The Drowning Machine

TAKEN by Robert Crais

2012-01-23T00:01:00.002-05:00

Elvis Cole is the World's Greatest Detective. So when he takes a case involving a missing couple, it doesn't take him long to discover that the two unfortunates were taken by bajadores: brutal gangs of thieves who steal illegal immigrants (or anything valuable) from the coyotes smuggling them into the USA. But the World's Greatest finds himself up against a very powerful and cunning operator known only as The Syrian. And it isn't long before Elvis, too, is taken, and Joe Pike must race against the clock to find his friend. You see, the modus operandi of the bajadores is to hold their victims (pollos) for ransom. When there is no money to be made from a hostage, the pollo is killed.

Law of averages says that at some point Robert Crais is going to write a bad book. TAKEN is not it.

What this is, is the book I've been waiting for ever since Joe Pike started getting his own name on the dust jackets. This is the book where Elvis and Joe share equal billing, where the strengths of each man, and the depths of their friendship, are demonstrated to the fullest. And the icing on the cake? The reader gets to know more about the fascinating and entertaining Jon Stone character than has been revealed in previous books.

Crais's talent for characterization and setting is used to optimal effect, supported by white-hot pacing. The constant tension is spurred by the construction of the book, sliding back and forth in time, allowing the reader to anticipate some, but not too much, of the action while allowing the author enough space to surprise the reader with the twists and turns of the story. Rarely is such construction both necessary and highly effective, but Crais is the master of the time shift (remember LA REQUIEM?), wielding the tool with wisdom and restraint.

But it is the characters: Cole, Pike, Stone, the pollos and the bajadores themselves, who draw the reader in and refuse to let go until their story is resolved: Cole, who goes a little too far trying to help a client. Pike, well, how far won't Pike go for a friend? Stone, a brilliant and loud character who goes as far as he damn well pleases, and who is just begging to get his own name on a dust jacket. The pollos, those victims who risk all for a chance at a better life and those who are trying to escape the consequences of their own deeds. The bajadores, those who are just hired help, those who don't even see their victims as people, and those who positively relish the nastier aspects of their work.

TAKEN has its share of metaphors and symbols, but Crais writes in such an "of the moment" style, that such niceties tend to be camouflaged by the story's action. It lends to his books a subtlety missing in much of today's crime fiction. For example, a killing ground is not made horrific to the reader through graphic detail; it becomes horrific when such a scene can make a character as tough as Jon Stone cry out in rage. Or when the mother of the missing woman gives Cole a tiny figure of Jiminy Cricket, the reader understands what that figure represents to each of them: she is putting everything in life she values in Elvis's hands, and for Elvis, the little plastic figure that was Pinocchio's conscience is, in essence, his own conscience. Elvis has always wanted to be a real boy, hasn't he?

I have to say that I've enjoyed all of Robert Crais's novels, but TAKEN is, for me, the most deeply satisfying book since 2005's THE FORGOTTEN MAN. Thematically, Crais sums up the book with an apt pair of epigraphs right at the beginning:

"Cut you,
I bleed.
Our name is love."
-- Tattooed Beach Sluts

Jiminy Cricket: Hey, where ya goin'?
Pinocchio: I'm going to find him!

If you're wondering, then yes, you can read this book without having read the others in the series. TAKEN stands all on its own as an outstanding example of the action thriller. But it's only fair to say that the best way to experience the deeper richness of these characters is by learning more of Elvis's and Joe's history, so I urge you to read the entire series.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

A pair worth perusing.

2012-01-17T21:19:00.000-05:00

Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles, Vol. II, is a solid follow up to the debut collection of Western short stories. The opening story, Origin of White Deer, is a terrific introduction to the young Cash and lays the foundation for the more mature hero in the other stories. The final story, Reflections in a Glass of Maryland Rye (first published here courtesy of author Edward A. Grainger), is a particularly fine tale, a dark episode that reveals a more human, more fallible Cash, but a man to whom the reader can still relate. Only one Gideon Miles story in this volume, sadly, but it's a dandy. Fans of tales of western justice won't go wrong by saddling up and riding with Laramie and Miles.

The most recent installment in Arnaldur Indriðason's Erlandur series, Hypothermia, may well be the best book in an already fine series. The theme running throughout the series, that of being lost and in search of, is beautifully rendered as Erlandur studies a clear cut case of suicide while following up on a pair of decades-old missing persons cases. The suicide case fascinates Erlandur: the victim was consumed by the possibility of communicating with the dead; she had dreams and visions of the dead mother to whom she was unusually close. The two cold cases are particularly poignant, as the both the missing persons were young people and their families are dead or dying without knowing what ever became of their loved ones. As always, the chill beauty of Iceland stands as backdrop to a story grim but gentle.

"I don't want to make trouble...

2012-01-13T22:40:00.000-05:00

...All I want is a drink."
Miss Claudia Caswell (Marilyn Monroe)
All About Eve (1950)

START SHOOTING by Charlie Newton

2012-01-09T14:11:00.000-05:00

Chicago cop Bobby Vargas and aspiring actress Arleen Brennan were childhood sweethearts, but the brutal rape/murder of Arleen's twin sister at age 14 exploded their world and their innocence. Fast forward 29 years: Arleen has a shot at playing the lead opposite Jude Law in A Streetcar Named Desire if she just goes along with a pair of crooked cops who are putting the screws to the Korean Mafia. And if she can stay one step ahead of those two cops who see her as a loose end that needs tying off. Bobby awakes one morning to find his brother and fellow cop, Ruben, is under investigation for the murder of Arleen's sister. And Bobby, well, to make his week one to remember Bobby has been identified by multiple children as a pedophile. When a Federal agent dies during one of Bobby's vice stings, the hole someone is digging for him gets a hell of a lot deeper. But what do Arleen and Bobby have to do with germ warfare? Or with Chicago's bid for the 2016 Olympics? And can either of them stay alive long enough to find out?

Charlie Newton's second novel is a rampaging rogue elephant of a story, dense in its complexity, with a slam-bang on almost every page. The unexpected violence and the tense character dynamics keep the reader so on edge that frequent breaks are necessary in order to just remember to breathe. Chapter by chapter, page by page, the author weaves an airtight frame of doom around his two protagonists. Justice they don't expect. The law is a tool for the rich and powerful to become even more rich and powerful. Justice is whatever the newspapers say it is. Happy endings, who gets those? Maybe the dead. Maybe. Good guys? Bobby would scoff at the term, even as he wants desperately to be one, to be a real straight-arrow, stand-up cop. But it's tough when everybody -- everybody -- is double-dealing, lying, and manipulating the truth for their own purposes. Trust has been taken out of the dictionary. Survival might be on its way out, too.

The story rips along at light speed, and the reader must pay attention. Not only do Bobby and Arleen have little breathing space, the same is true for the reader, and it's exhausting. But their lives, the events of that one week are never less than compelling, and along the way the reader starts rooting for Bobby and Arleen to see even one of their small, small dreams come true. Think of this book as a Michael Mann movie on speed. Now make it more complex, more unexpected, more cynical, and yes, anybody can die. Yeah, you're starting to get the picture now.

The story is told in first person, present tense (which adds to the tension), over the course of one week, by Bobby and Arleen alternately. Bobby's voice in particular is magnificent, as that of a young cop who has seen too much to retain his idealism, but clings to the last shreds of it all the same. In the opening paragraphs Bobby describes for you the Chicago he knows, a city intimately bound up in race, violence, and politics:

Black, white, brown or yellow, on Chicago's South Side, your neighborhood is your surname. Put on a gun belt, a suit. or a nun's habit, and all you did was accessorize.

For those of you exiting the 'L near Eighteenth and Laflin in the Four Corners, the etiquette is grab a length of rebar, scratch a cross in the concrete, set both feet solid in the quadrant that best fits your skin tone, lean back, and start shooting. Welcome to Chicago, the "2016 Olympic city." We're glad you're here.

How Olympic? We have the best hot dogs, best pizza, worst baseball team, six months of weather that would give pause to a statue, and a river we dye green on St. Patrick's Day because we can. If the IOC could possibly require more, page two is fourteen miles of sandy beaches, blues bars that actually play the blues, icebergs in the winter, four race-tracks, and street gangs with twenty thousand members. Think of Chicago as Club Med, but with issues. Wear clean underwear and socks in case there's an accident, and you're good to go.

On a good day.

Which, unfortunately, today isn't.

No, and the six days following aren't going to be kind to Bobby or Arleen either.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

Hardcover: 320 pages
Publisher: Doubleday (January 10, 2012)
ISBN-10: 0385534698
ISBN-13: 978-0385534697

"...something scary and washed in the blood..."

2012-01-04T11:10:00.006-05:00

"The beautiful and tragic saga of The Louvin Brothers—one of the most legendary country duos of all time—is one of America’s great untold stories. Charlie Louvin was a good, god-fearing, churchgoing singer, but his brother Ira had the devil in him, and was known for smashing his mandolin to splinters onstage, cussing out Elvis Presley, and trying to strangle his third wife with a telephone cord. Satan is Real is the incredible tale of Charlie Louvin’s sixty-five-year career, the timeless murder ballads of
The Louvin Brothers, and an epic tale of two brothers bound together by love, hate, alcohol, blood, and music." (From amazon.com)

I could talk forever about the music of The Louvin Brothers, and how, like The Beatles' music, it has been a soundtrack to my life. The Louvins wrote and played the kind of country music that modern Nashville pretty well tries to pretend it has outgrown, somewhat like a self-conscious teenager who is ashamed of his uncool parents. Emmylou Harris may have said it best: “There was something scary and washed in the blood about the sound of the Louvin Brothers.”

For those who know their music, beyond the melodies, beyond Ira Louvin's incredible songwriting talent, beyond the Grand Ole Opry and the Country Music Hall of Fame, beyond all of it lie the most incredible vocal harmonies in American music. The two brothers sang gospel, folk ballads, bluegrass, honky tonk, and they sang all of it with conviction. And their impact on other musicians was bigger than they could have realized. From the Everly Brothers to Gram Parsons, Emmylou Harris, Ray Charles, Elvis Costello, Raul Malo, Alison Krauss, and so many more -- Vince Gill said, "You can’t find anybody, I don’t think, that was not inspired by them.” My dad sure was. My dad had a beautiful old Martin guitar, a 00021 I think, from about 1947, and my siblings and I grew up singing old-timey gospel songs at home and at church as he sang and played along. There weren't many songs by the Louvins we didn't know, and their songs were always our favorites whenever we sang at revivals or songfests or just sat around the living room with relatives and friends, telling family stories and singing as the mood took us.

Time never dimmed our love for and appreciation of their music. Although my dad rarely traveled after us kids started coming along, in the early 1990s I convinced my parents to make the long drive to Alabama with me to visit one of my siblings. My persuasion took the form of "maybe we could drive over to Sand Mountain and see the Louvins' old homestead." Having said as much to someone like my dad, 'maybe' became a certainty. It's no exaggeration to say that meeting Charlie Louvin and his wife, Betty, and finding them to be as genuine as the music Charlie made, was the greatest thrill of my dad's life, outside of his marriage and the birth of his children. My dad didn't want to leave, and if he'd brought his guitar I feel certain he would have done everything in his power to persuade Charlie to play with him. And only three or four years ago, I made my way over to the little opera house in Nelsonville, Ohio, to see an aged-in-body, young-in-spirit Charlie in concert. The voice had been roughened and shrunk by time, but he still had the magic. You should've seen that audience when he launched into "The Great Atomic Power."

I wish, oh, how I wish that my dad could have read this new book, Satan Is Real: The Ballad of the Louvin Brothers, by Charlie Louvin and Benjamin Whitmer. He always wanted to know more about Ira and Charlie, about what went wrong between the brothers that caused the duo to break up, about what it was like to be a country star in the days when 'country music' meant exactly that and not something pop/rock dressed up with a twang to pass as country. With this book, I know he would have found a lot of the answers he sought, because this book is pure Charlie: candid, rough-hewn, unpretentious, thoughtful. Charlie's honesty about the brutality visited upon Ira (and himself, but more Ira) by their father, about Ira's nasty, alcohol-fueled behavior, about the hard times in general, is breathtaking. Charlie doesn't sugarcoat anything, but his simple recollections carry no taint of scandalmongering in order to sell a book either. Here, he says, is just how it was.

Co-writer Benjamin Whitmer (of Pike fame) has done a superlative job of eliciting and organizing the stories of Charlie's life, clarifying and illustrating his words without ever once getting in the way of Charlie's natural voice. Thus, not only the music and the brothers are revealed here, but also there is a glimpse into mid-century rural Appalachian culture, a time when small family farms were worked by hand, a time when communities came together around a single radio. And also a time when a man could with impugnity beat his children senseless; when a sixth-grade education was all most children of Appalachia could aspire to; when racial slurs were accepted conversation; a time and place of grinding poverty that could yet yield the finest of vocal harmonies. Along the way, Charlie talks about the celebrities of his day and industry, not namedropping but recognizing the roles these people played in his life: Roy Acuff, Fred Rose, Hank Williams, Elvis (don't need a last name here, do I?), Colonel Tom Parker ("a fourteen-carat asshole"), and Kris Kristofferson. And the chapter about the loan Johnny Cash made to Charlie is worth the price of the book all by itself. Charlie testifies to Cash's character in a way that the biopic, Walk the Line, never does.

Through all of it, Charlie's own character, not perfect but perfectly human, emerges. My dad would've treasured this book. I will, too.

Available at all the major bookstore chains and independents, in hardcover and ebook:

Hardcover: 320 pages
Publisher: Igniter (January 3, 2012)
ISBN-10: 0062069039
ISBN-13: 978-0062069030

RECOMMENDED.

MONKEY JUSTICE by Patti Abbott

2012-01-02T21:39:00.000-05:00

The holidays have at last provided a chance for me to catch up on some of the ebooks on my reader. Tops on my list is MONKEY JUSTICE, Patti Abbott's collection of short stories. Why? Because every story contains characters I can relate to, yet no two of her stories are remotely alike. A small paradox, but a pleasant one. And also because Abbott never treats the short story form as an easy route to getting her name in front of readers. Too often writers, even very good writers, are heavy handed with the short story, beating the characters, the plot -- if any -- and the reader into submission. Every short story should be unpredictable; yet every short story need not shock. A good short story may sometimes have to be coaxed as much as it is written. And this is where Abbott's strength lies. She doesn't write crime fiction per se; she writes character fiction. And this collections boasts some superlative examples:

Like a Hawk Rising - When a gimpy housebreaker, Bernie, and his hard-as-nails wife, Marsha, witness the neighbor's kid being abused by his absentee father, what should they do about it? Call the law? Not a good idea because of Bernie's occupation. But Marsha isn't about to just turn a blind eye. And she has other scores that need to be settled as well. Can she hit upon a one-size-fits-all solution, and still keep Bernie and herself safe?

The Instrument of Their Desire - An elderly woman confronts her brother about the childhood abuse of their late sister, with surprising and sad results. A wrenching story and one of Abbott’s best, it initially appeared in the excellent 2010 anthology, BETWEEN THE DARK AND THE DAYLIGHT and 27 More of the Best Crime and Mystery Stories of the Year, edited by Ed Gorman and Martin H. Greenberg.

Monkey Justice - Recognition that one is being treated unfairly is the mark of higher intelligence. That isn’t the same thing as being civilized, as scientist Cheryl learns the hard way. Abbott has a deft touch with dysfunctional family dynamics, and nicely correlates the human dynamics with those of the monkeys Cheryl is studying. This is the kind of story that brings out the latent anger in a lot of women.

The Squatter - A cautionary tale about who you allow into your life, this chilling story could easily be the basis for a novel-length thriller.

Raising the Dead - You really can lose sight of moral boundaries when you’re all wrapped up in your art. Just ask the woman who photographs the dead.

Those are my favorites but there are another 18 excellent stories in this collection, available in digital format from amazon. I'm looking forward to reading more from Patti Abbott in 2012.

File Size: 289 KB
Print Length: 213 pages
Simultaneous Device Usage: Unlimited
Publisher: Snubnose Press (October 10, 2011)
Text-to-Speech: Enabled
Lending: Enabled
Average Customer Review: 5.0 out of 5 stars See all reviews (15 customer reviews)

RECOMMENDED.

Turn around, bright eyes.

2012-01-01T00:01:00.001-05:00

Just a quick look back over my shoulder at 2011, courtesy of Google Analytics, to this blog's most popular posts last year. I'll withhold actual numbers so my three regular readers won't realize how isolated this blog is.

The post that was the most popular work of fiction as well as the post with the most overall visits this year was REFLECTIONS IN A GLASS OF MARYLAND RYE by Edward A. Grainger. Kudos to David Cranmer, of Beat to a Pulp renown, for generously providing this excellent Western tale that drew so much deserved attention. This story also elicited far more comments than any other post this year.

The top five book reviews, as blog readership numbers go, were:

1. THE END OF EVERYTHING by Megan Abbott (6/27/2011)
2. FALL FROM GRACE by Wayne Arthurson (3/19/2011)
3. ONE TRUE SENTENCE by Craig McDonald (3/8/2011)
4. DISCOUNT NOIR edited by Patricia Abbott and Steve Weddle (2/6/2011)
5. DUST DEVILS by Roger Smith (6/23/2011)

The post that was not directly given over to a book or short story and which drew the most attention was a meme naming my favorite ten Western films, "IT RAINS...:" BEGETS "DROWNING MACHINE." Thanks to Michael, who writes the wonderful blog, It Rains...You Get Wet, and who inspired that post.

The date this blog was unusually popular was June 19, 2011, when the winners of the Watery Grave Invitational were named and the winning stories were posted.

In reviewing the numbers for these most popular posts, one thing becomes hit-over-the-head-with-a-hammer clear: This blog owes everything, everything, to you writers: you novelists, you short-story writers, and fellow bloggers. Thank you. No, thank you.

Fourth Annual Lowhead Dam Awards

2011-12-31T11:51:00.001-05:00

As I've been off my reading feed for the past couple of months, I gave serious thought to skipping the awards this year. But I decided that would be grossly unfair to those wonderful titles I did read, never mind that I've spent the last eight weeks re-reading mostly old favorites that would demand nothing of me. My memory is faulty, yes, but here are the works I read this year that, for good or ill, are unforgettable.

The Give a Dam Award, intended for a classic published at least 30 years ago, goes unclaimed this year. I read plenty of books this year that were published more than three decades back, but none of them were new to me. So, moving on...

The Water Over the Dam Award honors both a book and the person who recommended it. Well, my favorite influence peddlar, Ken Bruen, cops a share of this award for making me aware of THE WOMAN WHO MARRIED A BEAR, by John Straley. This book won the Shamus Award in 1993 for Best First Novel, and deservedly so. The series deserves more attention than it ever got.

John Hart, a rare double Edgar winner, also takes a pair of Lowheads this year for IRON HOUSE. This book rakes in the Not Worth a Tinker's Dam Award, for the most overrated work of crime fiction, as well as the Dam Your Eyes Award, for the book most anticipated and least enjoyed. Don't bother looking for my review of this one, because I didn't bother writing one.

The Dam With Faint Praise Award for the best, most-overlooked - underhyped, if you will - work of crime fiction goes to a book that caught me off guard: TEMPORARY PERFECTIONS, by Gianrico Carofiglio, is a philosophical, introspective tale about a lawyer searching for a missing woman, and finding out more about himself than he bargained for.

And now for a trio of short-story awards. I fell way, way behind on my short-story reading once autumn arrived but still managed close to 200 stories this year, so I had a wonderful array from which to choose these excellent stories:

The Dam Skippy Award (Online) goes to Patricia Abbott for THE PERFECT DAY, published at All Due Respect. This story about a day at the beach for a dysfunctional family hints at Flannery O'Connor-like clouds on their horizon.

The Dam Skippy Award (Print) goes to HAIRCUT, a classic story by Ring Lardner. Lardner may be better known for his writing about baseball, but this tale of murder, narrated by an unwitting small-town barber, is chilling.

The Dam Skippy Award (Digital) goes to Eric Beetner for his story included in the PULP INK anthology, ZED'S DEAD, BABY. The story is about a persistent enforcer who always, always gets his man. Dead or otherwise. A darkly funny tale, far and away my favorite in an anthology that includes stories from such talents as Reed Farrel Coleman, Allan Guthrie, and Hilary Davidson.

Oddly enough, not one of the winning stories came from the best overall anthology or collection I read this year, which was DISCOUNT NOIR, edited by Patricia Abbott and Steve Weddle. Hm, I may need to add another award for next year for the best anthology or collection.

And at last, the award for the best novel I read this year, the Hot Dam Award. Well, there's a long list of the possibles. In the order I read them, first to last:

THE WOMAN WHO MARRIED A BEAR by John Straley
OUTSOURCED by Dave Zeltserman
ONE TRUE SENTENCE by Craig McDonald
THE LOST SISTER by Russel D. McLean
DIE A LITTLE by Megan Abbott
A VINE IN THE BLOOD by Leighton Gage
DUST DEVILS by Roger Smith
THE END OF EVERYTHING by Megan Abbott
A KILLER'S ESSENCE by Dave Zeltserman
EL GAVILAN by Craig McDonald
TEMPORARY PERFECTIONS by Gianrico Carofiglio
HEADSTONE by Ken Bruen

The single book that was, for me, the best read in 2011 came down to a choice between Roger Smith's DUST DEVILS - a stellar book: graphic, moving, and meaningful - and the book on which I bestow the Hot Dam Award: Megan Abbott's THE END OF EVERYTHING. Abbott steps away from classic noir to display an evocative, lyrical talent that captures all that is wonderful and frightening to an adolescent narrator caught up in the dark natures of the adults in her world. If you ignore everything else I recommend this year, don't miss this book.

As always, I owe a debt of endless gratitude to the authors, for their work and for their patience with this reader, who doesn't always "get it." I'll try to do better in 2012.

Happy New Year!

A VINE IN THE BLOOD by Leighton Gage

2011-12-26T06:01:00.003-05:00

In the wake of the recent kidnapping of a major-league baseball player in Colombia, comes this timely mystery -- only I read the ebook last spring, so maybe 'timely' is the wrong word; perhaps I should have said 'prescient.'

Brazil's (and the world's) finest football player loves his mother very much. When she's kidnapped, he's more than ready to pay the ransom. Problem is, the kidnapping occurs just prior to the beginning of World Cup play. Could this be the work of rival countries hoping to destroy Brazil's chances of winning? Could the mind behind it be the player's own fiancee, a beauty with grasping hands and a heart of "cold"? Could the mastermind be the team owner, who desperately needs money? Or the mobster who wants to crush the team owner? The servants? The imprisoned criminologist who moonlighted as a kidnapper? The kidnap and ransom plans were designed by someone who has carefully planned each step, every tiny detail. Except one, and that single misstep leads to double murder.

It's always a treat when Mario Silva's team of federal investigators work a case. The characters are defined mostly by their dialogue, something that was more common among mystery writers of old (Erle Stanley Gardner, for example, and the great Dashiell Hammett), and author Gage makes that dialogue sparkle. While the repartee among the investigators, or between the investigators and the witnesses/suspects entertains the reader and furthers the story, it also does much to reveal the characters' underlying natures. From 'Baby Face' Goncalves to (my favorite) Silva's aide, Arnaldo Nunes, from incidental characters like shop clerks and park rangers to major players like the football star's fiancee and the criminologist, each character is so well-defined by his dialogue that physical descriptions are rendered almost unnecessary.

The story, as with all of the books in this series, moves along at gallop. I love that the author, while allowing his team to make use of forensics, never lets the story's pace or tension droop due to technical or scientific explanations. Forensics support the story; forensics are NOT the story, praise be! And Mario Silva and his team don't let any grass grow under their feet, but at the same time, each of them seems very human. No superheroes here, just cops getting the job done, cops with wit and personality.

With each book I also have the pleasure of learning more about Brazil. Gage does a great job of weaving this information so tightly into the threads of the story that it never feels pedantic or confusing, but is a fascinating and fundamental part of the story. If you haven't tried this series yet, it's okay to start here, with this book, because these books are easily read out of order. But read them, yes, I urge you. Read them now; thank me later.

On sale: 12/27/2011

HEADSTONE by Ken Bruen

2011-12-25T15:36:00.000-05:00

Jack Taylor gets a small headstone in the mail. Well, he's the kind of guy that would happen to, isn't he? But when his friends -- he still has one or two -- receive similar items and then are subject to brutal assaults, Jack has to start sitting up, drinking down, and paying attention.

Is there any encomium I have not yet bestowed on Ken Bruen? If so, it's been a drastic oversight on my part. Bruen's writing goes from strength to strength. His ability to twist a plot is masterful; his pacing is precise; and his characters fairly leap from the page in all their rage.

Rebounding from his recent encounter with one kind of devil, Jack finds himself in the position of making deals with another. Body and soul, Jack will not come away from this case unscathed, nor will his friends, and even some of his enemies will be affected by the fallout. HEADSTONE may well be the most surprising -- shocking is not too strong a word -- story in the Jack Taylor series since THE DRAMATIST, and I think it is one that reveals Jack's conflicted soul better than any other.

As with virtually every book by Ken Bruen, HEADSTONE is HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

A midnight clear

2011-12-24T23:59:00.000-05:00

"And men at war with men can't hear / the love song that they bring.
So stop your noise, you men of war / and hear the angels sing."

He knows me so well...

2011-12-24T20:42:00.000-05:00

"I know you're a nincompoop, and I strongly suspect you of being a scalawag!"
-- Clarence Day, Sr. (William Powell)
Life With Father (1947)

A neb-ulous notion...

2011-12-23T06:00:00.001-05:00

"Fans are funny that way: they take a dislike to things. They'll pick on a nose."
-- Grandfather (Wilfrid Brambell)
A Hard Day's Night (1964)

TEMPORARY PERFECTIONS by Gianrico Carofiglio

2011-12-22T09:19:00.000-05:00

Guido Guerrieri is hired to look into a missing person case. Not to investigate it, he's a lawyer after all, not a detective, but the parents of the missing young woman are afraid the police are about to close the case, so they ask Guerrieri to go over the details to see what the police might have missed. But he doesn't think they missed anything and he dreads having to tell his clients that he can offer them no hope. Instead he begins to interview the woman's friends and the few witnesses available, and slowly the imaginative Guido begins to unravel a tale of dark deceit.

TEMPORARY PERFECTIONS is not only the title of the book, it is the theme of the book, those moments of perfect happiness that we cling to as we live them but can barely recall as little as 24 hours later. But Guido remembers them in vivid detail, and author Carofiglio fills the story with Guido's reminiscences, temporary perfections (for only what is temporary, says Guido, can be perfect), each of which not only fulfills the theme but shines a brief light on the way Guido puts together the puzzle of the missing woman.

As a result of Guido's pauses to remember, the pace of the book is easy, as the lawyer gently teases out the facts of the case, but not dragging. Every moment spent in Guido's company is fascinating because he is a fascinating character. He's a successful attorney, a failure at relationships, and those two attributes should make this character just another of the same in a long line of such in contemporary crime fiction. Guido is different because he is literate, insecure, compassionate; in short, he's the kind of man most women would love to get to know but never will because he thinks of himself as Charlie Brown, the Peanuts character. When Guido makes a misstep it isn't because he is stupid or careless. He is not a stupid or careless man. His missteps occur because he is lonely and fallible. But those same two characteristics also provoke rewards that he sometimes sees and appreciates, and sometimes does not.

Carofiglio has crafted a poignant, witty, and literate mystery in this his fourth book in the Guerrieri series. The complexities and quirks of the Italian criminal justice system are made readily comprehensible, with no strain on the reader. The emphasis is on reasoning and the understanding of the human condition, so don't expect Guido to suddenly imitate Jack Reacher -- Guido is a warmer personality, and although he is a creditable boxer, the author does not use that skill as a device to put Guido in the position of being a physical hero. Instead, Guido's punching bag acts as a friend to him, a sounding board for his emotions and ideas. Credit translator Antony Shugaar for keeping the translation smooth, never using a misplaced idiom or a word that jars the reader into a state of disbelief. I'm looking forward to finding the earlier books in this series and spending more quality time with Guido.

Here's an excerpt that may help you understand why I find the introspective and well-read Guido so engaging:

It was just then that I realized something. A couple of hours earlier, I had assumed that when I read the file, I wouldn't find any new clues. And in fact, reading the file had only confirmed my suspicions. But I also assumed that I would then report my findings to Fornelli and the Ferraros, return their check, and get myself out of an assignment that I had neither the skills nor the resources to take on. It would be the only right and reasonable course of action. But in that two-hour period, for reasons I could only vaguely guess at and that I didn't want to examine too closely, I had changed my mind.

I told myself I'd give it a try. Nothing more. And the first thing I'd do would be to talk to the non-commissioned officer who had supervised the investigation, Inspector Navarra. I knew him. We were friends, and he would certainly be willing to tell me what he thought of the case, aside from what he'd written in his reports. Then I'd decide what to do next, what else to try.

As I walked out onto the street, with a studied gesture I pulled up the collar of my raincoat, even though there was no reason to do so.

People who read too much often do things that are completely unnecessary.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

I'm not so sure...

2011-12-20T06:00:00.001-05:00

"They can't shoot you for dreaming. At least not here."
-- Harold Pierson (Jack Carson)
Roughly Speaking (1945)

Ah, me, yes!

2011-12-19T06:00:00.002-05:00

"How singularly innocent I look this morning."
-- Waldo Lydecker (Clifton Webb)
Laura (1944)

PULP INK - cheap! cheap! cheap!

2011-12-17T14:55:00.000-05:00

Twenty-four stories of highly diversified pulp from authors as well known as Reed Farrel Coleman, Allan Guthrie, and Hilary Davidson; and as unknown as, well, yours truly. And now available for only 99¢ -- such a bargain! Don't wait, this price is only temporary.

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Feeling a bit overwhelmed myself...

2011-12-17T12:27:00.000-05:00

"Tyrone, you know how much I love watching you work, but I've got my country's 500th anniversary to plan, my wedding to arrange, my wife to murder and Guilder to frame for it; I'm swamped."

-- Prince Humperdinck (Chris Sarandon)
The Princess Bride (1987)

Ma Otter said it for me.

2011-12-15T22:49:00.000-05:00

"Favorite stories don't end, in our world."

-- Ma Otter (Marilyn Sokol)

Emmet Otter's Jug-Band Christmas (1977)

Some things haven't changed since the 19th century.

2011-12-15T08:58:00.000-05:00

"One might say that December is the foreclosure season. Harvest time for the money-lenders."

-- Ebenezer Scrooge (Michael Caine)
The Muppet Christmas Carol (1992)

Definition of a scrooge.

2011-12-14T23:48:00.001-05:00

"If it was raining hundred dollar bills, you'd be out looking for a dime you lost someplace!"

-- Ann Mitchell (Barbara Stanwyck)
Meet John Doe (1941)

Santa's lost the address...

2011-12-14T08:17:00.000-05:00

"Curtains would do wonders for this barracks. You will not get them."
-- Oberst von Scherbach (Otto Preminger)
Stalag 17 (1953)

A holiday favorite...

2011-12-13T18:52:00.000-05:00

"If crime showed on a man's face, there wouldn't be any mirrors."
-- Albert (Aldo Ray)
We're No Angels (1955)

DASHER'S VERSION by Naomi Johnson

2011-12-08T22:06:00.000-05:00

Okay, I admit it. None of us were very nice to the new guy. What the heck, there were eight of us and we'd been working as a team for a very long time. All of a sudden the Big Guy decides we need a new teammate and we don't even get asked to submit names or nothing. Don't get asked to evaluate the new guy's record, you know, his experience and training and suchlike. Oh, no, the Big Guy just drops by one day, introduces Rudy and leaves.

Turns out the kid don't know a sleigh from a sledgehammer. I mean, he don't know nothing, and this is a plum job. Some great fliers never even get a hoof in the door, but here's this doofus who knows nothing from nothing, and suddenly Christmas Eve is going to be Amateur Night?

And his looks didn't help any either. First thing you notice on this guy is the schnoz. I mean, come on, he's got a beak would have made Jimmy Durante weep. Yeah, plus we were all pretty sure the kid was hittin' the bottle, and hard. When you got so many broken veins in your nose that it looks more like a glowing tail light on a Caddy than it does a nose, what's everyone supposed to think? So all in all, is it any surprise that we ribbed the kid a lot, did a bit of name-calling maybe? And no, he didn't get any invitations to the stag parties either. But it's not true that we ever hurt him physically. Well, none of us except Donner and Blitzen, who got him down once and kicked the antlers off him, but those two are friggin' neo-Nazis, they are, and the rest of us have all warned the Big Guy about them at one time or another.

So this kid, Rudy, he was taking his lumps, paying his dues, you know, just like any rookie would. Then suddenly everything changed. I mean, everything.

Picture it: Christmas Eve. Sky is midnight blue, the air so cold you could bite chunks out of it and get brain-freeze. The sleigh is packed, and I mean lo-ho-hoaded for the occasion; the manifest inspected and okay-ed; the Big Guy is checking his list for the third time, and we're just waiting for the tower to clear us for takeoff. We're all of us in our best bib and tucker -- new leather bridles and our bells polished to a chrome-like finish. Comet's hooves are striking sparks off the runway. Cupid's planting a wet sloppy one on the Big Guy. Well, she's a tart, she is. Dancer and Prancer -- they finally came out of the stall this year. Huh, like everybody didn't already know that -- anyway, they're showing off new coifs and manicures. Donner and Blitzen are goose-stepping like they're heading down the yellow brick road to see der Fuhrer. And that Vixen? She is suh-mokin' hot! I give her a wink, tell her I have a bag of carrots stashed in my stall in case she'd care to drop by after work and see my horseshoe collection. She rolls her eyes, jingles her bells, and in general plays coy, but I know she'll be there.

So you got the picture, right? Everybody's a little antsy, wanting to get going. Then: Nothing. Just nothing. Lights out.

Can't even see the tower and I know it's lit up like a – yeah, yeah, like a Christmas tree. But suddenly I can't see a thing, and let me tell you, that Vixen is hot enough to make a blind caribou see. But I'm getting nothing, absolutely zero transmissions to the visual cortex. Do you get what I'm saying?

Only it's not just me. And it's chaos, I'm telling ya. Cupid is whinnying like she's about to give birth, which by now should be something she could do without even being awake. Yeah, fifteen calves she's dropped. Enough already.

Anyway. Comet is screaming 'help, I'm blind, somebody help me!' Dancer and Prancer are yammering hysterically about peroxide poisoning and suing their hairdresser. Donner and Blitzen, those two tough guys are weeping and wailing and repenting their sins -- it was a long and disgusting list, and that's all I'm going to say about that. Vixen nervously sidled closer to me -- I'm Dasher, in case you ain't figured it out yet, and I know it was Vixen because it was my eyes what failed me, not my nose. She's the only one of us who wears Chanel.

And speaking of noses, what do I hear above all the clamor and commotion? The Big Guy bellowing, "Rudy, take the lead, or this fog will keep us grounded until next Christmas!" And then, there it was: A glowing red orb, so steady and bright it cut through that blanket of fog like a flamethrower. Yeah, Rudy. And his incredible schnoz.

And now I could see clear to the end of the runway. And the youngster took his place at the front as if he'd been born to it. Next thing you know, tower gives us clearance, the Big Guy pops that whip, and we were off. From that point on, everybody lets go of his or her personal foibles and gets down to getting the job done. I'll be honest: Rudy did a great job all night, only one little mishap, just one, and that was right at takeoff when he angled upwards a little too sharp and chose that very moment to empty his bowels. I'd put it down to nerves and inexperience except that it was Donner and Blitzen who took it all right in the kissers. The best part was, D&B couldn't even stop to clean up, they had to wear it all night long. Best. Christmas Eve. Ever.

So the upshot of it all is we all learned a lesson on not judging by appearances. And a lesson about how everybody's got value. And a lesson in trusting the Big Guy's judgment. Yeah, yeah, it was a regular college diploma for each of us, and everybody loves Rudy now; he's everybody's best friend. I'm not even sore that Vixen stood me up that night. So she chose to share a nosebag with the hero of the night instead of spending the holiday with me and my carrots. I could see that coming before we'd even finished the Denmark deliveries. I will say that, contrary to rumor, while I was not exactly shouting out with glee, I understood Vixen's ambition. She knows which side of the stable door has the oats, and she'll do whatever it takes to get a promotion. If my name was Dashette instead of Dasher, I'd have done the same.

But Rudy's an okay guy, really. He didn't get the big head or rub it in or nothing. He's even a little embarrassed by all the fuss; you know: songs, tv shows, pageants, etc. Great guy, that Rudy, none finer. Trust him with my life even. But I'll tell anybody who'll listen: I don't care what the flight assignments are next year or the year after, I am never gonna be the unfortunate reindeer right behind Rudy. Never.

Oh, yeah, I almost forgot: Merry Christmas to all and to all a good light.

- D.

EL GAVILAN by Craig McDonald

2011-11-28T20:58:00.001-05:00

EL GAVILAN is a fascinating thriller about three law enforcement officers who collide over the issues stemming from illegal immigration: Tell Lyon, a former border-patrol officer, whose tragic past follows him from the border to central Ohio, as he takes up the job of police chief in a small town with limited resources; Able Hawk, the title character, is the unorthodox county sheriff Tell must rely on for additional resources; and Walt Pierce, a neighboring-county sheriff with a screw-the-world, by-the-book-and-by-the-balls mentality. The sadistic rape and murder of a young Latina sets these characters, and others, in explosive motion, sliding and caroming off each other as the facts surrounding the murder come to light. Adding to the fireworks are gangbangers and a reporter who at best can be described as weasely and egocentric. If it's true that the main character in a good novel will always be a changed character by the end of the book, then EL GAVILAN is a great novel, because every character in this book is forever changed by the events that unfold.

It's no secret that I'm an unabashed admirer of author Craig McDonald's Hector Lassiter series. What he's done with his first standalone novel is something very different from his Lassiter series. EL GAVILAN is more mainstream contemporary fare than the Lassiter books, but no less intriguing. Where the Lassiter books are full of both overt and sly historical references, and pop-culture head games (ahem), EL GAVILAN requires the reader to fully engage with characters whose diverse opinions on controversial topics such as illegal immigration sometimes contradict their actions, and yet when examined in depth seem not to be contradictory at all, or not entirely. What this book has in common with the Lassiter series, aside from stellar writing and storytelling, is the author's finely drawn separation of what is legal, what is just, and what is right -- those three things are seldom one and the same -- and depicting the differences with all-too human characters, both admirable and despicable, as well as those who occupy the middle ground.

In this standalone, McDonald deftly handles the twin reins of pace and tension, moving the story toward a dynamic confrontation, yet creating circumstances that complicate any possible result of that confrontation. This is must reading for anyone who thinks the topic of illegal immigration begins and ends somewhere other than his own backyard. The author's small town setting is fictional, but there are recognizable places and incidents from my own city. And central Ohio isn't usually the first place people think of when the topic of illegal immigration arises.Without preaching or pandering to the extremists on either side of this divisive issue, McDonald makes the reader intimately aware of the causes and effects, and manages to tell a damn fine story at the same time.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

Note: B&N and amazon both list this book with a release date of 12/18, but B&N is shipping already.

Review: A KILLER'S ESSENCE by Dave Zeltserman

2011-11-03T23:20:00.000-04:00

NYPD Detective Stan Green's life is spiraling out of control. His devotion to the job has cost him his marriage; his failures as a parent have made his children despise him; he's in a financial sinkhole, his partner is in the hospital, and the new woman -- young and beautiful -- in his life wants more time and money than he'll ever have. He's getting pressure to lend his authority to a shady nightclub owner, to shade his testimony in favor of a pair of Russian thugs, and he's got a murder case that promises to turn into a string of murders, with no clues to help find the killer. Stan does have one eyewitness, a man who suffered a head trauma that left him unable to bear looking at other people. But that man, Zachary Lynch, sees so much more than anyone suspects.

One of author Dave Zeltserman's great gifts is taking a trope and turning it on its head. Here he takes the police procedural/serial killer tale and spins it into a poignant, psychological study of a man whose impulses and decisions are isolating him from humanity. The author also shoots a pair of small, well-aimed darts at egotistical writers and merciless reviewers, and calls to this reader's mind a line penned by the immortal Robbie Burns:

"O wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us!"

It's enough for me that Zeltserman sees his characters as they are, warts and all, for he enables the reader to blush for, cringe from, pity, and ultimately root for Stan Green.

Where I've been, where I am.

2011-10-25T19:03:00.000-04:00

Yes, I have been unreasonably quiet of late. Here's just one of the reasons why:

But at least she likes books -- even if she doesn't always like them right side up.

Adieu, St. Louis. Helloooo, John and Nigel!

2011-09-29T13:48:00.000-04:00

Are you feeling ready to choke every time you see the word Bouchercon? Were you starting to think that the hubbub surrounding the most recent event was finally dying out, and the online world of crime fic was returning to what passes for normal?

Don't worry, I don't plan to rehash the event in detail. Suffice it to say that the gathering more than met my expectations, and I'm very happy I went. The best part turned out not to be mingling with the famous authors -- though the famous folk certainly held up their end of this pact with the devil. No, it was the Internet acquaintances, the not-yet-famous and the never-will-be famous writers, the bloggers, the small-timers, and the nobody-in-particulars who made the event so special for me. Made it feel like a homecoming. And made the parting such sweet sorrow.

One writer not present at Bouchercon, though I was pleased to have met him here in Columbus recently, was John Hornor Jacobs, co-founder of Needle: A Magazine of Noir. I recently finished Jacobs' debut novel, SOUTHERN GODS, which made it clear to me why his next novel is being pubbed by Simon & Schuster (2013). In general, I gave up on the horror genre some twenty years ago, when it ceased to hold my interest. Even favorite writers of mine (naming no names) fail to hold my interest when their work slips into the horror genre. No one was more surprised than I to find myself entertained right through to the end of SOUTHERN GODS. I credit that to the author's development of interesting and sympathetic characters with whom I did not lose patience, as well as a taut pace. The tale speeds through the Delta blues and the days of payola, mashes it with Lovecraftian horror and a traditional PI, and overlays it all with a Southern Gothic ambiance. The story has two threads, one about a 1951 PI in search of a missing record salesman in Arkansas, the other about a woman who, with her young daughter, has fled an abusive husband for the dubious sanctuary of her mother's rambling old mansion. Weaving the threads together is the dark force the PI encounters in his search for the missing salesman, the same dark force that inhabits the woods near the old mansion. Good stuff, and if you're a horror fan, it's sheer bliss.

Another writerly friend not present at Bouchercon this year is Nigel Bird. Nigel recently shared a slender volume of his poetry with me, work which, to the best of my knowledge, he has not published. I was expecting grim verse of grit and horror, so you may imagine my delight at discovering some of Nigel's poems have the quirkiness of Shel Silverstein's poems, the ones that seem so very childlike but have that unexpected edge which make them so enjoyable to adults. And if those Silversteinesque poems weren't enough of a surprise, there were others, so sweetly romantic so that I found myself gasping a little that the man who could write a short story like Taking a Line for a Walk could also write the following:

The Dress
It should be framed by waterfalls that dress
a gentle flow from hair to salmon pink
the cooling flutter of a Summer’s afternoon
of eating strawberries in long grass, no shoes,
no socks, sharing each sip and each juicy drip,
savouring the moment.

That hem was born to twist
side to side in Roaring Twenties bars, a tall
dark stranger, spats, combs,
and something for the weekend,
admiring from the shadows
at the wall.

It is the Riviera, Camelot, Cotton Club,
a hotel room at lunchtime
dropping to the floor to form
a crumpled lipstick ‘O’ to step from.

It is the queen of dresses, the most divine
brings out the devils and the angels
for a look, and may I say,
it barely does you justice.

SLAMMER Redux

2011-09-22T13:15:00.007-04:00

I'll try to make up for a shocking oversight on my part earlier this month, when Allan Guthrie's SLAMMER was issued for Kindle, by reviving Corey's review of same. I could never improve on Corey's take of this terrific twisty and psychological tale, but I will add that the character of Nick Glass is worth examining in fine detail. Nick is one of those guys that people later say, "He always seemed like such a nice guy."

SLAMMER by Allan Guthrie

Review by Corey Wilde

SYNOPSIS: Prison guard Nick Glass is new to the job, and he's completely unsuited to it. He's an obvious mark for both the hardened cons and the veteran guards alike. When his wife and child are threatened, Nick agrees to do one favor for the cons. Of course, one favor turns into many and soon the pressure of trying to hold together and protect his family, as well as do his job, pushes Nick closer to his breaking point and a chain of events that no one, least of all Nick Glass, could have predicted.

REVIEW: After reading the synopsis, you may think you know what this book is about and you may even think you have some idea of how it will progress. You'd be dead wrong. In fact, this isn't even a prison story in the usual sense of that term. 'Slammer' isn't just about a physical prison; it's about all the prisons, external and internal, that confine a young man who suffers bullying and abuse and extortion. While some events occur within the prison where Nick works, Nick himself becomes the figurative prisoner of more forceful characters, and he's also a prisoner to those he loves. This is a dark jigsaw-puzzle of a book where mirrors and memories are not to be trusted anymore than Nick can trust the prisoners out to take advantage of his weaknesses.

Author Allan Guthrie does a staggering job of creating a Nick Glass who is irritating in his weakness but is also pitiable and likeable, a man as fragile as his name. Nick has murky depths beyond his primary character flaw, and Guthrie irrevocably adjusts, sometimes violently and sometimes indirectly, the lights and mirrors to reveal what's swimming in those depths. To say more would be to give away important elements of the story, and this book is too good to mistreat.

Adding to the vise-like pressure of Nick's situation are the claustrophobic scenes occurring either within the confines of the prison or the small house Nick shares with his wife and child. Nick becomes a black hole of pressure, where tension goes in but cannot be released. The author doesn't so much raise the level of tension as he compresses it around and into Nick personally, and the scenes begin to feel more and more confined until it's as if everything that is happening is entirely internal to Nick.

Readers should be prepared to give Nick's story full time and attention because events move quickly and there are time shifts. Casual references made early assume greater significance as the book progresses. Even so, expect moments of 'oh, I see!' mingled with sharp sadness. Nick Glass is an unforgettable protagonist and Guthrie has placed him in a darkly tragic, poignant, and ultimately satisfying psychological thriller.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Available on Kindle and Nook.

REFLECTIONS IN A GLASS OF MARYLAND RYE by Edward A. Grainger

2011-09-09T10:04:00.001-04:00

In general, The Drowning Machine publishes only winning fiction resulting from our annual Watery Grave contest. But some little while back, David Cranmer (aka Edward A. Grainger) promised me an original story to be published here first. Who would say 'no' to that offer? Like his fictional heroes, Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles, David is an honorable man, and his word is his bond. He is also the author of the bestselling Kindle collection, The Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles. I am extremely proud to present here his excellent new Cash Laramie story, a tale about blind justice, Reflections in a Glass of Maryland Rye.

Reflections in a Glass of Maryland Rye

Edward A. Grainger

“Marshal, you want more?” the pockmarked lad asked.

Through glazed eyes, Cash Laramie tried to remember the waiter’s name. Was it Jim—or Jerry? He wasn’t going to recollect, and he didn’t really care. He settled on nodding then watched the kid pour whiskey in his glass and set the bottle down next to it. Jim, or Jerry, moved to a nearby table where two cowboys sat.

Cash looked in the jewel-toned liquid and saw distorted burned-out cinders in blue orbs staring vacantly back at him. Startled, he looked up at the mirror behind the bar where he met his likeness: tired eyes, week-old stubble on a square jaw, a dusty black Stetson tilted high on his head, and an Arapaho arrowhead dangling on a leather thong around his neck. He swirled the drink and then took a swig, wondering how long he would continue to recall that man—another name he couldn't remember—and that day.

He watched the waiter pouring ale into a mug as one cowboy tossed some coins on the table.

Silver. That was the man's name. How could he have forgotten? Wanted for horse thieving.

A full year had passed since he tracked Silver to a cabin in Upton, Wyoming. As Cash rode up on Paint, the man stood at the cabin door aiming a Henry rifle at him. “I ain’t going back. They mean to hang me, but I’m innocent.”

“You have no choice, Silver.”

Cash slid off his mount on the left, stepped away and pulled a Winchester rifle from the scabbard in one sleek movement.

Silver raised the barrel, firing lead over Cash’s head, and then retreated inside, slamming the wooden door closed. The gun barrel reappeared through a slot centered in the door.

Cash slapped Paint away with a stern “git” and then, ripping off rifle slugs at the house, he darted behind a wagon next to the well. He flinched as potshots rained down from his right, splintering the wagon inches above his head. A puff of gray smoke drifted from the barn loft about two hundred yards away.

He targeted the bushwhacker’s outline in the shadows and triggered his weapon. The slim figure in over-sized dungarees dropped in an ungainly heap to the ground.

A shout rang out from the cabin as the door flung open again, Silver charging hell-for-leather toward the barn, yelling, “Jamie!”

Cash drew a bead on the running mark, and Silver stumbled as the bullets punched him to the ground. He slipped cartridges in his Winchester when abruptly Silver sat bolt upright, firing shots that split the air beside the marshal’s ear. Cash palmed the rifle in his left hand while yanking the Colt holstered on his right hip free and blasted the horse thief, hitting him in the gut.

Silver gasped, dropped the Henry, and kissed the earth again.

Cash pouched his iron and sprinted to the barn. He hadn’t come with the intent to kill.

He slowed as he approached the body and then stopped and angrily kicked the dirt. A young woman lay contorted on the ground with an arm stretched out, blood trickling in parallel. Could have been the man’s daughter. Could have been a much-younger wife. Didn’t matter. She nearly killed him.

He found a shovel and buried the woman in the field behind the barn, marking the shallow grave with a wooden cross.

Paint stood several hundred feet away at the edge of the clearing. He walked over, replaced the Winchester and then led the pinto back to the homestead.

Cash went in the cabin, scouring the rooms for any sign of next of kin. All he turned up was several letters from Arden V.S. Thompson, Esq. from Boston stacked on the table. He pocketed them and left for the barn.

As Cash stood in front of a stall gate, two horses whinnied and stomped their hooves. He identified the chestnut-colored horse as the stolen mare and the other as Silver’s. He bridled each and led both out to the yard where Silver still lay. Cash draped the body over Silver’s horse, binding the man’s wrists and ankles underneath, and then tethered the two horses together behind Paint. He mounted up and they ambled off.

Several miles into the hard trail to Casper, he dug into his vest pocket and pulled out a black cheroot. He scratched a Lucifer to life off his leather belt and fired up the end of his cigar.

A muffled noise came from behind. Cash dropped the match as he swiveled around in the saddle.

Silver’s left eye looked wearily at the ground and his shoulder squirmed under taut ropes. Cash slid off his mount, and strode back to the corpse that seemed to have come back to life.

He bent down and listened as the man sputtered, “Ja…mie.”

“She’s alive,” Cash lied. How in hell this owlhoot was still breathing baffled him.

A faint smile lifted the corner of Silver’s mouth as he spotted Cash’s arrowhead. “You must be the outlaw marshal. Thought you were a bounty hunter. After twenty pieces of silver, eh?” He cackled. “Am … I … gonna … make it?”

They were about fifteen miles from Narrow Creek, where Cash knew a sawbones who might patch up Silver, but that was fifteen miles out of his way and he had no desire to waste the time on a no-good horse thief who would be hanged anyway.

“Wouldn’t you like to think so?” Cash’s teeth clamped down on the cheroot. He grabbed the man by the head and twisted with force, snapping Silver’s neck.

As Cash swished the liquid back and forth in the glass, he knocked over the whiskey bottle the waiter had set on the table.

“Disgrace,” the curly-haired cowboy said.

“Sure is,” the pointy-nosed amigo agreed.

Eyes red-veined with anger, Cash surged out of his chair, smashing his glass across Pointy’s head and throwing Curly a quick hard left that landed on the cowboy’s chin, knocking him sideways to the floor. Curly came up to brawl but was held back by Pointy, his head shaking. “Don’t do it.” Curly hunkered on his heels next to his partner with a sour, pinched look.

Cash removed his badge, sliding it into his shirt pocket. “Got some grit in ‘ya now?”

Both men looked at each other and held their heads low as Cash staggered between them.

“Fuckers,” Cash muttered, tossing a half dollar on the table. He looked to the startled waiter. “I’m paying for these yellow-bellied shits, too.”

The wide-eyed lad nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Cash snagged the whiskey bottle as he angled past his table and out the saloon’s batwings. His boots thudded with a hollow resonance as he walked down the uneven boardwalk. He stepped into the street and untied the pinto’s reins from the hitching post. Placing a shaky boot into the stirrup, he paused as he spotted a smiling couple leaving the Mercantile General. His mind jumped back to a meeting with Chief Marshal Devon Penn not long after he brought Silver’s corpse in.

“Cash, remember the Upton man wanted for horse thieving?”

“Yeah.”

“Turns out he was innocent.”

“What? He and that woman tried to cut me down.”

“That woman was his wife, and her grandfather is Arden Thompson, a big shot lawyer from Boston. He came to Wyoming to clear their names of theft. What had happened was another fellow stole Silver’s mare, stamped his brand on it. When Silver went back for it, he got accused of stealing his own horse. Certainly, drawing on you warranted the action you took. Odd that Silver didn’t take his chances in a court of law, huh?

“Yeah, odd,” Cash said.

He swung up into the saddle and watched the couple move hand in hand to the next store. Cash glared at the trifling amount of whiskey remaining and then nudged his horse across to the mercantile where he’d buy more rye. A lot more.

**END**

Reflections in a Glass of Maryland Rye will be published in the forthcoming ebook, The Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles, Vol. II. Watch for it at amazon.com.

The 411 on PULP INK

2011-08-19T20:41:00.000-04:00

Okay, full disclosure: I have a story in the PULP INK anthology. Presumably this creates a conflict of interest in any attempt on my part to review it. Well, hah! I say, and hah, again! (I'd say something stronger, but I save those words for my stories and close friends. And politicians.)

Sure, this means I'm not likely to say bad things about the anthology. But it doesn't necessarily follow that the good things I'm about to say regarding PULP INK are thereby false. In fact, you can strap me to a lie detector and test my veracity: There are some exceptionally fine stories in this collection. Were that not the case, I would go to some lengths to pretend I had no part in this whole scheme, instead of parading the fact that I got a story placed in the same book as -- ahem! -- Allan Guthrie. As Reed Farrel Coleman. As Hilary Davidson. As Gary Phillips. Not to mention a host of other excellent writers whose names are not (yet) so well-known.

I'm not going to beat you over the head with details on each and every story. There are 24 of them, for crying out loud, and I can't sit here holding your hand all day long. So these are my very most ultra-favorites in this collection. Each of them alone, I promise you, is worth the $2.99 USD price of admission:

ZED'S DEAD, BABY by Eric Beetner. I've already said it in other places around the 'Net, and it bears repeating: This is a terrific story: fast-paced, tightly written, sharply focused. The protagonist, an enforcer type, is on the hunt for Zed, to do a little, uh, enforcing. But everyone says Zed is dead. Everyone has a reason to lie, too. But it isn't really enforcement until someone loses a finger, is it? This one will have you grinning wickedly and will make your thumbs ache. And not because you're using an e-reader with poor page-turning features.
YOUR MOTHER SHOULD KNOW by Allan Guthrie. Oh, the lengths little Masie will go to prove to her love for young Billy. May lightning strike her down if she's lying. Nobody does personality disorders quite like Guthrie. Scary good with that, he is.
YOU NEVER CAN TELL by Matthew C. Funk. Nina's baby is near to saying his first word. Nina's husband is near to killing his fourth man in this perfect tale of revenge and genetic redemption. Possibly my favorite of all of Matthew's stories, and that's saying something: This guy has a Spinetingler win under his blotter.
A WHOLE LOTTA ROSIE by Nigel Bird. You can have a good laugh with Rosie. You just can't laugh at her. This one has a sad, skewed feel, and is written in Bird's signature style of short, brisk strokes that imply more than they say.
CLOUDS IN A BUNKER by David Cranmer. A hostage stand-off in which a WWI bomb expert threatens to take out himself and the missus. What kind of killer puts the police negotiator on hold while he sees to the teakettle? For anyone who thought Cranmer's best work was the Western tales done under his Edward A. Grainger pseudonym, have another think while I just go and check that bloody teakettle.
THE WIFE OF GREGORY BELL by Patricia Abbott. Here's a story Rod Serling would have jumped all over for his Twilight Zone series. Every time Gregory's beautiful and beloved wife goes on a business trip, Greg indulges in a little criminal activity. And each time he does, his wife comes home with a new and bigger flaw in her looks. But that can't have anything to do with his bad behavior. Can it?
THE OCTOBER 17 ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT COMMITTEE MEETING by Chris Rhatigan. A reporter writes himself into a corner. Then illustrates his stories with a shotgun. This may be the one time he doesn't really want to make headlines, but it's a little too late to do the 'write' thing now.
THIS LITTLE PIGGY by Hilary Davidson. A foot massage can go too far. Especially when it doesn't go far enough.
THE ONLY ONE WHO COULD EVER REACH ME by Matt Lavin. Willie has the world's worst job, with the worst co-worker. And the most dangerous of employers. After all these years, why would he risk their wrath now.? A poignant take on the old story of, the old glory of love.

And if you go so far as to read all of those, you might as well spend a couple of minutes and read my story, too. Triple-dog dare ya!

REVIEW: TWO-WAY SPLIT by Allan Guthrie

2011-08-16T13:44:00.000-04:00

Ex-concert pianist Robin Greaves has been off his meds for sometime when he discovers his wife, Carol, is cheating on him with friend Eddie. Except cheating doesn't include actual sex. Robin wants Eddie dead, but first this eccentric trio has to pull off a robbery. They get the money all right, but in the process Robin kills a woman whose son, a vengeful ex-con named Pearce, is not content to sit and grieve. So Pearce is after Robin, who has the money, is after Eddie, who is after the money. What Carol wants, who knows? But there's one more character, the wildly unpredictable Don, who may be the most dangerous of them all and who personifies the book's title. Turns out splitting the money is the least of anyone's worries. Coming out alive will be a winner-takes-all game.

Author Allan Guthrie is a successful writer, agent, and editor. What he doesn't know about crime fiction as an art and as a business probably isn't worth knowing. Too often that kind of intimate knowledge about writing and the business of writing can make for somewhat sterile reading as a kind of "checklist for a successful story" comes into play. Not so with this canny Scotsman. TWO-WAY SPLIT has the snappy, hardboiled feel of having come straight from the old pulp publishers' boiler rooms, but with time enough for a few laughs along the way. Dark laughter.

This is a fast-moving, blackly comic action tale, occurring over less than 48 hours, with character scene-splits occurring sometimes only moments apart. As with Guthrie's other works, this one left me wishing he were more prolific. TWO-WAY SPLIT was shortlisted for the CWA Debut Dagger award and went on to win the Theakston's Crime Novel Of The Year in 2007 (besting books by the likes of Stuart MacBride, Michael Jecks, and Christopher Brookmyre).

Amazon Kindle: $0.99
Amazon, Paperback

Pulp Ink will tattoo YOU.

2011-08-15T11:16:00.002-04:00

PULP INK has arrived. Twenty-four stories of highly diversified pulp from authors as well known as Reed Farrel Coleman, Allan Guthrie, and Hilary Davidson; and as unknown as, well, yours truly. I'm thrilled to have a story resting cheek by jowl with theirs. (Okay, really, my story is sandwiched between Richard Godwin's and Jimmy Callaway's, and what's that say about me, I'd like (or not) to know?)

And because I worked hard on this story and someone damned well ought to read it, I'm giving away THREE copies (from amazon Kindle or from Smashwords). And even if you don't like my writing, you must read Eric Beetner's story, Zed's Dead, Baby. If you don't like that one, better check your own pulse to see if it's any stronger than Zed's.

~~The first three people to email me at beauvallet@aol.com mentioning PULP INK will win these freebies! Good luck!~~
John Kenyon, Brian Lindenmuth, and Brad Green have each won a free copy of PULP INK. Congratulations, guys, and thanks for playing!

R.I.P. Enid Schantz

2011-08-11T10:52:00.000-04:00

Just as I have finished reading the first in Manning Coles' series of spy novels, Drink to Yesterday, I learn that Enid Schantz has died. Enid was a bookseller and co-founder of Rue Morgue Press, which specializes in reprints of classic mystery novels such as those by Coles. Enid, along with her husband Tom, had been deeply involved in the mystery community for more than forty years. The Mystery Writers of America awarded Tom and Enid the Raven in 2001, for their contributions to the genre. My sincere sympathies to the Schantz family.

Nigel Bird: Dark and darker.

2011-08-03T17:40:00.003-04:00

Looking to win a free copy of this ebook? Read on.

If you're a fan of the short crime fiction found all over the Web these days, I shouldn't have to present Nigel Bird's credentials to you. But if you're new to this enclave, let me just fill you in: He won the 2010 Watery Grave Invitational for his short story, Beat on the Brat, on his first attempt. That story, indicative of the intimately candid voice Bird lends his characters, was later published in Needle: A Magazine of Noir, and was nominated for a Spinetingler Award. Bird also won the Crime Fiction Fairy Tale contest sponsored by Things I'd Rather Be Doing, with his take on four-and-twenty blackbirds in Sing a Song of Sixpence. More notably, one of Nigel's stories is sitting cheek by jowl with stories from the likes of Ian Rankin, Liza Cody, Stuart McBride, and many others in The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime (Vol. 8). You'll also find Nigel's work published at reputable zines and blogs such as:

Good enough for you? I thought so. Then it's time to check out Nigel's newest collection, Beat on the Brat. For $0.99 USD, you can't top this group of stories. From the award-winning title tale, a cautionary story for those who would abuse children, right through to the end, these are dark stories. Oh, sure, a toss-off line here, a bit of dialogue there, he can make you smile. But he can make you flinch, too, and do it without ever lifting the veil on the blood and gore. No, that's not his style, all blood and guts. Bird's style is to slide the knife in gently, so the reader doesn't even feel it at first, then to carefully twist and carve until you're standing there watching him hold your still-beating heart in his hands.

In Mind Your Step, the author takes the reader inside an experiment similar to the controversial work of Dr. Stanley Milgram, but with an added twist.

Back to Black, (formerly titled Too Much Too Young) which placed 5th in this year's WGI, has been labeled by one publisher as "too controversial." That means, of course, that the reader is required to think, perhaps to do some re-evaluating even.

Snow-Angel is a revenge tale, one which those of us who've been pelted by a too-hard snowball will readily understand; while Sugar and Spice is about what can go wrong when the bad guys aren't quite as bad as personal safety requires.

Hoodwinked is another revenge tale, and this one goes where even Charles Bronson wouldn't dare. Nigel Bird can make his characters do the most horrific deeds and still hold onto the reader's sympathy. Well, a small shred of sympathy, maybe. And then he turns on the irony, bidding fair to rival Ken Bruen at times.

Dance With Me is story about a bounty hunter and his prisoner, a story to win over the fans of Charles Willeford's Hoke Mosely tales. It's a story entirely realistic and yet full of grotesquerie.

Add to these remarkable stories a bleak poem (Regret) and three haiku, all marking the first verse I've seen from this author. As a follow-up to Bird's previous release, Dirty Old Town, it's easy to see fans of that ebook are going to love this latest collection. And to help you toward that end, the first five readers who jump over to Nigel's blog, Sea Minor, and ask for Beat on the Brat, will win a free copy of the ebook directly from the author. That's FIVE only, so be quick and nimble, Jack!

For those who don't care to risk their fate, or who are too late to win a freebie, you can find this ebook at:

Smashwords for only $0.99 USD

Amazon (Kindle) for $2.99 USD

"It Rains..." begets "Drowning Machine"

2011-08-01T18:01:00.001-04:00

And so Royko begat Coudal, and Coudal begat Gruber. Gruber begat It Rains...You Get Wet. And lo, it came to pass that It Rains... begat Drowning Machine. And from one generation to another so it was that all had favorite Western movies. Verily did they all name them. Henceforth, in no order of favorites did Drowning Machine call out her ten favorites (not all of them critical successes):

Destry Rides Again Only the greatest saloon scene in all of Western filmdom!

Silverado An incomparable cast and the most rousing film score of any Western.

No Name on the Bullet Far and away Audie Murphy's best Western. Too bad the trailer makes it look like just another grade-B oater, because the mounting tension and the utter coldness of Murphy's killer character lift this one well above average.

The Sacketts This two-part made-for-TV movie was an instant favorite with me. Tom Selleck and Sam Elliott were made for Westerns, while the cast is full of familiar Western names: Glenn Ford, LQ Jones, Jack Elam, Slim Pickens, Gilbert Roland, and more. And yet the movie was all but stolen by the almost-unknown actor, Jeff Osterhage, as Tyrel, the youngest and deadliest of the Sackett brothers. Selleck, Elliott, and Osterhage also teamed up to make another TV-Western, The Shadow Riders.

Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid The best part of naming this one as a favorite is that I don't ever have to justify it. Everyone recognizes it as a classic.

El Dorado Everyone tells me that Rio Bravo is the better version of this story. Yet I can hardly sit through RB (it's way too long) while what is essentially the same story in El Dorado only has to show up on the screen and I'm glued to it. Classic John Wayne line: "I'm lookin' at a tin star with a drunk pinned to it."

High Noon Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, this is one I don't have to justify. But if I did, I could cite Gary Cooper's performance: his best ever; the musical theme that is so powerful, tender, and tense; and Zinneman's outstanding direction. It's a great Western that is the epitome of its genre, and manages to be about so much more than bang-bang-shoot'em-up.

Open Range This film makes use of one of author Robert Crais's favorite themes: that people are seldom what they seem. As Boss Spearman and Charley Waite face ever-increasing adversity, these two men who've known each other ten years discover new depths and darker sides to their characters. As Charley tells the pretty lady, "I'm not who you think I am, Sue."

Blue Okay, so even I'll admit this isn't a great film. Nevertheless, this tragedy about a young man torn between the world he was born into and the world in which he was raised is elevated by Terence Stamp's portrayal of the title character. No, Stamp's accent isn't always of the American West, which makes his persuasiveness as Blue all the more remarkable. A Western Romeo & Juliet, if nothing else gets you about this 1968 film, the score by Manos Hadjidakis will do it.

Is Sunset a Western or not? I say yes. Any film with James Garner playing Wyatt Earp has to qualify as a Western, no matter the time and place of the story. Better, this film is not only a Western, it's also a nifty Hollywood-soaked, hardboiled murder mystery. One reviewer dubbed Garner and Bruce Willis as "the slickest screen pairing since Paul Newman and Robert Redford." I'll buy that.

Giveaway Days: The Party's Over

2011-07-26T10:42:00.000-04:00

That's it, no more giveaways for a while. My thanks to all of you who checked in and played along. We'll do this -- or something very like -- again soon. Congratulations to the very last winner in our game of WHO DAT? Carol T has won David Rosenfelt's newest novel, ONE DOG NIGHT.

Just a couple of quick notes on recent reads:

I'm a fan of S.J. Bolton's modern gothic tales but her latest release, NOW YOU SEE ME, gets a bit too complicated for its own good. Or maybe just for my own good. Between drawing on details of the murders of Jack the Ripper and a modern case of identity theft, all leavened with a case of unwanted attraction between a suspicious copper and a cop who is a suspect, the book became too full of explanation during the latter chapters, as the numerous loose ends require tying and retying. Many of Bolton's fans may be intrigued by the notion that this book is intended as the first in a series.

Ace Atkins' name has been in the news of late, as he has signed on to the daunting task of resuming the Spenser series for the estate of the late and deeply lamented Robert B. Parker. (And apropos of nothing, Atkins has a copy of Steve McQueen's motorcycle license on his blog. I agree with the author, not even the bureaucrats could capture a bad photo of McQ!) The latest novel from Atkins is THE RANGER, about an Army Ranger named Quinn Colson, who returns to his small-town Mississippi home to find things just ain't what they used to be. Quinn is somewhat in the Joe Pike/Jack Reacher heroic mold, but with the added appeals of a personality all Quinn's own and the always fascinating atmosphere of the Deep South. Never mind Spenser, I want more Quinn Colson. THE RANGER is a fine start to what promises to be a favorite new series for me.

I also re-read James M. Cain's classic, THE POSTMAN ALWAYS RINGS TWICE. What's left to say? This one still sets the noir standard. Here some talented soul has redone the title sequence for the 1946 film.

Giveaway Days: ONE DOG NIGHT by David Rosenfelt

2011-07-25T10:43:00.001-04:00

Today we play the final round of WHO DAT, marking the end of these Giveaway Days. My thanks to everyone who has played along these last few days. And a hearty congratulations to the winner of yesterday's giveaway, Patricia Abbott, who was one of three to correctly identify WHO DAT as Jim Thompson. The passage, of course, was the final scene from his classic, THE GETAWAY.

Today's giveaway is ONE DOG NIGHT by David Rosenfelt, the newest entry in his entertaining series featuring attorney Andy Carpenter. Reviewers have described this book as "a funny, warmhearted mystery;" "absolutely irresistible;" "greased lightning;" "outstanding;" and a "dynamite thriller." Here's a little something to whet your appetite:

For six years Noah Galloway has lived with a horrible secret and the fear that his rebuilt life could be shattered at any moment. Now his dread has become a certainty, and he has been arrested for the arson murder of twenty-six people.

What he needs now is defense lawyer Andy Carpenter, who most definitely is not in the market for a new client. So Noah plays his hole card: a shared love for Andy’s golden retriever, Tara, and the knowledge of what her life was like before Andy rescued her. Because Andy wasn’t her first owner—Noah rescued Tara first, and when he wasn’t able to care for her any longer, he did everything in his power to make sure that she was placed in the right home: Andy’s.

With that knowledge, Andy has little choice but to take Noah on, and he soon learns that the long-ago event that may destroy Noah’s life is only the beginning of an ongoing conspiracy that grows more deadly by the day. Andy will have to pull out all of his tricks to get to the bottom of this cold case turned white hot in the latest in David Rosenfelt’s popular mystery series.

For this last giveaway the rules remain the same. Guess WHO DAT wrote the following excerpt; leave your guess and contact info in a comment, and I'll draw a winner tomorrow (Tuesday).

"When a man's partner is killed he's supposed to do something about it. It doesn't make any difference what you thought of him. He was your partner and you're supposed to do something about it."

UPDATE 7/26/2011: THIS ROUND OF WHO DAT? IS CONCLUDED.

KATJA FROM THE PUNK BAND by Simon Logan

2011-07-24T18:33:00.000-04:00

Katja wants to get off the island much more than she wants the vial of chemical. So much so that she shot her boyfriend, Januscz, when she found out he was planning to take the vial and leave her on the island. But Katja must have that vial to even stand a chance of getting off the island, and she recruits a useless junkie named Nicolai to help her. Katja also needs to avoid her parole officer, Anatoli. Nicolai needs to avoid a thug named Kohl, to whom he owes money. Kohl's boss, Szerynski, has designated Kohl to get that vial. Kohl designates Nicolai. Anatoli needs to sell the vial for the money that will allow him and his lover to flee the island. Anatoli's lover is the wife of one of a drug lord named Dracyev. Dracyev is Szerynski's competitor. The precious vial belongs to Dracyev.

Are we all clear on that? Don't worry, author Simon Logan has constructed his novel so that you'll never be confused about who's doing what and why. And yet the infrastructure of this novel is anything but simple. Sliding time-shifts, back and forward; alternating points of view; and an alt-world brushed in the broadest of strokes. The alt-world could be now, could have been the 80s, could be in the future, could be on another planet. Doesn't matter when or where, only the moment matters in this book. Logan makes it all work.

Stylistically, the book evokes early William Gibson, but instead of Gibson's Sprawl of neon and chrome, Logan provides a rusting industrial set-piece: dark, dirty, and restrictive. Those who prefer character-driven pieces, as opposed to atmospheric tales of action (imagine if Gibson and Swierczynski co-authored a book) might not take to Katja and her foes; but even those readers will want to know, at book's end, what happens next for Katja. Fortunately for Katja's fans, and I include myself in their number, the author will soon bring a sequel.

KATJA FROM THE PUNK BAND is a welcome break from the usual round of serial killers and angst-ridden, alcoholic-loner protagonists. And you won't believe what all she can do with a guitar.

Order from ChiZine Publications for 30% off the cover price. Also Available in eBook From:

E-Junkie (PDF, EPUB & MOBI)*
Amazon.com (Kindle) (Sample)
Amazon.co.uk (Kindle)
goodreads (EPUB)
Crossroad Press (PDF, EPUB & MOBI)
Kobo eBooks (Kobo)
Nook Book
Wizard's Tower Books (PDF)
Wowio (PDF)

Or in Trade Paperback From:

Giveaway Days: WHERE THE SHADOWS LIE by Michael Ridpath

2011-07-24T11:02:00.002-04:00

Annnnd we have a winnah! The four new titles from Pocket Black Lizard go to:

Matthew McBride!

Congratulations to Matthew. He was one of six to correctly identify WHO DAT? as Ken Bruen. The first clue was taken from A WHITE ARREST, while the second clue came from THE GUARDS.

The winner of today's round of WHO DAT? will win Michael Ridpath's newest novel, due for release next week. But why wait for that when you can win the book here? And you do want this book: The early reviews (Kirkus, Literary Review, The London Times, et. al.) are gushing over this one. Here's the skinny:

An ancient saga. A modern legend. A secret worth killing for.

Amid Iceland’s wild, volcanic landscape, rumors swirl of an ancient manuscript inscribed with a long-lost saga about a ring of terrible power. A rediscovered saga alone would be worth a fortune, but, if the rumors can be believed, there is something much more valuable about this one. Something worth killing for. Something that will cost Professor Agnar Haraldsson his life.

Untangling murder from myth is Iceland-born, Boston-raised detective Magnus Jonson. On loan to the Icelandic Police Force for his own protection after a Massachusetts drug cartel puts a bounty on his head, Magnus is eager work the Haraldsson case, a rare lethal crime for the island nation. But his unorthodox investigative technique soon gets him into trouble with his more traditional superiors, intensifying his mixed feelings about returning to his native country—a place of tangled family loyalties haunted by his father’s unsolved murder—after nearly two decades. And as Magnus is about to discover, the past casts a long shadow in Iceland.

Binding Iceland’s landscape and history, secrets and superstitions in a strikingly original plot in the tradition of Arnaldur Indridason and Henning Mankell, Where the Shadows Lie is a heart-pounding new series from an established master.

Okay, by now you should know the drill: Guess what author wrote the following passage, leave your guess and contact info in a comment. I'll draw a name at random from all of the those who correctly guess WHO DAT wrote this:

"You!" she said, and her voice was suddenly angry, frightened, tortured. "I'll drink a toast to you, Doc darling!"

"Why, how kind of you," Doc said, and he touched his glass to hers. "What will it be!"

"To you! To you and our successful getaway!"

"And to you, my dear," Doc said. "And another such victory."

Now if you find this passage a little hard to pin down, and I hope you do, I'll give you a BIG clue to identifying the author by telling you that the name of this book (minus "The") is found in the excerpt. And if you recognize this passage without the clue, good for you. You are well up on your classic crime fiction.

Good luck!

UPDATE 7/25/2011: THIS ROUND OF WHO DAT? IS CONCLUDED.

Giveaway Days: WHO DAT? (A second clue.)

2011-07-23T09:49:00.001-04:00

Still trying to give away four books. No one correctly guessed WHO DAT author from the first clue, so I'll now provide a second clue which should lead everyone down the correct garden path.

And it'll be well worth your time to win today. The books I'm giving away are the first four titles in the new Pocket Black Lizard series from Vintage: BLIND MAN'S ALLEY (Justin Peacock); LAYOVER IN DUBAI (Dan Fesperman); DEAD LINE (Stella Rimington); and THE GARDEN OF BETRAYAL (Lee Vance).

Again, don't be afraid to take a wild guess: no one here is going to make fun of you. I won't let them. Remember, you only need to identify the author, not the book. Leave your guess in a comment (and make sure I can contact you in case you, you know, win or something.

Before I give you the new clue, let me refresh your memory as to the previous clue:

"He was a snitch. Not a very good one. But the vast machinery of policing needs a few key ingredients:

a) Ignorance, b) Complicity, c) Poor wages, d) Snitches.

Or so the received wisdom goes. He was what the Americans call 'of challenged stature'. He was short. And he fuckin' hated that."

And now here's your second clue (and by the way, these two clues do not come from the same book). Tell me WHO DAT wrote this:

"Grogan's is not the oldest pub in Galway. It's the oldest unchanged pub in Galway.

While all the rest go
Uni-sex
Low-fat
Karaoke
Over-the-top
it remains true to the format of fifty or more years ago. Beyond basic. Spit and sawdust floor, hard seats, no-frills stock. The taste for
Hooches
Mixers
Breezers
hasn't yet been acknowledged."

Good luck!

UPDATE 7/24/2011: THIS ROUND OF WHO DAT? IS CONCLUDED.

Heads up, writers!

2011-07-22T11:21:00.000-04:00

NEEDLE: A MAGAZINE OF NOIR has reopened to submissions. Standard formatting, 2-5K words, payment one copy, rights remain with the author. Submissions are made via submishmash.

Also, that notable zine PLOTS WITH GUNS is not only still open for submissions, but the editors have posted the first two chapters of Roger Smith's outstanding novel, DUST DEVILS, for your perusal and enjoyment. DUST DEVILS is easily one of the best books I've read this year.

For superior coverage of zine markets, make sure you're following or getting the RSS feed for Sandra Seamans' blog, MY LITTLE CORNER. Nobody does it better. If you're writing with an eye toward online markets, her blog is must reading. And if you're not, she'll still point you to some very fine stories to read.

And a quick note on the current round of WHO DAT? Thus far no one has correctly commented with the correct writer. If this condition persists, then later tonight or tomorrow morning at latest I'll provide a second clue that should make it clear just WHO DAT author is.

Giveaway Days: FOUR books today, FOUR!

2011-07-21T09:29:00.003-04:00

'At's right, mate. 'M giving away four books today. And not some slap-dash potpourri of titles just to get on with these seemingly endless giveaway days neither! These are the first four titles in the new Pocket Black Lizard series from Vintage: BLIND MAN'S ALLEY (Justin Peacock); LAYOVER IN DUBAI (Dan Fesperman); DEAD LINE (Stella Rimington); and THE GARDEN OF BETRAYAL (Lee Vance).

Before we get on with today's round of WHO DAT?, just a moment to congratulate Katie, the winner of yesterday's giveaway, Chevy Stevens' NEVER KNOWING. (Katie, please contact me with a mailing address!)

Now, you must know that in exchange for winning all four of these pristine trade paperbacks (with the signature black edging of the series), I expect you to have to put your back into solving today's WHO DAT? I've tried to find a passage not easily found via Google, but also one that would/should be recognizable to this author's readers solely by the style. A passage which you'll have to -- perhaps -- actually guess at, rather than be certain of. Don't be afraid to guess: no one here is going to make fun of you. I won't let them. Remember, you only need to identify the author, not the book.

And because today's round is a bit harder than the others, I'm going to give you an extra day to think about it and research it. Or even beg for a clue. A winner won't be selected until Friday evening, unless no one has guessed correctly, in which case I will provide a second passage from the same author which will almost certainly allow for some correct guesses. A'right? Ready. Set. Go.Oh, wait! Did I mention, please leave your guess in a comment along with an email to contact the lucky winner. Now GO!

"He was a snitch. Not a very good one. But the vast machinery of policing needs a few key ingredients:

a) Ignorance, b) Complicity, c) Poor wages, d) Snitches.

Or so the received wisdom goes. He was what the Americans call 'of challenged stature'. He was short. And he fuckin' hated that."

UPDATE 7/23/2011: THIS ROUND OF WHO DAT? HAS BEEN CONTINUED WITH A SECOND CLUE HERE.

UPDATE 7/24/2011: THIS ROUND OF WHO DAT? IS CONCLUDED.

Giveaway Days: NEVER KNOWING by Chevy Stevens

2011-07-20T09:50:00.001-04:00

Okay, no kidding, I threw you all a curve yesterday. The quotation came from Erle Stanley Gardner, and several of you pegged it. His character, Bertha Cool, was always saying things like, "Dice me for a carrot," or "Fry me for an oyster." Gardner wrote the Bertha Cool/Donald Lam PI series under his AA Fair pseudonym. This particular instance comes from the book, SHILLS CAN"T CASH CHIPS.

The winner of the signed copy of Craig Johnson's JUNKYARD DOGS is: dman4227! Dman, I can't find an email address for you, so please contact me at beauvallet@aol.com with your mailing address and I'll get that book right out to you.

Today's giveaway in our game of WHO DAT? is Chevy Stevens' second novel, following on her stellar debut, STILL MISSING. (I would provide links but am not getting any response from the server for Ms. Stevens' website this morning.) Here's a bit about this new book, NEVER KNOWING:

From the acclaimed author of STILL MISSING comes a psychological thriller about one woman’s search into her past and the deadly truth she uncovers.

All her life, Sara Gallagher has wondered about her birth parents. As an adopted child with two sisters who were born naturally to her parents, Sara’s home life was not ideal. The question of why she was given up for adoption has always haunted her. Finally, she is ready to take steps and find closure.

But some questions are better left unanswered.

After months of research, Sara locates her birth mother—only to be met with horror and rejection. Then she discovers the devastating truth: her mother was the only victim ever to escape a killer who has been hunting women every summer for decades. But Sara soon realizes the only thing worse than finding out about her father is him finding out about her.

What if murder is in your blood?

Never Knowing is a complex and compelling portrayal of one woman’s quest to understand herself, her origins, and her family. That is, if she can survive…

Okay, now for today's round of WHO DAT?, so that one of you can win that new Stevens title. I'll go a little easier on you today, since yesterday was kind of rough on people who haven't read many crime titles prior to the 1970s. I'll even give you a bit of a clue by telling you that this next excerpt came from an author and book that were just in the entertainment news last week:

"He paid cash up front for one night only and used the name Jimmy Reese. He had cycled through all the presidents and vice-presidents long ago and was now using second basemen from the Yankees' nonchampionship years."

Leave your guess as to the author in the comments, and please leave an email, too, so that I can contact the winner. Good luck!

UPDATE 7/21/2011: THIS ROUND OF WHO DAT? IS NOW CONCLUDED.

Giveaway Days: JUNKYARD DOGS by Craig Johnson

2011-07-19T10:42:00.002-04:00

Okay, so I took it easy it on you all yesterday in round one of WHO DAT? Everyone but everyone could tell from the setting and the character's name, Clete, that the author of the excerpt is James Lee Burke. The passage is from LAST CAR TO ELYSIAN FIELDS.

The winner of round one is TEA. Congrats to you, Tea. You've won C.J. Box's newest book, BACK OF BEYOND, due in stores August 2, but you should receive your copy before that.

Now for today's giveaway. I have a signed, yes, signed copy of Craig Johnson's JUNKYARD DOGS for the person who wins this next round. Here's all you need to know about this book:

Missing body parts and dead developers are only the beginning when Wyoming Sheriff Walt Longmire finds himself in the throes of a modern day range war.

It's a volatile new economy in Durant when the owners of a multi-million dollar development of ranchettes want to get rid of the adjacent Stewart junkyard. The notorious Stewart clan is an adventure unto itself and, when conflicts erupt, Walt, Dog, life-long friend Henry Standing Bear, and deputies Santiago Saizarbitoria and Victoria Moretti find themselves in a small town that feels more and more like a high plains pressure cooker.

An unlikely romance in an improbable place between junkyard patriarch Geo Stewart and a woman with a socially elite background complicates matters, and the outlaw behavior of Geo's grandson Duane, who gives off a vague scent of marijuana, and young wife Gina, who has a habit of tying her grandfather-in-law to the back of her car, makes for one of the more hilarious entries in the Absaroka County saga.

The sixth book in Johnson's award-winning series finds the sheriff star-deep in the venal aspects of human nature with an admixture of love, laughs, death, and derelict automobiles.

Now for today's excerpt. This one just might be a trifle more difficult for the novice reader of crime fiction. Then again, it might not. Tell me WHO DAT famous author what wrote this:

"Dice me for a carrot!" she said.

If you think you know the answer, leave your guess and your email in a comment.

UPDATE 7/20/2011: THIS ROUND OF WHO DAT? IS NOW CLOSED. THE WINNER IS dman4227.

Giveaway Days: BACK OF BEYOND by C.J. Box

2011-07-18T13:53:00.003-04:00

Once again I've accumulated a stack of new books in need of homes. How to give away? How to find givees?

Not having an overall theme to suggest some riddles or trivia questions for the giveaways hampered me for a while. I'm not an original thinker; my ideas need something to hang their collective hat on. But at last I've come up with a game I'm calling 'Who Dat?'

Here's how it works: Each day during giveaway days, I'm going to post a sentence or two written by a well-known author. I'll try to find excerpts that will be recognizable by style or by turn of phrase or even by a setting or a character's name. Doesn't mean it will be easy, particularly if you're not familiar with the author's work. But go on, guess anyway!

Readers can leave a comment including their best guesses. All correct guesses go into the ever-popular hat and a winner will be drawn at random. For example, suppose I used this excerpt: "It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window." Your response would be to leave a comment shouting, "Raymond Chandler! Raymond Chandler." And your name would go into the hat and the next day I would report who won whichever book was the giveaway of the day. Easy-peasy? Oh, yeah. (Note: everyone is eligible for this giveaway. That includes readers beyond the borders of the USA; prior winners; friends; enemies; and those folks beyond my ability to label and index. You can even win more than once, if the force is with you. Be certain I can find you via email in case you win, or that you check back here daily to see if you won.)

So: The first book I'm giving away is a hot, brand-spanking new ARC from bestselling author C.J. Box, BACK OF BEYOND. A bit about the story:

Cody Hoyt, while a brilliant cop, is an alcoholic struggling with two months of sobriety when his friend Hank Winters is found burned to death in a remote mountain cabin in Montana. At first it looks like the suicide of a man who’s fallen off the wagon, but Cody knows Hank better than that. As Cody takes a closer look at the scene of his friend’s death, it becomes apparent that someone murdered him and tried to make it look like something else. After years of bad behavior with his department, he’s in no position to be investigating a homicide, but Cody will stop at nothing to find his killer.

When clues found at the scene link the murderer to an outfitter leading tourists on a spectacular multi-day wilderness horseback trip into the remote corners of Yellowstone National Park—a pack trip that includes his son Justin—Cody is desperate to get on their trail and stop the killer before the group heads into the wild. Among the tourists is fourteen-year-old Gracie Sullivan, an awkward but intelligent loner who begins to suspect that someone in their party is dangerous.

In a fatal cat and mouse game, where it becomes apparent the murderer is somehow aware of Cody’s every move, Cody treks into the wilderness to stop a killer hell bent on destroying the only thing in his life he cares about. With breathtaking pace and vivid details, BACK OF BEYOND takes you into one of the most remote places on earth, and the heart of danger.

You know you want it, need it, got to got to have it. And to have a chance at getting this oh-so-new book, just leave a comment telling me WHO DAT wrote the following:

"Early that morning he had picked up a bail skip for Wee Willie Bimstine in Opelousas and was about to transport him back to New Orleans, when the skip began jerking against the D-ring anchored on the floor of the Caddy, his face twisted with visceral pain, threatening to soil himself and the convertible if he wasn't allowed to use the bathroom. Clete cuffed him to a pipe next to the toilet in a filling station and waited outside. In less than two minutes the skip managed to put seventy-five cents in a sexual-enhancement dispenser, smear his wrist with a desensitizing lubricant, slip the cuff, and escape out a window."

UPDATE 7/19/2011: THIS ROUND OF THE CONTEST IS CLOSED.

Never Let Anyone Curl Your Eyelashes

2011-07-18T01:52:00.001-04:00

There's an old song that says you always hurt the one you love. If that's true, my friends Marta and Patricia love me a lot. An awful lot.

Marta and Patricia are sisters; they are about four or five years older than me. They were first friends with my eldest sister, during their high school years. When my sister married and moved out of state, well, I was very close to her and in her absence I began clinging to her friends. I spent enough time at Marta's and Patricia's house over the years, they ought to have been sick of the sight of me. But Marta listened patiently to my dreams, while Patricia entertained me by showing me her hundreds of pairs of earrings and colors of nail polish. I always felt welcome in their home. No, more than that. I felt treasured, a welcome friend.

But true friendship often comes with a steep price tag.

See, there I was: a young woman, and my ears were not pierced. And I was so vocal in my admiration of Patricia's splendiferous collection of ear-bobs that Marta generously offered to pierce my ears herself. Patricia was very enthusiastic about the idea, and that enthusiasm was contagious. Both of them together persuaded me that home ear-piercing was the way to go, but I was a collaborator in my own victimization.

I sat down and prepared to be pierced. But first Marta had to ice my ear lobes to numb them. That took a long time, and if you've ever spent much time outdoors in an Ohio blizzard then you have some idea of how painful that process was. But that was merely pain. Pain in pursuit of beauty is always bearable, right? How else can you explain so many botched and unnecessary plastic surgeries or the existence of spike heels?

The sterilized needle then had to be passed through my ear lobe, with thread attached. The thread would be tied into a loop and would be my “earrings” until my ears healed. No one said anything about the noise created by a sliver of steel passing through the cartilage of my ear. It's a kind of grisly, crunching sound. Something like the sound a mammal hears while being run over by a car, I suspect. Most unpleasant. I was a little faint but I hung in there. I was a little fainter as the second lobe was punctured, might have even swayed a little, but still I stayed upright.

Over the next couple of weeks I turned the threads to keep the piercings open and the thread from sticking as my ears healed.. Some infection set in and I was daily applying an antibiotic ointment to my tender ears. When the day came – finally – that I was to remove the thread and put in real earrings, I removed the thread without incident. But I was unable to get the earrings in. Every time I tried to put the post in the piercing, I met an unpleasant resistance. I became nauseous and faint, so I asked my mother to put the earrings in for me. No go. The posts still did not want to pass through my ear lobes. There was that grisly sound again of metal attempting to displace cartilage. This mammal had been run over and the driver of the car was now shifting into reverse. I was on the verge of passing out when I told my mom to just stop. After all I'd been through to that point, I wimped out, deciding that I would just let the holes close, and that I would not be wearing earrings. More than a decade passed before I worked up the courage to have my ears professionally pierced. No problems. None. The lesson:

Always have your ears (or any other body piercings) done professionally.

On another occasion the sisters showed me their love, Patricia had taken a job as a Kirby vacuum-cleaner saleswoman. She told me in detail about what a wonderful job this vacuum did and offered me a demonstration of her sales pitch. The object of the demonstration was to show how powerful the suction was on this vacuum. The tools for the demo were the vacuum and a giant heavy-duty plastic bag. The bag was big enough for a person to fit into, and in fact that's what it was for.

Obliging soul that I am, I climbed into the bag. Patricia placed the hose in the bag with me and then had me hold the bag tightly closed around my neck. Then she turned on the vacuum. In a mere fraction of a second I became a Saran-wrapped mummy, unable to move a muscle below my neck. A human sweater in a space-saver bag.

That's right. I could not even loosen my grip on the bag which would have destroyed the vacuum. Struggling to do anything led only to a loss of balance. Like the tower of Pisa I slowly leaned, then toppled face first onto the floor. The sisters were laughing so hard they were unable to help me. I'm not sure they understood that I really needed help, that I was slowly being crushed by a giant, transparent garbage bag. That's a really unpleasant feeling, that kind of helplessness. I've been in a straitjacket on three occasions (don't ask) and I've been in a Kirby demonstration once. I'd undergo the former again but never the latter. Marta and Patricia

finally turned the vacuum off before any permanent damage was done. But I never bought a Kirby vac. For some reason I thought it might be dangerous. The lesson:

Never volunteer for a demonstration.

One last anecdote about the love these good friends bore me. On an evening when we planned to go to a dance, Patricia encouraged me to wear make-up, something I rarely did then and even more rarely do now. I demurred at wearing mascara, as it has a tendency to streak my glasses, without which I am beyond legally blind. Ah, but those streaks would not happen, she claimed, if I curled my eyelashes.

Now I had seen the tool used for the purpose of curling one's eyelashes: It looks like a pair of scissors with a curved vise on one end. I had a pretty good idea of how to use it, but I wasn't comfortable putting something like that near my eyes. As I mentioned, without my specs I'm like Schultz: "I see nozzing!" So messing about with a metal object near my eyes wasn't anything I was willing to try on my own.

The sisters persuaded me to let one of them curl my eyelashes. Patricia was very eager to do so and won the brief debate about which of them would show me how easy it was to obtain gorgeous, curly, fluffy eyelashes. I removed my glasses and allowed her free rein. I confess I was a little surprised at the pain that ensued.

"I think you're pulling my eyelashes out," I told her. I was probably whining. I know my eyes were watering.

"Oh, no," she said, in what I am sure was the same blithe tone Genghis Khan used at all his really fun parties. Patricia said that according to Liz Taylor, the key to beautiful lashes was to tightly squeeze the curler for 30 seconds, release, and squeeze again. How clearly I remember her squeezing and squeezing and squeezing. Extreme pain has a way of causing the mind to focus, doesn't it? But again, pain in pursuit of beauty is always bearable, yes? And if other women could stand this temporary pain then I supposed I could, too. The human ability to suck it up in order to save face should never, ever be underestimated. Although 'saving face' is perhaps not an apt expression in this instance.

After 15 or 20 years, Patricia at last surrendered her death grip on the eyelash curler, and even without my glasses I could see an expression on her face that easily qualified as one of horrified dismay. Then she burst into laughter, joined by her sister in sidesplitting gales of glee. I don't think they could wait until I saw myself in the mirror. Patricia had curled my eyelid. That's right, my eyelid. With a nice upsweep, just like Liz Taylor's false eyelashes. And the lid stayed curled. And crinkled. I stared at the horror that was once a perfectly good eyelid, and I was certain I had been permanently disfigured. In a couple of minutes that felt much longer, the eyelid did right itself. What blessed resilience! The lesson:

Never let anyone curl your eyelashes.

A recitation of any one of these events still has the power to send Marta into paroxysms of laughter. And you might read of my trials at their hands and wonder how I could still claim these ladies as my friends. Well, it's as I noted in the beginning: if you always hurt the one you love, then Marta and Patricia are tremendously fond of me. What can I do but I love them right back?

Yes, I suppose I really ought to give some thought to how best to show them my affection.

15 Questions Movie Meme

2011-07-12T19:17:00.000-04:00

I read le0pard13's responses to this meme at his very fine blog, It Rains...You Get Wet and wondered whether I could respond without dittoing too many of his answers. (He has great taste in films.)

1. Movie you love with a passion.

THE THIN MAN
Do I really have to explain why? Yes, the production values are crap and the first ten minutes are exposition. But it's Nick and Nora Charles. It's William Powell and Myrna Loy. It's charming and, unlike the other films in the series, witty. The film works because of the chemistry between Powell and Loy. When I used to watch videos in bed, a bad habit I've pretty much defeated, this is the film I would watch night after night, go to sleep by it and wake up as the machine recycled it over and over. Yes, I do know most of the dialogue by heart and for someone with a memory as poor as mine, that's indicative of how often I watch this film.

2. Movie you vow to never watch.

AVATAR
I've never been a fan of James Cameron's films. Too often they're more spectacle than story. And whenever anyone speaks of a movie and talks first or only about its effects, I know to stay far away from it. Besides, Titanic is so horrible -- yes, it is -- I just can't bring myself to ever put one more penny in Cameron's pocket. (I also avoid films by Roman Polanski since his conviction and flight to escape justice.)

3. Movie that literally left you speechless.

THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST

The brutality in this film is so horrific and shared so intimately with the audience that I never was able to be numbed by it as some were. That brutality was, for me, only partially offset by the message of unconditional love, which I thought director Gibson gave short shrift in comparison to the horror that preceded it. Nevertheless, the film touched me in ways I did not expect, such as tapping a maternal streak in me that I was unaware I possessed. This is a film that buffeted me and left me thoughtful and wounded. So wounded that I've never been able to bring myself to watch it again.

4. Movie you always recommend.

CASABLANCA
I'll gladly share this answer with le0pard13. I had heard about this movie all my life but I didn't see it until I was in my late 20s. Having heard all the famous lines so many times ("Here's looking at you, kid." "Play it." "Of all the gin joints..." "We'll always have Paris." "Round up the usual suspects." et. al.) in no way prepared me for the context in which they were spoken. Hollywood just doesn't make heroes like Rick Blaine anymore. I wrote a story once, Everybody Comes to Rick's, about a dying woman whose last wish is to go to Casablanca and have a drink at Rick's Cafe Americain. Yeah, you have to see this movie.

5. Actor/actress you always watch, no matter how crappy the movie.

What, you don't recognize Robert Lindsay? Or you've only seen him in bit parts in mediocre films such as Wimbledon? Then do whatever you must to get your hands on a copy of GBH, a stellar piece of screenwriting by Alan Bleasdale that showcases Lindsay's BAFTA-winning performance as a low-life politician (oh, wait, that's redundant, isn't it?). Failing that, catch his performances as captain of a naval frigate during the Napoleonic Wars in the A&E Horatio Hornblower series. Or even in the not-very-good but charming Bert Rigby, You're a Fool. I've gone to great lengths to see British TV shows featuring this actor. Yes, I can truly say I will watch anything with Robert Lindsay in it. (If James Cameron should ever want me to watch one of his films again, casting Lindsay would do it.)

6. Actor/actress you don’t get the appeal for.

CAMERON DIAZ
Maybe it's something to do with the name of Cameron? Nah, couldn't be, because I love this guy:

7. Actor/actress, living or dead, you’d love to meet.

CARY GRANT
'Nuff said.

8. Sexiest actor/actress you’ve seen. (Picture required!)

STEVE MCQUEEN

Have mercy! McQueen's sexiness doesn't really come across in still photos. Probably it was the way he conveyed attitude in his walk, his talk, his cars, his clothes, his sunglasses for crying out loud, that also conveyed a confident sexiness. But you watch the chess match between him and Faye Dunaway in the original The Thomas Crown Affair, or the physical stillness -- cool, controlled, in charge -- in his scenes in Bullitt, or just the way he walks to his prison cell and bounces that baseball in The Great Escape, and tell me he doesn't make your heart beat faster.

9. Dream cast.
Frank Capra came pretty close with the cast of The Philadelphia Story: Katharine Hepburn, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart. If you could add Humphrey Bogart, Claude Rains, and Bette Davis, that would make for an incredible cast in ... something. Although if ever there were two men who should have been onscreen together, it was Bogey and McQueen.

10. Favorite actor pairing.

Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau.

Yes, this means I'm putting these guys ahead of Tracy/Hepburn, Powell/Loy, Gable/Lombard, Newman/Redford, Astaire/Rogers, et al. Lemmon and Matthau had perfect chemistry across what, seven movies? Something like that. Better, they each also had the charisma and the acting chops to carry the film whenever they weren't in the same scene.

11. Favorite movie setting.

Not a sweeping landscape, not an imagined world of SF, I like the claustrophobic spaces of The Hunt for Red October contrasted against the vast oceans.

12. Favorite decade for movies.
Couldn't be any decade but the 1940s: Casablanca, It's a Wonderful Life, Double Indemnity, The Third Man, Shadow of a Doubt, Since You Went Away, Sergeant York, The Best Years of Our Lives, The Maltese Falcon, Gaslight, Citizen Kane, The Lady From Shanghai, Laura, Mildred Pierce, The Postman Always Rings Twice -- do I have to go on? Because I could, easily.

13. Chick flick or action movie?
No, thanks. I don't mind elements of either but I don't want a film that can be defined that easily.

14. Hero, villain or anti-hero?
Done right, what's not to like about all of them? Example: Hero: Luke Skywalker. Villain: Darth Vader. Anti-hero: Han Solo. I rest my case.

15. Black and white or color?
If I picked the 40s as my favorite film decade, it follows that I prefer black & white. One of the last great black & white films was made in the 60s though. (You knew I'd sneak The Beatles in here somewhere, didn't you?)

A Hard Day's Night

SPEEDLOADER

2011-07-09T09:39:00.001-04:00

It's no secret that Spinetingler has joined the e-publishing world under the Snubnose Press moniker and with an aggressive publishing schedule of a book a month. Their first offering: Speedloader, six stories of murder and mayhem that also are of the usual high caliber (see what I did there?) presented by the good folks at Spinetingler.

You Dirty Rat by Nigel Bird
Plastic Soldiers by W.D. County
Cuffs by Matthew C. Funk
Mori Obscura by Nik Korpon
Herniated Roots by Richard Thomas
Crash & Burn by Jonathan Woods

These stories are well worth the time and money, but I don't really need to say that. The Spinetingler affiliation speaks to the quality without any added endorsement. And some of these writers will be familiar to many readers of online crime fic already. But I do want to take the time to highlight one of these stories by a writer whose output has not been so prolific that he's become a familiar name -- yet.

I first noticed W.D. County's name when I read a story of his at Spinetingler called My Name Is Priscilla. The quality and originality of that story, with its special brand of heartbreak, made me keep County's name in mind but I just wasn't finding his (I know the correct personal pronoun now) work anywhere. And then here comes the debut publication called Speedloader. And right there on the cover, under the names of Nigel Bird and Nik Korpon (who also turned in fine stories) and above Matthew Funk's name (ditto on the fineness), is the name of W.D. County.

County's story, Plastic Soldiers, is a tale of stark courage about a boy who receives inspiration and guidance from the toy soldiers in his pocket, even under the most horrific circumstances. County's middle initial should be H, for Heartbreak, instead of D. It's a brilliant story.

And at only 99 cents, from Smashwords and amazon, this is the most affordable Speedloader on the market.

Midwives to an egg

2011-07-04T09:27:00.000-04:00

CELEBRATE FREEDOM!

Amazon raises my blood pressure. Again.

2011-06-29T22:07:00.001-04:00

Way to keep those prices low, Jeff Bezos!

As if I needed yet another reason to despise amazon.com. It isn't as though amazon would have to PAY the sales tax, but to collect it. Bricks & mortar companies have to do that, why should amazon be exempted? Because they don't have a "presence" in California? Oh, stop. They're selling to Californians, Californians are writing reviews on amazon, etc. Time to update the tax laws for the 21st century -- if you sell your products in this (or any) state, your products should be subject to local sales tax.

Granted, bricks & mortar businesses benefit from local infrastructure which amazon does not make (as much) use of. OTOH, those businesses provide jobs within the communities they serve, while amazon does not (except for those few locations where amazon does have bricks & mortar sites and (presumably) must deal with sales tax -- though that would bear close examination, knowing the peculiar spin of that company's moral compass).

Amazon comes off looking like a hero fighting for their customers, who naturally want to keep costs down. As usual with amazon, it isn't about the customer at all. It's about the sales advantage it gives amazon over its 3D competition. Those pennies per sale may not look like much, but it's a very solid advantage and it's clear amazon doesn't care who suffers as long as they hold onto that edge.

REVIEW: THE END OF EVERYTHING by Megan Abbott

2011-06-27T12:43:00.000-04:00

Thirteen-year-olds Lizzie and Evie are neighbors and best friends in the 1980s. They look like sisters, they dress alike, but they are closer than that superficiality implies. They share everything: hopes, dreams, emotions, as well as clothing, books, toys. They do everything together, from school to sports to vacations. Only one day after school, Evie disappears. Convinced that her heart would tell her if Evie were dead, Lizzie starts to live in the lap of Evie's family, begins exploring the yards and houses of her neighbors, looking for clues to Evie's whereabouts, why she left, and who she might have gone with. Lizzie is convinced that if she can bring Evie home, everything will be just as it had been.

Megan Abbott's THE END OF EVERYTHING is bound to draw comparisons with Alice Sebold's LOVELY BONES, but the basic premise of these stories -- the disappearance of a young girl -- is the only thing that ties them together. Rather than relying on narration from a dead-and-gone-to-heaven victim, Abbott's Lizzie narrates a tale of wonderment, joy, dread, and dark revelations, sometimes all within the same paragraph. Young Lizzie is perspicacious and naive at once, as only girls-on-the-verge-of-becoming-women can be. Wisely innocent.

Lizzie is a magnificent narrator, wanting to be the center of attention and wanting not to be, deriving clues and evidence surrounding Evie's disappearance as much or more from how she reads a glance and interprets a sentences, as she does from facts and logic. Lizzie is imbued with a voice that mimics the child-adult so very accurately that one is left wondering how did so much about those emotions, that youthful worldview , that sexual innocence dawning on yearning, how is it that it was all forgotten? And how is it that Megan Abbott remembers it all with such perfect clarity?

The characters of Evie's family, her parents and magically beautiful sister, Dusty, are all explored by Lizzie in the manner of an Impressionist painter: from a distance they make a pretty, well-defined picture; close-up, as Lizzie longs to be to them, they seem all blurred edges and colors without definition.

The author has penned a delicious psychological thriller that never gets it wrong by going for the cheap thrill or easy answer. The reader may feel bruised but never slapped, and Lizzie is always there to offer solace to the reader as well as to Evie's family. Evie's disappearance and the events surrounding it all work to lay bare the relationships and conflicts not just within Evie's family but within Lizzie herself. As much as Lizzie is able to read emotion and motive in others, she is almost blind to what drives her from her own family's side to spend evenings with Evie's anguished father, beautiful sister, and nearly invisible mother. The one thing Lizzie is certain of is that when Evie vanished, it was indeed the end of everything -- if 'everything' is Lizzie's innocence.

The author does a stellar job of foreshadowing without being obvious, of misdirecting without misleading, of instilling dread without removing hope, and revealing without judging. Readers of Abbott's more traditional novels of noir should find this newest work fascinating, as her considerable talents tackle more mainstream subject matter here without sacrificing one jot of the style and insight that has garnered her previous books so much praise. THE END OF EVERYTHING is a haunting and moving story about losing and finding and losing again those intangibles, those nearly inexpressible things we most treasure.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

The first three chapters of THE END OF EVERYTHING are available for reading at Facebook, and I recommend you go read them right now. Following is just a brief excerpt from chapter two, for those too lazy to click a mouse button:

The next day, Evie and I are standing in front of the school, tapping our sticks against each other in time. The dream from last night is hovering in my head, and I think I might tell Evie about it, but I keep stopping myself. No one ever really wants to hear your dreams.

Anyway, we are having a day of no talking, just being, walking together, tapping our new hockey sticks and yanking our sweaty shirts from our chests.

Still, I can't keep my eyes off the violet stain flaring over Evie's temple. It looks like it could move without you, get up and go. It's like a purple butterfly, I tell her, flitting from her face.

She puts her fingers on it and I can almost feel it pulsing on my own face, a gentle throb.

"What did your dad say?" I ask, and I imagine Mr. Verver's wrinkled brow, like when I slipped on their stairs, running way too fast in my stocking feet, skidding down three steps, and making brush burns all up my calves.

"He bought me a raw steak at Ketchums to put on it," she says. "Mom said it cost more than their anniversary dinner."

It sounds like Mrs. Verver, who says everything with a yawn.

"All night," Evie says, a grin creeping, "he kept calling me Rocky."

We both roll our eyes, but we love it. When the boys tease, you don't want it to be you, but with Mr. Verver, his teases are like warm hands lifting you.

Evie thrusts her hockey stick out in front of her like Zorro. "Dusty said I looked more like a battered wife on a TV show," she says.

Then she tells me how, after dinner, her dad took her for pecan pie at Reynold's, the good kind, gritty-sweet on your teeth. The waitresses felt sorry for her and gave her an extra scoop of ice cream.

I think of sitting with Mr. Verver, gooey pie plates between us, and how the waitresses probably always give him extra scoops. Waitresses were always doing that with Mr. Verver, just like the mothers who buzzed around him at the PTA meetings, filling his plate with sugared cookies and inviting him to their book clubs.

I wish Evie would have invited me to Reynold's. Like other times, with Mr. Verver dabbing Cool Whip on my nose.

Out of the blue, my ankles feel itchy and I wish I could take off my gym socks.

I look down the street, which has that four thirty hush. The summer heat seems early, hovering above the asphalt.

"Where's your mom taking you?" Evie asks, watching a car flutter upward at the speed bump in front of the school.

"The mall," I say. "Are you going to wear your sister's old dress?" I remember the lavender Laura Ashley with the gored skirt that Dusty wore to her own middle school graduation. All those ringlets dangling down her back and her face bright with achievement—it wasn't something you forgot.

A maroon car shimmers out of nowhere and glides past us quickly.

"I don't know," Evie says, kicking her shoe toe into the pavement.

Squinting, she looks down the street. "I think I see her."

We both watch as my mom's tan Tempo floats before us on the horizon.

"We'll give you a ride," I say.

"That's okay," she says, twirling her hockey stick over her shoulder. I hear the stutter in my mom's car as she pulls up.

The moment stretches out, I'm not sure why.

Evie is looking past my mother's car, down the street.

"Someone's lost," she says.

"What—" I start, but then we both watch as the same maroon car drifts past us again soundlessly. Something in my head flickers, but I can't place it.

I turn back around and there's that Evie face, cool and orderly, the line for a mouth and her smooth, artless expression, like a soft sheet pulled fast, hiding every corner.

I twirl my stick around and clatter it against hers.

"Call me," I say, turning toward the idling car. My mother is looking at us from behind big sunglasses, smiling absently.

I open the door and lean in. "Mom, can Evie come with us?"

But when I turn around, Evie's gone, slipped behind the tall hedgerow, behind the stone columns of the old school.

Do I see it in her expression, as she looks at me, as she pulls her face into blankness? Do I hear her say, in some low register, a creeping knowingness always between us? Do I hear her say, This is the last time, this is the last time?

This face, my face, gone forever.

   Publisher: Reagan Arthur Books, Little, Brown
   Publication Date: Available now.
   ISBN-10: 0316097799
   ISBN-13: 978-0316097796
   Order on Indiebound or Borders, Barnes & Noble, Amazon and lots of other places.

Not short on Cash!

2011-06-26T14:52:00.000-04:00

Reading Edward A. Grainger's collection of short Western fiction reminds me that I really should read more Westerns. I've always enjoyed the genre, both on-page and on-screen, from Max Brand and Louis L'Amour through John Wayne and Clint Eastwood, and beyond. Although "Western" really narrows it down to sub-genre, because in a broader sense these stories are also historical fiction and crime fiction. Have you ever read a Western that didn't involve crime?

While Grainger's seven stories contain what one expects in Westerns: shoot-outs and soiled doves, they also touch upon issues that, while not new, are certainly discussed more widely and openly today than they were 120 years ago: child abuse (Melanie) and racism (The Bone Orchard Mystery), to cite two of those issues. And the author hits upon these topics, not lending them a too-modern air without condoning them, nor looking down his authorial nose at the attitudes of that time period. Instead he makes them clear-cut issues involving justice. And the good guys, Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles, a pair of hard men with not soft hearts but good ones, are not above taking the law into their own hands when justice is at stake.

My favorite story in this collection is The Wind Scorpion, in which Cash Laramie gets twin lessons in entomology and the similarity of a certain arachnid to a woman scorned.

Available in ebook at amazon.com: The Adventures of Cash Laramie and Gideon Miles.

REVIEW: DUST DEVILS by Roger Smith

2011-06-23T19:34:00.001-04:00

South African journalist Robert Dell, his wife and two children are all headed off on a holiday, when a black pickup truck runs them off the road. Dell's family is killed and he is framed for their murders.

If that sounds anything like a typical thriller, please, just hold the phone a sec. Because you haven't read anything like this book. No, you haven't. No, it's not like that book or that one or any of the thrillers you'll recall right offhand, and that's because Roger Smith isn't just any writer. In the span of just three books, his prose has gone from spare and evocative to darkly lyrical. His characterizations are masterful, his POV treatment is impeccable. And thematically, where once he was just pretty damned good, he now soars.

DUST DEVILS is a brilliant work, revolving around five major characters: Dell, a pacifist wrought by his grief and also by his sense of justice in a world that has none, into waging personal war on the men who killed his family; Inja, a corrupt, murderous cop and Zulu chief, a man dying of AIDS and looking to superstition instead of science for help, he will kill anyone who gets between him and his 16-year-old bride-to-be, Sunday, because he believes that sex with her will cure him. Sunday wants only not to have to marry Inja. She, as much as anyone, knows him for the cold killer he is. And then there is Disaster Zondi, an ex-cop as a result of having principals in a time and place where those things have no cash value. The author spins these characters and more through a space-time continuum where personal interactions go repeatedly nuclear. Oops, I said five characters, didn't I? South Africa is the fifth one. The varying cultures, the extremes of power and wealth matched again helplessness and poverty, places where AIDS harvests one out of three people thanks to neglect, superstition, and ignorance. Where news events don't begin to tell the depth of the stories.

Along the way, the reader gets a mini-education in the behind-the-scenes politics of South Africa as that country moved from apartheid to... whatever one calls it today, because freedom hardly seems the right word. Unless one is remembering the old song lyric from Me and Bobby McGee: "Freedom's just another word for nothin' left to lose."

Thematically, where other authors would simply push the characters examining their past sins toward a search for redemption or atonement, Smith takes his characters beyond and into a stark cultural landscape where the wages of sin don't include the possibility of redemption, and where careful preservation of innocence is futile because innocence was long ago the first victim of sin. Harshly violent, the book is a broken window onto the cultural indifference to massive suffering, but more pointedly -- and poignantly -- Smith highlights the effect of the neglect by those powerful enough to relieve such suffering, who make such suffering more intense and widespread through corruption and indifference. The story's end is a sorrowful angel, breathtakingly cinematic on one level, and on another so personal that the reader's heart bleeds. A brilliant work.

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED.

WGI: More stories

2011-06-20T08:51:00.000-04:00

The fourth-place story in this year's WGI is Ian Ayris's HARD TIMES, which has now been posted to Ian's blog.

As other entries appear around the web, I'll be happy to post those links. If I don't post promptly, give me a kick in the shin and I'll remedy that.

Also, when I get a longer break today, I'll add a widget to the sidebar to maintain all of the links to the stories throughout the year.

WGI 3rd Place: A POCKET FULL OF HORSES by Chad Eagleton

2011-06-19T17:21:00.000-04:00

Jack Freese turned off the highway. No Trespassing signs led him down Fairfax and onto a narrow dirt road. When the single lane dead ended, he kept driving. The truck muscled through the tall grass to the sparse wood sloping up to Empire Mill Quarry.

He parked as far away from the road as he could—close to the trees, under a weave of low branches. He was surprised to see no other vehicles. It was a summer’s Saturday, barely past midnight and still warm enough to feel uncomfortable. If nothing else, his brother’s car should be there — Scott called twenty minutes ago, told him to meet at the quarry and hung up.

Jack killed the engine and raised the windows. He let the lights linger. The beams showed nothing but dark wood.

A tangle of memories.

“Fuck.” Jack hit the lights and grabbed the cigarette pack from the dash. He hadn’t smoked in years, but there was something about tonight. Something he didn’t like.

He lit a cigarette and the cab filled with smoke and the smoke filled with ghosts.

#

Jack knew how to swim, he just never liked it. The only reason he went that first time was because Scott asked him and Scott never asked him to do anything — ever. He left the house at all hours and Jack imagined what sort of adventures he had during all those comings and goings. So many people. So many friends. So many girls.

Jack didn’t understand girls, but he knew from all the different pretty faces that came and went with Scott that even the girls must have been exciting.

He had to say yes. Had to.

Of course, this was before he knew Scott, before he knew to be afraid. Eleven years separated the two of them. A large enough span to mask Scott’s failings in Jack’s childhood inexperience and push his adoration into complete acceptance.

Once down the road, Scott warned him that it would be dangerous, he could never tell Mom anything about it. Jack nodded as Scott pushed the rear window open.

He climbed in the truck bed and bounced, rocked, slid and grinned down the back roads. During the march through the woods, he smiled and blabbered. He didn’t cry when he felt something crawling on him and Scott pulled it off, showed him the tick and burned it. He never complained climbing the discarded limestone blocks piled with all the care of spilled toys. When they reached the top and he dove in the water and climbed back out again, his teeth chattering, he didn’t whine about being cold even though he was.

The Strunk Brothers didn’t even bother him and Jack hated the Strunk brothers.

Adam was Scott’s friend. Tall and wide, thick boned and weak chinned, he was even weaker willed. Rumor was he got the name Adam not out of Biblical reverence, but because when he was born, his father, surprised at the resemblance, said, “Huh, he’s a damn Strunk.”

Jack didn’t get the story then. What he got was that when Scott got in trouble, Adam was there. So, he blamed Adam. He had to — Adam was nothing. Scott was his brother.

And Benny was Adam’s.

Adam was thoughtless and mean, but Benny was purposely and deliberately cruel. His age masked a growing penchant for terror. Benny would never do that, everyone said. He’s just a boy. Sure, Benny may eat snot and burp in your face, he is a Strunk, what do you expect? And isn’t that what boys do? He’ll grow out of it. He’d never break windows or shoot the neighbor’s cat in the face with a pellet gun.

No one could admit that Benny was a force of unstoppable fuckery birthed from a cocktail of poverty and ignorance, then garnished with a lack of oversight. No one, Jack thought, seemed to give a fuck.

That day even Jack didn’t give a fuck.

That changed when they took him up to the Rooftop with its wide cliff face looming 65 feet above the blue-green water, a legendary drop that even Jack had heard the stories about: wrists broken, legs shattered, concussions, two boys dead. He ledged it for a glance, saw the sheered rock going down, down, straight down, and he knew he couldn’t.

“Jump, Jackie boy,” Scott coaxed. “Let’s do this shit, buddy. You can rock this fucker. Kids at school will think you’re badass.”

“You’ll get lots a pussy.”

“He doesn’t know what pussy is, Adam.”

“Benny does.”

Benny, the little idiot, nodded.

No.

Scott switched tactics. “Come on, Jack, jump. We’ll go get some ice cream when we’re done if you jump.”

Nope.

“I’ll get you one of those army men you like. The whatchacallit—The GI Joe dudes.”

Nada.

“Fucking Benny will do it,” Adam said and Benny the little idiot nodded and took off running and leapt.

Splash.

“See,” Scott said.

Jack shrugged violently and sat down hard enough on his tail bone he almost cried. Only fear kept tears away. They’re gonna push me off. Gonna toss me.

Scott snatched Jack’s arm and jerked him to his feet.

Jack howled. Oh, god, he’s gonna do it.

But, he didn’t.

What he did was worse — he turned. “Pussy,” he said.

It marked him. “Bawl Baby.”

He was fair game. “Fucking fag.”

“Shoulda left your ass at home. Every time, man, every fucking time. Just fucking piss all over my good time.

#

Jack followed the old railroad grade for a half mile through the woods. Old bottles and cans littered the dirt path. Impaled on thorn bushes, hamburger wrappers shook in the wind like pithed insects as ratty shoes swung like charms from old laces on high branches.

Jack tossed cigarette butts like breadcrumbs until the woods broke into a rocky clearing with slabs of weathered limestone. By then his head buzzed with nicotine and his lungs ached. He closed his eyes. Tried listening to the quiet. Why did I ever come back here? I should have stayed away. Should have looked for another job in Indianapolis. Should have fucking left Indiana.

His thoughts would not still. He opened his eyes, breathed heavy and sat against a pitted block. He plucked at a patch of grass. The green blades were sharp. He didn’t care. This was his fault. He knew better than to come here. He could have ignored the call.

Ignoring was easier when Scott was in jail. Jack wished his brother was still in jail, an awful thought, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t understand why they never kept him. No matter what he did, they never kept him.

Someone yelled — Jack couldn’t make out the words. The echo bounced them around the quarry. Trees stripped consonants. Rocks dropped vowels. It was all just gibberish.

But the voice? That he knew. The tone he recognized — Scott.

Jack looked up at the quarry. Shadows moved. His mind gave in to their suggestions. Carried by fear, snatches of memories came back — a rib breaking, yelling in the night, gunshots, desperate women, Coke-can bongs — things his brother had done. Fear stole years. He felt six again, and the grip kept tightening on his arm.

Another voice yelled, pulling him to the present. He caught his name in Benny’s nasal lilt.

Jack looked back at his trail of Camels. They were lost in thorn and brush, hidden in grass and weed, swallowed by darkness. No choice. He stood, patted his pocket and began to climb.

#

“You should wear your shoes,” a girl’s voice said. “Keep your feet from bruising.”

Jack at 16 looked behind him at a girl with cutoffs over narrow hips and a faded STP shirt over a flat chest. “Don’t know if you’ve jumped before,” she said, “but if it’s your first time—shoes, definitely shoes.”

Jack hoped it would be his first time. He had not been back to the quarry since he was six. He thought if he didn’t acknowledge it that would be enough.

It worked for Scott.

Every time Scott was arrested, Jack sacrificed a memory. Every time he stole from them, he erased a feature. Every time he made the paper, his last name shortened. Jack Freese became Jack. Just Jack. Nothing else. Jack with no brother. No ties. No family. Scott? Scott who? He didn’t know a Scott. Couldn’t place a face.

The quarry was just as easy until he made the mistake of walking the vocational hall where Benny Strunk loitered and flunked. Jack spotted him first, thought about turning back, heading down one floor and then over but there wasn’t time—he’d be late.

He tried moving quickly. He knew if Benny saw him, he’d be — “Holy hell, it’s Bawl Baby” — fucked.

The girl looked down at the water. “What do you think?” She asked.

Jack blanked.

“What do you think?”

He looked at her. He knew her — of her. Her name was Annalee. Her last name began with an R. Something short and not very pretty like Ruf or Rupp or Rudd — Rudd, her last name was Rudd.

Rudd? Ah Fuck!

The Rudds lived in a rusty trailer down the same overgrown back road as the Strunks, only further out. Out where the poor people said the poor people lived.

“Whaddya think?”

“Huh?”

“What do you think? Not about my face,” she said. “The jump?”

“I don’t know,” he said, still looking at her face. She had impossibly long and delicate eye lashes.

She laughed. “I’ve done this a bunch. Million times. Know what? It still scares me.”

Jack thought, Say something—something witty and insightful. His mind blanked. I need to say something. It doesn’t matter. Anything. By then it had been too long since she had spoken. So, he said nothing. Said nothing and shrugged.

“Well,” she said, “I have done this a lot. But I’ve never jumped with anyone. We could jump together. My brothers would never do it.” She held out her hand. “Unless you think I’d fuck you up? On the way down? Like your landing or whatever.”

“No,” he said.

Her hand was small. All bones.

“Ready?”

Jack nodded.

They leapt and he spent years trying to remember exactly how it felt. The drop. Cliff just inches from his back. Her hand. The water’s sting. Gravity pulling them apart. Sudden temperature change.

He never could. Never could remember it all in a way that felt right. When he reached out for that day, the only thing he remembered was her face. Her small round face when they came up for air and she said, “You didn’t cry.”

#

Benny pulled him up to The Rooftop.

“Wondering when the fuck you was gonna get here,” Scott said.

Benny belched in Jack’s face. “Hey, man.”

Jack wiped his hands on his jeans. “I didn’t see your car.”

“We parked at the church.”

“You’ll get towed,” he said.

“Fuck it.” Scott chucked a beer can over the edge “Behind on payments anyway. Let the fucking bank take it. They will eventually, one way or the other.”

Of course, loan wasn’t in your name.

“He’ll just buy a new fucking car,” Benny said. “No problem. Tell him, Scotty.”

“Shut the fuck up, Benny.”

Benny shut the fuck up and handed each of them a beer.

“So,” Scott said, “got some news for ya.”

Jack sipped.

“Benny and I were at the gas station — .“

“The one on 37 south.”

“With the stupid fifties theme and the dumb name spelled funny.”

Jack nodded.

“We saw your woman.”

“What?”

“You know,” Scott said.

“Annalee, dumbass,” Benny said. “What other woman you ever had?”

“She works there, man. I know you still think about her.”

“I don’t get it, Bawl Baby,” Benny said. “I mean, I’ve had her, everybody has.” Benny curled his lip. “Wasn’t nothing to write home about.”

Jack threw his can. Benny batted it and laughed. “What the fuck you gonna do?”

Jack thought for a moment, stood up and swung.

#

They were drinking then too.

Scott had been out for four days. All but one, he spent with Adam on the front porch drinking. For that one, they traded beer for roach clips of Indiana ditch weed.

“Where ya heading?” Scott asked.

“Out,” Jack said.

Scott emptied his can and passed it to his brother. “Throw that away first. Mom was bitching about the porch.”

Jack stacked the beer can on the wicker table with the others.

Scott smirked. “Got a date, huh?”

“No shit?” Adam asked.

“Yeah,” Scott said. “He’s got a girlfriend.”

“Shut up,” Jack said.

“Rosie Palmer and her five sisters?” Adam asked.

“Oh, better’n that.”

“Who?” Adam held up his other hand. “Her friend Jill?”

Jack didn’t know why he didn’t get in the car and leave. Even as Scott laughed and said, “Nope — Annalee Rudd,” he still didn’t know.

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“You had that yet? Of course you’ve had that. Everybody’s had that. ‘Cept for me. I can’t believe I ain’t had that yet. You’ve had it and I ain’t.” Adam looked at Scott. “Can you believe it?”

Scott shook his head and belched.

“Damn, son. I heard she’s still real tight. Is she tight?”

Jack wanted to hit him.

“Take some condoms,” Adam said.

Scott laughed. “He don’t need any. She’s got a pocket full of horses.”

“Fuck, that’s right. That’s her. Who told us that?”

“Her brother.”

“Shit, yeah. Damn! You know he’s had that too.”

Scott nodded. “He’d put his dick in anything.”

Jack felt sick.

“You okay there, Jackie?” Adam stood and slapped him on the back. “Huh? You thinking about that little pussy? Huh? Maybe if you’re real nice,” he said, wrapping his arm around Jack and mock humping his thigh, “she’ll leave the horses in her pocket and let you do her bareback.”

A week later Scott and Adam were both in jail, again. It didn’t make him feel any better.

#

Jack knew it was wrong.

He could feel it as soon as he let his fist fly. His feet were flat. Shoulders too tense. Wrist bent. Swing too wide. It wasn’t going to land right. It wasn’t going to do anything. It wasn’t even going to hurt.

But it did.

Jack’s wrist buckled on Benny’s sharp cheekbone. Two of his knuckles popped. He staggered at the sudden stop of momentum.

Benny was fine.

His narrow, hooded eyes were clear as he stood. He snatched the collar of Jack’s shirt and slammed an uppercut under the arch of his ribs. Jack doubled over.

Benny punched him again. The blow cut gag reflex as Jack’s muscles seized. Lungs froze. Stomach locked tight and tense. He felt like he was choking. Choking on nothing.

“That’s enough,” Scott said.

Benny punched him again.

Jack thought he must have hit something. Something inside. An organ. Jack didn’t know. He had never felt anything like this. He dropped to his knees and rock shards slit jeans.

“Fucking stop.” Scott grabbed Benny, spun him and punched in the face.

Jack watched from the rocks. His vision rimmed and awkward angled like one of those frustrating movie fights—Scott’s fist, Benny’s stringy hair, pushing face into the punch, wet sound, somebody crying.

Was it Benny?

Or was it him? Jack didn’t know.

Scott pulled him to his feet. “Damn, brother, you need to learn to punch.”

Jack nodded. Scott sat him down on Benny’s rock. The six-pack fell over. A can popped and hissed. Beer shot out and pooled on the limestone, clear and yellow and cheap as piss.

Scott grabbed the sixer, tore the punctured can free, wiped it off and sucked it dry.

Somewhere below, Benny yelled for them to go fuck themselves.

Scott wiped his mouth, crushed the can and offered Jack another. “He’ll be back,” he said. “He’s fine.”

“No thanks.”

Scott sat next to Jack. “More for me.”

Neither of them spoke for a long time. They sat there in silence, for a moment or two like brothers.

“You know, man, she looks good.”

“Who?”

Scott elbowed him. “You’re fucking stupid for a college kid, you know it?”

Jack didn’t laugh. He looked at the spot where he stood the day she showed him the VW bug rusting at the quarry bottom. You could only see it from a certain angle, at a certain time, in a certain light.

Not tonight.

“She wasn’t wearing a ring or nothing,” Scott offered. “And she does look good. Still thin. Fit. I don’t think she’s shat out any kids or nothing. Her hair looks really nice too. Still dark.”

“What do you want?”

“Huh?”

“What do you want from me, Scott?”

“Nothing, man. I wanted to tell you about seeing her. I know you’re still sweet on her.” Scott stood and walked to the ledge. “Never understood why you quit seeing her.”

“That’s fine and you wouldn’t, but whatever.” Jack breathed deep. His gut ached. He spat and said, “But what do you want—from me?”

Scott up at the sky. Jack didn’t think it was the moon. “Why do you do that?” Scott asked.

“What?”

“Assume I want something?”

Because there’s always a return, he thought, but instead, quietly, “What do you want?”

Scott toed the edge.

“She works at a gas station,” Jack said.

“Yeah, the one —.“

“I know which one you said. Are you planning on robbing it?”

“A gas station? For what? A hundred bucks and some cigs?”

“There’s an angle somewhere.”

“Maybe,” he said. “You’ll see.”

Jack shook his head.

“Better you don’t know. You will, but for now —,” Scott tossed the can. “‘Sides, I’m trying to help you.”

“No, you’re not.” Jack stood and faced Scott’s back. “Do you remember what you told me that day?”

“Which day?” Scott turned. The night ate his face.

“The thing about a pocket full of horses?”

Silence from the black hood.

“You know where that came from? Where it really came from?”

“Heard it somewhere. Someone told me.”

“No. I’m not talking about the line from the fucking Prince song. Or some shit Adam told you. Or some shit you think her brother said or maybe he did say. He was always a cock too. Fuck him. What I mean is where it started. Where it really started.”

Jack stepped closer. The moonlight shifted. Cut shadows. He still couldn’t see Scott’s face. Only small, uneven teeth.

“Her father died. You know that, right?”

Something hit the water. A faint splash. From Scott—nothing.

“Her father died and one of the last things he gave her, he bought at the dollar store. A plastic bag about like this. It was full of little horses. This big or so. Little plastic horses. All different colors.”

Jack closed. He could see the graying stubble on his brother’s muscular neck. Sharp like the thorns below. “She carried them around in her pocket after he was gone. All bunched up. Big bulge. Some of them broke. Their heads. Their tails. She just kept refilling them. Shoving more in. And she’d tell everyone where she went, she was still real little then, that she had a pocket full of horses. What else could it mean? A pocket full of horses.”

Jack faced his brother—Scott was empty. “I know she works at the gas station. I found her on Facebook. Her name’s not Rudd anymore.”

Jack reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and held it tight in his hand. He talked to his fist, “I drove down there. She smiled when she saw me and for a moment —.” Jack shrugged. “We went around back on her break. You know that back parking lot where no one ever parks except during the car shows, the cruise-ins? We went back there and we talked and she told me about her life and she’s good. Real good and happy.”

Jack raised his fist to dead eyes. “Before I left, she gave me something.” He opened his hand. A little, plastic gray horse rested on his palm.

Scott worked his jaw. Muscles bunched at the hinge.

The horse toppled. “Her pockets are empty now,” Jack said. “Empty just like mine.”

Scott took it and watched his brother leave.

Once alone, he looked at the horse. It was sculpted mid-gallop—frozen. He held it with two fingers and examined it closer. Plastic. He took the lighter from his front pocket and burned it. He watched it melt until the heat stung his thumb, then he flicked it over the side. When it hit the water, it didn’t splash.

It sank without a sound.

WGI 2nd Place: FINGERPRINTS by Eric Beetner

2011-06-19T14:33:00.000-04:00

The doorknob turned an inch to the right, then slipped back in place. The thin metal scraping of keys around, above and against the lock ended with the sound of a key ring falling to the floor, then muffled voices in the hall.

“Can you hurry the fuck up? I’m dying here.”

“Sorry.”

The door opened. Darren led the way in, rubbing his hands and moving fast with nervous energy, the keys left dangling in the front door lock. Brian followed, his right hand clutching his left and squeezing hard as he tried to stop the bleeding. He angled against the wall and flicked a light switch with his elbow, grimacing in pain as he did.

“Seriously,” Brian said. “Were you trying to kill me?”

“I said I was sorry.” Darren paced. His lips moved quickly as he dictated the visions in his head back to himself, trying to make sense of what he’d just been through.

“You gonna fucking help me or what?” Brian held up his left hand, palm out like he was waving to a neighbor – after his hand had been caught in a lawnmower. Blood stained his palm an even red with streaks running down into his sleeve and under his jacket as if they were hiding from the light that shone through a conspicuous gap where his ring finger should have been.

Darren rocked back and forth on his heels, staring at the wound on his partner and friend, confused and slightly nauseous.

“What am I . . . what do you want me to do?”

Brian clenched his teeth, biting back another wave of pain like a woman in labor. Each pump of his heart sent new messages of pain in morse code, blasting tiny electric shocks to the open nerves in his hand. The wave crested and he spat out his words, “I don’t fucking know!”

Brian turned his hand gently to examine the damage. Darren watched as the ruined digit swung from a thin strip of skin, dangling down the back of Brian’s hand like a broken antenna on an old TV set. The bone had been obliterated by the bullet. The skin that held the finger on was no wider or sturdier than a strip of scotch tape.

The idea of reattaching the finger was long gone. Neither Brian nor Darren held any illusions about that.

“Should I . . . ?” Darren pointed at the swinging finger.

Brian forced himself to look at it, but quickly shut his eyes and turned away, choking down a heave in his gut.

“Yeah. Do it. Just do it.”

Darren reached out, but drew his hand back, reached again, drew back again, acting like he was being asked to grab a tarantula bare-handed.

“You shot me, man. Now fucking help me!”

Darren pinched the finger between his index and thumb and, same as drawing a cigarette out of the pack, pulled on it until it came off in his hand.

Brian screamed through his closed mouth. Darren dropped the completely severed finger to the carpet and started shaking out his hands trying to get the tarantula feeling off of them.

Brian dropped to his knees and screamed until his lungs were empty. As if that were all the indulgence he was going to give himself, he stood again and went to the kitchen of their two bedroom flat and picked a dishtowel off the counter.

A few new bloodstains on the carpet would go largely unnoticed. Screams in this building, especially muffled screams, would go unreported.

Brian wrapped the dishtowel around the open wound and the bacteria immediately settled on the warm gore, exchanging microbes with Brian’s bloodstream. He leaned over the sink and closed his eyes, questioning whether he needed to throw up.

“I can’t believe you fucking shot me, man.”

“You know I didn’t mean it. The whole thing went to shit.”

“You don’t have to tell me that. I just can’t believe you hit that small of a target. You couldn’t do that again if you tried a hundred times.”

“I wasn’t trying to do it.”

“Great. I get the fruits of your one-in-a-million shot.”

“I hit, like, three guys in there.”

Brian slitted his eyes and gave Darren a menacing look. “I shot four guys in there. You shot my hand, that’s it.”

“Okay, whatever you say.”

Brian exhaled, closed his eyes again. “God damn, I wish we’d taken some of that heroin and not just the money. I could use a little numbing up about now.”

“I didn’t think you used.”

“I don’t, I’m just saying. Jesus Christ, Darren. Give me a minute here, I’m in a lot of pain. Why don’t you start counting the money?”

Darren stopped his shuffling. He looked around the kitchen.

Brian noticed the blankness on his face. He watched Darren’s eyes scanning the room, busy, but not focusing on anything as if trying to recall a lost phone number.

“You have the money, right?”

Darren’s stillness said it all.

---------------

“This partnership is over, man.”

“Brian, come on. It was really confusing in there.”

“I’ve had it. We’ve had a good run. Not great, but decent. But now? Fuck it. I’m out.”

Brian fumbled in his pocket for car keys with his right hand, the bloody dish rag clinging to his left only by the viscosity of the half-coagulated blood.

Darren held up the keys. “You can’t drive like that.”

Brian stared down his friend, his thick eyebrows lifting and betraying the soft spot inside. Plus, he really couldn’t drive in his condition.

“It better still fucking be there.”

Darren retraced the escape route, wishing he’d replaced that burned out headlight. Twice he had to pull a U-turn to get back in the right direction. Nothing looked familiar, but then again he hadn’t been paying close attention the first time through. On their flight from the mayhem of Queen Lupe’s pad self-preservation took precedence over lefts or rights.

“It’s a minor set back, that’s all,” Darren said.

“Minor for you. You can still count to ten.”

Brian’s pain had leveled off to a dull throb. He had the odd sensation of the finger still being attached. He felt the wet of the dishtowel on the skin, felt shocks of pain run up the length to the tip of a finger that was no longer there.

“You know what they say, man. You fall off that horse you gotta get right back on.”

“Yeah? Well, fuck you and the horse you rode in on, okay?”

----------------

The cops weren’t there yet. A good sign.

The door stood open and the porch light still burned but no light penetrated beyond the threshold. Darren parked his mid-90s Impala across the street and reached under the seat for the pistol he’d stashed there as they left this exact spot less than a half hour ago.

Queen Lupe’s house was unassuming to look at but had a reputation in the neighborhood like any good haunted house. It’s where the Heroin Queen did her business. A distribution center, shooting gallery and manufacturing plant all framed by a brown lawn on a generic slice of urban sprawl.

Rusty chain link did little to keep anyone out. Rumors of what happened inside kept everyone well away, unless the pull of a needle full of H brought you bravely to the door.

“Get in and get out. That’s it,” Brian said.

“What’s that they say? Second time’s a charmer.”

“Third time, jackass. And if I have to come back here a third time, one of us is leaving in a body bag.”

Brian leveled a serious eye at Darren and held it as the engine knocked and clicked on the otherwise soundless street.

“Yeah well, finger’s crossed anyway.”

Darren shrank as soon as he realized what he said. Brian tried to ignore him.

Robbing the Queen had been an act of pure brass balls. Brian and Darren had planned for the worst, but their imagination hadn’t been up to the reality of what lay inside. Escaping minus only one finger? A miracle.

Brian gripped his gun with his right hand, keeping his left elevated so it looked like he was waving a red flag overhead.

The house still smelled of spent shells and broken butane lighters. Darren spotted a short blue flame from a torch lighter on a low coffee table as it overcooked a spoon of heroin. The flame had been charring the spoon since the boys had been there last and all that remained was a black stain that smelled like an open grave. Mix that with the smell of fresh blood strong enough to make a vampire weak in the knees.

The two moved slowly, imitating extras in a horror film waiting for the boogeyman to leap from a dark corner. Two crumpled bodies lay to the left of the couch, empty sawed-off shotguns by their sides. Brian felt a touch of pride at having taken out such formidable foes. He hadn’t been able to appreciate it during the gunfight.

Darren’s eyes followed a blood trail out the door. The junkie squatter who’d been waiting for his spoon to cook. Guess he got away, although he left missing more than just a place to put a wedding ring.

Brian whispered, “Where’d you leave the bag?”

“I’m not sure. I guess I must have left it in the back.”

The Queen’s lair. A master bedroom to you and me. It’s where Darren was when the shooting started.

Two more bodies blocked the hallway in frozen face-down contortions like a break dancing accident caught in a photographer’s flash. Brian led the way and stepped over the crumpled men listening for movement in the far away rooms but hearing only the soft squish of his All Stars on the bloodstained carpet.

How had he escaped this and the only bullet he took was from his partner?

The Queen was still in her bed. All three hundred and eighty pounds of her resting comfortably while her brain was allowed to air out through the two holes in her skull.

Darren had shot someone. The main one. He remained a little too preoccupied to take credit for it at the moment. Brian regarded the twin head shots and nodded his approval.

And then, among the thick death, was life.

Brian jolted and raised his gun. He hadn’t seen the person at first since the man was sitting so still. He sat perched atop an olive green army duffle bag and slumped down so his chin nearly touched his chest. A duffle bag lumpy and bulging with the hard fought earnings of the night, though the junkie didn’t seem to know that.

When the junkie looked up, Darren raised his gun too. Like an old pro, the man continued the action he was engaged in before he nodded out. He removed the empty syringe and needle from the back of his hand.

“Get up partner,” Brian said.

The junkie tilted his head up but the gears only lifted him so far. A fog hung thick between him and understanding.

“I said get up.”

“Free hits, man. Free junk.” A sleepy smile played over his chapped lips. Must have needed a fix pretty bad to wander through the battlefield to make it this far. When he realized no one was around to take his payment, or to stop him filling as many needles as he could, it must have been like watching Christmas morning fucking the lottery while a unicorn craps a rainbow in your skull.

“That’s the bag,” Darren said.

“I know that,” Brian said. “Move him.”

Darren stepped around Brian and tucked his pistol in the waistband of his pants. He put his hand under the armpits of the junkie and lifted. The guy was light. A longtime user. He moved with Darren easily, a marionette being put away after a performance.

Darren guided the smack-head onto the bed and lay him next to the Queen and her open skull. The junkie’s long stringy hair soaked up some of the blood and gray matter. The smile never left his lips.

Darren lifted the bag and hefted the weight. If that smack-head had any idea what he was sitting on it could have kept him on the horse for years. They still had to count it, but over a million was the best guess from the pre-score planning.

“Okay let’s–”

The cheap bed frame gave way and the two legs at the foot of the bed collapsed. The junkie slid off the bed like butter off a hot roll and the Queen came rolling after like a bowling ball off a rooftop. The dead weight of the Queen flattened out on top of the junkie until he was obliterated from sight. The dark plum color of the exit wounds in the back of the Queen’s head stared out the same as two sunken eyes on a scared child.

Darren looked at Brian. Brian stared back. It would take both of them to lift her off and even then it was no guarantee. The junkie must have been passed out under there. From the angle and spread of her body he most likely had a mouth full of her neck fat and undoubtedly a few cracked ribs and some seriously flattened lungs that were incapable of refilling.

“Go. Just go,” Brian said.

------------------

Brian shut off the porch light and they waited in the shadows for a minute while they scanned the street outside. After dark, life stopped around Queen Lupe’s house so she could open up for business. No children playing, no dogs barking. The house was a meeting place for the walking dead and, now, the laying-on-the-floor type.

Back at the Impala Darren took three attempts to fit the key into the trunk lock. He swung the duffle bag inside and let loose a smile of relief.

Brian leaned against the car, putting a hand down on the open trunk to brace himself from a lightheaded feeling. Blood loss. He needed to lie down, stop his heart pumping so damn fast. Maybe eat a steak. Something to fortify his iron.

“There you go, man. No worse for the wear,” Darren said.

Brian gave him a tired look from between severely pinched eyebrows.

Darren tossed the keys on top of the duffle bag and went for the zipper.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Brian’s words came out slightly slurred like a teenage girl after a beer and two shots of peach schnapps.

“Counting the money.” Darren seemed to think it was quite obvious and didn’t know what the problem was.

“Not here you jackass.”

“Oh.”

“God, you really are the fucking stupidest, aren’t you?”

Darren couldn’t help but show his feelings had been hurt. He pouted worse than a kid picked last for dodgeball. Brian was too busy slowing his heart rate to notice. Plus, he didn’t care.

“We got the money anyway,” Darren said, making the best of it, and pushed hard on the trunk lid.

Brian bit down on his teeth so hard he cracked a molar with a filling he’d had since he was sixteen. The trunk latch caught, but Brian’s formerly good hand was pinched between the frame and the lid, his index and middle finger caught between sheets of metal.

Darren backed up a few steps when he realized what he had done.

“Jesus, Brian, I’m sorry.”

“Unlock the fucking lid!”

Darren froze again. The same lost phone number look from the kitchen. The keys were inside the trunk.

Brian watched his partner’s eyes and did the math. “You idiot.”

Darren faced his fight or flight moment. He was an animal of prey on the Serengeti facing down a hungry mother lion.

“Help me, you bitch,” growled Brian.

Darren turned and ran.

“You fuck!”

For the first time, a dog barked in the distance.

Brian remembered stories of coyotes in traps chewing off their own legs. He tried to shut it out of his mind but every thought that replaced it was equally as bloody.

He pulled on his hand. He could feel blood ooze between his fingers and he knew there wasn’t much more he could spare. The trunk lid had a grip on the flesh of his fingers, but they weren’t severed. He could even wiggle them a tiny bit.

He tugged. Nothing. He pulled with a slow and sustained pressure. Yelling through gritted teeth wasn’t cutting it anymore. He put a foot on the bumper and pulled back, howling at the moon loud as a mid-transformation werewolf.

Brian remembered his gun. He slid the dishrag off his four-fingered left hand and let it flop on the trunk with the wet smack of a used beach towel on a hot summer’s day. It took considerable effort to lift the gun from his waistband and not continually violate the open wound.

The gun felt awkward in his left hand. He couldn’t fully wrap his palm around the grip without sending alarm calls of pain running up his arm to an already fatigued brain stem.

Shaky and slippery from the plasma, he slid his finger into the trigger and fired at the lock. A neat hole opened up an inch to the left of the mechanism.

Brian adjusted his aim, squinted one eye and squeezed the trigger again. Nothing. Out of bullets. The melee from earlier had left him spent.

A long way away came a sound. Like an alarm clock when you’re still asleep.

A siren.

He didn’t have much time.

He took three deep breaths, braced his foot on the bumper again and pulled. He pulled down sharply and felt something give.

His hand tore free, a light splash of blood greased the Impala nameplate. His index finger was nearly stripped of skin, a shredded fleshy mess. His middle finger was gone.

Brian stood and stared down at his hand in disbelief. He’d torn off his own finger. No geysers of blood spat to the pavement. There wasn’t that much blood pressure left in his body.

His slowing brain skidded over the facts. The money was inside the trunk. So was his finger. The police were on the way. As vaguely satisfying as it would have been to have him be long gone and only his middle finger left as a souvenir for the cops, that finger carried his ID attached to it. One dip in the inkwell and they’d have him.

Two busted paws and no way out.

He could run like that pussy Darren. He’d have to run regardless, but his mind struggled to come up with some solution. Some way to keep the cops at bay so he could run far enough and hope that he didn’t bleed out in the process.

Brian hit on an idea and didn’t have time for plan B.

----------------

Getting the gas cap off was hard enough. Packing the dishrag into the hole wasn’t easy either. Flicking the wheel on a Bic he’d rescued from the Queen house was hardest of all. Tiny sparks flew in the dark and reminded him of fireflies when he was a kid. Always right there when they blink, teasing, but by the time you close your hand around the spot, the little fuckers have already moved on.

Sirens grew louder, undeniable now that they were headed for him.

A tiny flame. The same fire that burned a hundred heroin highs. Brian held the orange glow against the rag but nothing caught. Too wet. Too bloody.

He could hear the diverging sounds of two separate sirens coming.

He tore the wet rag out of the gas line. He pinched the tail of his shirt with his left index and thumb and brought it to his mouth. He bit down and tore at the fabric, ripping a strip below the last button all the way to the seam. He pulled hard and swooned from the pain in his hand.

He leaned against the car and took three deep breaths.

He forced the cloth down as deep as he could push into the pipe that ran to the gas tank. He sparked the lighter again and this time the cotton caught fire.

Brian began backing away, watching the flame, seeing it grow.

As he turned and started running across dead lawns and past rusty fences he didn’t even think of the money. All he could think of was that finger. At least it was his middle. It said it all for him.

Fuck you, world. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

WGI 1st Place: RUN FOR THE ROSES by Chris La Tray

2011-06-19T12:45:00.000-04:00

Now: Monday Morning

Steam swirled around Roger Moody as he stepped from the bathroom into the hallway. His face tingled from the razor and splash of aftershave; water trickled down the middle of his back and disappeared under the elastic band of his boxer shorts.

His feet stuck slightly to the scuffed hardwood floor, leaving damp, shapeless prints in his wake. He approached the closet door facing his bedroom, hesitated, his hand on the brass knob. He’d passed the door every day for almost four decades, but had not opened it in over a year.

Until now.

The smell, which Gina had never been able to banish no matter how many extra-strength detergents she’d tried, shocked him with memories. Over the years of working the paper mill he’d gotten accustomed to it, absorbed it, made it a part of him. Now, fourteen months removed from the last time he’d exited the hulking gray building, crossed the road, and crunched over the gravel of the parking lot, the odor was as fresh to him as the first day he’d breathed its humid, rotten-egg scent.

“Oh, that will take some getting used to,” Gina had said when he came home that first day. And it had. For nearly forty years, one child raised, and lots of love – certainly their share of heartbreaks as well – Roger and Gina had built a life on what he’d brought home after toiling in the heat and steam of the mill for three different owners.

It had all ended. They knew sooner of later he’d quit working, but hoped it would be on his terms. When the mill shut down abruptly just before Christmas of ’09, they weren’t really prepared, but figured to make do. They had actually looked forward to a life of retirement together. Road trips. Camping.

Then Gina got sick. Her illness drained what savings they’d had. The last time she’d washed, folded, and hung his work clothes in this closet had indeed been the last.

Roger’s gaze moved from the hard hat on the top shelf, across the half-dozen work shirts on hangars, over the neat pile of jeans on the bench against the back wall, and stopped on the worn Redwings still flecked with dried spots of wood pulp and starch. He began to dress.

Three Days Ago: Friday

“Jesus, would you look at that.”

Roger looked away from the TV over the bar to where the man on the stool to his left, Henry, nodded. The bartender was several feet away opposite the bar, bent over, placing clean glasses into the cooler that would keep them icily chilled. Her faded Wranglers barely contained the swell of her behind, and a hot pink thong was visible to the point where it disappeared deep into her ass crack.

“Oh, the things I’d do to that,” Henry said, shaking his head, tipping a half-empty glass of beer to his lips.

“Like what?” the man to Henry’s left said. “Repeat stories over and over about the good old days?”

“Yeah, you’re old enough to be her goddamn grandfather,” Roger said.

“Fuck you, Roger,” Henry said. “And fuck you too, Perry. Just because you guys decided to get old and let everything dry up don’t mean the rest of us have.” He raised his voice, aiming it at the bartender’s backside. “I got needs,” he said.

The bartender stood up, thumping the small cooler door closed, and faced him. Drying her hands on a towel, she smirked. “Henry, please. You probably haven’t had a hard-on since 1985.”

Roger and Perry guffawed. “Shit, you heard about that,” Henry said, his eyes twinkling. “I didn’t even know my wife came into this dump.”

“Twice a week,” Cherie, the bartender, said. “Usually leaves with one of those college boys.” She nodded her head down to the far end of the bar. “Or two.”

The men all laughed. Henry raised his beer glass to her.

They returned to their beers.

“So I see in the paper the fuckin’ mayor says there might not be enough money in the budget to fix all the goddamn potholes this spring,” Perry said.

“That asshole,” Henry said. “He’s just playing for a little – ”

“The Derby’s tomorrow?” Roger said. He had resumed watching the television. He looked at his watch then back to the TV where a commentator was standing in front of a white barn. “Jesus, it is May already, isn’t it.”

“Yeah, the race is tomorrow,” Perry said. “Where’s your brain been all week? We just talked about it yesterday. Fuckin’ Sam Senior’s kid is meeting us here to take our bets.”

“That sonofabitch,” Roger said. “I remember now. He’s worse than his old man was. If I’m betting, I’d rather drive it up to the ‘rez myself.”

“You’re not gonna bet shit anyway,” Henry said. “You’re too fuckin’ tight.”

“Too fuckin’ broke,” Roger said. He polished off his beer, then stood up. “Which reminds me. I got a grand for selling that snowmobile trailer I need to go deposit so the mortgage don’t bounce.”

“I thought all you retirees where rich,” Cherie said, dropping three fresh beers on the bar in front of them. “You mean to tell me I’ve been wasting my time being nice to you in hopes of one of you wealthy guys dropping dead on our wedding night?”

“Sheeeit,” said Perry.

“Some of us are rich in other ways, darlin’,” Henry said, winking.

Roger sat back down. He picked up the fresh beer; condensation dripped off the bottom of the glass onto the bar’s surface. “Don’t get old, Cherie,” he said. “It doesn’t pay shit.”

The front door to the bar opened, spilling bright sunlight across the floor and over the rows of dusty old black and white portraits lining the walls. A thickly built man in a Montana tuxedo – jeans and a sport coat – took three steps into the room, blinking in the dim light, then approached the three men.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “We doing some business today?”

“Some of us are,” Henry said with a glance at Roger. “Those of us with the cajones anyway.”

“Hey, how’s your mom doing these days, Billy?” Perry asked the newcomer. “Still ornery as hell?”

“Oh, Christ,” Billy said. “That woman busts my balls. I can’t believe the old man lived as long as he did.”

The men chuckled. Billy called Cherie over and asked for a Budweiser. After he took a long drink, he said, “So, fellas, who are we talking about here?”

“Heard the favorite scratched this morning,” Perry said.

“Yep,” Billy said. “Could be anyone’s race; it’s a wide open field.”

“It’s a shit field,” Henry said.

“Like I said, wide open.”

“Well, I’m gonna make a bet,” Perry said, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “But it won’t be much more than a token gesture.”

“Yeah, same here,” Henry said.

Billy looked at Roger. “What about you, Moody. You in?”

Roger held his hands up. “Not this year, Billy, not me.”

“You don’t like the ‘Sport of Kings’ no more, eh?”

“Hey, you guys talking about the Derby?” A pair of young men were passing by on their way to the front door. The wobble in their steps proved they were well into their cups already in the middle afternoon.

Billy turned, scowled, then looked back at his companions and said, “Who are these guys?”

“Shouldn’t you boys be at work?” Perry said.

“We’re students,” one of them said.

“Of course,” Henry muttered into his beer glass, rolling his eyes.

“I’m a student of said ‘Sport of Kings’,” the other youth said. “And I’ve got a sure bet for you for the Derby tomorrow.”

“A sure bet,” Perry said.

“Sure as you get up to piss ten times a night.”

Roger and Henry laughed out loud. Even Billy cracked a smile. Perry’s face flushed. “Okay, wiseass, who’s this ‘sure bet’ of yours?”

The college guy was wearing tight black slacks, a rumpled white shirt, and a thin black tie. He adjusted the knot on the tie dramatically, then re-positioned the Panama hat perched rakishly on his head. “Animal. Kingdom.”

“Fuck off,” Perry said, waving the youth away.

“That plug?” Henry said. “Get out of here. Go spend your daddy’s money.”

The student laughed. “You’ll see!” he said. “Watch and see, gentlemen!”

Something stirred in Roger’s gut. The kid was halfway to the door when Roger called out, “What makes you so sure?”

The college kid turned around. “It’s his name.”

“His name?”

“Yeah. It’s the same as a great movie.”

“A movie?” Perry said. “Called Animal Kingdom?”

“Never fuckin’ heard of it,” Henry said.

“That’s probably because John Wayne isn’t in it, Gramps,” the kid said. “Animal Kingdom. Australian crime movie.” He pointed at Roger and winked. “A sure thing.”

Roger left the bar shortly after. He had grown tired of the bickering over horses; all the bullshit. He’d been getting more and more weary of the constant griping as the friends met in the same bar, sat on the same stools, and drank the same beer. Day in, day out.

Besides, he truly was down to his last funds. He’d call the ten crisp hundreds in his pocket the last of his savings except they wouldn’t be in his account long enough to even qualify. He hadn’t been kidding about the mortgage.

Still, when he reached the credit union he found himself driving past it. He was thinking about that college kid and his horse, Animal Kingdom. It was crazy, but he had half a mind to bet on it.

“Maybe one of these hundreds,” he said out loud. He drove a little farther, then suddenly flipped a u-turn. “Why the hell not.”

Now: Monday Morning

Roger, dressed for work and wearing his hard hat, stood over the small round table in the tiny kitchen. Its scarred wooden surface was bare except for a long, narrow pink box and a battered old plastic lunchbox. A white ribbon held the box lid closed; rather than undo the bow, Roger reached into his pocket and retrieved a small pocket knife. Prying the blade open with his thumb, he carefully cut the ribbon and pulled it free. He closed the knife with slow, deliberate movements, then removed the lid from the box.

A dozen red roses were nestled in a bed of pale yellow tissue. He leaned over the box and breathed deeply; the roses infused the room with their scent. A slight smile curled the edge of his mouth, and almost lovingly Roger removed two long, single stems from the box.

In the living room was a tall, stressed-wood pie safe. Roger carried the roses to it. Holding them in his left hand, he picked up a Bic barbecue lighter from the top of the pie safe and flicked a flame to life. He lit two tall candles flanking a pair of 8x10 photos in ornate metal frames. One was a woman; Gina, smiling and happy in middle age, her blue eyes bright, her blond hair retaining its original color. Next to Gina’s picture was that of a young man in the uniform of the US Marine Corps. Roger Moody, Jr. looked the pinnacle of health in the photo, his father thought, so much like his mother.

Roger stared at the two photos for several long moments, then let his eyes drift to the wall surrounding the safe. It was crowded with photographs of the family’s life together. Happy times. More than a lifetime’s worth it seemed, Roger often thought.

Carefully Roger arranged the two flowers in front of the pictures of his dead wife and son. He took the Bic lighter with him to the kitchen and put it on the table. He picked up the lunchbox, turned out the kitchen light. He went around the house turning out all the lights; the bathroom, the hallway.

In the living room he paused at the front door, then opened it. He stood in the doorway and looked back at the pie safe. The candles made shadows play across the photographs. When Roger flipped the switch to kill the overhead lamp, the shadows deepened, barely held at bay by the tiny flames.

He lingered only a moment longer, then Roger exited the house and pulled the door to behind him.

Three Days Ago: Friday Evening

When Roger returned to the bar, the others were gone. Cherie told him no one had said where they were going, though Henry had muttered something about “Lowe’s” and “a fucking lawnmower.” That was fine, Roger didn’t care where his friends had gone, and had a good idea where to find Sammy.

Fifteen minutes later Roger guided his pickup into the parking lot of Gary’s Auto. It was a combination repair shop/used car lot, established almost fifty years ago by Sam Gary, Sr. His son now ran the operation; Roger parked next to Sammy’s black Mustang, then went inside. It was after hours, but the door was open.

A small bell jingled as Roger stepped into the shop. “I’m in the office,” Sammy called from the back. Roger walked down a short hallway then rapped his knuckles on the open door frame. Sammy looked up from his computer screen, then his eyebrows raised as he recognized Roger. “Hey Roger, what brings you out here?”

“I decided maybe we can do some business after all.”

“You need a new ride or something? It can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“No, Sammy, I’m talking about the race.”

“The race?” Sammy sat back in his chair. “You know, I don’t like to do that kind of business out of the shop, Rog. I like to keep them separate.”

“Yeah, I know,” Roger said, taking the envelope containing the hundreds out of his back pocket. “But with the race tomorrow, I didn’t want to risk missing you. Your shop was on my way.”

“You can’t call?”

“Like I said,” Roger said. He had the money out, counting the hundreds. “You were on my way.”

Sammy’s eyes watched Roger’s hands, counting the bills along with him. “So what did you have in mind? I already made the bets from earlier.”

“Well, I want to bet too, if you can work it in.”

“Which horse?”

“The number eleven. Animal Kingdom.”

“You sure about that, Rog? That horse never ran on the dirt before.”

“I’m sure, Sammy. I’m sure.”

Sammy shrugged. “Okay, it’s your bet. What’s your play?”

“I want to bet him to win.” Roger peeled a single hundred off the sheaf of bills. “A hundred bucks.” He started to hand it to Sammy, then paused, thought a moment, and said, “No, fuck it. Make it a grand.” He handed all the money to Sammy.

“Wow, that’s a hell of a lot on a long shot!” Sammy laughed. “That’s ballsy. You sure you aren’t drunk?”

“Sober as a Catholic funeral.”

“Okay, Roger, I’ll make your bet. I’ll be in the bar with those other guys on Sunday if any of you win anything. But like I said, I don’t do business here so I don’t have any of my paperwork. We can meet somewhere later and I’ll get you a receipt, or you can trust me.”

“I trust you, Sammy,” Roger said, turning to leave. “Me and your dad went way back.”

Two Days Ago: Saturday Afternoon

Sammy sat on the edge of his bed, watching the small television on the top of his dresser. He held a High Life halfway to his open mouth, his hand shaking as the field of nineteen horses thundered into the final turn at the head of the stretch of storied Churchill Downs. . . .

Yesterday: Sunday Afternoon

“I sure wish that kid was here, I’d buy him a fuckin’ beer,” Roger said.

“Yeah, you’ve said that a couple times already,” Henry said.

“I still can’t believe you put a thousand bucks on that sonofabitch,” Perry said. “How much did you say you’ll get again?”

“Should be around twenty thousand bucks or so,” Roger said, his eyes red-rimmed and wide. He slapped Perry on the back, laughing. He was ecstatic and more than a little drunk. “Another round for my friends!” he called to Cherie.

“Here he comes now,” Henry said, gesturing to the back of the bar. “Sneaking in the back to make us rich.”

Sammy was approaching. He smiled. “You old fucks didn’t win that much.” He handed an envelope to Henry and one to Perry. “Show bets on about every horse isn’t going to get anyone rich, fellas.”

“What about me, Sam?” You’re making me rich, aren’t you?” Roger said, beaming, putting his hand on Sammy’s shoulder. “You got something for me?”

Sammy looked at Roger, a puzzled expression on his face. He shrugged out from under Roger’s hand. “What do you mean, Rog?” he said.

Roger’s enthusiasm dimmed. “Stop fucking with me, Sammy. You’re making me nervous. My grand. On Animal Kingdom. Remember?”

“Yeah, right,” Sammy said, and snorted. “You wish. You and me both.” He looked at Perry and Henry and laughed. Their faces were clouded with confusion, looking from Sammy to Roger.

Roger put his hand back on Sammy’s shoulder, this time more firmly. “You took my thousand dollars to win on Animal Kingdom,” he said.

Sammy pushed the hand away and stepped back. “You better watch it,” he said, pointing at Roger, then the other two. “You guys were here, did you see this senile old fuck place a bet?” When they just stared, nervous, he repeated, almost shouting, “Did you?”

When they shook their heads, Roger’s mouth fell open. “I went to your place later!” he said. “I swear,” he said, grabbing Perry’s forearm. “I went back to his place later!”

The room was quiet. Cherie edged closer, the bar’s cordless phone in her hand. Sammy was straightening his sport coat. “You got a receipt, Rog?” he asked. When Roger blinked, Sammy shrugged. “If there’s no receipt, then I guess there’s no bet.”

“You sonofabitch,” Roger said. He swung wildly at Sammy with a right, catching the younger, stockier man in the shoulder. Sammy took the blow and stepped in, driving a fist into Roger’s ample belly.

Roger’s breath whoofed from his lungs. He fell to the floor, his arms around his middle, wheezing for air. Shoes and boots scuffed the floor around him, voices shouted angrily. He grinded his teeth and squeezed his eyes closed. A single tear trickled out the corner of his right eye.

Now

Roger sat in his truck across the street from Gary’s Auto waiting for Sammy to arrive. The sun was up, and other employees had gotten the shop running. When Sammy’s Mustang pulled into the lot, Roger waited ten minutes, then picked up the lunchbox and hard hat from the seat beside him and crossed the street.

None of the workers acknowledged him when he went through the front door. He moved purposefully down the hallway to Sammy’s office, kicking the door closed behind him. Sammy looked up and frowned. “Roger? The fuck you doing here?”

Roger set his lunch box on Sammy’s desk and undid the clasps on the front. “You’re a fuckin’ no good thief, Sammy. Just like your old man.”

Sammy leaned forward. “You got this one chance to get the fuck out of my shop, Moody,” he said. “Or this time you’ll get more than just a poke in your fat belly.”

“I know about guys like you. A few years ago, at the mill, there was this asshole who kept taking stuff from other people’s lunches. I used to eat a lot of jerky, and this sonofabitch kept taking it. So I had Gina buy some dog treats that looked like jerky. I put some of it in a baggy in my lunchbox and the rest of the package in my pocket. About halfway through the shift I checked, and sure as shit my jerky was gone.”

“So what’s your fuckin’ point?”

Roger held up a finger. “At the end of the shift we had a safety meeting. When everyone was gathered in the lunch room for it, I stood up and said, ‘I just want to know which a you’s been eating my goddamn jerky.’ I walked over to the guy – we all knew who was doing it – and took that open pack of dog treats out of my pocket. ‘Because,’ I said, ‘I thought you might like to have the rest of it.’ His faced turned all red and everyone laughed. Thing is, that asshole never stole from anyone again.”

“Phhft,” Sammy said. “I guess you showed him. Now get the fuck out of my shop.”

“I did show him, Sammy. And now I’m going to show you.” Roger opened his lunchbox, reached inside, drew out a .38 revolver and pointed it at Sammy. “Except this isn’t a dog treat.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Rog,” Sammy said. “You don’t want to do this over a thousand bucks, brother.”

“Actually, I do.”

“C’mon, man. I have your money. I admit, I fucked up. I didn’t think that horse would win, so I just kept it. I’ll give it back to you, no hard feelings. I’ll even tell your friends.”

Roger shook his head. “It isn’t really the money, Sammy. It’s just because you’re an asshole.” Roger fired the pistol point blank into Sammy’s face. The recoil made Roger flinch; he heard a loud thump that he realized was the sound of Sammy’s feet hitting the underside of the desk as he was thrown over backwards.

Stepping halfway around the desk, Roger fired two more shots into Sammy’s chest. He said, “And if my life is such that I got to deal with fucks like you, spending my days on a bar stool, then it just isn’t worth it. Gina wouldn’t like it, and my boy deserves better.”

Roger put the nose of the pistol up under his chin.

Watery Grave III: And the award goes to...

2011-06-19T09:20:00.001-04:00

"These are the times that try men's souls."

Thomas Paine might have been talking about judging the WGI this year. He wasn't, of course, he had something a tad more significant to the American population as a whole in mind. But his famous declaration may give readers some clue as to the difficulty the judges encountered in determining the top five stories in this year's Watery Grave Invitational.

I'll drop another clue and say that the judges reached consensus on only two of the top five stories, with all three of us slotting those two stories in exactly the same position in our respective top-five lists. Identifying three more stories involved hair-pulling and face-punching -- or would have if we all had been in the same room together. As it was, we simply engaged in name-calling behind each others' backs. (Okay, I did; the other two are above that sort of thing, no doubt.)

What I'm trying to say, in my usual foot-in-mouth style, is that any of the participating authors who does not find his or her story in the top five, please don't think that we didn't find your story worthy or enjoyable. Indeed, the quality and variety of the stories made reading the entries a great pleasure, and arriving at only a top five (six this year!) induced a strong measure of angst. Many, probably all, of the entries will find homes at webzines and print publications later this year, and deservedly so. To borrow from a Frank Sinatra song, "It was a very good year."

And now I'm pleased to announce the winners of the Third Annual Watery Grave Invitational:

1st Prize: RUN FOR THE ROSES by Chris La Tray ($50)

2nd Prize: FINGERPRINTS by Eric Beetner ($35)

3rd Prize: A POCKET FULL OF HORSES by Chad Eagleton ($20)

4th Place: HARD TIMES by Ian Ayris (A bye into the next WGI)

5th Place: A tie:
                A GAME OF HIDE AND SEEK by Patricia Abbott
                TOO MUCH TOO YOUNG by Nigel Bird
                (Byes into the next WGI)

I hope to publish the top three stories shortly.

Congratulations to ALL of the authors, who collectively turned in a calibre of work that would not lead one to believe that they had only two weeks to prepare these stories.

I would like to thank the judges: Aldo Calcagno, editor and publisher of Powder Burn Flash and Darkest Before the Dawn webzines; and Chad Rohrbacher, who has published stories in magazines like Crime Factory, Needle Magazine, Big Pulp, Dark Valentine, and others. He has fiction forthcoming in Yellow Mama, Pulp Engine, and in the anthology CHIVALRY IS DEAD by May/December Press.

Here is a complete list of the stories entered in the contest. Look for them to be published around the web and in print later this year:

Hard Times by Ian Ayris
Kentucky Runners by Matthew C. Funk
A Game of Hide and Seek by Patricia Abbott
Dust Clouds by Jane Hammons
When the Heart Bleeds Green by Sandra Seamans
Not Dark Yet by John Kenyon
Too Much Too Young by Nigel Bird
A Pocket Full of Horses by Chad Eagleton
Fingerprints by Eric Beetner
A Can Short of a Six-Pack by Paul D. Brazill
Renegades of Pain by Sean Patrick Reardon
My Little Angel by Rosemary Keenan
Jumping the Fence by Joseph Hartlaub
Knight Errant by Brian S. Roe
Blind Crime by Sigmund Werndorf
You Cut, I Choose by Liam Jose
Run for the Roses by Chris LaTray
A Game of Horse by Todd Mason

...to see what condition my condition was in...

2011-06-15T18:38:00.000-04:00

A flying visit to the blog. I might finish this post before the wee one learns of my absence, if luck is with me. But if I suddenly abandon you for the world's youngest Abba fan*, who shall blame me?

The workaholics at Spinetingler are expanding their duties from zine to e-publisher with the launch of Snubnose Press. According to the good folks at Spinetingler:

"Spinetingler Magazine has been publishing new and emerging writers since 2005. Building from that foundation Snubnose Press will seek to publish only the best in short crime fiction. With the traditional publishing market contracting, Snubnose Press will fill this gap by publishing original anthologies, novellas and short novels.

Visit Snubnose Press at http://snubnosepress.wordpress.com/

The debut title of Snubnose Press is an anthology of six original short stories called Speedloader. Upcoming releases will include short story collections by Patti Abbott and Sandra Seamans."

**

The Watery Grave Invitational proceeds apace. The judges have 18 original stories in their hands even as I type this. The winner will be announced this Sunday, the 19th. I'm very pleased with the quality and variety of the submissions, and I can assure you that the judges are not having an easy time of it.

**

The only athletes for whom I have less sympathy than Lebron James are the cheaters at my alma mater, Ohio State. Do I detect a note of sincerity in Terrelle Pryor's apology to fans, teammates, coaches and the university? I do not. I detect the fine hand of his agent, pointing him toward the things that have to be done to begin to rehabilitate his image. Smoke and mirrors, they never go out of style, do they?. The NCAA cannot come down hard enough on the school, as far as this fan is concerned. It's going to take a lot to root out a deeply entrenched culture of cheating.

**

Woops, I hear the wee one garbling my name!

The Heat Is On

2011-05-31T00:46:00.001-04:00

And I don't mean LeBron's team either.

Sweltering temps and humidity arrived in Ohio just in time to accompany Ohio State's most notable demigod out the door. Lots of support and sympathy for Mr. Tressel in the community right now, but will these bleed-scarlet-and-gray fans break out his effigy for hanging once the NCAA takes the university to the proverbial woodshed? Because you can bet on that happening. The pattern of wrongdoing and cover-up is so extensive, OSU is making the Pete Carroll regime at USC look almost saintly in comparison. And as much as it pains me to say it, and to watch it unfold, the NCAA should -- it must -- come down with both feet on OSU and stomp. Hard. I expect the resulting penalties, which we won't know about until probably the end of the 2011 season, will be the harshest since the SMU program was all but dismantled back in the 1980s.

Will 'The' OSU face the "death penalty," i.e., be banned from competing in football for a year or more? It should happen. It probably won't. Money talks and OSU football generates an awful lot of it. But the penalties have to be harsher than for USC. So we're talking -- what? USC was placed on four years' probation and forced to vacate its last two wins of the 2004 season as well as all of its wins in the 2005 season. It was also banned from bowl games in 2010 and 2011 and loses 30 scholarships over three years. And at some point the Trojans may well be stripped of its 2004 national title.

I'm guessing - and you can check back with me around December or January to see how good of a prognosticator I am -- OSU loses 40 scholarships for three years, is on probation for five years, will be stripped of all wins in 2010, including the Sugar Bowl, as well as the Big Ten title. And there'll be a very close look at the three preceding seasons as well, so there could be more wins vacated. No bowl games for three years, no national TV appearances. And all of that is just for starters. Because it looks like there are yet more Buckeye skeletons, reputedly owned by QB Terrelle Pryor, that have yet to emerge from the closet, dangling further penalties from their distal phalanges.

Who knows, maybe that NCAA "death penalty" isn't such an outlandish notion after all. In fact, maybe it would be a good thing, and help calm down (and educate) our over-zealous boosters as well as the players and coaches. Because a culture of corruption and entitlement won't be changed easily. Tressel did wrong (repeatedly) but the signs of player infractions were there, and apparently were pretty blatant, for all the coaches and Athletic Director Gene Smith to see. (Eight cars in three years, Mr. Pryor? Really? I haven't heard of anything so blatant since I heard of one QB replacing the letters on the back of a Continental with those of his own name. That pre-dated the Tressel-Tattoo Era though.) Whether it was willful or woeful ignorance on the parts of those who should have been aware of and dealt with the infractions, a "death penalty" would allow time to bring in a brisk new broom to clean out the cobwebs of corruption. It might even allow Buckeye fans a chance to step back and gain a sense of perspective on major college sports and OSU's role in them. It might.

Nah. Wouldn't happen. But (forgive me, Mr. Hemingway) isn't it pretty to think so?

Summer, in a cool, darkened room.

2011-05-21T16:08:00.000-04:00

Summertime just seems to go with great old movies. This time of year I always get busy checking out what's on the schedule for the CAPA Summer Movie Series, the longest running classic film festival in the U.S. (or so they claim on their website). The films are shown at the beautiful Ohio Theatre, once a part of the Loew's chain of theaters.

But this year promises to be extra special for summer movies here in Columbus. The Gateway Film Center, right at the edge of The Ohio State University campus, will present a summer-long series called "Double Barrel: A Tribute to Some of the Greatest Western Films Ever Made." If you haven't seen one of these films on the big screen, time to remedy that omission. (There is one of these I haven't watched, not even on TV or DVD.) Check out their schedule:

June 1:

June 8:

June 15:

June 22:

June 29:

July 6:

July 13:

July 20:

July 27:

August 3:

August 10:

August 17:

August 24:

August 31:

And as if that isn't enough, here's CAPA's movie schedule for the summer:

The Wizard of Oz (1939)

Friday, June 17, 7:30 pm
Saturday, June 18, 7:30pm
Sunday, June 19, 2 pm & 7:30 pm
”

SERIES PREMIERE!
Alfred Hitchcock's Frenzy

RATED R
Wednesday & Thursday, June 22 & 23, 7:30 pm daily

SERIES PREMIERE
Bridget Jones' Diary (2001)

RATED R
Friday, June 24, 7:30 pm

Cartoon Capers

Saturday, June 25, 10 am

2011 FAN FAVORITE FILM!
To Kill A Mockingbird (1962)

Saturday, June 25, 7:30 pm
Sunday, June 26, 2 pm & 7:30 pm

High Noon (1952)

Wednesday & Thursday,
June 29 & 30, 7:30 pm daily

The Big Sleep (1946)

Wednesday & Thursday, July 6 & 7, 7:30 pm daily

FRIGHT NIGHT DOUBLE FEATURE!

Friday, July 8, 7:30 pm

Bride of Frankenstein (1935)

Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948)

West Side Story (1961)

Saturday, July 9, 7:30 pm
Sunday, July 10, 2 pm & 7:30 pm

SERIES PREMIERE!
Airplane! (1980)

Wednesday, July 13, 7:30 pm

SILENT FILM SERIES PREMIERE!
Steamboat Bill Jr. (1928)

Thursday & Friday,
July 14 & 15, 7:30 pm daily

The Sound of Music (1965)

Saturday, July 16, 7:30 pm
Sunday, July 17, 2 pm & 7:30 pm

Bringing Up Baby (1938)

Wednesday & Thursday,
July 20 & 21, 7:30 pm daily

Glory (1989)

Friday, July 22, at the Ohio Statehouse lawn
Admission is free! Rain location is the
Ohio Theatre. www.OhioStatehouse.org.

Cartoon Capers

Saturday, July 23, 10 am

Gone with the Wind (1939)

Saturday, July 23, 7:30 pm
Sunday, July 24, 2 pm & 7:30 pm

The Grapes of Wrath (1940)

Wednesday & Thursday,
July 27 & 28, 7:30 pm daily

SERIES PREMIERE!
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966)

Friday, July 29, 7:30 pm

SERIES PREMIERE

Fight Club (1999)

Friday, July 29, 11 pm

The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938)

Saturday, July 30, 7:30 pm
Sunday, July 31, 2 pm & 7:30 pm

SERIES PREMIERE!
Tron (1982)

Wednesday, August 3, 7:30 pm

The Matrix (1999)

RATED R
Thursday & Friday, August 4 & 5, 7:30 pm daily

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea (1954)

Saturday, August 6, 7:30 pm
Sunday, August 7, 2 pm & 7:30 pm

Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo (1958)

Wednesday & Thursday, August 10 & 11, 7:30 pm daily

Funny Girl (1968)

Friday & Saturday, August 12 & 13, 7:30 pm daily

I think I'll buy shares in popcorn this summer.

WGI: "We few, we happy few..."

2011-05-15T19:12:00.005-04:00

"This story shall a good man teach his children."

At last we have a list of 19 invitees for the 3rd annual Watery Grave Invitational. And that means that it's time to reveal the 'theme' so that all you fine writers can get to work. But first, here's the list (bolded names are in via talent AND a bit of luck in today's drawing):

Brian S. Roe
Chad Eagleton
Chris LaTray
David Cranmer
Eric Beetner
Ian Ayris
Jane Hammons
Joe Hartlaub
John Kenyon
Liam Jose
Matthew C. Funk
Nigel Bird
Patricia Abbott
Paul D. Brazill
Rosemarie Keenan
Sandra Seamans
Sean Patrick Reardon
Sigmund Werndorf
Todd Mason

You can't tell me that's not a quality group. I am SO anticipating the stories that are going to come from this bunch!

And now, the theme. Okay, first, this is not really a theme. It's more of a motif, I think. I don't expect you writers to build your story around this, but rather to just find a way to incorporate it into your story. And what it is, is: a horse.

I don't care what your story is about, find a way to get a horse in there. From stories built around horses to a passing reference to Secretariat (or another equine star); or even so slight a reference as a character drinking a Colt .45 or selling heroin. Pony rides at the fair, a Ford Mustang, Little Joe Cartwright's big brother, it all counts. Easy-peasy, right? Well, you only have until noon EST, Sunday, June 5, 2011, to get your 3500 word (or fewer) story to me.

GET CRACKIN'!

WGI: Time's a-wasting!

2011-05-14T14:36:00.002-04:00

Less than 24 hours left to qualify for the drawing in the Water Grave Invitational Short Story Contest! Send me those links / files before noon EST tomorrow (Sunday, May 15)!

The newest brave souls to venture out into the deep water are:

RED RADISHES by Jeff MacFee (A Twist of Noir)
HEAT OF PASSION by Kathleen A. Ryan (A Twist of Noir)
ALMOST THE DEVIL by Matthew C. Funk (A Twist of Noir)

That thing up there to the left? A Greek water clock. But you knew that already, didn't you?

WGI: Still wadin' in the water.

2011-05-10T22:02:00.001-04:00

Four more writers have enlisted in the ranks of Watery Grave contestants, vying for those ten precious invitations that remain. Have a look at their work. As ever, the links will be posted in the right-most sidebar for the duration of the contest.

JT GETS A JOB by Chad Rohrbacher (CrimeFactory #5)
FISH STEW by Ron Earl Phillips (A Twist of Noir)
LEMON SOUR by Fiona Glass (Radgepacket #4)
FREEDOM DAY by Josh Stallings (You Would Say That, Wouldn't You?)

Keep those links coming! If you're wondering about the contest rules, click here. If you have a question, you can post a comment or email me at beauvallet@aol.com. And I'm still in search of judges, so don't be shy!

(For the curious, the photo was taken in West Virginia, 1940. The man on the left was one of my uncles, a self-styled preacher of, obviously, the Baptist persuasion.)

WGI: Wading in the water.

2011-05-09T19:14:00.000-04:00

I'm thrilled to see such a positive and immediate response to this year's Watery Grave Invitational. Nine out of ten of those who received the automatic or personal invitations have already accepted. And as of this writing, fourteen writers have tossed their hats into the ring to vie for the remaining ten invitations. Quality? There is some serious quality already in play this year. But don't let me sell you. These writers' work sells itself with no help from me.

Here are the folks with automatic or personal invitations who've already accepted the challenge. I count several award winners/finalists among this group.

Nigel Bird
Joe Hartlaub
Chad Eagleton
Liam Jose
Ian Ayris
David Cranmer
Jane Hammons
Todd Mason
Paul D. Brazill

And here is what I think is already a most impressive list of writers, each of whom has demonstrated the necessary chops to rake in all the chips this year:

COUNTDOWN by John Kenyon (Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers)
BREAK UP TO MAKE UP by Rosemarie Keenan (Lady, make a note of this)
WHAT THE DOG SAW by Eric Beetner(At the Bijou)
THE PICKLE by Chris La Tray(Beat to a Pulp)
CHARLES IN CHARGE by Sean Patrick Reardon(Thrillers, Killers 'n' Chillers)
WE'RE ALL GUYS HERE by Thomas Pluck (Pluck You, Too!)
I DON'T FUCKIN' CARE ABOUT NOTHING by Jimmy Callaway(Kung Fu Factory)
IN GOD'S OWN TIME by Sandra Seamans(A Twist of Noir)
PENANCE by Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw(Veronica the Pajama Thief)
ALL THOSE WINDOWS, ALL THOSE DOORS by Pamila Payne(Bella Vista)
PRISONER'S DILEMMA by Sigmund Werndorf(Thuglit)
BIT PLAYERS by Patricia Abbott(Spinetingler (and the grand prize winner in their PAY THE BITCH BACK contest))
LET THE BOY SHOW YOU by Brian S. Roe(Title Fights)
IT TAKES YEARS OF TRAINING by Fiona Johnson(McDroll...The Journey to a Perfect Life)

All of the above links, plus others that will (I hope) be added during the week, will be available throughout the entire competition in the right-most sidebar, under the heading "WGI APPLICANTS - 2011."

I am so excited to see the level of competition we are going to have. You writers, you all ROCK!

3rd Lap: Time for the Watery Grave Invitational!

2011-05-08T11:42:00.012-04:00

Spring! It's May, it's Mother's Day, and it's time once again for that Challenge of Challenges! Gird your loins, o holy ones, this is your official announcement of the return of the Watery Grave Invitational Short Story Contest. Seems like just yesterday that Hilary Davidson was winning the inaugural WGI and only this morning that Nigel Bird put his stamp on short crime fic with the Spinetingler-nominated Beat on the Brat. And Chad Eagleton's Ghostman on Third was also nominated by Spinetingler this year. Are you guys good or what?

Once again there may be some minor rule changes so please read the rules carefully, even if you participated last year. Before I get into the rules though, I want to remind everyone that according to last year's rules, the top five contestants from that contest each get an automatic invitation without any further requirements. Those five writers with automatic invitations are:

Nigel Bird (accepted)
Joe Hartlaub (accepted)
Chad Eagleton (accepted)
Dan Ames
Liam Jose (accepted)

Also I'm adding a new twist this year: Personal invitations will go to five writers of my choosing before the competition for the remaining ten invitations. Note: writers who get these personal invitations will only ever receive one of these. They may win automatic invitations via the rules, but a personal invitation will be a once-in-a-lifetime thing, whether the invitation is accepted or declined.

Here are the five writers who will receive a personal invitation today:

Ian Ayris (accepted)
David Cranmer (accepted)
Jane Hammons (accepted)
Todd Mason (accepted)
Paul D. Brazill (accepted)

And now, THE RULES for those who want to play:

Phase One: Apply for an invitation.

In order to apply for an invitation the author must have a crime fiction story of no more than 3000 words already published in any format that is available for the public to read. Web, print, digital (e.g. Smashwords, Kindle, etc.) -- they all qualify. Your story posted on your own blog does qualify.

The story must have been published within the twelve months ending April 15, 2011.

Email a link to your story (the link must connect to the online posting of your story) to beauvallet@aol.com no later than noon EST, Saturday, May 15, 2011. For authors whose work is in print or digital format, please email the story in the file format of your choice. The subject line should simply say FICTION SUBMISSION, and the body of the email should contain only your name, the name of your story, and the link to your story or the file attachment with the publication identified. Do not send original material unless and until you are invited to do so.

An author may submit only one story. Not one at a time, just one. So choose your best work, as long as it doesn't exceed 3000 words, because you only get one shot at an invitation.

Phase Two: Invitations issued.

If I like your story and style, your name goes into a hat from which I'll do the drawing. Ten lucky writers will join the ten writers named above in receiving an invitation to write an original story (unpublished anywhere, ever) for the contest. As Corey wrote in his original rules, "you won't know whether your name went in the hat to be randomly chosen. You could have the written the finest story on the web to date and still have Lady Luck give you the cold shoulder. So if you don't get an invitation, don't assume I didn't like your story." Whether you receive an invitation or not, you will be notified.

Phase Three: Original Stories

Writers who accept the invitation will have until noon EST, Sunday, June 5, 2011, to submit an original story of no more than 3500 words and based on a theme which will not be revealed until all invitations are accepted. That's only two weeks to write and polish a good short story, so clear your calendars and knuckle down.

Prizes (sorry, only slightly more than last year):

1st Prize: $50
2nd Prize: $35
3rd Prize: $20

Other notes:

I'm seeking three volunteer judges who will adhere to a demanding schedule: Winners will be announced on June 19. That means twenty stories to read and evaluate in only two weeks.

If any of the ten authors who received an automatic or a personal invitation declines to participate, no replacement will be named. However, if any of the ten authors invited via the Phase Two (the drawing) process declines to participate then a new name will be drawn as a replacement. There will not be fewer than ten authors in the final phase of the competition, and not more than 20.

The top five finalists will again receive automatic invitations to the next WGI.

Everybody ready? On your mark... Get set. GO!

this letter to Norman Court by Pablo D'Stair (Part 4)

2011-05-02T00:20:00.000-04:00

A note from Pablo D'Stair on his new novella:

this letter to Norman Court is a novella consisting of 22 sections (each between 1000 and 1250 words) I am releasing by way of the following experiment: I am trying to serialize the piece across blogs, by reader request. If you read and enjoy the section below and have a blog the readers of which you think would enjoy a selection, as well, please get in touch with me to be an upcoming host. A little hub site is set up at www.normancourt.wordpress.com that has a listing of the blogs that have featured or will feature sections—please give it a look, get yourself all caught up if the below piques your interest.

It is my simple hope to use this as a casual, unobtrusive way to release this material to parties interested. There is some suspense, in that if a new host does not appear after each posting, the train comes to a halt (back tracking to previous hosts is not an option in this game). So, if you enjoy what you read and would like to host an upcoming selection, please get in touch with me via unburiedcomments@gmail.com. I welcome not only invitations, but any and all comments on the piece (positive, negative, or ambivalent) or general correspondence about matters literary.

Cheers,

Pablo D’Stair

this letter to Norman Court

Pablo D’Stair

four

I got down stiff from the train right about past three in the afternoon, lit up as soon as I’d made my way out to the street, scanning this way and that through a wince of cold. It made the most sense to try Herman at the office address I’d been given, so I fished the sheet out of my duffle, went into a shoe store to ask directions—clerk seemed pretty unsure of just about everything so I tried the bank across the street, right after.

The building was a generic catchall, had to find the company name on the tack board in the lobby, rode the elevator to the ninth floor, antsier than I wanted to be. Better here than have to do this his doorstep, though, no chance he’d try something, even if there were elements at play I was unbeknownst about.

In the corridor just outside the closing elevator doors, I tucked the letter from my duffle into my coat pocket, chided myself for not thinking to put the thing in another envelope, phony little address, make it seem a delivery, nothing to even bother looking at me about.

Through a glass door, a reception desk, no obvious way to bypass it.

-I’m trying to get to see Mister Herman Flake, I said, briefly scanning were any of the business cards up on the countertop his.

The receptionist dialed a number, seemed to be listening to someone, nodded, but didn’t say Goodbye or anything when she hung up.

-Mister Flake is away, just now, at a conference. Had you made an appointment?

I lied about Yes I’d had an appointment, casually taking a look at one of the cards to get some context, but the man the thing belonged to was labeled Assessor and having no idea what this meant I admitted I might have got the time wrong.

-Maybe he’d meant he’ll meet me he pops in after, any idea when the thing gets out?

The conference was out of state, he’d not be back until the day after next. I ducked a bow of thanks, down the elevator, stepped into a new cigarette, outside.

Two days staying in town, even as on the cheap I might manage, that’d be another sizable hit to the paycheck, this all amounting to some chump’s errand rather quickly. It didn’t make sense the guy’d’ve not known Herman was out, seemed as brothers they weren’t on good terms—no surprise, maybe, but I couldn’t figure my guy wouldn’t at least know about some conference, anyway, when to expect the letter might be delivered.

No point to it, I decided I’d have a look at Herman’s house, very least I could do the idea of leaving the letter inside a different package, trust no one would open it in the meantime, it’d be there Herman got in—added in to which, what did I care about the letter? I should really leave it with the missus, let her have a narrow escape, especially this two grand wasn’t exactly making it worth my trouble—not my trouble to the tune of two grand, anyway.

Cab driver was nice enough to save me some money, told me which bus’d get me closest in to the address, said I couldn’t find it from there a cab would cheaper by that point, anyway.

It was evening when I was through the bus, the walk, not unpleasant though the cold got considerably more physical around me, couldn’t tell properly were my breaths out cigarette or me, which of the two more prominently thick.

Perfectly quaint little place and one car in the driveway, probably Klia herself at home, lights on throughout. Figuring I’d come out all this way, I should at least get a peek as much as I could at the principle players, I knocked at the door, hadn’t even figured out what the thing was going to be I’d say I was doing there when it opened.

A woman, plain in clothes casual enough to lounge in, proper enough to step outside, gave me a not unpleasant side tilted head, nodded a shy hello.

-Mrs. Flake, is it?

-Now she quizzed up a bit more, tentative smile. Yes?

-Sorry, just wanted to be sure the address was right, going by memory. I work with your husband, I’m handling something of his, he’s out of town the conference a few days, was supposed to pick up something he’d left around for me.

She shrugged, seemed bored, said he hadn’t told her he’d left anything, she could get him on the phone, maybe. I waved that off, started explaining it might’ve been he’d couriered it the office, instead, I’d not checked my messages right—I didn’t believe a word of what I was saying even sounded plausible, but she just nodded through my polite hem hawing until I said Goodbye.

I got a cigarette up just down the block, started to laugh at myself—nothing to be worried about and anyway it was fun to have a look at her, get the general idea about the things I’d read in the letter. I had her painted less the fatale, now, more the quiet twig of a thing met the one guy rooted her right so her head was so addled up about it she’d write these book length letters out to Norman about she couldn’t get shut of this beau and all of it.

I was cementing and cementing this idea about her as I got back where I’d get the bus back to the city, ducked in for a drink someplace first, do something about I couldn’t feel any of my extremities.

It was a bit of a letdown, I got to admitting to myself, two drinks in of the off brand bourbon—not that she hadn’t been attractive, but what’d I been thinking, Herman’s out of town maybe I try on his old lady?

No.

Well, maybe a bit, couldn’t be helped from the letters, to go by those she’d be one to twist around backward and underneath about—and maybe she was, at least as far as it went with Lawrence. Still, I thought, third drink down at a hard mouthful, I needed something to pass the time of day with for two days, unless I was going to punch out, take my losses.

Losses.

I felt bone broke, meandered toward the bus stop. There must’ve been something the matter with me, I have a letter in my pocket worth two thousand it depreciates point A to point B, something about me I can sour even a quick buck into hardly room and board and meanwhile make a chore of it, on top.

Letter worth two grand to someone, I thought, but what else might it be worth, someone else? Two grand’s what some guy I stole his wallet’d pay me to get it down the street two towns over when meanwhile he could’ve done that on his own—what’d it be worth to Kila to see that it didn’t get delivered?

This never would’ve crossed my mind she’d fit the mental image I’d had of her reading the letter, but seeing her now, weakening her to someone’d had this one tryst, ever, no chance but Herman Flake other than that, flavored it different.

Gas station just up the way had a copy machine, didn’t see how it could hurt for trying. The last of the last shot I’d taken slipping up around me warm, I paid out the two bucks something in quarters into the slot, almost felt it was the first clear profit coming my way since this’d begun.

Pablo D’Stair is a writer of novels, shorts stories, and essays. Founder of Brown Paper Publishing (which is closing its doors in 2012) and co-founder of KUBOA (an independent press launching July 2011) he also conducts the book-length dialogue series Predicate. His four existential noir novellas (Kaspar Traulhaine, approximate; i poisoned you; twelve ELEVEN thirteen; man standing behind) will be re-issued through KUBOA as individual novella and in the collection they say the owl was a baker’s daughter: four existential noirs.

Past due.

2011-04-28T16:41:00.000-04:00

Yes, I am a sloth. Yes, I should have reported on these books much earlier.

ESCAPE is a collection of eight short stories, available for ereaders, by Lisa Polisar. The stories are dark and well-drawn, with unpredictable but natural endings. Each tale is original and imaginative, with good pacing and structure. My favorite: Jewel's Tell, about a bank teller and the robber, Alvin Jewel, who kidnaps her.

A DEATH IN VIENNA by Daniel Silva. This was my first reading in this bestselling series about Israeli spy, Gabriel Allon. I generally find stories about Nazis-in-hiding and their sly re-emergence fascinating, and I do see the commercial appeal of this book but at the same time I can't say, with the exception of one scene, that the story ever got my pulse pounding. I finished the book, was not unsatisfied, but am not likely to return for a second helping.

OLD DOGS by Donna Moore. A funny tale about a pair of elderly con women and the mark who's out for revenge, this one felt good after the gloom of the previous book.

Joe McGinniss's FATAL VISION. The true-crime story that just won't die. The Jeffrey McDonald case is endlessly fascinating, but that's hard to tell sometimes as the repetition and the overall structure of the book do little to hold the reader's attention through nearly 700 pages of detail. If you can find the mini-series (Gary Cole as McDonald is terrific), that's a better choice, then check out the latest on the case: McDonald may get a new trial yet.

THE MONSTER IN THE BOX by the prolific Ruth Rendell. A solid psychological mystery about a policeman who has known a murderer for two decades but has no evidence to make an arrest. Not a cozy, not a thriller, simply an engrossing tale. Also a Washington Post Best Book of 2009.

HOW DO YOU LIKE YOUR BLUE-EYED BOY? by Barry Graham. A slim novel available only for e-readers. A book that has its limitations (for one, sex scenes that do nothing to further the story and read like letters to Penthouse forum) but that also demonstrates a depth in the main character one does not usually see in an action-oriented killer-protagonist. If I say that the protagonist in his youth could have been a friend of Ponyboy Curtis, that should tell you something about him. There is much to like here, and with a good editor to help accent the highlights and sand off the rough spots, I can see a future for Graham.

The Drowning Machine

TAKEN by Robert Crais

A pair worth perusing.

"I don't want to make trouble...

START SHOOTING by Charlie Newton

"...something scary and washed in the blood..."

MONKEY JUSTICE by Patti Abbott

Turn around, bright eyes.

Fourth Annual Lowhead Dam Awards

A VINE IN THE BLOOD by Leighton Gage

HEADSTONE by Ken Bruen

A midnight clear

He knows me so well...

A neb-ulous notion...

TEMPORARY PERFECTIONS by Gianrico Carofiglio

I'm not so sure...

Ah, me, yes!

PULP INK - cheap! cheap! cheap!

Feeling a bit overwhelmed myself...

Ma Otter said it for me.

Some things haven't changed since the 19th century.

Definition of a scrooge.

Santa's lost the address...

A holiday favorite...

DASHER'S VERSION by Naomi Johnson

EL GAVILAN by Craig McDonald

Review: A KILLER'S ESSENCE by Dave Zeltserman

Where I've been, where I am.

Adieu, St. Louis. Helloooo, John and Nigel!

SLAMMER Redux

REFLECTIONS IN A GLASS OF MARYLAND RYE by Edward A. Grainger

The 411 on PULP INK

REVIEW: TWO-WAY SPLIT by Allan Guthrie

Pulp Ink will tattoo YOU.

R.I.P. Enid Schantz

Nigel Bird: Dark and darker.

"It Rains..." begets "Drowning Machine"

Giveaway Days: The Party's Over

Giveaway Days: ONE DOG NIGHT by David Rosenfelt

KATJA FROM THE PUNK BAND by Simon Logan

Or in Trade Paperback From:

Giveaway Days: WHERE THE SHADOWS LIE by Michael Ridpath

Giveaway Days: WHO DAT? (A second clue.)

Heads up, writers!

Giveaway Days: FOUR books today, FOUR!

Giveaway Days: NEVER KNOWING by Chevy Stevens

Giveaway Days: JUNKYARD DOGS by Craig Johnson

Giveaway Days: BACK OF BEYOND by C.J. Box

Never Let Anyone Curl Your Eyelashes

15 Questions Movie Meme

SPEEDLOADER

Midwives to an egg

Amazon raises my blood pressure. Again.

REVIEW: THE END OF EVERYTHING by Megan Abbott

Not short on Cash!

REVIEW: DUST DEVILS by Roger Smith

WGI: More stories

WGI 3rd Place: A POCKET FULL OF HORSES by Chad Eagleton

WGI 2nd Place: FINGERPRINTS by Eric Beetner

WGI 1st Place: RUN FOR THE ROSES by Chris La Tray

Watery Grave III: And the award goes to...

...to see what condition my condition was in...

The Heat Is On

Summer, in a cool, darkened room.

The Wizard of Oz (1939)

SERIES PREMIERE!Alfred Hitchcock's Frenzy

SERIES PREMIEREBridget Jones' Diary (2001)

Cartoon Capers

2011 FAN FAVORITE FILM!To Kill A Mockingbird (1962)

High Noon (1952)

The Big Sleep (1946)

FRIGHT NIGHT DOUBLE FEATURE!

Bride of Frankenstein (1935)

Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein (1948)

West Side Story (1961)

SERIES PREMIERE!Airplane! (1980)

SILENT FILM SERIES PREMIERE!Steamboat Bill Jr. (1928)

The Sound of Music (1965)

Bringing Up Baby (1938)

Glory (1989)

SERIES PREMIERE!
Alfred Hitchcock's Frenzy

SERIES PREMIERE
Bridget Jones' Diary (2001)

2011 FAN FAVORITE FILM!
To Kill A Mockingbird (1962)

SERIES PREMIERE!
Airplane! (1980)

SILENT FILM SERIES PREMIERE!
Steamboat Bill Jr. (1928)

SERIES PREMIERE!
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966)

SERIES PREMIERE!
Tron (1982)