Chandler Frye and the Desert of Doom!

On the night of March 1, 2023 a powerful winter storm blew through Arizona and left a blanket of snow on the Sonoran Desert. AZ Wonders, 2 March 2023

Oscar Bottomley slammed shut the screen of his laptop and rose from the desk. He was not a happy man. The author of the Chandler Frye, Private Eye thriller series, he had written 1,000 words every day for over 40 years without exception. Even the birth of his daughter and his mother’s passing hadn’t stopped him. Even that time he’d wedged his bare foot under the kitchen door when he’d closed it quickly to stop the cat from escaping into the hall. He’d needed eight stitches in his big toe and enough painkillers to euthanize a donkey, but he’d still knocked out 1,000 words.

Today, he’d managed to write nothing at all. Nada. Zilch. Zip diddly do-dah.

He sat on his bed and checked his watch. It was just after 2.00 a.m. That would make it 9.00 a.m. in England. His editor should be at her desk by now. He picked up his phone and selected a number. After a short delay, a young female voice answered.

“Hi, Oscar darling, how’s sunny Arizona? More important, how’s the campsite?”

Oscar picked fluff off his trouser leg. “I’m not in the campsite, Tamsyn. I’m in a hotel in Mesa.”

Somewhere in a leafy corner of London, Tamsyn sat up ramrod straight and took notice. Writers spending money that wasn’t budgeted for guaranteed a notice-taking-ramrod-straight-sitting-up position in Tamsyn every time.

“Why aren’t you at the campsite, darling? Did you check with finance? If they haven’t authorised expenses —"

“No, I haven’t checked with finance because I haven’t had time. I’ve spent all day driving around trying to get checked into a hotel. Then I had to find a pharmacy because some bastard stole my waterworks pills from my luggage. Seriously, what kind of saddo does that? —Tamsyn wondered idly if Oscar, not for the first time, had forgotten to pack his pills—I haven’t managed to write a single word and you know how jittery that makes me feel. I haven’t felt this anxious since I read the reviews for the last Chandler Frye story.”

Tamsyn’s reply boomed across the room. “Forget those reviews, Oscar darling! Who listens to critics? Take it from me, no one in this firm thinks your novel is a cliché-ridden pastiche featuring a hero who should’ve been pensioned off years ago, regardless of what Pamela Pankhurst at The Times thinks.”

Oscar sniffed. He could have done without that very specific reminder of Pamela Pankhurst’s thoughts. Tamsyn was still talking.

“Chandler Frye and the Desert of Doom is going to be your best yet, believe me. There are many, many critics who will have to eat their words when this hits the shelves!”

Oscar sniffed a second time. One ‘many’ would have been plenty in his view. Indeed, was there any real need to quantify the number of critics who’d panned his last book? “That’s why this Chandler Frye has to be right, Tamsyn. I have to show that there’s still plenty of life in the character. And that’s why you need to move me to the Sahara Desert! That’s where I wanted to go in the first place if you remember.”

Tamsyn sighed. “We’ve been through this, Oscar. The firm can’t afford it. Not after your last book — she swallowed the word ‘bombed’ — didn’t sit well with the critics. Or the general public either, to be fair. Arizona was a much cheaper package. And one desert is much like another, right?”

Oscar massaged his left foot vigorously with his free hand. “No, wrong on that, Tamsyn. I need sand, heat and exotic desert mammals.”

Tamsyn sounded mildly irritated. “Surely those things come as standard in deserts? Maybe if you were at the campsite we arranged for you rather than sitting in a hotel you might be getting more of the desert experience! I appreciate that a man of your advanced years prefers a bit of comfort these days, but you were the one—”

Oscar rubbed the scar on his big toe. “It’s closed, and no, those things don’t come as standard, apparently. My book is about murder under a blazing sun. Where I’m sitting, there is no sun, blazing or otherwise. Now, if I was writing Nordic noir novels this place would be an ideal location. If I was writing Chandler Frye and the Finnish Femme Fatale, this would be a prime spot.”

There followed a few seconds of silence at the other end. Tamsyn wondered if Oscar was on the drink. There had been rumours. “What are you talking about, darling?”

“The campsites are closed because we’re under two feet of snow here.”

“Snow? But it’s a desert! Deserts don’t get snow! How did that happen?”

“No idea. The weather guy said it’s to do with changes in La Niña climate patterns, but quite frankly, it could be caused by chunky cardigan knitting patterns, for all I care. I just need to be somewhere hot!”

Tamsyn recovered her composure. “Snow in a desert sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime event, darling. Can’t you lean into that a bit? Why not leave Chandler Frye to one side for a while? Couldn't you write a different tale this time? You know, something with snow in it, maybe? I mean, does the world really need another tired old gumshoe story right now?”

She heard a loud noise that sounded like a door creaking open. Was that Oscar at the minibar? Maybe he was drunk!

The noise was Oscar squeaking in outrage. The tired old gumshoe remark had struck a nerve. “Something with snow in it? Do you want to hear something with snow in it, Tamsyn? This morning, on arrival, I had to battle through knee-high snow drifts in my flip-flops, shorts and teeshirt to reach Walmart and buy some warm clothing. Someone in the store phoned the police because they thought I was on drugs! They questioned me for ten minutes! I could have been arrested! Or shot! You know what the police here are like!”

Tamsyn moved the phone further away from her ear. Oscar’s voice was getting louder and more high-pitched with every passing second. “Surely, you can write something that doesn’t require you to be sitting in a desert?”

“You’re not a writer, Tamsyn, so there’s no reason why you would know this — tired old gumshoe remark avenged — but when I’m writing a Chandler Frye story, I need to experience what Chandler experiences. Unendurable heat, coyotes howling in the desert night, lizards scuttling in the sand — his reality has to be my reality too. Instead, I’m checking my toes for frostbite and listening to snowplows doing three-point turns in the hotel car park. So, when can you move me?”

Tamsyn sighed. “We can’t move you, darling. The firm is going in a different direction right now. We’re putting Harry Jewel up in a villa on Necker Island while he writes his autobiography. That’s not cheap, I can tell you!”

Oscar spluttered. “Who the fuck is Harry Jewel when he’s at home?”

“He’s that twenty-year-old TikToker who makes videos of his budgie. They’re very funny, actually. You should watch them if you get the chance. Listen, I’ll speak to finance, Oscar, but don’t hold your breath. Think seriously about what you’re going to write, darling. Gumshoe fiction is so twentieth century. YouTubers and TikTokers are taking over the world, I’m afraid. Are you sure Chandler Frye still has a place in that world?”

The call having ended, Oscar returned to his desk and pressed his face into his hands. In the briefest of microsleeps, he dreamt he saw Pamela Pankhurst trudging slowly in deep snow wearing a bikini and flip-flops while budgies flew over her head. Police officers in warm coats pointed guns in her direction and yelled at her to drop the waterworks pills and keep her hands where they could see them.

He awoke with a start. Opening his laptop, he stared at the whiteness of a blank document. Was he too late in his career to write a Nordic noir novel? Was Tamsyn’s idea of something with snow in it such a bad idea?

No. Oscar’s mind was made up. Chandler Frye’s case was in the desert of doom and no fucking climate patterns or TikTokers were going to change that. He’d show the critics that some kind of writing floated above the fickle tides of fads and fashion. There was still a place for the classic gumshoe hero.

He put his hands on the keyboard. The sound of beeping filled the air as another snowplow reversed in the car park. His room was lit up by its flashing orange lights. Snowflakes landed on the window, and somewhere outside, late night revellers sang White Christmas.

Oscar started to type.

Engulfed in the desert's parched silence, I was nothing but another grain of sand in the wind.