the morning, fifty for a jumbo that would last the day. What was it that made him invisible to these people? The way he looked? Skin tanned to a dust color, average height, kinda skinny, dirty blond shoulder-length hair, a face that was possibly unrecognizable—in a word, non-descript. Then again, he was just another homeless junkie kid on the Strip panhandling for spare change. The tourists in their clean golf shirts and shorts did not fly all the way to Vegas to get reminded of the squalor back home that they could watch from the safety of their minivans. But Skinny figured out months ago that he didn’t need to panhandle, that he could turn his one superpower into a moneymaker—just stand there on the Strip, invisible, and watch for the one unsuspecting lady or old dude or fat person with expensive stuff. Then, make his move—the snatch and dash.

Skinny looked for clues to figure out who had the good shit. He’d been burned before. He worked for a good part of one week snatching gold chains, taking a sack full down to Nuts at the jewelry store just to find out most were junk, bad plate jobs that weren’t worth squat. So now he watched for the details. The shoes—were they cheap or plastic? Age—older people were more likely to wear the real thing. Guys in khaki pants didn’t wear fake chains or replica Rolex watches, but guys in tracksuits did. He’d steal a purse, especially if it was handheld, not strapped to a shoulder or clutched tight to their chest like a football. He could spot a Coach purse. Anyone with a Coach might have stashed inside a stack of casino chips, wads of cash, or credit cards.

So he watched and waited. The lights on Harmon cycled through WALK and DON’T WALK, and it seemed the stragglers were nothing but nickel-slot tourists wearing Timex and tracksuits. But then he saw the perfect mark. The dude looked mid-fifties and fat, like three-bills fat. His pants were bright pink, like the kind he saw golfers wear years ago when he spent a summer toting bags at a course in Costa Mesa. And the man’s hat was one of those jaunty Frank Sinatra numbers. The woman was younger, smaller, and pretty, like maybe a second wife the guy could afford. Country Club people. She wore a string of fat pearls that Skinny figured had to be the pricey real thing. Skinny knew the real ones were knotted and wouldn’t slip off the string when pulled from a neck, spilling onto the sidewalk like a bag of marbles. Nuts—if he’d still let him into the store—would take a pearl necklace.

They passed him without even looking in his direction. Invisible.

Skinny silently stepped in behind to get a closer look. Gaps in the pearls, knots. He made his move. He ran the three steps as fast as a cat, slipped his middle finger under the necklace, and yanked. The gold clasp broke easily, and the strand came off in one piece—no marbles on the sidewalk.

The woman screeched, something like the sound of that chimp, Cheeta, from the old Tarzan movie.

The man turned just as Skinny ran back toward the alley. He heard, “Hey, stop.” A man whose commands at his company or wherever were almost always obeyed. Then, just as Skinny turned the corner, he heard another voice, “Stop that kid.” No one stood within a hundred feet, no one who’d catch him before he reached the door. The fat man would certainly not give chase.

He stopped at the emergency exit. The door was spring-loaded with no outside handle. He had a little tool, one of those paint can openers you get free from the hardware store, the kind with a beer cap opener on the other end. He’d done the trick countless times, wedging the tool into the crack between the door and frame, then prying. As soon as the door passed the frame, the plastic key card fell to the ground. He caught the door’s edge with his fingers.

Skinny looked back. A guy was chasing him, closing in from about fifty feet away. He hadn’t seen the guy on the street and wondered whose magician’s top hat he’d stepped from.

The door was open half a foot when he lost his grip, and the spring-loaded door started to shut. He quickly reached into the gap to get a new hold. But the spring was tight, and the door was sheathed in heavy steel. He had just one middle finger in the gap, the same finger used to snatch the pearls, when the door crushed it.

The guy was now almost on him, but Skinny was able to get the rest of his fingers through the gap and open the door. He slipped past and quickly pulled the crash bar. Outside, he heard the guy banging on the thick steel. Skinny was in a stairwell, safe for now, and no one was around to hear the hammering fists.

He entered the casino and walked casually toward a back entrance. His crushed finger had started bleeding, and he shoved that hand into his pants pocket to cover any drips that might attract the attention of some security dick.

In his other pocket was the necklace. His adrenaline-fueled mind quickly did the math. The pearls had to have cost the fat man a thousand or more. Nuts would give him a fraction of that, maybe two hundred. Two hundred would get him a couple jumbos plus a week at the Oasis Motel with clean sheets and air conditioning.

A nice score.