At that point, I was adamant. I had to let this idea go. I couldn’t waste more time on it. I had tried, and failed, to write it three times. It was time to adopt baseball rules and admit that I had struck out on this particular idea.
And I did, for a while at least. But the idea kept bugging me, and eventually I figured that I would have to write this novel, if only to get it out of my system, to clear my mind for other ideas.
So I spent another three, four months on it, writing it from scratch, adding new scenes and characters and plot twists, and discarding some dull and bland scenes and characters that I had written in the earlier version.
The result is what you’ve just read.
As I was writing it, I could feel the story take shape, and I knew that this time it was going to turn out just fine. It wasn’t all smooth sailing. There were days in which the words came slowly. There were times when I simply did not know what should happen next. But little by little, the problems were solved, the words got typed, and the story came together.
After it was done, I reread it and felt that all the hard work had paid off. The story was alive and emotional and had a good deal of action and twists. I hope you felt the same way.
I hope and plan to write more Adam Lapid novels in the future. For now, there are four:
The next book in the series is
Before we part, I want to thank you again for reading my book and to invite you to join my VIP readers club at http://jonathandunsky.com/free/. You’ll get a free copy of one of my short stories when you join and be notified when my next book comes out. I’ll try to get it written quickly.
Jonathan Dunsky.
p.s. You are also welcome to contact me on Goodreads or Facebook.
p.p.s. Flip the page to read the first two chapters of
I knew he was an Arab the moment I saw him. I didn't know why, but I could recognize Germans and Arabs immediately. Perhaps it was because I had killed a good number of each—Arabs during Israel's War of Independence, Germans after the World War in Europe.
This particular Arab was dressed in plain brown pants held up by a slim black belt. His shirt was white, open at the neck, and tucked into his pants. His jacket was dark blue and unbuttoned. He stood in the doorway to Greta's Café and mopped his forehead with a white handkerchief.
Greta's Café was a cozy establishment on Allenby Street in Tel Aviv, a short walking distance from my apartment. It served as a sort of second home and office to me. I ate and drank there every day, and more often than not, prospective clients found me at my table at the rear, playing chess against myself with a board Greta kept for me under the counter.
The Arab put the handkerchief back in his pocket and stepped over to Greta. She was sitting in her regular spot behind the counter, close to the entrance to the café, and reading a newspaper, shaking her head slowly at the news. Greta was a big woman. Tall, wide at the hips and chest, with a fleshy face that had been wrinkled by age and sun, and iron-gray hair arranged in a nest-like halo of curls about her head. The Arab said something to her. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but toward the end of it, Greta cast a quick inquiring glance my way, and I nodded to her.
Greta gestured toward me. The Arab squinted in my direction, nodded his thanks to her, and came over to my table.
Up close I could see he was of medium height and build, but walked with a slight stoop that made him seem shorter than he really was. He wore his black hair longer than most men did, and when he turned his head I could see why. A cigarette-wide pink-white scar ran along his left cheekbone and up to his ear, where it was curtained by his hair. It looked like a bullet had grazed his cheek and mangled his ear some. Or a knife.
Despite the scar, his olive-tone features were delicate, almost feminine. Short and narrow nose, soft brown eyes, rounded chin and jawline. He was clean-shaven. A pair of wire-rim glasses hung on his nose, giving him the air of an intellectual.
"Adam Lapid?"
I nodded, and he said his name was Ahmed Jamalka. I motioned for him to sit. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth, got it going, and offered him the pack. He gave a smile of thanks, but shook his head.
"Those cigarettes aren't for me. I have my own."
