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In the Night of the Heat: A Tennyson Hardwick Novel, by Blair Underwood, Tananarive Due, Steven Barnes
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Award-winning actor and author Blair Underwood joins forces with two amazing and award-winning authors Tananarive Due and Steven Barnes to deliver the second installation in the stunning and provocative Tennyson Hardwick novel In the Night of the Heat.
Threatened with death after acquittal for murder, football superstar T. D. Jackson asks struggling actor and former gigolo Tennyson Hardwick for protection. Tennyson has a reputation in Hollywood after solving the murder of rapper Afrodite, but politely turns Jackson down: His acting career is taking off with a new series, and he's trying to work out his personal life after a series of wrong turns.
But Tennyson's life is upturned when his seedy past catches up to him on the set of his TV series. Then T. D. Jackson is found dead in his home, the victim of an apparent suicide.
T.D.'s gorgeous cousin, Melanie, is sure the superstar was murdered, and Jackson's family offers Tennyson an irresistible fee to discover the truth. But prying into T. D. Jackson's death means answering the question that divided a nation and destroyed a film star and a football icon's life and career: Did T. D. Jackson kill his wife?
When the investigation takes an unexpected turn toward the governor's mansion and a long-forgotten football game in the segregated South of the 1960s, Tennyson uncovers secrets tearing at the heart of two dynasties and must rely on all of his assets -- his actor's heart, deadly hands, profiler's mind, and every other part of his body -- to keep from dying next.
- Sales Rank: #1983739 in Books
- Published on: 2008-09-16
- Released on: 2008-09-16
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.00" h x 1.41" w x 6.00" l, 1.40 pounds
- Binding: Hardcover
- 464 pages
About the Author
Blair Underwood is an author and award-winning actor, director, and producer. He lives in Los Angeles, California. Visit his website at www.BlairUnderwood.com
Tananarive Due is an American Book Award-winning, Essence best-selling author of Blood Colony, The Living Blood, The Good House, and Joplin's Ghost, and co-author of the NAACP Image Award-winning Tennyson Hardwick mystery series. She lives in the Atlanta area with her husband and co-author Steven Barnes. Visit her blog at www.TananariveDue.blogspot.com.
Steven Barnes is an award-winning author of twenty-three novels, including the New York Times bestseller The Cestus Deception. He has been nominated for both the Hugo and CableACE awards for his work in television. Visit his website at www.lifewrite.com.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
ONE
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 2
My agent had just said the impossible -- words any actor would kill to hear. But before I could be sure my ears weren't fooling me, I saw the gun.
It was noon, and Sunset's West Hollywood sidewalks swarmed with cell phone-symbiote lunch zombies. When Len Shemin called, I was scouting a handsome oak desk at a secondhand furniture store's curbside, killing time before I had to get back on set. The dark-stained wood was bolstered by iron struts at the legs and base. It squatted on the sidewalk like a massive pirate chest, something that might have graced Andrew Carnegie's office back in 1900. I was wondering how it would look in my den when my phone buzzed.
"Ten?" Len said. "Just heard from Lynda Jewell's office. She and Ron want to meet you tomorrow. Right across the street from where CAA used to be, at the Peninsula."
Impossible, I thought, as someone brushed against me. Two wiry, tattooed arms in front of me looked like green snakes, and one of them lunged for a low-hanging waistband. The jerky movement made me freeze and forget I'd just heard my fortune told.
"Ten?" my agent said in my ear. My killer was right in front of me, not a step away. I knew at least four ways to stop him before he drew the weapon, but reflexes don't work when your brain is locked in emotional carbonite. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. It was the best day of my life, and I was about to die.
A freckled hand emerged from the back of his pants, pointed in a mock pistol's L shape. The gunslinger was a pimple-splotched kid, about fifteen, grinning at me like a fool. "I know you!" the gunslinger said.
But even after I realized the weapon was only in my head, my gut and the knot of muscles at the small of my back tensed when he squeezed the invisible trigger. A year after some very serious professionals had tried to plant me in the desert, I still expected someone to put a hole in my head one day. History never dies.
I couldn't smile for the kid. I gave him a wave I hoped was polite.
"Did you hear me?" Len mosquito-whined in my ear.
I stepped beneath the awning's shade to lean against the shop's white-brick wall. My father used to stop and lean against a wrought iron gate when we walked from the church parking lot to the sanctuary, when his heart didn't feel right. Sometimes you need to stop whatever you're doing to help your heart remember its job. The tattooed kid yammered to a Prius-load of college kids, pointing me out as evidence.
"Lynda Jewell?" I said. "Ron Jewell, too? Tomorrow?" Repeating the basic elements was like pinching myself to be sure I was awake. Anyone else? Stevie Spielberg would make it a Trifecta.
"A meet-and-greet at the bar. Five. What's your schedule?"
Meetings like that didn't happen to people like me. That kind of meeting was an anecdote an actor might recall on Letterman, or on Oprah. My schedule was wide fucking open.
"That's what I thought." Len's voice wavered. Len Shemin is glad when good things happen for me, which is more than most people can say about their blood relatives. "Her assistant's called twice already. We sent in your packet for Lenox Avenue, and that's her passion project. Ron's writing the screenplay, of course. Everyone's after it: Denzel. Will. Terence. Don." The Afrostocracy's single name club. He didn't have to say Washington, Smith, Howard, or Cheadle.
I didn't know I had a "packet," but Len's agency was trying to brand me since I got cast on Homeland. All those years, I'd had it backward: I had to get the work first, and then I'd get my agent's attention. I got a guest spot on Homeland after the exec producer saw me kickboxing at Gold's. He didn't know I was an actor; he just thought I looked like an FBI agent.
A guest spot ballooned to a regular gig with occasional dialogue. I was just a desk jockey or scenery in the training hall, but with three or four lines or a little stunt in every episode, it was my steadiest work in a decade. And I was a celebrity in the twentysomething set after a series of five commercials running on Cartoon Network and Comedy Central, where I was the pleasant face of Progress. "The future looks bright!" the ladies purred. Laugh if you want, but those ads sell a lot of Smartphones.
Month by month, I had enough money to pay my bills, even the surprises, and I was stashing a few dollars in a new category called "Savings." I hadn't realized how good I had it at the time, but that's why they call it hindsight.
Now, Lynda Jewell was calling. In Hollywood, there are only two women with the power to greenlight a movie -- to say Make it happen -- and Lynda Jewell at FilmQuest Studios is one of them. Her husband, Ron, is a two-time Oscar-winning screenwriter, which only adds to the shine. Maybe she'd said Hey, call that black guy from So-and-So, and her staff called the wrong brother. I was sure it must have happened before.
"Why me?"
"Fuck why. Lynda Jewell is a who. Just be on time."
On time? Hell, I would be two hours early. I'd eat peanuts and bring my Kindle. No traffic jam or hailstorm or other act of God or man was going to get in the way of my meeting with Lynda Jewell.
The tattoed gunslinger passed me again, still grinning. "Hey...Future looks bright!" he said. Three teenage girls joined his side, all Gothed up with no house to haunt. I flashed them The Smile, and they grinned, making "Hail, Hail" bows in a row.
Didn't I tell you I was a god in the late-night twentysomething world?
I was the face of the future.
Rush hour was the major disadvantage to steady work. With the sunset glaring into my eyes, I spent thirty minutes snailing Hollywood Hills's narrow cliffside roads before I reached 5450 Gleason. I was home.
As I drove up, Marcela Ruiz was smiling as she climbed down my coral steps past the cactus garden. Her latest diet had stripped off twenty pounds. Newfound confidence made her walk with a swing in her hips as if she had shed twenty years, too. When I first met her at my father's nursing home, I thought Marcela was plain, almost homely. But smiles focused Marcela's round face, bringing out her cheekbones and eyes. All along, she had been a pretty woman hidden behind her worries. I hadn't seen a sign of those worries in months.
"Buenas noches, Ten," she said, kissing both of my cheeks. "Captain Hardwick bet you'd be late for dinner, and I'm glad I finally won. He waits, you know."
"He does understand that I'm on a series now?" I raised my voice, hoping that Dad might hear me through the open doorway.
"Just glad you made it," she said. She cast a fond glance toward the doorway. "He's doing so good." She blinked rapidly, as if beating back tears.
I squeezed her shoulders. "Gracias a ti." Thanks to you.
Marcela shook her head and pointed skyward, blowing a kiss to God. I stared after her as she climbed into her white VW Rabbit and drove off after a last wave. I liked Marcela, but I still wasn't sure I trusted that smile.
Inside, Dad was in the kitchen. Homeland had paid for remodeling my counters: Now they were low enough for his wheelchair. When I was growing up, we were strictly a Banquet-chicken and macaroni- and-franks kind of house. Dad had always been good on the grill, but now he had a library of cookbooks, an elaborate spice rack, and nothing but time on his hands. In the months between the heart attack and the stroke, he'd taken up watching cooking shows on the Food Network.
By coincidence, the two Hardwick men knew our way around the kitchen more than most women do nowadays. If it weren't for cooking and the Raiders, I'm not sure if Dad and I would have had much to talk about. But it was still better than we'd done in years.
The muscles on Dad's forearm flexed when he pivoted his wheelchair toward me. I'd learned to see past Dad's chair to notice the things worth celebrating, like a sturdy muscle in motion. Dad was about to turn seventy-seven, but his face had filled out again, not caving in on itself. A year before, Captain Richard Hardwick (Ret.) had been practically paralyzed in his nursing-home bed, unable to sit up and feed himself, a slave to the bedpan. Now, Dad was wheeling himself through the house manually, insisting on the exercise. Rescued, as Marcela put it. Sometimes I wished Dad was living across the street instead of under my roof, but moving him in with me saved his life.
"Marcela in town for the holidays?" I said.
Dad's suspicious eyebrow shot up. "Why you ask?" He still hated the slight slur in his voice, but he could make himself understood when it mattered.
"Thinking about Thanksgiving."
Dad hacked at an onion with his knife. His hands were steadier than they'd been in a long time, but I still felt nervous when he picked up the cutlery. "You askin' her to work on Thanksgiving?"
"Just wondered if she'd be around."
I also wondered how long I was supposed to pretend Marcela was still only Dad's nurse, and how long she would call him "Captain Hardwick" around me instead of whatever pet names she used during their hours alone. If the secret was on my account, I wanted to tell him to forget it. My mother died when I was only ten months old, and I didn't feel any need to guard her place in his heart.
However, Dad being Dad, I occasionally struggled not to imagine their intimate time together. Too Much Information. I just hoped I wouldn't have to lie one day when Dad asked me what I thought about Marcela, who was twenty-six years his junior. In the nursing home's sea of piss and apathy, Marcela had seemed like a godsend -- now, there was an uncharitable voice in my head that questioned the motivations of a younger woman apparently attracted to an elderly man. Dad didn't have many resources other than his pension and insurance policy. Could that be more attractive than his heart and mind? Snakes hissed and coiled behind that mental door, along with a self flagellating jealousy: You just want him all to yourself.
At least I'd been smart enough to say nothing. Dad and I were just getting to know each other, and there...
Most helpful customer reviews
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
You will be blown away by ths book!!!
By Christina Northern
If you like Casengra you are going to love In the heat of the night. It has twists and turns that you don't even see coming. When I got to the last chapter, the bomb was dropped on me and I had not seen this fork in the road. These writers are really holding my attention and making it difficult to get anything else done. The ending was not what I thought was going to happen and am reading the book again to figure out where I missed the turn.
The book ends in a way that lets you know that another one is coming. I can hardly wait. You will enjoy this read.
2 of 3 people found the following review helpful.
Better (if possible) than the Casanegra
By Scott Masterton
Tennyson Hardwick is a great character.
"In the Night of the Heat" takes off where "Casanegra" left off. Things are going well for Hardwick. He's got a small continuing part on a hit TV series and is in love (maybe for the first time in his life) with his girlfriend April. All is good until he turns down the sexual advances of woman that is definitely a big player in Hollywood. Suddenly Tennyson is out of work, his girlfriend is taking a teaching position in Africa and his unofficially adopted "daughter" Chela has started up an e-mail relationship with a pedophile. When $5000 is set in front of him by the father of former football great and recent suicide T.D. Jackson, Hardwick leaps at the chance to investigate the death.
Jackson recently acquitted of the violent murders of his ex-wife and her fiancé was facing the civil portion of his trial and things weren't looking good; his suicide seems open and shut, but is it really? The character of T.D. Jackson is so obviously a thinly disguised doppelganger of O.J. Simpson that it makes for real fun and effortlessly pulls the reader into the story. Hardwick is in for a rough time and the death of the football star and apparent murderer is a maze of twisting corridors leading back to another football game many years before Jackson's birth.
I've read all of husband and wife team Steven Barnes and Tannanarive Due's stand alone novels and while I see a little of their continuing themes within the novel, I can't for the life of me see where one writer begins and the other finishes. Their styles are seamlessly woven together which makes for a great read.
If you like hardboiled detective novels in the Robert B. Parker or John D. McDonald genre or if you just like your romance raw and steamy, you'll love "In the Night of the Heat".
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Ez's Review
By Esrenee C. Walker
I loved the continuation of the story line, but the ending should have had more depth. I just felt this sequel was rushed. I would like to see Tennyson Hardwick using his prowness in stickier situations. Good read though!
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