the work

The first chapters of two of my novels appear here.

The first novel is a comedy called Grifted and is based on a movie script I wrote that received high praise among professional evaluators. Grifted is the story of Myung-jin Chang, a swindler just released from prison who resolves to turn her life around, but when a medical emergency threatens to bankrupt her family she must run another scam. Though lucrative the new scam lands her back in jail, but not before she forms a special bond with a 13-year-old violin prodigy.

The second novel is a psycho-erotic thriller entitled The Secret Life of a Cautious Man. One script consultant wrote, "wow! Reminds me of 'American Beauty,' but it's a wilder ride!"

When her husband is believed to have been killed in an airplane crash, his wife, a psychologist, traces his steps and uncovers his involvement in a secret, gay Master/slave relationship. Ultimately he is "rescued" when his master is found to have a disturbing criminal past, but now that he is back home he and his wife must determine whether theirs was ever a marriage worth saving.

Both first chapters appear below. If you enjoy either, I hope you will consider purchasing the complete novel for $5.99. A 20% discount is available for purchasing both novels. While I hope to have a function installed soon at this website that will enable direct purchases here, contact me at sdruffer@gmail.com if you'd like to purchase either book or both. Thanks!

GRIFTED - chapter one:
The clock on the wall of the administrative office at Taconic Correctional Facility read five-thirty, time to begin processing those inmates who were scheduled for release.

Taconic, New York State's largest prison for women, is a medium security level institution situated directly across from the infamous Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women, a maximum security prison that has housed such notable felons as Amy Fisher - the "Long Island Lolita" - who at 16 shot the wife of her 36-year-old lover in the face, and Jean Harris, who murdered Herman Tarnower, the doctor and author who'd created "The Scarsdale Diet."

Officials at Taconic had established the procedure of releasing inmates as early in the day as possible in order to avoid creating commotion among the rest of the prison population, and this morning the prison was quiet, nearly all of its inmates still sleeping.

Steve Hedley, a twenty-year veteran of the Correctional Officers force and Dianne Altmann, who'd been there nearly as long, had a light processing schedule that morning - in fact, only one prisoner, Myung-Jin Chang, who'd completed a "deuce" for fraud - was on the list for release.

Hedley reviewed the Chang file to ensure all required documentation for the release had been submitted and approved by the appropriate officials then gave a nod to Altmann. She took the cue and headed out of the office to Cell Block B, where Chang and her cellmate, DeeDee Portilla, shared cell 163B.

"Chang. Chang! Come on, thought you'd be up and dressed by now," Altmann bellowed as she started to unlock the entrance to MJ's "house."

Both MJ and DeeDee feigned sleep, desiring as little interaction with the corrections officer as possible. MJ took a couple of deep breaths, then, slowly twisting and turning under her gray prison-issue cloth blanket, spoke groggily.

"Mmmmm...can't you do this at a reasonable hour?" MJ whined.

"We're doing it now," Altmann said, "come on, time to get processed, collect your gate money and get out of here."

"Keep your fifty dollars and let me sleep another hour, huh?"

"Move it."

Reluctantly, MJ rose from her cot and stepped to the steel, one-piece toilet, giving Altmann a stark, open-jawed stare as she began to undo her pants. Altmann turned around, facing the cavernous, empty chamber of the prison, so quiet now that MJ's relieving herself sounded almost like a steady rain.

As MJ finished DeeDee climbed down from her top bunk and gave her now-former cellmate a heartfelt hug.

"Proud of you, baby," DeeDee said, with an envious smile.

"You be good," replied MJ, "you'll be outta this bitch before you know it."

Their long embrace tested Altmann's patience.

"Let's go," she barked. MJ smiled at DeeDee, kissed her on the cheek and turned to leave without another word.

On their way to the prison's processing center a few inmates, awake and already restless yelled sarcastic catcalls at Altmann and an odd "good luck, MJ" or "you'll be back here in a week, bitch!"

"Welp, you're who they say you are," said Walt Glantz, the elderly, lone processing officer on duty as he handed MJ one envelope with her release papers and another with a pre-paid debit card. "Courtesy of the New York State Department of Corrections. Don't spend it all in one place, huh?"

MJ, now wearing neon green eyeshadow and an intense orange lipstick and dressed in prison issue jeans and drab olive pullover so that she looked like a modern day Dragon Lady doing a J.C. Penney catalogue shoot, took the envelopes and followed Altmann through a dreary labyrinth of prison corridors.

As they exited the building and stepped onto the walkway, surrounded by metal fences topped with barbed-wire, MJ became animated.

"Hey! How 'bout you let me scale the wall out of here? Come on! I'm being released, it's not like I'd be escaping. You could even send the dogs after me!" Then, as an afterthought, "just don't let the guys in the rifle towers shoot me in the ass."

Altmann just shook her head. "Get moving."

A couple hundred yards later the dour corrections officer unlocked the gate where a few steps away an idling, black, two-year-old Chrysler 300C was waiting. As they passed through the exit of the prison facility, Raymond "Razor" Robbins, a self-described "nice, Jewish crook" in his late thirties, stepped out from the driver's side and grinned.

MJ started to run toward Razor, but then abruptly stopped and turned back to face the officer who no longer had any authority over her.

"I don't usually give advice," MJ taunted, "but you need a little of this." She stuck out her tongue and flicked it rapidly up and down. Razor smiled as he held the door for her, shrugging as he kept his gaze on Altmann.

"Officer," he said, closing the passenger door behind MJ then getting back behind the wheel, MJ feeling liberated.

"There's a joint in the console. Fire it up," Razor said to MJ as they sped off.

"Yeah, when I meet my parole officer tomorrow I'll just ask her if I can do the pee test next time," she said.

Razor chuckled. "There's a gift for you in the glove compartment."

"Gift?"

Without taking his eyes off the road he reached across her lap and opened the glove box. Atop several CDs, a box of hand wipes and a small clear plastic container holding his registration, insurance card and other car-related documentation, there was an envelope addressed to her. She opened it and withdrew a note typed on the letterhead of Dr. Ramesh Patel. MJ read the note and squinted and shook her head.

"What the hell is - I don't suffer from chronic back pain," she said.

"You do if you wanna get high and not be in violation of your parole."

"Oh, my God," she said.

"Now open the console."

She did and lit up the joint that he'd left there. After taking a long draw she passed the joint to Razor, and as she did noticed an open bag of potato chips on the back seat. She stuffed a handful in her mouth, then grimaced.

"When'd you get these chips? When I was sentenced?"

"I don't know," he laughed, " next time check the date before you stuff your face."

"So how've you been, Raze?"

"Busy. Got a nice set up for you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"How's this for easy-peasy?" he said with self-satisfaction. "You're gonna be a child psychologist."

"Fuck your mama."

"Well, some of your patients might want to fuck theirs."

"Whaddya mean I'm gonna be a - are you crazy?"

"It's a great idea, right? Fuck the streets and the bars and the violent assholes. This is an easy game."

"A child psychologist."

"Who makes house calls. For the filthy rich. You're good with kids, right?"

"Uh, I hate to break this to you, but I never went to college, let alone med school."

"I've got several diplomas say different. But now that you mention that, I gotta ask you - how'd a pretty Asian girl like you not go to college? There even a statistic for that?"

"WHAT?"

"Just asking."

"Know what I don't get? You can do all this hacking, why don't you just cyber-rob a bank and be done with it?"

"My face is too pretty for that, baby. Get caught stealing money, you're doing serious time. Get caught printing up a few fake diplomas? Probation in da house, mothafucka!"

MJ rolled her eyes at his very white stab at Ebonics, and closed her window as they picked up speed, savoring the green hillscapes as they cruised east through northern Westchester County on Route.

Later that afternoon, Razor and MJ were sharing another joint, relaxing on the worn sofa in his living room, a couple of empty light green Heineken bottles on the coffee table.

"Come on," he said plaintively, "you kidding me?"

"Not even. I done been scared straight."

"Well, that's 'cause you were running scams on drunk sailors, baby. Course it caught up with you."

"So now you want me to scam little boys with mommy issues."

"Good money in it. Not much risk. Yeah, why not?"

MJ drew a long hit off the joint, then rose from the sofa.

"Sorry, babydoll. This girl's goin' legit."

"You spent the last two years in prison. What're you gonna do?"

MJ replied in a heavily exaggerated Korean accent. "I go kan-koh-koo lestuhlant. I wash-a-dish and some day dey ret me make a bee-beem-bap."

She started toward his front door.

"All right," he said, "change your mind - "

"Ciao, baby. See ya on the other side." And she blew him a kiss and walked out his door, leaving Razor smirking, knowing she'd be back soon.

"You don't have dishwasher hands," he said as from his living room he watched her wave when her Uber approached, then fetched another Heineken and drained it.

******************

Connected to New York City by the George Washington Bridge, Fort Lee, New Jersey is a densely populated micro-urban center that for decades has been a rung for immigrants and first-generation Americans, mostly from Asia, on their ascendance from struggling to prosperous.

The town is home to small businesses and box stores, five-story red brick walkups and multi-family homes on three-quarter acre lots. Much of Fort Lee had been in a rust belt-type tailspin during the 70s and 80s but the city has enjoyed something of a rebirth in the last couple of decades. That notwithstanding, you still wouldn't want your grandma sitting alone on a bench on Martha Washington Way in the middle of the night.

Which is where seventy-nine year-old Yong Hee Park, suffering from a rapidly advancing case of dementia, was when her daughter, Yoonah Chang, pulled up in her ten-year-old Camry.

"Oma! Again!" Yoonah cried in Korean as her mother, wearing two cardigan sweaters, smiled at her from the bench.

"Annyeonghaseyo," Yong Hee said, speaking the Korean for "hello."

"Oma! Come! Come on, let's go home."

"I have to wait for the bus to the center," Yong Hee protested.

"Come on, Oma. I'll take you to the center tomorrow. That's tomorrow. Let's go."

Yong Hee's wrinkled face cracked into a fragile smile. "Okay," she said in English. She rose and her frustrated daughter helped her into the car, heat on full blast.

The next morning Yoonah sat at her small kitchen table eating jook with kimchi - a common Korean breakfast of rice porridge and fermented cabbage - when she heard a rustling sound that she soon realized was coming from the front door of her apartment. There'd been, according to neighborhood-centric apps, a recent spike in home invasions and her heart began to race as she quietly as possible rose from the table and retrieved a long kitchen knife from a drawer.

Yoonah slowly crept toward the foyer, holding the knife high, as the door slowly opened to reveal her daughter, MJ, with streaked hair and near-blinding lipstick, and a huge smile on her face.

She felt joy cascading over her as she stepped forward to hug her only child.

"Myung-jin-ahhhh! Ohhhhhh, Myung-jin-ahhhh!"

"Oma!" MJ answered through tears, "it's so good to see you, Oma!" They hugged, in place, swaying and crying, Yoonah grinning ear-to-ear, until MJ finally pulled away.

"Oma, the knife."

Yoonah laughed and started to turn toward the kitchen, but was stopped in her tracks by the sight of her seventy-nine-year-old mother in the stairway, wearing nothing but an unbelted terry cloth robe and a big smile. It was all MJ could do to keep from bursting out in laughter.

"Halmonee!" she cried, using the Korean for "grandmother," and flung her arms wide at the same time Yoonah yelled "go upstairs and put clothes on!"

"Swim time at the center!" Yong Hee responded gleefully.

MJ turned to her mother. "The center?"

"It's a daycare for seniors with....dementia. The church runs it. But they can't handle her anymore. She can't go there. And she's too much for me. I'm sorry," Yoonah tried but could not stave off the tears. "I'm so sorry! She's my mother and I can not take care of her! I can't afford the nursing home, so she must stay with me. It's so bad!"

MJ and her mother embraced tightly, and then Yong Hee joined them, crying in sympathy, unsure why.

Two hours later, MJ knocked forcefully at Razor's front door, banging as if she were being chased. From inside and very hung over, Razor yelled, "all right! Jesus!" as he quickly put on sweatpants and opened the door.

"What the - what happened?" he asked, his head throbbing, his face flush.

"Still looking for a social worker?" MJ asked as she hurried inside, indifferent to his pain.

Razor took a deep breath and collapsed onto his sofa.

"Child psychologist. But...I thought you were gonna bake kimchi muffins or whatever the fuck the rest of your life. Didn't work out for ya?"

MJ didn't need to answer - he could see the resignation on her face. She'd made her choices and now was left with none. The need for money - now - overshadowed everything else, and if the only way to ensure her grandmother's proper care was by pretending to offer mental health services to the dysfunctional families of Westchester County, then that was what she was prepared to do.

Razor nodded and rose to go to his kitchen, then returned to the living room with two cups of black coffee. He lit a cigarette and took a deep draw, then exhaled slowly and asked MJ, "so...what's your name?"

"Huh?"

"Your name, doc. What do you want your name to be? Experts the world over frown on using your real name when you're scamming distraught suburban mommies."

MJ's face lit up.

"When I was a little girl I always wished my name was Cassandra."

"Cassandra. Hmmm. I like that. All right."

"Cassandra Kim. Has a nice ring to it, right?"

"All right, Sandy. You've done your undergrad work. Tell you what - there's half a pizza in the fridge. Pop it in the microwave for three minutes and bring back a couple of plates, and that'll earn you a PhD, yeah?"

MJ did just that, and as they sat on his sofa to being strategizing he mused, "what is it about day-old pizza that's so much better than when it's delivered to you? Now," he continued, "this is gonna take a while, probably the rest of the day. Gotta finish your credentials, get you licensed, set up the insurance bullshit. You don't have to wait here if you need to go."

"Well, why does it take so long?" MJ asked. "Instead of New York how about I get licensed in a different state? Is there anyplace easier?"

"Well, in Mississippi all you have to do is promise not to fuck farm animals, but I don't think it's safe for your kind down there."

"My kind."

MJ stood over Razor's shoulder and watched him punch his keyboard, hacking into this system or that to guide him toward generating authentic seeming documentation that would change her life. Then a discomfiting thought struck her. "What if I get a client and I really fuck up the kid? The kid their family wants help for?"

Razor scoffed. "This is Westchester, honey. There's not a functional family from here to the Hudson, all right? Don't worry so much! You'll give them those ink blots where they tell you what they see and you'll say, 'oh, very good!.' And you'll ask them about their dreams. And probably some boys will want to see your tits. Easy-peasy."

"Well, I don't show my tits to just any boys."

Razor turned from his desk to see MJ hovered over him, topless. "Hacking gets me wet."

"How long has that been going on, Sandy?"

************

The congregation at Beth Shalom Reform Temple in Chappaqua was at near-peak capacity that Saturday, a picture-perfect October morning, crimson and golden leaves strewn on the tidily-landscaped lawn in front of the simple red brick building that had housed the synagogue for nearly 70 years.

"And so, we relate this lesson, as the Torah itself teaches us," Rabbi Milton Ebner said from the Bima, about to conclude that morning's sermon.

"I can't stand this shit! I hate it here! I hate this crap!" boomed the voice of 13-year-old Joey Greenberg, jolting the congregation as he jumped from his seat next to his mortified mother, Eleanor, and ran toward the door.

Rabbi Ebner, not unaccustomed to Joey's outbursts, took a long breath then continued, as a red-faced Eleanor tried to direct her son out of the door with her eyes.

The rabbi led the congregation in the singing of Adon Olam, signaling the conclusion of Shabbat services for the morning, and then stepped toward the temple's door to bid each attendee a pleasant week.

As Eleanor approached Rabbi Ebner she felt a rush of blood to her cheeks, embarrassed and contrite because of Joey's behavior.

"I'm so sorry, Rabbi," she said, "he just...uggghhh...he's becoming impossible."

"It's nothing, please, Ellie. It's seems he's...a little better since his Bar Mitzvah. You're a good mother - "

"His Bar Mitzvah," Eleanor repeated, embarrassed.

"Well, he wasn't totally wrong about Mr. Levine," the rabbi tried to comfort Eleanor, "I'm sure he didn't realize saying those things from the podium to the entire congregation would be....frowned upon...he's a boy."

"It's my fault, rabbi," Eleanor said, "I had him so late in life, and I just don't have the energy - "

"Hello, Rabbi," interrupted Razor, in suit and tie and neatly trimmed beard. "Ma'am. Excellent service this morning, thank you so much, it really touched me."

"I very much appreciate that," said Rabbi Ebner, " I don't believe we've met."

"I'm sorry," chuckled Razor, "Raymond Robbins. I, uh, I just moved in. Oakwood Lane, such a lovely town."

"Welcome."

"I...uh...this is so inappropriate," Razor said. "Forgive me. But...well, I've only been here a few weeks and already I can feel the....the community this truly is."

"Very true," the cleric agreed.

Razor then turned to Eleanor. "And miss - "

"Eleanor," she said, grasping Razor's hand, "Eleanor Greenberg."

"Eleanor. It's lovely to meet you. You know, I hope you don't mind my saying so, but I saw your son was a little - "

"He's having a very difficult time," Eleanor said, her voice nearly breaking. "It just gets -"

"I understand," Razor said, his tone somber and soothing. "I get it. My wife and I...we...I'm sorry, she's gone now."

"Oh! You poor thing."

"Sailing accid - ugghhh-sorry," Razor said, making a show of pulling himself together. "Our son Paul had a very difficult time. Your son's - I hope you don't mind - his outburst this morning, it reminded me very much of my boy's issues. And there was someone, a psychologist, who helped like a blessing from God, if I may say."

"Please," the rabbi encouraged him, "please go on."

"Well, she's based in Tarrytown, but I'm sure she does house calls, and I'm sure she'd be happy to help here in Chappaqua if she can."

"A psychologist that makes house calls," the rabbi said with an optimistic tone, "I'd call that a blessing."

"Oh, my God," Eleanor said, "this is so what we need. You just can't -

"I want out of here! Now!!" Joey screamed, interrupting them. "NOW!!!"

The boy flew into a tirade, stamping his feet and grabbing his mother's arm, then tore away screaming "nowwwwwwwww!" running toward their car, as Razor reached into his wallet.

"I'm pretty sure I still have her card - it's been a little while, but....oh, yes! Here it is," and he thrust the card into Eleanor's eager grasp, "Paul is doing much better."

"Oh, Mr. - I'm sorry, I'm a mess - " Eleanor said.

"Ray. Ray Robbins. Please don't apologize," he said empathetically, "believe me, I get it."

Rabbi Ebner grinned and shook his head in satisfaction. "What you're doing Raymond, it's a real miztvah."

"Not at all, Rabbi. We're a community."

***************************************************************************************

THE SECRET LIFE OF A CAUTIOUS MAN - chapter one

Approaching her parents' home after midnight, the only thing that surprised Audrey Pearson about seeing a police cruiser parked in the driveway was that she felt no sense of bewilderment. Instinctively she knew the cops were there about her father.

The living room was brightly lit at 4317 Camellia Avenue, a two-story colonial, one of the few homes on its block that hadn't been demolished to make way for construction of a "McMansion." Audrey hoped the presence of the police car in the driveway had not drawn the attention of their neighbors.

Audrey and her fiancé, Matt Bell, were visiting her parents for the weekend and were returning from an evening with friends.

She leaned to her right and shook Matt, slouched over and sleeping in the passenger seat since they'd left the bar in Santa Monica. "The cops are here," she told him, and he immediately sat up and opened his eyes wide, as if she'd doused him with cold water.

"What - what do - is your mom okay?" he stammered.

Audrey and Matt entered her parents' home to find two uniformed police officers in the living room, standing on either side of an oversized easy chair in which Dr. Amanda Pearson, Audrey's mother, sat sobbing and clutching a handkerchief.

"Mom! What happened?" Audrey asked, though it wasn't clear her mother heard. She turned to the older officer. "I'm Audrey Pearson. Her daughter. Can you please tell me what's going on?

The officer glanced toward Amanda and asked, "Ma'am, would you like a moment alone with your daughter?"

"What was he doing on a plane?" Amanda said.

"What?" Audrey demanded.

"Audrey, I'm Officer Littrel," the older officer told her. "This is my partner, Officer Gentry. May I ask - "

"He's my fiancé. Would you please tell me what's going on? Where's my father?"

"We're with the L.A. County Aviation Police," Littrel continued. "Have a seat."

"What the hell happened?" Audrey demanded.

Gentry handed a box of Kleenex he saw on an end table to Amanda, then turned toward her daughter.

"Ms. Pearson, I'm afraid there's been an accident and your father....perished."

"What?"

"I'm very sorry," said Littrel. "Your father was on a private flight from Marin County to Van Nuys and they crashed upon landing. There were no survivors. I'm so sorry."

"Van Nuys? My father wasn't on that plane, he's here! He's working!"

"Officers," Matt explained, "Audrey's father drives for Lyft. He's doing an evening shift, he does one every Saturday. He should be home soon. There's gotta be a mistake here."

"Ms. Pearson," Gentry said. "you father was listed on the flight's manifest, his ID was scanned at the airport and a car registered in his name was at the Van Nuys parking lot. That's why we came to this address."

"Someone from the NTSB will come by, probably early tomorrow morning, and will help you with the process of a formal identification. Right now, unfortunately, I don't have much more to tell you. I'm very sorry for your loss."

Audrey buried her face in Matt's shoulder, then pulled away, tearful and somewhat defiant.

"This is impossible. He was on that plane?"

"The flight originated in San Rafael," Officer Gentry started, but Audrey cut him off.

"Have you talked to him tonight, mom? Didn't you have dinner with him?"

But Amanda was far away, not following the conversation. Her daughter, future son-in-law and the two officers waited a long beat for her to respond. It would have been impossible for her husband, Gerard, to have been on that flight if indeed they'd dined together just a few hours earlier.

"What was he doing on a plane?" Amanda finally said.

*****

Gerard Pearson was in admirable shape for a man in his late fifties. He had a small paunch, barely perceptible when he wore the right clothes, his sandy hair was still thick and full. He was not muscular but well enough toned to not seem flabby. Gerard had always been a sensible eater and enjoyed regular long walks and hikes in the mountain and canyon trails throughout Los Angeles and was often taken for a man considerably younger.

Tonight, as his family struggled for answers about his death in an airplane crash, Gerard lay completely naked on black cotton sheets, leather cuffs buckled around his wrists and ankles securing him, face up, spread-eagled to the four-poster bed frame, slowly drifting in and out of consciousness.

His master possessed him now. Without knowing it - yet - Gerard was no longer encumbered by a marriage that over the years had brought him progressively less joy. Soon he would regard himself the property of another man, a state of subservience that kept him in a nearly constant state of arousal and stimulation, but this night and for perhaps another day or so he'd need to be broken, to shed his former identity and embrace the new.

He would be his master's slave and would devote all of his energy to proving worthy of that position. Soon he'd have no higher priority and nothing would connect him to his own sense of himself as much as thinking of himself as chattel, an object, with no function or reason for existence other than to provide pleasure, service, amusement to his owner. Nothing else would matter; nothing from the time before, the half-life he'd led up to this point, would be relevant. His master had chosen him, he was here now, and from tonight on there would be no interference from anyone or anything to keep him from devoting his entire being to his enslavement. What could be more perfect than that?

Although his consensual slavery would commence soon Gerard was at this moment a prisoner, a hostage, and a very groggy one at that. Locked in place on the bed he had a distant sense of hearing the door slowly open and tried to lift his head up so he could face forward and see his captor. That proved too much and instead he let his head fall back, feeling nauseous and unsure if he could speak, then closed his eyes and fell into a very deep sleep.

His master entered the dark room and reassured himself that Gerard was unconscious.

"It begins now," his master whispered in his slave's ear. "Nobody will be looking for you, and in time, nobody will miss you. As of this evening, you are in the truest sense, mine, without the possibility of release."

From somewhere deep inside himself Gerard felt his master's warm hand caressing his inner thighs, his belly, his chest, his neck. Reflexively he tried to shake out of the restraints that secured him spread-eagled to the bed, but even in this semi-conscious state he realized he wasn't committed to the struggle. He wasn't sure where he was. But even so heavily sedated he felt a nascent sense that he was where he was supposed to be.

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