I got a lot of good feedback about the cover, so I decided to try another version:

another version for the cover….

As a bonus here is an excerpt from my novel….

To set this chapter up…Sam Cohen got a break to work with the world famous photographer to the stars, Izzy Teivel, but there was one catch..he had to transport a gram of Cocaine onto a plane and fly to New Mexico to Izzy to prove his loyalty and stupidity.

© Dope Smuggler to the Stars. ( except from the novel Cleveland)

Paranoia always crept into my mind when I walked New York’s streets at night. I kept a watchful eye out for anything suspicious and continuously prepared and revised escape routes in the event of trouble. I never felt alone, though. I had no extended relations or friends or even friends of friends to rely on. But I had my invisible protector. I had Luck. It had kept my father alive in the concentration camps, and I was his only son. Surely, he had passed it on to me.

Arriving home, I found my roommate sitting at our small table, hunched over white powdered lines. “How was your day at work?” he said to me nonchalantly.

“Great,” I said. “What’s on the table?”

“Oh, I was walking through Needle Park and this guy came up to me asking if I wanted to score some pure coke. At first, I said no but he kept following me and lowering his prices until it was too good to pass up. So, I ended up buying a gram for 20 bucks. He was desperate, I guess. He looked like a junkie who needed a fix.”

“Wait. You bought a gram of coke from a stranger in Needle Park? Are you crazy?”

“Don’t talk to me like I’m an idiot. I know my stuff. Plus, for only 20 bucks, what’s there to lose? Do you want to try a line or not!”

“I’ll pass. It’s been a long day and I just want to chill,” I said.

He proceeded to place a short straw in his nose and inhaled a line. He looked up at me with a frown. “OK, it’s not pure but it does have some kick. It’s not burning my nose.” He took another snort with his other nostril and suddenly started blowing air out of both nostrils. “This is mixed with something.”

He took his forefinger, licked it, and placed it in the bag of white powder. He then withdrew his finger and brushed it on his tongue.

“This shit tastes like baking soda!” he said in disgust.

“So you bought a $20 bag of baking soda? From a stranger? In Needle Park? We can always put it in the fridge to absorb some of those bad odors.” I said.

“There goes my perfect evening,” he groused. “I’m going out to get some air.” And he left the apartment.

Howie was book smart and street dumb. I felt a little sorry for him due to his awkward appearance. He seemed uncomfortable in his own skin. It didn’t help either that his last name was Shmeckler, a Yiddish word which, according to my dad, meant “little penis.”,,,,

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