THE MADISON PICKER: The Picker Series (rated "G" for all eyes)
TABLE of CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Table of Contents
Prologue: Old Souls
Chapter 1: Jerry’s Game
Chapter 2: Don’t Glean the Field
Chapter 3: Inland Sea
Chapter 4: Picking the Valley
Chapter 5: Digital Dowsing
Chapter 6: Lexington
Chapter 7: Flying Tigers
Chapter 8: Back on Track
Chapter 9: Jazzman
Chapter 10: The Devil is in the Details
Chapter 11: A Pox on Sprint
Chapter 12: The So-Married Man
Chapter 13: The Turkey Sag Facility
Chapter 14: Bombay Hook
Chapter 15: Bookman’s Feast
Chapter 16: Market Analyses
Chapter 17: Space Available
Chapter 18: Knuckle Thumpers
Chapter 19: Bonefishing
Chapter 20: Break Even
Chapter 21: Tactical Saling
Chapter 22: Over the Threshold
Chapter 23: Intangibles
Chapter 24: Louis Vuitton
Chapter 25: Tricks of the Trade
Chapter 26: Backscratchers
Chapter 27: Time Peddlers
Chapter 28: Newlyweds & Nearlydeads
Chapter 29: Schoolgirl Chirp
Chapter 30: Eye of the Needle
Epilogue
Glossary
Author’s Comments
Prologue: Old Souls
I was living on a street in Coventry enjoying an ideal life with my lovely wife Rebecca and our two children when the blitz came; at least that is what I apparently reported to my nanny, more or less. I was five years old.
At first my parents thought that I had contrived a family of imaginary English friends when I told them my story because I actually had been born in the UK and we had actually lived in Cambridge for a few months when I was an infant. They and the other adults that I told about my English life were understandably puzzled. They would question me in detail but they could never accept the wartime facts I spouted as anything more than infantile babble. Understandably, it worried my parents, especially when I kept insisting that they should use my “real” name, Randolph West, instead of Charles Dawes. To add insult to injury, I also began prattling on about Mrs. West, my wife, our two children, and our pet dog. Eventually it became obvious to them that the sensation I was experiencing was something more than a young child’s imagination; however, they didn’t take action until I began complaining daily of a pain “on” my head. I’d point to where it hurt, in the back under my hair. My young mother would pet and kiss me and explain that birthmarks were not painful, but I knew better. Mine hurt.
