Mr. Midnight
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My father, Alfred Leverone, was an avid reader, but rarely of fiction. He preferred biographies and historical accounts, mostly of the American Revolution and Civil War, two subjects about which his curiosity was unquenchable and his knowledge impressive.
I’m unlikely to ever write a nonfiction book on either of those subjects, so this novel is dedicated to my dad. He died nearly seventeen years ago, more than a decade before I signed my first publishing contract, but I know he would have been proud, as well as mystified, by how far this particular apple fell from the tree.
My dad taught me the value of hard work, of honesty, of doing the right thing even when no one’s looking. He wasn’t rich or famous, but if I can be half the man he was, I’ll consider my life a resounding success. This book is for him.
If you’ve read the acknowledgements in any of my other books, I run the risk of sounding like a broken record, but this bears repeating: I am utterly indebted to my wife, Sue, for her unwavering support since the very first day I told her I wanted to make stuff up and write it down. When I was receiving literally hundreds of rejections from agents and publishers, Sue provided the quiet voice of encouragement that kept me writing when any sane man would long ago have given up.