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Book overview

KING OF THE NEW YORK STREETS��is a gritty, utterly unrepentant memoir of growing up on the mean streets of New York City during the late ��70s.

Prowling the bars and clubs of Long Island and the Five Boroughs; hanging out on the streets of a mobbed-up zoo long before skyrocketing real estate and overpriced soy chai lattes transformed it into a hipster paradise.

The girls, the drugs, the fights and the sheer kicks; the shell game known as the “American Dream�� and the promise of upward mobility that vanished right before our eyes like the last slice of pizza at a Knights of Columbus mixer ...

KING OF THE NEW YORK STREETS

AN ETERNAL LOVE THAT DEFIES DEATH -- EVEN THE WRATH OF THE GODS THEMSELVES! ...��A MAGICAL CONCOCTION OF ROMANCE, FANTASY, ALLEGORY, MYTH, LEGEND AND THE PARANORMAL. A TALE YOU'LL NEVER FORGET ...

A MAGICAL ROMANCE AND BACKSTORY!

Reviewed in the United States on November 20, 2024

Don’t know where or how to begin! This book is absolutely amazing! It has everything! An incredibly beautiful paranormal love story. A mystery. Elements of magic, myth and legend. Colorful characters that leap off the page and the writing is positively gorgeous. Pulls you in and refuses to let go.

This is a book with an equally romantic and amazing backstory which the author reveals in a preface. A book to savor. One you will enjoy rereading time and again! ...

Jim was po'd: as po'd as a dwarf in a crowded elevator car at an all-male nudist colony -- of that there was no doubt. It was Christmas Eve, and Jim (a buffet cook at a Strip hotel) was scheduled to work swing shift Christmas Day.

Jim hated working holidays; Christmas especially: mom and dad and the kiddies all gorging themselves on the feast he'd slaved to prepare: turkey with chestnut stuffing; candied yams; green beans almondine . . . not to mention the pecan pie. There'd be no feast for him. The menu in the employee dining room was always the same -- Christmas or no: cheese enchiladas and lime Jell-O with whipped cream. Enough to gag a maggot.

What a life! Another year gone. Another -- equally as disappointing -- soon to begin. How had things gone so wrong? In his youth, Jim had dreamed of becoming a world famous chef; opening his own restaurant where he'd greet celebrities eager to shower praise upon him for his culinary prowess: movie stars; athletes; models in slinky, low-cut dresses. Here he was, crowding sixty; working at a lousy buffet and living in a crummy, rundown apartment complex on the outskirts of town: his neighbors misfits and rejects; the flotsam & jetsam of the Vegas backwash -- like him.

He'd dozed off on the sofa with a can of beer while watching TV. Suddenly he was awakened by a violent pounding. At first he thought it was the old guy in the apartment upstairs. Always that infernal clopping sound overhead -- as if the old boy was doing step aerobics in weighted diving boots. The front door was thrown open, and there before him, stood the ghost of Shorty Bimstein -- a former cook at the hotel. He was dragging a bunch of saute pans fixed to a chain, and wore a colander on his head.

"Shorty . . . is it really you?"

"Yeah, it's me. Y'know anyone else useta wear a colander on his head?"

"You always were a card . . . but Shorty, what are you doin' here -- why have you come back?"

"Because we were such close friends and colleagues in life, I come ta bring ya a warnin' from the udder side."

"But we weren't close friends. I couldn't stand you."

"We sat together in the lunch room every day for twenty-five years."

"Yeah -- but only because you let me have the whipped cream from your Jell-O. You were lactose intolerant -- remember?"

"Be that as it may, I come ta tell ya that tanight you'll be visited by tree ghosts: Elvis, Liberace, and Frank Sinatra."

"NO SHIT!!!"

Shorty's ghost guffawed and rattled his saute pans.

"Nah! I'm just bustin' on ya! . . . It's only me."

"Now I rememeber why I couldn't stand you."

"Alright, so's we weren't pals. But I come back anyways to save you from my wretched fate . . . to warn you if ya don't clean up yer act -- stop bein' a turd in the punch bowl -- you'll be draggin' saute pans an' wearin' a colander on yer head."

"But Shorty, life sucks and I hate Christmas. Whattaya want me to do? Run around hollerin' 'HO, HO, HO' like I got a thumb stuck up my ass?"

"Ever occur ta you that maybe yer so miserable cuz ya only think a yerself? Why doncha try bein' nice ta yer neighbor upstairs, 'stead a complainin' ta the manager 'bout 'im alla time?"

"You try sleepin' with that racket. Besides, I'm sure he does it on purpose."

"The ol' guy's got a wooden leg and a overactive bladder. That racket ya hear is him hobblin' back 'n' forth ta the john all night."

"Shorty, you sure have changed since you dropped dead. I remember the way you useta cuss out the servers -- you were a real terror!"

"Yeah, an' look what it got me. I'm warnin' ya, if ya don't turn the leaf, start appreaciatin' the beauty a life, you're doomed -- just like yours truly."

"Maybe you're right, Shorty. Know what? I'm gonna call out sick tomorrow. Take the day off. Get me onea those microwave turkey dinners at Walgreens -- maybe a frozen pumpkin pie . . . and a mini, plug-in Christmas tree . . . yeah! They're showin' 'A Christmas Carol' all day on onea the cable stations -- I love that flick!"

"That's the spirit! Look, I gotta be pushin' along now -- I still gotta drop in on Donald Trump. You take care Jim, and have a merry Christmas!"

"You too Shorty -- and thanks!"

Jim watched Shorty's ghost float out the door and disappear into the dark chill of the Las Vegas night. A light snow was falling, and the moon winked from behind a passing cloud. Life sure was beautiful!

Back inside, Jim cranked up the fireplace and cracked open another beer. Tomorrow he'd buy two microwave turkey dinners and invite ol' peg leg down for Christmas dinner ... why not!?

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!! ... 🎅🎄🎁☃️










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JUST LIKE TO TAKE A SECOND TO CLEAR THE AIR ... 🌬💨

Marie & I have noticed that some of you seem hesitant to "like" Facebook posts about our book -- as if you feel that merely giving such posts a "like" somehow represents a commitment to buy.

Well don't worry about it!!!

Times are tough. We don't expect every single one of our Facebook friends to buy a book -- just the ones who don't wanna be unfriended & blocked (just kidding!) 😆

Seriously, a "like" is just a like. We "like" things! Pictures you post of your kids & grandkids -- doesn't me we wanna assume legal guardianship of the tykes if you should unexpectedly perish in a flaming car wreck.

Or when we like that picture you posted of the meatlloaf you made for dinner last night -- doesn't mean we're angling for a free meal. We're just being polite!!!

So go ahead. Feel free to "like" our book postst. No pressure. (Promise!) I mean it's not as if we're really gonna unfriend & block you -- not at all. I was just being facetious. Honest ... 😐

I mean it's not as if we're gonna hold a grudge if you just like our posts but simply refuse to buy a book. No ... Not at all!!! ... 😬

It's not as if we're gonna leave a flaming bag of dog poop outside your front door just because we happen to know where you live ... or tamper with the brakes on your new SUV ... or start a viral social media rumor that you worship Satan & are having a torrid affair with your next-door neighbor's Bull Mastiff -- what kind of people do you think we are??? 🙂

We're not even gonna pay the Haitian dude we buy our weed from to fashion a voodoo doll in your likeness so we can stick pins in it and delight in the thought of you writhing in agony ... NO!!!!!! 😡

Hope that clears things up! ...

Just kidding!!! BUY the damn book!!! ... 😁

Some years ago, I recall reading the story behind the publication of Stephen King's bestselling first novel, "Carrie."

Seems the then unpublished Mr. King was teaching school by day while pounding out horror fiction at night in a dingy trailer he shared with wife Tabitha and their two children. I well know the grind -- the utter exhaustion and deprivation -- of attempting to court the Muse while putting in a 40 hour plus week punching the time clock at a job I absolutely despised. It's a miserable proposition and I have the utmost respect and empathy for all those who rise to the challenge.

Getting back to Mr. King and "Carrie" -- seems he'd been hammering away at his wife's old Olivetti (for you youngsters, that's an outdated contraption once known as a "typewriter"), working on a short story about a girl with telekinetic powers he planned on submitting to the men's magazine, "Cavalier." Three pages into his story, the well abruptly went dry. It happens even to the best of writers.

Truth be told, Mr. King hadn't thought much of the idea to begin with. Had only undertaken the task at the behest of a friend who suggested the author try his hand at a story featuring a female protagonist. Tossing the three pages he'd written into a nearly overflowing wastepaper basket, the author decided to call it a night.

The following day -- his stalled attempt at a short story about a girl with telekinetic powers all but forgotten -- Mr. King planted himself in front of the typewriter; once again ready to do battle with the blank page.

"You need to finish this."

It was Mr. King's wife, Tabitha. In her hands were the three rumpled manuscript pages he'd consigned to the oblivion of his wastepaper basket the night before.

While Mr. King was off teaching English at his day job, Mrs. King had rescued the discarded typescript from the trash and was convinced the idea was a winner. More importantly, she convinced her husband -- a soon-to-be bestselling author -- it was too.

The rest, as they say, is history. "Carrie" went on to become a runaway bestseller, earning Stephen King over $400,000 for the paperback rights. He quit his day job, embarking on a career that would not only redefine the horror genre, but elevate it to the level of legitimate literary fiction.

Thank you, Tabitha King!

And that brings me to my own story -- or rather backstory. My girlfriend Marie had been laid up with a nasty bone bruise on her foot. We have one of those long-distance relationships. Though seperated by a significant stretch of real estate, we spend quite a bit of time on the phone.

During our nightly conversations, I'd rack my brain for some decent Netflix suggestions -- anything that might help alleviate her boredom while housebound. Marie is a voracious reader. Having dispatched with my rather meager literary output in nothing flat (even my old Las Vegas CityLife pieces), she was constantly encouraging me to write something new for her to read.

There was an old manuscript I'd shelved nearly 10 years earlier. A story I'd written and rewritten -- draft after agonizing draft -- over the course of some 30 (yes, thirty!) years. Somehow, it never seemed to gel. Against my better judgement, I sent Marie the Word file for "The Siren of Neptune's Beach" -- warning her not to get her hopes up.

Next evening, during our regularly scheduled phone conversation, Marie could barely contain her excitement. She'd been up all night reading, finishing the manuscript in one sitting. What's more, she absolutely loved it!!! Loved it? ... ADORED it!!! Couldn't possibly heap enough superlatives upon it ... it simply had to be published!!! Marie made me promise to go back and read my manuscript again.

I did.

She was right (as she usually is).

Perhaps I'd been too burnt-out and bleary-eyed when I perused the final draft almost 10 years ago. Now it's as clear to me as a spectacular full moon hovering over a forlorn, long-forgotten stretch of beach where time stands still.

Whether "The Siren of Neptune's Beach" sells one copy, a million, or none at all, no matter.

This book belongs to you, Marie <3 ...

"The Siren of Neptune's Beach" now available on Kindle ... 📱

Just two days left to save 25% off the regular $12 cover price. Get your Christmas shopping done early and pick up a copy or two for those romance and young adult readers on your list ...

The Siren of Neptune's Beach

OVER 30 YEARS IN THE MAKING ... Hard to believe, but true. First attempt was in 1985. A year spent on Martha's Vineyard painting houses and raising hell with a good friend (think that may be my next book). That initial draft went nowhere.

Fast forward to 1997. I'm a pub owner in upstate New York. Living on the outskirts of town -- literally a stone's throw from Lake Ontario -- in a house with my pal (and best customer) Sam (and faithful canine companion "Cuda").

Idyllic place to write a book -- or so you may think. Sam is a really good-lookin' fella. Each night when I sit down to do battle with the blank page, I can hear him on the other side of the common wall our rooms share gettin' busy (typically with one of the barmaids I employ).

The racket emanating from behind the wall I sit facing resembles the audio from an old '70s porno flick. Very distracting. I solve the problem by purchasing a pair of those industrial earmuffs often worn by operators of heavy machinery.

It takes 2 years, but I finally manage to write a draft that goes all the way thru, beginning to end. Only one problem: it stinks.

Fast forward again to 2015. I'm living in Las Vegas (blissfully alone this time). Working as Chef de Partie at a 5 star Strip property and writing for a prestigious local weekly.

Laboring away in my spare time, I manage to complete an entire overhaul of my now 30-year-old manuscript -- polishing, rewriting & cutting some 15,000 words from the bloated original 65,000 word typescript. FInally -- DONE!!!

Only one problem: it still stinks ... or so I believe; in my utterly exhausted, burnt-out, bleary-eyed & thoroughly demoralized state. The one I thought would be my Gatsby, my Catcher in the Rye, my On the Road is a bust. Countless hours spent pounding the keypad; at times writing in what felt like my own sweat and blood -- all for naught.

Heartbroken & defeated, I exile the Word file for my failed masterpiece to the oblivion of a thumb drive stored in an old "Cafe Zero" coffee mug I use as a pen holder.

FINITO!!! ...

Fast forward to the present. My girlfriend, Marie, is laid up with a nasty bone bruise. Bored with Facebook videos of cats playing the piano & unable to find anything decent to watch on Netflix, she begs me to send her something else I've written to read.

I remember the thumb drive I consigned in abject defeat to the old coffee mug sitting on my writing desk. In the nearly 10 years since, hadn't bothered to give it a second look. Against my better judgement, I email the Word file to Marie -- a voracious reader -- with the caveat: PROBABLY A TURD 😢

Next day, I hear from Marie. She's completely beside herself. It's the best damn book she's ever read!!! It made her laugh, it made her cry; kept her up all night turning pages ...

I'm gobsmacked. Speechless. Marie tells me I must publish the thing ... makes me promise to go back and read the manuscript I abandoned nearly 10 years ago ...

I do.

And here we are ...

#13 WITH A BULLET!!! ... 🚀🥳

24 hours after going live, my new novel is rocketing up Amazon's New Release rankings!

"The Siren of Neptune's Beach" has reached #13 in the "Magic Romance" category and appears to be headed to the moon!!! ... 🌙

I'd like to thank my beautiful girlfriend Marie for convincing me that a mansucript I'd shelved nearly 10 years ago finally needed to be published. This is your book, My Love! ... <3

Also, my sincere thanks to everyone who's helped support our book on publication day! If you haven't picked up a copy yet, no worries. You can still grab a paperback edition for 25% off the original cover price of $12 -- link below ...



The Siren of Neptune's Beach

My new (paranormal) romance, mystery, fantasy novel "The Siren of Neptune's Beach" went live on Amazon earlier today and has already cracked the top 100 in the "Magic Romance" category!

Head over to Amazon NOW and pick up a paperback edition for a special 25% discount off the regular $12 cover price -- just my way of saying THANK YOU for supporting the book on publication day! ...


The Siren of N eptune's Beach

"The Siren of Neptune's Beach" will be available for purchase on Tuesday 11/5. Don't forget to drop by Amazon and pick up your paperback copy for a special 25% discount off the regular $12 cover price as a thank you for your launch day purchase!!! ... 🥳👍👌

If you're a fan of romance, mystery, paranormal or YA fiction, you'll love this book!!! Makes a great Christmas gift or stocking stuffer ... 🎅🎁

‘So it is with the eyes of the gods that we wish to see.

To lift the veil 'tween present and future. All that is,

And all that yet shall be.

Consider what you ask in the realm of the enchanted,

For it is more than likely your desire will be granted.'

From, "The Song of the Fountain Nymph"
(Author Unknown)

Chapter 1 �� WELCOME TO SEACREST


For as long as anyone can remember, the old hotel has sat atop the hill, shuttered and empty; a decrepit gargoyle guarding the desolate stretch of beach winding past it. It was on that desolate stretch of beach, almost thirty years ago, that I saw her for the very last time.

On nights when a full moon looms over the ocean, drawing and repelling the tide like a fickle lover, you’ll find me wandering the deserted boardwalk. The beach crowd abandoned this part of the shore many years ago �� when they tore down the amusement park to make way for a block retirement condos. When the weather’s fair, you'll find a couple of the old biddies out walking the pooch; or some geezer on a fancy racing bike huffing and puffing his way to an early heart attack. But not often. Most nights, even during the summer, the boardwalk and beaches are completely deserted. That's the way I like it.

On nights when not even a clam is stirring, I make my ritual trek along the boardwalk: from the concession stand where we met that very first day, to the part that ends out by the old Sea Breeze Hotel. It's out by the old hotel that you'll find a faded “NO TRESPASSING�� sign, and a tumble-down wooden fence that sections off a private stretch of beach winding its way around the narrow peninsula.

I remember that last night we were together. The mist. I remember the mist was so thick that the beach and the ocean and the sky all looked like one, and you couldn't tell where the first ended and the next began. And I remember her running naked through it all like a wild animal, and me pursuing: tripping and falling, and her laughing at me; doing a little dance while I watched the silhouette of her naked body like a ghost through a veil; then disappearing into the ocean while I stumbled after her �� but I'm getting ahead of myself.

Memories. Sometimes the memories are tough. But life goes on and somehow we do too. Often I hear it said that God will never give you a cross you're not fit to bear, but sometimes I think that's just how he chooses to punish us �� by letting us go on. It's been almost thirty years now since the night we spent together on that beach, and in all the time that's past since, there hasn’t been an hour in the day when I haven’t thought about her.

I still remember the night Phoebe and I had our Tarot cards read. It was that fortune-teller, Madame Carmenta, who first gave me the dope on the old legend . . . the Moon Goddess and how she came back searching for the reincarnated spirit of her lost love. That and the mist and the whole bit about time standing still. A lot of baloney I thought. I was young and didn't put too much stock in ghosts and goddesses and old legends and things that go bump in the night. Now I know better. Now I believe in ghosts. Hell, I'm surrounded by them: Phoebe, Madame Carmenta, Psycho John, Cap'n Bill . . . all of 'em.

It was at an old juke joint called Davy Jones's Locker, that Phoebe and I met in the summer of ��63. The beer was cold and the tunes were hot, and for any chick wearing a bikini, the drinks were on the house. It was the Cap'n's policy. Yeah. Cap'n Bill. What a card. A booze hound and skirt chaser to be sure, but underneath a heart as big as his beer gut. Broad as he was tall, barrel chested and thick armed, the Cap'n really looked the part of an old salt. Even sported an honest-to-god peg leg. Rumor had it the Cap'n was on the lam; a shrimper from down New Orleans who lost his gam to hoods because of some bad gambling debts . . . then again I’d heard it was gnawed off by a Great White while he was skippering in the Merchant Marine.

I can't vouch for the rumors, but in my book, the Cap'n was okay. Liked his hooch almost as much as the ladies. Some nights we'd find him crawling around like a crab; loaded to the gills while searching for his false teeth which had popped out onto the floor.

Hell, if I close my eyes I can still see 'em like it was yesterday. The whole crew: Psycho John, the surfer: bowlegged and snaggle-toothed. Already a legend back in Hawaii where he shot the curls in Waimea and the Pipeline; on his way to a showdown with the West Coast Kahuna. His two cronies: Muscle Bean �� a barbell type who hoped to break into movies as the next Tarzan . . . and Professor Von Klatz �� a "tea" smoking egghead from the University of Honolulu. And then there was Nirvana. "Nirvana Shangri-La," as she billed herself �� the little beatnik go-go dancer who waitressed at The Locker.

Nirvana had a real thing for Psycho John. Called him, "My blue eyed cowboy of the waves." Even wore his front tooth on a chain around her neck �� the one he'd lost after taking a header off a table during a drunken Hula dance. Poor Nirvana. No matter how she dangled the bait, John just wouldn't bite. He claimed to be a Zen Buddhist and a serious practitioner of meditation (it was meditation, so said John, that kept him from wiping out on the board). Anyhow, surfing was John's true love, and Nirvana just didn't figure into the deal. As for the whole Zen bit �� I probably knew more about nuclear fission than John did about Buddha. As The Professor would've told you, it was John's bowlegs and low center of gravity that kept him glued to the stick like a barnacle �� not meditation.

But a man believes what he believes, and who's to tell him he's wrong?

"There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Said ol�� Willie Shakespeare . . . and this I know is true. As I said, I’m surrounded by ghosts.

I guess that brings me back to the old legend and what happened that fateful night almost thirty years ago. That's what truly haunts me. I guess the best way to tell any story is to start at the beginning. I’m not very good with words, but here goes . . . ��