Mysteries tied to history and setting.
As author R. (Rich) Lawson Gamble and I discuss in this interview, the scene that he reads to us from his book The Dark Road is reminiscent of a right-of-passage ritual. Tolliver is just out of the FBI Academy and as you’ll hear, somewhat out of his depth in the unforgiving Arizona landscape.
Rich’s Zack Tolliver series has seven books, with an eighth to be released very shortly. The Dark Road takes us back to Tolliver’s origins and we meet the man who will become his law enforcement partner and friend. In the interview you’ll hear Rich explain the very personal reason why each book in the series focuses on a new location.
This week’s mystery author
R Lawson Gamble, known as Rich, was born and raised in New Jersey just west of the last commuter train station to New York. Born to a family of readers and musicians, he took his degree in music and sang professionally in the Boston and Providence, R.I. area performing oratorio and opera. He later accepted the position of Music Chairperson at a private school near Boston, where he worked in various capacities, from soccer coach to Dean of Students for the next 34 years. Rich moved to California in 2009 to begin his career as a writer. He has published eleven books to date, ten works of fiction, seven of which constitute his Zack Tolliver, FBI mystery series, a children’s story starring Australian animals, and a history of Los Alamos Valley, his new home, for Arcadia Press.
To learn more about R. Lawson Gamble and his books visit RLawsonGamble.com
Press play (above) to listen to the show, or read the transcript below. Remember you can also subscribe to the show on Apple Podcasts. And listen on Stitcher, Android, Google Podcasts, TuneIn, and Spotify.
You can also click here to listen to the interview on YouTube.
Excerpt from The Dark Road
“Sometimes it is hard to see the dark road.” Ashkii Nez
A sudden blast of hot wind set his tie flapping and flew on to form a spiral of dust beyond him on the deserted tarmac. His ears throbbed with the drone of the Cessna 172 he had just deplaned. He stood, suitcase in hand, a solitary vertical object in a horizontal world of runway and sand and watched the small plane inch away raising dust with its single prop. At last it reached the far end of the narrow airstrip and performed a clumsy pirouette, pausing momentarily as if undecided as its engine’s roar grew. It surged forward now, accelerated rapidly and somehow, as if by accident, bumped up into the air. Suddenly graceful, it angled southward and soared away joyously, all its former bonds with the clumsy earth now severed. For Zack Tolliver, FBI, it took with it the last vestige of everything he’d known in his short twenty-four years of life.
He watched the black dot fade into the dark blue. Long after it disappeared from his sight and its mechanical drone became one with the wind, he sighed and turned his head in a slow sweeping arc. A flat barren landscape surrounded him, gray and rust-red, defined by faraway vertical cliffs layered with horizontal ledges like a ladder for giants. At his feet, eruptions of yellow-green weed clawed at cracks in the aging concrete of the tarmac. His searching eyes found nothing resembling a terminal.
The enormity of his transforming experience settled upon him like the dust itself, growing in him as the heat of the July afternoon assailed him. An occasional isolated breeze blew even hotter, like a dragon’s breath. Sweat appeared in droplets on his brow, neatly trimmed brown hair became plastered to his forehead. The creases in his new polyester-rayon trousers expired, soggy circles bloomed in the armpits of his white linen shirt, his expensively tailored jacket wilted.
Within minutes he removed his jacket, folded it carefully over his arm, relishing the momentary cooling effect of air moving against his damp shirt. He glanced at his watch. Ten minutes had ticked by since he landed. He stood his suitcase on end and sat on it. Another quarter hour passed. He tugged the carefully crafted knot on his tie and opened his collar. The jacket went up above his head to serve as a parasol.
Zachary Efrem Tolliver, newly minted FBI Special Agent just out of the National Academy at Quantico, might as well have been on another planet. He had not asked for this assignment. His instructors at the Academy had noted Zack’s unusual empathy for his fellow trainees and how he had assisted those who struggled. He could not have known his posting to the Navajo Nation Reservation was all but decided while he was still a NAT (New Agent Trainee). The FBI Liaison Office of the Criminal Investigative Division, that communication nerve center of ICCU (Indian Country Crimes Unit) struggled to find enough agents willing to partner with reservation law enforcement units nationwide, and, more importantly, to exhibit actual concern for the plight of reservation Indians. Nowhere was such empathy more needed than on the massive Navajo Nation Reservation. Thus, unknown to him, Zack’s future had been etched long before his graduation.
Zack was born and raised in Maryland where the longest open expanse was the Chesapeake Bay and the hottest moving air he’d ever experienced was the hand drier in the McDonalds restroom. Regardless, he accepted the assignment eagerly, excited by the idea of exploring a new land, curious to experience the native culture. He had planned to make a strong first impression. That plan was fading fast.
The grind of an engine came to him before he actually saw the truck swimming through the haze of heat at the opposite end of the tarmac. From the sounds it made it needed a valve job. As it drew nearer he saw it needed a paint job as well. Originally red, the truck sported clashing spots of rust and orangish attempts at touchup. It lurched strangely despite the flat surface of the airstrip.
The pickup jerked to a stop next to Zack, the driver’s window open despite the heat. The man inside regarded him with squinting brown eyes, the sun-darkened face shadowed by the brim of a wide hat. The man said nothing.
“I’m waiting for my ride,” Zack said, feeling he needed to explain. “It should be here any moment.”
“Get in,” the man said.
Zack stared. The man had the classic features of every Indian he had ever seen on TV, particularly the bad ones. “No, thanks. My ride is coming.”
“This is it.”
“I’m to be picked up by Agent Ben Brewster.”
“This is it.”
“Are you saying Agent Brewster sent you?”
The driver raised an eyebrow a millimeter, refusing to explain the situation yet one more time.
Zack picked up his suitcase.
“Throw it in the back,” the man said.
Zack walked to the rear of the truck and lifted the suitcase over the tailgate onto the bed, placing it as far away as possible from the smeared gas can and oil-covered rope. At his first try, the passenger door wouldn’t open. He pulled harder and it gave with a groan and dropped an inch as it swung wide. He glanced in at the driver, who was facing stoically forward, and climbed in avoiding the worst of the torn upholstery. He placed a polished shoe either side of the gallon water bottles at his feet. It took both hands to close the door. The latch did not sound convincing.
They lurched off without a word. Zack’s eye wandered the cab interior. Roof liner hung, a crack in the cab’s rear window resembled a huge spider web, a coffin-like crate containing chains and large hooks and several boxes of what appeared to be ammunition was squeezed into the area behind the seat. A gun rack held a single rifle. The weapon seemed to be the only item in the truck treated with any kind of care.
“My name is Zack Tolliver,” he said, filling the silence.
“Thank you for the ride.”
The man glanced at him. “You are here to help Ben Brewster.”
It might have been a question or a statement. Zack wasn’t sure. He nodded.
“I am glad. Ben is a good man,” the driver said.
From the smooth tarmac they rolled onto a dirt track where the truck rocked and rattled. Dust floated into the cab through the open windows. After half a mile they came to a paved two-lane road where the driver coaxed the old truck to a higher speed. Zack stared through the dusty windshield. The landscape was barren, treeless, wild. Occasional buildings appeared in the distance, far from the road, scattered here and there as if dropped and forgotten, all small houses, usually with junked cars nearby. No hedges, flowers beds or lawns surrounded them, only a cottonwood tree or two offered shade.
The road unfolded before them like cable off a spool. It rose and knifed through a ridge crest, the cut showing red on each side like a wound. A billboard gave hints of habitation somewhere ahead, but its wording was too weathered to read. They crested a rise. Up ahead a gasoline sign rose above a cluster of buildings.
Zack was relieved to see any sign of civilization. Ever since stepping off the Cessna he’d felt disoriented. The gas station brought a sense of normalcy. And he needed a restroom.
They came to the crossroads and stopped for a red light. A large filling station with convenience store occupied the corner on their right, a McDonalds was close by on the left. Road signs indicated a town was somewhere north of the McDonalds. The light changed. The driver drove straight on. To Zack’s chagrin, the crossroads and everything there suggesting civilization faded behind them.
“Wasn’t that Tuba City?”
“Isn’t the FBI office in Tuba City?”
Zack’s body grew tense. It came to him he’d never asked for this man’s identification before climbing into the truck.
“Where are we going, then?”
“Why are we going there?”
The Navajo turned his unfathomable gaze on Zack. “Ben Brewster said bring you to him there.”
Ben Brewster. Supervisory Special Agent in Charge at the Tuba City office. Zack felt a surge of relief at the sound of his name. Apparently, he was not being kidnapped after all. He opened his mouth to ask about Elk Wells but thought better of it. He didn’t want another monosyllabic answer.
The road continued across a panorama of red desert bordered by towering buttes against a blue and endless sky. Zack felt strangely empty as if the vastness of the land threatened to diminish him into nothing. It was dry. The wind rushed through the cab and sucked the moisture from his body.
“There is water at your feet.” It was as if the Navajo read his mind.
Grateful, Zack reached down for a bottle, twisted off the cap and gulped down a mouthful. It was beyond tepid, but refreshing. He immediately felt better.
A building came into view, then another. Zack had seen pictures in brochures and articles of the traditional Navajo hogan. He stared, curious. More homes came into view, then a cluster of buildings close together, some with large windows, signage, a real town. The truck slowed and angled into a space in front of a small building next to a white Chevrolet Tahoe with an orange and green official emblem on the door. A sign on the store-front window read Navajo Nation Police.
Zack climbed out of the truck and stretched. He turned to thank the driver but the man was already gone, the office screen door just slapping shut. Not much guidance there. Zack stepped up on the boardwalk, took a deep breath and pulled open the door.
All talk stopped the moment he entered, the only sound the creaking groan of an air conditioner. All faces turned toward him except his driver, busy at the coffee station. A stout Navajo woman sat at a desk near the entrance, a white man with an air of authority was conversing with her. He came over to Zack, hand extended.
Zack shook his hand. “Yes, sir.”
“Welcome to Navajo Nation. I am Supervisory Agent in Charge Ben Brewster.”
He pointed around the room. “This is Lenana Fitzgerald. She pretty much runs the place. That there is Lané Shorter, tribal policeman. That’s Sergeant Jimmy Chaparral. He helps Lenana. And of course you know Eagle Feather.” He indicated Zack’s driver.
Ben turned to face everyone. “Well, now we have Agent Tolliver, let’s get to work. Jimmy, why not take Zachary with you.” He looked at Zack. “Do you have a weapon?”
“Yes, sir, it’s in my––”
“Great. Go with Jimmy. He’ll fill you in on the way.” Brewster turned to the man called Lané, a short barrel-chested policeman. “Lané, you’re with Eagle Feather. Take a rifle. Lenana and I will handle communications from here. Questions?”
The men were already moving. Apparently, operations had previously been discussed.
The man called Jimmy had Zack’s elbow. “You’re with me.” He snatched a wide-brimmed hat from a rack and slapped it on Zack’s head. “You’ll want that.” He led Zack out the back of the office, past a restroom, at which Zack stared longingly, and into bright sun. He walked toward a battered dust-covered Bronco. Jimmy gestured Zack to climb into the passenger side. Before he could secure his seatbelt, Jimmy threw the vehicle in reverse in a storm of dust, then accelerated forward through an alley to the street where Eagle Feather’s truck was already rattling past headed east.
“My suitcase,” Zack said. “My weapon––”
“Don’t worry.” Jimmy gave him a broad grin. “You’re not gonna need it.”
Once beyond the town limits, defined by one or two houses and then nothing, they picked up speed and tried to keep Eagle Feather’s truck in view. The roadside brush flashed by in a blur.
“What’s going on?” Zack asked.
Jimmy glanced at him. The Navajo policeman was young and slim with pleasant features. His black hair contrasted with pale skin for a Navajo. “We have a hostage situation.”
Zack felt an immediate surge of adrenalin. “You said I didn’t need my sidearm.”
Jimmy grinned. “You don’t. You likely won’t be involved. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill kind of hostage situation. Besides, we have these.” He nodded back at the gun rack where three rifles resided. “But we likely won’t need them. Jay Begay gets drunk a lot, sometimes does crazy things. We got a call he was waving a rifle about, threatening to shoot someone in the house if people got too close. We don’t know who’s in there. He’s got a wife and a seventeen-year-old daughter.” Jimmy shrugged. “Could be something, could be nothing.”
“What’s the plan?”
Jimmy paused to slow the truck and turn south onto a rut-filled dirt road. Zack saw the dust from Eagle Feather’s pickup on beyond.
“I will be chief negotiator,” Jimmy said. “I know Jay. I’ve been called out here before.”
“So why the heavy presence?”
“You just don’t know. Every time is a little different.” He shrugged. “But we’ll see when we get there.” He peered at Zack. “You will be the federal representative. Stay in the truck, don’t come out unless I indicate you should.”
Zack nodded toward Eagle Feather’s truck up ahead. “What will they do?”
“Eagle Feather and Lané will try to get within rifle range or closer unseen. They are backup in case things go wrong.”
Zack glanced at Jimmy. “Like if he shoots you from the house?”
Jimmy grinned, shook his head. “Won’t come to that.”
Their road followed the swells and dips of the land, down into arroyos and steeply up the far sides. It kept them pointed toward a rock formation of several spires united by a common pedestal. As they neared, Zack saw a building at the base of the sandstone outcrop. It looked like a toy against the massive stone fin.
The road leveled and ploughed on, a red earth slash through the sage and cacti. Zack realized the dust from Eagle Feather’s truck was no longer up ahead. “What happened to them?”
“We’re close now,” Jimmy said. “Eagle Feather won’t let dust give away his presence. He’ll slow down to avoid it.” He looked at his watch, slowed their speed. “We’ll take our time now, let them get set.”
“And stop raising dust?”
Jimmy glanced at him. “We want to raise dust. We are the decoy.”
“Oh.” Zack began to grasp what was happening. So far, this was all quite different from what he’d been taught to expect.
The rock formation that was the backdrop for Jay Begay’s dwelling grew to its true proportions as they neared, a shear wall of sandstone reaching several hundred feet toward the sky and a mile wide. Begay evidently utilized the wall as one section of fence, the rest a combination of barbed wire, stones and even a few large tires. A shed, a three-sided lean-to opened to the enclosure at a point close to a hogan with a pickup truck next to it. Another hogan stood one hundred yards away.
“Do two families live here?” Zack asked.
Jimmy shook his head. “Jay’s family keeps a winter hogan and a summer hogan, but mostly live in the winter hogan, which is more substantial. He’ll be in there, likely.”
When the Bronco came within one hundred yards of the residence, Jimmy stopped and turned off the ignition. They sat still. Zack glanced at him.
Jimmy answered his look. “It is a courtesy to wait to be recognized when approaching someone’s home.” He raised his brows. “Especially at a time like this.”
It was several long minutes before the door of the hogan opened and a figure stepped out, a woman dressed in a long skirt with a concha belt and a necklace dangling over a black jacket. She stood, arms crossed, and stared at them.
“Is this good or bad?”
“Hard to tell,” Jimmy said. “That’s Jay’s wife, Emma. She runs the place until he gets really pickled.” He stared. “She’s not waving us on in, so something’s up.” His hand went to the door handle, he looked at Zack. “After I get out, take down the Winchester and keep it ready.” He pushed open the door and stepped out and moved to the open.
Zack reached behind him and lifted the rifle from the top of the rack. He checked the load and held the weapon between his knees in the narrow confines of the cab. He watched Jimmy raise both arms to show he was unarmed.
“Yá’át’ééh. I see you, Emma. Are you well?”
Emma did not move, but her voice was strong and calm. She responded in Navajo.
“She says she is well and asks about me,” Jimmy said, keeping his eyes on her. He replied in Navajo.
She spoke again.
“She says Jay wishes to know who the white man is in my truck,” Jimmy said, then replied in her language. “I told her you are an FBI agent here to see no federal laws are broken.”
The woman spoke again. Jimmy replied. Emma then turned and reentered the house.
Jimmy stood where he was, but turned to look toward Zack. “This is the tricky moment. I told her holding another person against their will is contrary to federal law. I asked to see Zenia, his daughter.”
They waited. The sun through the windshield heated the truck interior like an oven. Zack’s shirt wilted even more and stuck to his body while sweat trickled down to his waist. He wiped the sweaty hand holding the rifle on his pants.
The hogan door flung open. A man emerged. He was dressed in leggings and shirtless. His hair was tied back with a headband. He held a rifle with both hands, the barrel pointing skyward. He spoke in a hoarse guttural voice.
Jimmy replied––calm, reassuring.
The man waved the rifle about with one hand as he spoke. His voice was angry, harsh.
While the man ranted, Jimmy translated for Zack. “He wants to know by what right any man intrudes into his private affairs. He is very drunk and very angry.” The tirade continued. “He is working himself up to something. Be ready to toss me the rifle.”
Zack wiped his damp hands again and re-gripped the Winchester.
The man’s guttural harsh stream of anger grew even more. Without warning, he snapped the rifle up to his shoulder.
“Now,” Jimmy yelled and stepped behind the open door of the Bronco.
Zack propelled the rifle toward him, barrel first. As he did, he heard the ping of a bullet as it struck something in the front of the truck. Jimmy had the rifle now, resting the barrel on the hinge between door and truck body. It was aimed at Jay, but he did not fire. Zack saw why.
Two men, Eagle Feather and the Navajo policeman Lané were there having materialized on either side of the drunk Navajo with rifles pointed at him. Jay Begay lowered his rifle barrel, then dropped the weapon to the ground.
Jimmy handed the Winchester back to Zack, who replaced it in the rack and climbed out of the truck. He was sweating profusely now. He felt the welcome breeze over his damp body and wondered if he could possibly get any wetter. He followed Jimmy toward the hogan where the erstwhile shooter was now on his knees with arms cuffed behind him.
Zack heard the Navajos conversing as old friends as he neared, as if a bullet had never been fired with intent to harm. Emma and another woman emerged from the house, the second woman an attractive young girl dressed in jeans and a blouse. The women stared at Zack, apparently less concerned by the life-threatening situation that just ended than curious at the appearance of a stranger in their midst. Then, as if choreographed, all the Navajos, prisoner included, stared at Zack and burst into laughter.
Zack was shocked and confused. Emma, the older woman, held her hand to her mouth and giggled. Jimmy and Lané grinned broadly. It was Eagle Feather who finally explained.
“You look like a burrito left out in a rainstorm, White Man.”
Zack looked down at his shirt, wet, streaked with dirt, plastered against his white skin now red in places from heat rash, the tie flapped over his shoulder, pants wringing wet and pressed against skin, black polished shoes grimy with red dust. He could feel the too-large reservation hat slipping over his ears, his face was flushed and wet with sweat. He was a mess.
He looked at the amused faces of lawmen, prisoner, and family. Then he shrugged and broke into a broad grin. He did not know it at the time, but his acceptance on the Reservation began at that moment.
Interview with R. Lawson Gamble
Alexandra: Great job. Thank you so much.
Let’s talk a little bit about Zach. He’s a young guy and when I was reading what you just read, I liked that he was young and just starting out. Very often we’re introduced to the classic FBI agent. He’s an old grizzled veteran or whatever.
Tell us why you decided to to begin with him as quite a young sir, almost a new recruit.
Rich: I have to confess that this prequel was written after about book six. And it was a lot of fun. It was a lot of fun to write it because of that.
But I had an offer from two other writers who write in the same kind of genre and the same sort of thing that I do with the idea that we could publicize by combining in a book. So the suggestion was each of us write and novella.
I thought, well, if I’m going to be doing that, why not go back and explain some of the things that fans have asked about; how did Zach get started? What was that all about? How did he end up on the reservation?
So we now have a free volume that’s been permanently on Amazon called Western Justice. And almost more in its genre, the Hillerman genre almost always hovers around number six or so.
Alexandra: What a great idea.
Rich: I had a lot of fun kind of recreating Zach, putting thoughts to what it must have been like for him, which I hadn’t done with my first novel.
Alexandra: That scene where he’s had just been dropped off and he’s waiting for the ride and he’s in the desert almost reminded me of like a rite of passage. When young men in African tribes, for example, are about to become men, they’re sent out into the desert on their own.
I felt that it was sort of symbolic of what’s happening to Zach, in a way.
Rich: It really is. I wanted to truly outline the transition that he had to make coming from the Maryland roots, the East Coast, to a land that he’d never even seen before. That was very overpowering in in all its aspects.
And to be picked up by an Indian who just spoke one or two words, guttural, so to speak. He might as well sniff a Datura plant and gotten high standing there for the impact that this had on him.
Alexandra: One of the things I noticed in your author description on Amazon, you mentioned that for each book, Zach and Eagle Feather go to a different location.
What’s the motivation for that?
Rich: There’s two. One is personal, which is that I like to trail run. And I like to go to different places in the desert or wherever it may be.
The second is, though, that I found that I surmised from reading other series that it must be very difficult to keep coming up with plots within the same town where when you introduce somebody and you play them through and introduce somebody else, you play them through.
And I thought, why not take Zach to places where I’d gone to run, dig around a little bit, find what the history there is and tie that in. And it’s been a fascinating journey. I’ve discovered things that I never knew existed.
The current book that I’m working on, which I should have ready to put on pre-sale by the end of the month, involves a a dry land generator, basically a huge battery that’s hydraulic. There’s been work done by this this company in order to have a supply of of of electricity and me in the future forever.
But it’s right in the middle of Joshua National Park. The one place that that’s privately owned and had a lot of interesting things that have occurred with that.
So, yes, finding these places, getting the chance to learn about them. I ended up amongst the very liberal Mormons. The other set, if you will. And there was an awful lot of interesting things there to to use.
Alexandra: That’s such a great idea. What a fascinating way to go about writing books, as you say.
Rich: Each one’s a journey, literally.
Alexandra: Yes. Exactly. We met Eagle Feather there, of course, who picked up Zach from the airstrip. And he continues on and they become quite close friends.
So I guess that relationship has evolved, obviously.
Rich: Yes, very much. They they read each other’s minds. They serve one another. The white man and and the one who’s the Native American who’s more able to think in legendary mythical terms or spiritual terms doesn’t dismiss things.
There’s a lot of paranormal or quasi-normal in my books and the reader is left to choose whether they believe that that really happened or were they smoking something. I think the contrast of the two just works very, very well and very naturally. So each time I come back to them for a new story, they have evolved on their own, it seems like, and then just fit together.
Alexandra: I love that. I love a good partnership and a mystery series.
One of the things I didn’t know before I started researching your books was that the Navajo reservation straddles three different states.
Jurisdictionally, politically, it must be such a complicated place.
Rich: It is, and not only does it straddle states, it encloses several other tribes of different different types and a couple of places and crossing to and fro. It can can be confusing and can be a problem.
In Cat, my fourth book, I believe that happens a lot. Zach has to work between law enforcement or whatever is in place to counter whatever it may be between these two areas as he tries to chase down the bad guy who uses the borders to hide between between the two reservations. So, yeah, that’s very true.
And it’s a huge place. If you try driving across it, you go on forever. Most Hillerman stories, for instance, take place up in the northeast corner of mine have all taken place in the west mid-section. And you could fit about 90 other writers in the middle if they want.
Alexandra: Just before we wind up, you mentioned that there’s a new book coming out. It’ll probably be available just about when this podcast comes out.
Why don’t you tell us about that?
Rich: The new book is my latest in the Zach Tolliver series and this one takes place – I was talking to you about the the inland generator. That’s where it is around the Joshua Tree National Park area and down to Blythe, Arizona. And all through that area also involves the Chemaheuvi Indians.
That’s the other thing I try to do. I try and involve a different group of Indians nationalities each time. And there are many all through this different areas, in this case, the Chemaheuvi, who own a lot of the casinos down there. So it’s sort of a different scene there.
Eagle Feather knows a guy so he gets to stay in this wonderful suite at the top of one of the casinos while they’re there, while Zack is in some cabin freezing to death.
I think it’s going to be a very interesting mystery. More along the lines probably of my Canaan’s Secret, because there’s more complications and there’s more more people involved in a mystery takes the main mystery takes a lot of time to sort through. But there are a lot of minor parts that occur as you go hoping to have it ready for sale by June 1. It’ll be on presale in May.
Alexandra: Great. Oh, that’s awesome. Well, this has been great, Rich.
Why don’t you let people know where they can find out more about you and your books?
Rich: I have, of course, my own website. RLawsonGamble.com. You can go there. And the other is my author page on Amazon, which is really where most of my information ends up anyhow, because they’re very good to bring you all together. And that has the list of all the books and current prices and sales and so on.
Alexandra: Great. And did I see you mentioned that you’re having a rotating sale. We’re recording this in April 2020 and we’re right in the middle of the covid-19 crisis.
Rich: What I’m doing is I’m trying to give away a free e-book, know just about once a month or so this Saturday. For instance, I will be giving Cat away for free as there’s a new book on Amazon. And it helps me because maybe it’ll stimulate some interest. But on the other hand, and also for those people that don’t want to spend money and would like to get a good read, hopefully they will. We’ll find it.
Alexandra: What a great idea. Thank you so much for being on the show. I really appreciate it.
Rich: Well, thank you for having me, Alexandra.