B.R. Stateham's Blog, page 17

A friend of mine, AJ Hayes

Okay.  So AJ doesn't like to throw his mugshot around too much.  But he likes to dream up some thought-provoking poetry.  More importantly, the guy can write some really dark, dark noir stories.
AJ and I met on the internet.  Funny how that happens a lot these days.  Writers meeting writers on the internet.  Separated by miles of distance, yet curiously quite compatible and even similar in many respects when it comes to writing, story telling, and wondering what makes for a good story.

Which is the reason I wanted to interview this bloke.  The guy is a mind-trip when it comes to talking about literature and authors, both famous and infamous.  His kind of writing is straight out of the deepest recesses of a twisted psyche.  When this guy writes a revenge story . . .

Listen to what AJ has to say.  I think you'll find the old boy fascinating.

(Pause when you get to question No. 4.,  consider the answer; do you agree or disagree?  When I read the his answer I found myself in total agreement---yet curiously surprised, for some reason.  Kinda interested in hearing what your reaction will be.)


1.  A.J., I read your interview with Richard Godwin and found it fascinating.  A couple of questions popped into my head.  The first one is this; if you consider yourself a Southern writer--that is someone who identifies with the deep south of the US--the basic question is why?  Why is it necessary for a writer to be so affixed with a regional flavor?


I think a writer is bound to the place of his birth by the common mindsets or heritage of that place. The formative early years pretty much determine who you are for the rest of your life. Sure, you may modify those mindsets or heritages as you mature, but that old song, Stand In The Place Where You Live, got it right. We are all standing in the place where we grew up for all of our days.


2.  The second question which came to mind is, you indicated you had it, basically, rough as a youth.  A grandfather that was important to you; perhaps parents that weren't.  How do these emotional roller coaster rides in one's youth affect a writer's take on Life and The World around him?  Did your past create a better writer or a more cynical writer?


I think it's not so much the emotional and physical toll our past takes as the fact we survived that past. In a lot of ways Nietzsche was right. Strength comes simply from survival. A good question to ask yourself every single morning you wake up is: "Am I alive?" If the answer is yes, then of course it informs your writing for the better. If the answer is "I don't know" then you must hide behind devices like cynicism or snark to survive.



3.  I've read several of your poems and many of your stories.  I like them both.  But I lean toward the dark surreal-noir of your stories more so than your poetry.  Why dark noir?  Why this genre from a gifted writer who is deeply knowledgeable when it concerns the many aspects of traditional literature.


Oh hell, call it my sunny disposition I guess. Seriously, I like to find the reasons and logic behind the darkest of behaviors -- and believe me, there are perfectly valid and thoughtful reasoning processes behind any frame of reference, bet it Mother Teresa or John Wayne Gacy. Of course Gacy's logic and reasoning are for the most part beyond human understanding. Still, by inhabiting like personalities, a writer has a shot at understanding those reasons better than most people.




4.  Be blunt; what makes a good noir writer?  A good hard boiled writer?  What is it that clicks in your head and tells you that this writer is fantastic.


For one, poetry. There has to be a rough poetry in their prose. For poetry is the only way a human soul can truly express itself. Not rhyming couplets or iambic pentameter but the real poetry that life sings to us every day. I think in the heart of every noir writer there is a crusader, a seeker, an avenging angel and a poet going down those "Mean Streets."


5.  Character or plot---which is more important for you as a reader and as a writer?


In order of importance: story, story, story then the unforgettable characters will follow.

 

6.  Do you think there are writers today who can match up with guys like James Lee Burke, Raymond Chandler (if you like Chandler), or a Dashiell Hammitt?


Only about 500 or so. Mike Connelly comes right to mind, as do Josh Stallings, Richard Godwin, Nigel Bird, Ian Ayris, Ian Rankin, Julie Lewthwaith, McDroll, All the Brit Gritters, Johnny Shaw, William Gibson, BR Stateham . . . want me to go on? Only another thousand or so to go.




7.  Is there such a thing as a 'perfect' novel? In your opinion, has it been written? And by whom?


Sure. About two million BC. The first time Ug the caveman and his clan gathered around the fire and Ug grunted out the tales of the hunt that day: the close calls; the snap of the sabertooth's teeth; the triumphant cries when the hunters brought down the wildebeest.
Of the modern novels (anything after Two million BC) The very first book the jumped out of my head was: To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee. Examines all the conditions of the human mind and heart through the eyes of what Joe Campbell calls the Holy Fool. A perfect novel? Yeah.



8.  What are you currently writing?  And are your fans going to acquire a dark, meditative noir novel from you any time soon?


Yeah, I've got a couple of titles running around in my head. That's usually the start of it, a title. That's the way my subconscious yells out "Hey Look Stupid! I Got Sumptin' For Ya."
Got a friend a very good writer who writes down every single ass kicker first line that comes into his mind during the week and puts them on the reefer door for future reference and use. But that's the way his subconscious works. Mine only gives me titles -- the jerk.
No, no novel. Maybe someday. Gonna have to have the approval of my asshole subconscious to get that started. So far though all it gives me is, someday.

The incomparable John Carter of Mars

It's nostalgia time.  Time to take a trip down Memory Lane and revisit one's youth.  Time to think about the first true fictional hero this old fart, as a youth, first discovered.The incredibly brave, forever optimistic, dashing Civil War cavalryman, John Carter of Virginia.  Or . . . in the modern update of today's moviedom, the incomparable John Carter of Mars.
Holy schnickies, Edgar Rice Burroughs!  Did you EVER capture the imagination of a gangly, toothy, adam's apple-bobbling youth's imagination as you captured mine when I first read your A Princess of Mars,   the first in the series of heroic sci/fi adventure tales set on the red planet of Mars---or Barsoom, as you called it in the series.  I found the novels around the age of twelve or thirteen.  Read every one of'em at least five or six times-----along with ever other novel ERB wrote. 
Yeah, it was ERB who created the fictional icon called Tarzan.  But in my mind, still true today, Tarzan is no comparison to John Carter.  It's like comparing a boy to a man.  John Carter was the complete hero; swordsman, flyer, extremely brave, indomitable . . . and with a sense of humor.  Schnickies!!  How could a kid like me not become a hero-worshipping, ardent fan?  Still am!  Fifty fracking years later and I'm STILL an ardent fan!
Which leads me to the main theme for this blog.  The other day I finally got to go see the movie, John Carter of Mars.  I thought it was fabulous.  Well made, brilliantly photographed, with a plot line for the story which made it infinitely believable (for science-fiction, mind you).  So good in fact I'll be buying the DVD when it comes out and I plan to eat many of a bowl of popcorn over the years seeing it over and over and over.
But the question is this;  why did the critics pan it as an artistic/financial dead cow?  It has everything there to make it a success.  A rip roaring story--a handsome, believable hero, a really really beautiful heroine (Dejah Thoris)---some really interesting bad guys.  The works.
So what happened?
The original dust jacketI haven't got a clue.  It's one of those unanswerable Zen-like questions in life.  Much like why do tornadoes always hit trailer parks.
Edgar Rice Burroughs created both the Tarzan and the Barsoom series sometime around the 1912/13 era.  An old cavalryman himself, the man had both experience fighting Indians and knew the Arizona desert much like John Carter does in the opening pages of the novel.  Ten more Barsoom novels followed.  And what made them so great was, like any great science-fiction, Burroughs weaved into his tales the going science facts then being voiced in his era.  Indeed astronomers were talking about possible canals on Mars.  Flying machine using some kind of rays--radium explosive bullets--machines to create and maintain the slowly dying Martian atmosphere.  The works, baby; the works!
Of course by today's standards of fiction-writing, if you read the novels you'll note they sound a bit hokey.  But read them in the context/time-frame they were written they'll blow your mind away!  I think they still work well today.  And I think all science-fiction/fantasy writers owe a big, big debt to the guy who essentially created the American genre.  Read the books!  Discover, or re-discover, Edgar Rice Burroughs!  You won't be disappointed,
And go see the movie.  It's damn good and deserves a better fate.

Richard Godwin's Mr. Glamour

A friend of mine, Richard Godwin, has a new book out.  You know Richard.  He's one of those smooth authors who writes really dark noir that just grabs you by the cujones and doesn't let go.  While reading one of his stories you dive deep into the depths of the human soul and see/experience the real darkness that sometimes overwhelms reason.

In other words----good stuff, Maynard!

His newest is called Mr. Glamour . In the glitzy world of high glamour someone is killing all the beautiful people.  That's enough of a description to capture just about every one's attention!  But knowing the quality and ease in Richard's style of writing, I can't wait to eventually sit down and read it!

But I did take the time to ask Richard for a short interview about the book and about writing in general.  Always an interesting discussion when I disturb this guy's thoughts.  Thought I'd share it with you today.  So here goes . . . .

1. Richard, you have a new novel out called Mr. Glamour. Give us a quick sketch as to what it's about and whether it's a straight-up detective novel or if other genre elements are found in the read.

Something dark is preying on the glitz of the glamour set. DCI Jackson Flare and Inspector Mandy Steele investigate a series of bizarre killings targeting the wealthy and glamorous. Cameras, designer labels, beautiful women and wealthy men fill the pages of this dark narrative that will keep you guessing until the unforeseeable end. All part of a gripping mystery novel about a glamorous world with an unknown intruder. The killer in Mr. Glamour knows all about design, he knows what brands mean to his victims. He is branding their skins. He is invading and destroying at will. And he has the police stumped.
Detective Chief Inspector Flare and Inspector Steele try to catch a killer who has climbed inside their heads. As they investigate they step into a hall of mirrors and find themselves up against a wall of secrecy. The investigation drives Flare and Steele—who are themselves harbouring secrets—to acts of darkness. And the killer is watching everyone.
Mr. Glamour is a crime novel, a mystery, a thriller, with elements of horror.
2. The novel, more or less, takes place in the world of high glamour; the cosmetics/media/glamorous fashion world of high visibility. What experiences in your past brought you around to a venue like this to create such a dark thriller?

I think the glamorous world of designer goods is the perfect setting for a crime novel. It is a world where people like to be watched and in Mr. Glamour they certainly are. These are people who can buy anything. Except their safety from the killer.
3.Tell us about the characters DCI Flare and Inspector Mandy Steele. Are they pure creations from your imagination? Or are they composites of people whom you know? More importantly, why do your protagonists seem to be people who harbor strange, sometimes twisted, secrets of their own?
I think all fictional characters are composites.
I also think that many people harbour secrets and allowing for that in my protagonists lets me dig into their characters. I want to add depth to characters who traditionally have been placed in certain roles. I also want to show that a cop may do his job and have a private life the general public may be disturbed by.
4. There is dark noir . . . and then there is really dark, almost savage, noir where the truly deranged come out to play at night. Do you think your works fit the former or latter description. If it is the latter, what is it about the deviant mind which is attractive to you?
It's hard to define one's own work. I think there is nothing darker under the dying sun than Oppenheimer realising he had the power to destroy.
At the end of the day I am writing fiction. I also think writing about extremes is a way of exploring what it is we mean when we use the term normal.
5. With a flip of the coin, let me ask the above question in a slightly different way. Do you believe it is the twisted, tortured evils that sometimes resides in a person's mind that colours a noir novel so passionately for a reader? Or is it a sense of confronting 'evil' and hoping for it to be eventually biblically avenged that sinks a reader into a book like this?
I think it's both. It adds colour to the novel and readers do want to see order restored.

6. For waiting fans, what is coming next in your writing endeavors? And, just to add a little flavor of excitement, have you had any nibbles yet from producers interested in converting a Richard Godwin novel into a movie or two?
Yes one or two nibbles.
I've written a long story for the Italian market, it's a Noir narrative set in London and will be out this year as an E Book with an Italian publisher, available in both English and Italian. There's a novel about a hit man coming, and a horror novel. I am also writing the sequel to Apostle Rising.


So there you have it.  Interesting.  You might want to read another one of Richard's books, one called Apostle Rising.

I'm back

Been gone for a little while.  Bronchitis can do that to you.  Hacking cough so intense you think your lungs are going to come flapping straight out of the chest cavity.  Feeling miserable. Too miserable to even think about blogging.Yeah.  Wonderful feeling.
I'm better than what I was a few days ago.  Thankfully the lungs are still where they are supposed to be and I don't feel quite as miserable.  So it's time to start blogging again.
Nothing new to really report.  Still waiting to hear from the literary agency as to whether they think they can sell anything of mine (been done this road soooooooooooooo many times, brother!)  Still have novels to complete.  A few short story ideas peculating in the back of the noggin'.
Thought I'd get back into the swing of things by sharing an old Turner Hahn/Frank Morales story called 'Dirt.'  Maybe you've read it; maybe not.   Hope you like it.
Dirt
            He was scared. Nervous. Suspicious. As we sat in the booth watching him through the big plate glass window of the Dewey's, we could tell he was wound up tighter than cheap Hong Kong wristwatch.  His head kept darting back and forth with quick, jerking movements.  Several times he stopped, turned and scanned the streets behind him. He paused often . . . nervously hesitating before crossing streets.  Hesitating as if he was expecting a cement truck to come along and turn him into a grease stain at any moment. Cupping hands in front of his face he blew some warmth in them before stuffing them into his dark blue seaman's coat.  Down by the river it was colder than a Siberian nightmare—as it always was in late January in this city.  Wearing a blue stocking sock hat pulled down over his ears, hot puffs of steam for breath shot out in rapid machine gun bursts as the little man paused and studied the parking lot of the diner in front of him. Yeah.  It didn't take much to see Davie Higgins was one frightened little thief. Darting across the street, zig zagging like a star NFL running back in a Sunday afternoon game, Davie made his way through traffic and navigated the parking lot of the diner.  He came through the door and into the warmth of the diner in one fast, smooth motion—his eyes taking in everyone with a quick, practiced glance.  When he saw us in our usual place he moved rapidly to join us. I slid over in the booth to make room for him and nodded to Dewey to bring over a cup of hot, coal black java.  Davie would need a lot of java to thaw out on a day like today.  And Dewey, the owner of this joint, made coffee strong enough to shut down a runaway nuclear reactor.  Dewey's is one of our favorite eateries.  It's a big aluminum eatery straight out of the 50's sitting down by the river.  Good food . . easy on the wallet . . . and lots of it.  Frank—my partner in Homicide for the last five years—and I ate there often.  As do a number of other cops working with us out of the South Side precinct. "Guys, tha . . . .thanks for meeting me here like this." Frank, the red haired gorilla for my partner, nodded and pointed to the coffee cup sliding across the table. "Thaw out first, and then talk.  I'm getting cold just looking at'ya." A grin flashed across Davie's haggard, unshaven face as he reached for the coffee with both hands.  You could almost see the coffee thawing frozen flesh. "Okay, Danny.  What's up?  Your call sounded urgent." He lowered the cup, still gripping it with both hands, and shot glances at the two of us and then at the few still sitting in the diner.  You could see it in his face and eyes he wanted to talk.  You could also catch a glimpse of genuine fear holding him back.             "Listen, guys, I've got to get out of town.  I've got to leave now.  Even sitting here talking to you two is costing me.  But the thing is . . . I need some dough.  So I thought of you, Turn.  I hear you're loaded.  Thought maybe you could loan me a few bucks."             I looked into the little man's face, half expecting the thief to break into a big grin.  This sounded like a joke.  One of Davie's famous practical jokes he was famous for.  He had pulled a few on me before.  Even had Frank in on the joke.  But the look in his eyes of a deer running from the wolves convinced me this wasn't a joke.  This was real.             "What happened, Davie?" Frank grunted, reaching for his coffee and glancing out the big picture window beside him.  Looking for something that might be out-of-place maybe.  Like maybe a car with two dark men sitting in it with the car running—looking as if they were waiting for someone.             He leaned across the table half way and lowered his voice to barely above a whisper.             "I saw someone get snuffed last night.  Saw it with my own eyes.  Saw the two of'em grab this chic and throw a pillow over her face.  She fought.  She kicked.  She tried to escape.  But these guys were good.  They knew what they were doing."             Frank shot me a glance and gave me a slight nod toward the window.             My eyes barely moved.  But it was enough.             In the parking lot about six rows back two guys in heavy trench coats sat in a black Caddy Seville.  The driver had both hands on the wheel and he was wearing black leather gloves.  Both of them had fedoras on and pulled down low over the eyes.  There was no way to catch a good glimpse of their faces.             The little thief didn't see the car.  He was too busy slurping hot coffee and digging into a big donut Dewey brought over and shoved in front of him on the table.             "Start from the beginning," I said, keeping my eyes on the little man and not looking anywhere else. "Tell us everything."             "Yeah, yeah  . . . I know the routine.   I was . . well . . . working a heist last night.  Over on Belmont drive.  You know.  That little art museum some rich widow built a few years ago.  That place."             I nodded.  I knew exactly where he was last night.  I knew exactly what he was doing.  Coming on duty tonight one of the daily bulletins was a report about a very expensive piece of canvas lifted out of the Harlin Museum over on Belmont.             "Go on," I said, reaching for my donut.             "I was using a rope and repelling down from a skylight, see.  'Bout half way down I glance up and out of one of their tall windows.  Across the street from the museum is a fancy apartment complex.  The rear of a fancy complex.  All the balconies face the museum, see.  Well, I see this blond chic stagger into sight.  She's left the curtains to the glass balcony door wide open and I could see her as clear as day.  About twenty-five . . .  maybe thirty.  Tops."             Frank was listening and taking in every word.  But his eyes were on the two men in the car.  Apparently the two in the car noticed Frank's interest.  From out of the side of my eye I see a dark shape slide out of the Dewey's lot and disappear.             "I could see she's agitated.  Scared.  She pressed her back up against the glass and throws a hand out as if to push someone away.  That's when . . .  that's when the two big men grab her and strangle her with the pillow."             "Describe'em," Frank grunted, and turning his attention toward the little man in front of him.             "I didn't catch a glimpse of their faces that time, Frank.  Like I said, the girl put up a fight.  They were twisting and turning around like crazy yo-yo's for a while until one of 'em got a hold of her from behind and held her still."             "So you didn't see their faces," I repeated.             "Not that time, Turn.  Not that time.  But a couple of minutes later I saw a face.  After the chic slumped over they dragged her back into apartment.  But one of'em came back and closed the curtains."             "Recognize him?"  Frank grunted, glancing the big plate glass window again.             Davie didn't immediately answer.   The little guy shuddered violently.  The color in his face drained.  He became as pale as one of the several corpses lying in the city morgue.  His eyes and lifted the cup of java to his lips and took a long drag of the scaling black joe.             "I . . . I think he saw me, guys.  Saw me somehow hanging on the rope in the museum.   That's the reason I gotta get out town.  If he did see me I'm as good as dead.  That sonofabitch doesn't play around.  He'll cut my throat in the blink of an eye.  You've got to believe me, guys!  I can't stay here!  I gotta leave . . . get the hell out of here and go as far away from here as I can possible get!"             "Who saw you? " I asked quietly.  "Give us a name and we'll go over and pinch'em.  We'll make sure they won't come after you."             "Ha!" A sardonic bark for a laugh escaped from the little man's lips as he lowered his coffee cup and shook his head in amused helplessness.  "You're not going to pinch these guys.  I've never heard of a cop pinching a cop.  Besides, even if you did, where would it get you?  I'm leaving town, boys.  I'm not sticking around—and sure as hell I ain't gonna testify against'em.  I may look stupid, but I ain't that stupid."             "You're saying a cop killed this woman?"             "I saw Mickey Mulligan's ugly ginning face just as clearly as I'm seeing yours, Frank.  The asshole came to the window, chewing that damn toothpick he's always chew'en on, looked out to see if anyone was curious and then closed the curtains. Plain as day."             Mickey Mulligan was detective sergeant Mickey Mulligan.  A detective, homicide section, based out of the Downtown division of the city's police force.  His partner was named Iggie Johannson.             Cops.             But dirty.  Dirty but smart.  A lot in the department believed the two were on the take.  Worked as the muscle for a local crime boss.  Both Frank and I knew them quite well.  We had had our share of run-ins with them.             It would have given us great pleasure to be able to cuff them and bring them in on some kind of provable rap.  Like maybe . . . homicide.             "And you think he saw you," I said, frowning. "Saw you through a window inside the museum in the dead of night?"             "Maybe he did—maybe he didn't.  Hell, I'm too damn scared to know for sure.  All I know is this.  If he thinks someone saw him standing in that window right after killing that girl, they're as good as dead.  And I'm not sticking around to find out what happens next.  So I'm asking, Turner . . . asking as a guy whose given the two of you a lot of good tips on other shit going down in this town . . . I'm asking if you'll spot me some money."             I frowned and glanced at my watch.  It was almost four in the afternoon.  The nearest branch of my bank was ten blocks away.  It'd take, in this afternoon traffic, a good hour to get there and get back.  An hour I didn't want Davie to endure alone.                "Let's go," I said half pushing the little thief out of the booth.             "Where we going?" he asked, sliding out and turning to stare at me.             "Nearest ATM is about five blocks from here.  I can pull out maybe five C-notes.  I can get you more tomorrow if you're willing to stick around."             "Not me, brother," Dave said, shaking his head and his voice sounding firm. "Five hundred is more than enough.  I know where I'm going and that'll be enough to get me there."             "We'd feel a lot better if you'd let us tuck you away some place nice and safe for a while.  Just for the night. You know, just in case, and then in the morning we'll see you off," Frank growled but speaking softly.             "Thanks, guys.  For everything.   But I know how to take care of myself.  Where I'm going no one is going to find me."             And with those last words he left us as we stood in front of the ATM.  Left us in the cold.  Walked away, hailed for a cab, and disappeared into the heavy traffic.  We watched the cab leave, each of us in our silence knowing the dumb sonofabitch wasn't going to make it through the night alive.             We drove over to The Esquires, the apartment complex Davie said he had seen a murder committed.  It didn't take long to find the body.  She was swinging from a sheet tied around a wooden ceiling beam.  Below her dangling feet was chair which had been kicked away.  On a glass coffee table was a typed-written suicide letter. A typed letter with no signature.             "Davie's in a world of shit if this is really a murder," Frank growled, frowning and shaking his head.  "If Mulligan saw him hanging by a rope in the museum our little friend hasn't got a snowball's chance in hell."             I nodded, turned, and walked to the drapes which hid the sliding glass door leading out into the balcony.  Pulling them open I gazed out across the street and into the glass window of the museum Davie had said he seen Mickey Mulligan.  It was roughly the same time of night as it was when the murder went down.  Not to my surprise I noticed there was enough back light in the museum to see fairly clearly inside.  Maybe not enough light to see a face.  But more than enough light to see a dark from hanging from a rope in mid air.             Iggie and Mickey were smart enough to figure it out.  It wouldn't take long to add up one and one and finger the only second-story man with the balls to rob a high security museum.             I reached for the cell phone inside my coat and called for Joe Weiser and his forensic's team.  I then dialed Lt. Yankovich's number and told him we had to sit down and talk.  Two hours later we were sitting in the lieutenant's office with the door closed and watching him use a long bony finger rub the throbbing vein pulsating visibly in his forehead.             "Those fuckers," he grunted, shaking his head and sounding savage. "They've been playing both sides of the fence for years.  I've been waiting to collar them and bring them in since the first day I meet'em.  But they're good.  They're experts in covering their tracks.  Betcha fifty the coroner is going to come up with a report that is, at best, inconclusive.  She could have been murdered by strangulation.  But the hanging covered up all traces."             That's what we were thinking.  It wasn't as if we had not had our run-ins with Iggie and Mickey before.  About a year early the two snuffed out a couple of friends of ours but made look appear as if it was a murder-suicide.             "The pissy thing is I can't say a damn thing to the chief of detectives about this.  Nor can I mention it internal affairs.  The chief thinks these two bastards are top notch detectives.  They're a couple of his boys.  And internal affairs doesn't want to hear anything without some tangible evidence to back up the claims.  In other words, boys, without some evidence that will implicate them in this murder, we've got bumpkus.   Too bad your little thief wouldn't hang around and talk.  But I understand his reasons why he'd think otherwise."             "We'll find some evidence, Yank.  If the lab comes back and can't give us a definitive decision and say it's a murder, what we need from you is to label it as a Suspicious Fatality."             "Ah. . . I see where this is going," the lieutenant nodded, smiling.  "You think the two believe they got away clean with this murder.  But a Suspicious Fatality makes it an official inquiry.  You want to draw them into this mess.  Make them fidgety.  There's no love lost between you and them.  You think they may do something stupid and tip their hand.  Good.  I like it."             As we walked out of the lieutenant's office Frank pulled out his cell phone and began punching in numbers.             "Home?" I asked.             "Naw," he said, shaking his massive head. "If Iggie and Mickey were in on this then this girl is somehow connected to their boss."             Nathan Brinkley.             A lot of people in this town thought the smooth, well dressed, handsome professional gambler ran this town.  I wouldn't offer up too much of an argument against the idea.  Brinkley's sticky fingers seemed to be everywhere in city politics.  He was especially strong in ward politics down at the grassroots level.  He had a knack for glad-handing people and making them feel important—while he ran a shiv through their heart in the process.             But so far the man had been meticulous in keeping his name out of the papers and totally removed from any criminal accusation.  The press loved the guy.  It seemed he was on the local news every night of the week.             A few phone calls—some promises given we could keep to a few associates—and we got what we were looking for.  The dead girl used to be Nathan Brinkley's main squeeze.  She was a high-priced model he met in New York.  Great looks.  Great listener.  Talked a lot when she got drunk.  Couldn't keep her mouth shut.  Apparently said a couple of things at some local nightclubs which really upset Brinkley.             "She became a liability," Frank nodded, snapping his phone closed after his last phone call.  "Knew too much and couldn't keep her mouth shut."             "So Brinkley tells Iggie and Mickey to clean up the mess.  Do it quietly and efficiently."             I started to say something but my cell phone started buzzing.             "Turner, listen. . . there's a contract out on me.  Two hired guns from Detroit flew in last night to take me out.  Word is a certain person we know thinks I know too much.  They've got this town buttoned up.  I can't move anywhere without being seen.  I. . . I need your help."             It was Davie Higgns talking.  And he sounded . . . odd.             "Davie, where are you?  Let us come and get you and take you someplace safe."             "Yeah . . . yeah, that makes sense.  There's eyes everywhere looking for me.  I'm over at my girl's apartment.  Corner of Douglas and Haig, apartment 22."             "Davie, lock the doors and keep away from the windows.  We'll be over there in ten minutes."             Took us eight minutes to get to Douglas and Haig.  Rolling out of the car we both looked the place over and frowned.  It was an old hotel down in the bad end of town.  A dive where those who worked the streets at night, or ran numbers for the big boys, could afford to live in.  The moment our eyes took it in we had bad vibrations.             "You thinking what I'm thinking?" the ugly mug of a partner asked me as he unbuttoned his sport jacket casually.             "If you're thinking the last scene of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid then yeah, that's what I'm thinking."             A trap.  It felt like a trap.  It looked like the perfect place for a trap.  It smelled like a trap.  Unbuttoning my coat I reached in and pulled out the heavy framed .45 cal. Kimber and slide the carriage back to jack a round into the firing chamber.  From behind my back I reached for the .380 cal. Walther PPK I used as a back-up gun.                   We went in quietly.  Entering the front door we found ourselves in long corridor filled with the smells of a hundred different varieties. On either side of the corridor was the long stretch of apartment doors.  All closed and conspicuously silent.  To our left a set of creaky, ancient looking stairs that went up to the second floor.  As quietly as we could we went up the stairs, guns drawn and anticipating the fireworks to begin at any moment.             We found the door to apartment 22 partially open.  Frank, using the muzzle of his 9 mil. Glock, pushed the door open further while I stood in the hall, back to him, waiting for someone to step out from one of the apartments with a gun in his hands.             "Davie's dead," Frank growled behind me. "Just happened.  He's still bleeding and can you smell the cordite?"             A door flew open.  And then a second door.  Two guys stepped out into the hall with Uzi's in their hands.  The hallway erupted in gunfire.  I dived for the floor, firing both guns at one of the shooters in the process.  Frank knelt down and started firing at the other target.  The hail of machine gun fire was incredibly loud and incredibly destructive.  Bullets spraying from the stubby muzzles of each Uzi chewed up the walls, throwing clouds of flying splinters everywhere.  From within one of the apartments a woman started screaming hysterically.             And then it was over as fast as it started.  Our two shooters went down with a half dozen slugs in each.  But more surprises awaited us.  Coming to my feet I heard behind me another set of doors open with a loud bang.  Turning, lifting the Kimber up rapidly, I saw two more shooters emerge into the hall.  This time they had shotguns, the ugly muzzles up and already pointing at me.  But before I had time to move—before Frank had time to turn—gunfire erupted and I saw the two shooters stagger back from being hit by multiple rounds.                        Surprised at this unexpected rescue I turned to see who are saviors were.              Iggie Johannson and Mickey Mulligan.             Both of them, standing at the top of the stairs with guns in their hands, stood looking at us with smirks on their faces.  And behind them?  Two newspaper reporters and two photographers.  Reporters from a paper owned by Nathan Brinkley.  The photographers were clicking shots as fast as their fingers could work their cameras.  The two reporters came rushing from behind Iggie and Mickey and ran toward us with digital recorders lifted up to catch every word we said.             How does it feel to be rescued by detectives Johannson and Mulligan?  Care to commit on how we knew Davie Higgins was involved in the murder of a beautiful model?  Who sent out these hired guns to kill you?  Do you believe your two friends should be given a medal for saving your lives?             I turned and looked at the smirking face of Iggie Johannson.  The dark complexioned, dark eyed man with the toothpick between his lips, stared back.  The smirk widened as he lifted a hand up and half saluted me.             There would be no catching Iggie and Mickey and charging them with murder.  By nightfall the papers of Nathan Brinkley would have the story out in blazing color on their front pages hailing these two as heroes.  The chief of detectives would be quoted often about how highly he thought of these two detectives and the work that they do. They would get their medals for valor.  Penned on their chests by the mayor himself.              And Nathan Brinkley?  Nathan Brinkley would be laughing.  Laughing in a pleased Cheshire-cat smugness at again thwarting our efforts to bring him down.

Sharing some good news

Three pieces of good news to share with you today.  First, let's talk about the artwork created by my friend, Javier Carmona .  I've been putting up on the blog the various modifications of a concept for a book cover featuring 'Smitty' my rather lovable (if you like to cuddle with a cold-bloodied killer) hitman.The basic image came to mind a few weeks ago.  Popped up, uninvited like Smitty himself, unexpectedly but in full living color.  An image so strong I needed to find an artist whom I knew could concert words into images.  And someone I knew who had mentioned once he would like to get into the noir/hardboiled genre of artwork.  So Javier and I went through a series of modifications from the first offering to where we are at today.  As you can see, the latest version is quite striking.
The reason this image came into being is because of the idea I had of packaging half of the older Smitty stories (ten stories and two novellas, to be exact) into one anthology and then self-publish or find a publisher who would be willing to publish them.  After that I would continue to use the same cover for the short story installments I had been publishing earlier featuring Smitty.
Artwork, kids; artwork is important even epublishing.  It may not be THE deciding factor for a perspective buyer when purchasing their next read--but it is important enough to give them second thoughts if it looks like rank amateurs used crayons and super-glue to come up with an image.
So . . . with that in mind, here's the second piece of art (and the second item of good news) that came to mind for the Turner Hahn/Frank Morales short stories I've accumulated over the last couple of years.These two pose a problem, art wise.  Unlike Smitty whom I've tried diligently to give a general description (except for his riveting dark eyes), with Turner and Frank the descriptions have been far more specific.  Both Turner and Frank have an 'image' to portray.  Can't get around that.  They have both a physical and emotive set of descriptions which are pretty clearly iron clad.
Smitty comes and goes in the night.  He's more of a malevolent shadow whose features should be vaguely described so that each reader can fill in the details for themselves.  Turner and Frank, on the other hand, stand in the harsh light of judgement.  They are the hunters who must hunt the hunted.  They are viewed and judged more stringently.  Therefore their images must be more clearly defined.
Agy Wilson , an artist living up in Maine, worked with me on creating the Turner/Frank cover.  She is normally a children's illustrator but I kinda persuaded her to try her hand at this one cover.  From what she has said it sounds like she thoroughly enjoyed herself while she worked on this.
So mission accomplished; Turner and Franks standing back-to-back and looking like the smart-ass cops they very much are in their books and stories.
Both covers I was going to use to  begin the two series again.  But . . .
Here's News Flash number Three which puts a HOLD on my plans.  Got word day before yesterday that super lit-agent Chip MacGregor and his staff love my work (his words, not mine)!  Loved it and wanted me to send them any completed material I had for them to review.  So I did . . . and put my other plans on hold until I hear back from them.
I have to admit I'm both excited and a nervous wreck at the same time.  Excited at the thought that an agent with the credentials of Chip has, along with his staff, thinks I'm worthy enough of representation (possibly).  After years of wandering through the wastelands to finally come to this junction in my life in finding an agent who loves my work.  Really?! 
Of course I'm nervous as hell.  There's nothing agreed upon.  Nothing has been set in stone.  There's no guarantees even if Chip represents me  anything of mine would be sold.  Hell, the market out there is huge!  And there are thousands of writers striving to succeed.  No guarantees, buddy!  No guarantees at all.
But on the other hand . . . potentially it could be a hell of a ride if certain breaks fall in certain ways.  So why not sit back and take the 'wait and see' attitude?  Either way, representation or not, I'll still write my stories.
And in my mind's eye imagine funky, eye-catching book covers.

My trek through the jungles of writing Fantasy novels

Artwork by the briliant Ken KellyBack when I was a kid (this was before the invention of dirt) I fell in love with two authors,  Edgar Rice Burroughs and Robert E. Howard .  Perhaps you know them as well.  Burroughs was the creator of the Tarzan series, along with several of series of high-adventure/sci-fi---all which I loved.  But he also created another famous series with his publication of A Princess of Mars.  The Barsoom series.  In this series we met the Earthman, John Carter of Virginia and the incomparable Barsoomian princess from the city of Helium, Deja Thoris.

Oh, my gosh!  As a pimply-faced kid of twelve or thirteen when I first bumped into these books, I thought I had died and gone to heaven!  I ate'em up.  Reread them over and over.  My imagination went into overdrive. 

At thirteen I knew I wanted to write stories like these.  Expand upon them.  Tweek them.  Make them as compelling as the originals and maybe . . . just maybe . . . make them more intriguing and dark in nature.

Robert E. Howard was the creator of Conan the Barbarian.  But not just Conan.  Howard went on to create a number of fascinating fantasy/horror character that, just like Burroughs, could capture a kid's imagination completely.  And for me Howard'd writing only solidified my desires to become a writer.

Years pass by.  In late teens/early twenties I come onto an idea to mimic the writing style of ERB and write a book entitled Banners of the Sa'yen (see book offerings in column to the right).  A complex (not original, mind you; just complex) about an alien falling onto a planet in an escape module and finding himself being confused as a god.  The alien is named Alexander Synn.  The a certain group of natives on the planet thinks he is The Sa'yen.  Their God of War.

Lo and Behold!  DAW Science-Fiction publishes the novel in 1981.  It sells reasonably well (I actually made royalties off the damn thing!)  It was supposed to be a 10 volume series.  Nope!  I was was wrong.  DAW wasn't THAT interested in the book/series.  Book two never saw the light of day.

Admittedly Banners of the Sa'yen is not my best effort, writing wise.  But remember, I wanted to mimic ERB's writing style.  I think I came very close to accomplishing that.  But in doing so I also realized I wanted to come up with a style of my own.

Artwork by Jesus and Javier Carmona Years later comes another idea that really seemed to work.  The idea led to the creation of my current novel, Roland of the High Crags (see the column of offerings to the right).  In Roland we have a human warrior-monk-wizard who, for reasons only known to him, goes off and assists a dragon lord whose kingdom is being assaulted by another dragon lord.  It is a lost cause from the very beginning.  But before the smaller kingdom is destroyed the dying dragon lord asks Roland to save his only surviving heir--a seven year old grand daughter.

But the child is more than just a child of dragon nobility.  She is a living, breathing weapon of destruction literately created by the dark dragon gods designed to destroy all of humanity.  Why the human Roland agrees to protect and raise this child is the main ingredient for the entire series.  Basically, Roland asks himself can a human or dragon defy the gods?  Are Fate and Destiny immutable?

Again, it's a complex series.  Not just traditional fantasy.  But darker.  With characters who are far more than what they, at first, portray themselves to be.  Enemies turn out to be friends and allies.  Allies and kinsmen turn out to be bitter foes.  Treachery and deceit run rampant.

Just the kind of stuff that makes for a great read!

None of the major publishing houses were interested in Roland.  So I self-published--then found a small ebook firm wanted it for a while--then had to turn around and basically self-publish again through Amazon's Kindle program.

Books one and two of the Roland series are complete.  You can purchase book one. Book three is in a holding pattern right now but I plan to get back to it soon.  How many books are in the series?  Honestly, I don't know yet.  I can see at least five.  But why put a limit on my imagination?  If---and wouldn't this be fracken strange---the series actually became popular and people clamored for them,  I could stretch the series out further.  How much further has yet to be determined.

Hell, one can dream can't they?  Isn't that what a writer is supposed to do?

There Is No Johnny--Just Call Me Smitty.

Today I'm sharing with you the best gosh-durn ever Smitty story I've ever written.  I decided to rewrite the original Smitty story Call Me Smitty.  I did so for a couple of reasons--but the most important of the two being there was more to the story that had been originally written.  More emotion.Far more.
Fans have asked repeatedly about the early Smitty.  Who was he?  Why did he become the way he become?  Okay.  Rewrite---and possibly a reboot---reboot required.  So one day I sat down and wrote.  This is what came out.
Hope you like it.
There is no Johnny--Just Call Me Smitty

            In the darkened solitude of the car he watched her hurriedly walk across the semi-deserted street and step up on the opposite curb. All the time moving underneath the curved expanse of a red umbrella.             Red.              Her favorite color.             Red umbrella.  Red shoes.  A red dress. A red car.  Red . . .             Like the color of blood.             The rain was coming down pretty hard.  Pelting the sidewalks and street with droplets big enough to almost knock someone out.   Like getting hit with a blackjack.  Unexpected.  Thus the more effective.             It drenched every living creature with a wet monotony that simply refused to let up. Made growl and snap their own masters.  Made women think about killing their husbands.  Made husbands think about their wives.  Unpleasantly.             Especially in this part of town.  A rough neighborhood. Whore houses. Pawn shops. Cheap saloons.  Semi-deserted hotels. Unemployed blue collar workers lounging about rubbing shoulders with wannabe hoodlums and gang bangers who thought they were tough.  A week didn't go by without him and his partner coming down here to break up a fight or separate a wife and a husband from trying to shoot one or the other.             About once a month they'd be down with a meat wagon to investigate a  murder or two.  Like clockwork.   Like taxes. Like Death. Every month.             And here he was watching his wife trotting daintily around large puddles of water underneath a bright red umbrella heading for one of those dives for a hotel.             He'd come home from work and she was gone.  Again.  The fourth time in two weeks.  Not home.  The house dark.  The breakfast dishes still sitting on the kitchen table dirty.  Her red Dodge Charger missing.  The garage door still up.  Gone.  The first three times he shrugged it off.  Darlene was that way.  A bit flighty.  A spur-of-the-moment kind of gal.  Ever since they were kids the three of them---himself, his twin brother Russell and Darlene---used to chum around a lot.  She was always flighty. Usually that meant Darlene got into trouble flirting around and being the tease.  He and Russell always around to pull her out of the jams she got herself in.             In the darkness of the car he almost smiled.             Russell.             His exact twin.  Tall, good looking, curly black hair.  Black coals for eyes.  Just like him.  But Russell was different as well.  He was easy going.  Smiled a lot.  Flirted with every female he was around.    Old or young.  It didn't matter.  He had as way with'em.  They enjoyed Russell being outrageous with'em.  Encouraged it even.             And he was a gambler.  At everything.  Did stupid things just for the kick of it.  Played cards like an expert.  Rolled in dough.  More dough than he should have had legitimately.  But he didn't say anything.  Didn't say a word.  Russell was his brother.  Russell had a way of making people happy.  Make them happy even though he probably was robbing them blind.             Loved his brother.  Almost worshipped the guy.             And . . . of course . . . Darlene was madly in love with him.  But Russell?  Russell did what Russell was good at.  He flirted with Darlene and got her motor running.  Got his way with him.  Used her like an old worn out mattress whenever he was down and out on his luck.             Which was rare.             But then one day Russell does something incredibly stupid.  Back when they were eighteen.  Convinced Darlene to seduce a couple of look hoods who ran the numbers racket in this neighborhood.  And while she had the two of them off in another room Russell came in and took all the money that was that week's take.  Every dime of it.  When the two hoods finally zipped up their pants and figured out what had happened the became very angry.             All hell broke loose.             They went hunting for Russell and Darlene.  They wanted their money back and they wanted to teach those two a lesson.  The kind of lesson you didn't recover from.  Russell knew he was in a jam and came running to him pleading for help.             "Johnny,  Johnny!  You gotta do this!  You gotta take care of this are they're gonna hurt Darlene.  Hurt her bad!  That's why we gotta leave town.  Now, Johnny . . this instant.  You take care of the problem and Darlene and I will disappear for a while.  Until it all blows over," he said to him that night.             "What do you want me to do?" he remembered asking his brother quietly.             He was always the quiet one.  The shy one.  The hesitant one.  The reliable one.  He was the one who loved Darlene.  Loved her even though she felt nothing for him.  Never.              "You . . you have to somehow fix it.  Fix it so the guys they work for never suspect us again.  Never suspects Darlene.  Never suspect me."             He looked in the coal black eyes of his identical twin and said nothing for a moment or two before silently nodding. Stepping forward he threw arms around his brother and held him tight for a moment before stepping back.             "The two of you be happy.  I'll take care of the problem here.  Go get Darlene and beat it."             Russell nodded and left.  Left town.  Left the country.  Left taking all that money with him.  Left Darlene behind.  Left her here crying her eyes out and completely devastated.             Left him in the middle of a situation needing to be resolved quickly.             Years ago.  Years ago . . .
            He and Darlene married a year after Russell left.  He joined the police force.  Rose through the ranks.  Became a detective.  And Darlene . . . Darlene was as flighty as ever.             In the darkness of his old car he watched her step into the doorway of a flophouse and quickly fold the bright red umbrella tightly before shaking it violently.  She turned and disappeared into the darkness of the interior without hesitation.  Without the slightest concern for her safety.  As if she knew exactly what she was doing.             In the darkness a hand reached down and picked up the folded bank statement lying in the seat beside him.  Unfolding it he used the light of a liquor store's blazing neon sign to read again.  For the hundredth time.             Gone.  Simply gone.             Thirty thousand dollars.  His entire savings.  Gone.             Taken out in four large installments.  Each date of the withdrawal the same date that Darlene was gone for several hours from home.             Rage . . . uncontrollable rage . . . burned in his chest.  The grim mask for a face, those dark, dark eyes, would have made Lucifer himself step back in hesitation.  Tossing the bank statement back onto the seat he looked up and stared at the entrance to the flop house.  The rain kept beating its unrelenting patter on the roof and hood of the car like some kind of surrealistic fugue.  The low overcast sky turned the street into a multitude of gray hues.  There was no color.  No life.  No mercy.             But rage burned with a fierce blue white intensity.             Hot.  All consuming.             The driver's side door  opened and he rolled out into the rain.  Closing the door gently he moved to the rear of the car and opened the truck lid.  From within he plucked the solid, ugly form of a heavy crow bar.  Closing the lid he turned and walked across the empty street and stepped onto the side walk.              Entering the flop house the hairy guy chewing on the stub of a cigar behind the counter looked up . . . and turned ghostly white at the image of the dripping wet man standing in front of him holding a crowbar in his hand.             "The woman that just came in here.  Gimme the room number she was heading to."             "Uh . . . uh," the hairy man grunted, sweat breaking out on his forehead as a shaky hand pulled the stub of the cigar out of his mouth.  "twenty . . . twenty-one.  Second floor, fourth door on the right."             "You never saw me here; have no idea what happened," the soft hiss of the man with the crowbar said as he laid the ugly piece of steel on the counter top in a simple gesture of stark menace. "We clear on that?"             All the hairy man could do for a response was nod his head a couple of times and gulp.  Loudly.             Up the stairs the dark eyed man moved.  Silently.  With the movement of a natural athlete.  Or a big jungle cat on the prowl.  Crowbar in one hand.  Murder in his eyes.  Like a ghostly wraith he moved down the second floor hall of the flop house without making a sound.  Coming to Rm. 21 he didn't hesitate.  Stepping back he lifted a foot up and kicked the door as hard as he could.  Wood splintered, the door banged open loudly, bounced off the wall and flew back to a closed position.  Slammed shut behind him.  It didn't matter.  He was already in the room, standing beside the cheap, old, iron framed bed staring down at the nude bodies of his wife and his brother.             "Jesus Christ, Johnny!  What the hell . . . !" Russell shouted, pushing the voluptuous Darlene to one side and starting to roll out of the bed.             With his free hand, balled into a hard fist, he hit Russell on the side of the jaw.  Hit him with every ounce of strength he had.  Russell's head snapped to one side and he fell to his knees on the floor as Darlene pulled a sheet up over her and screamed.             Bending down he grabbed his brother by the throat and yanked him to his feet.  And hit him again. And again.  And again.  The fist popping into bone and flesh with the force of a jackhammer.   Russell, the laughing one . . . the smart one . . . the friendly con . . . staggered back and reeled and wobbled on his feet from the blows.  But the blows from the single hard fist kept coming.  Kept sliding through whatever defenses he tried to throw up and protect himself.             Not once did the dark eyed man with the crowbar in his hand lift the black piece of steel up to strike at his brother.  Not until Russell fell into the single chair beside the bed.  On the backrest of the chair was his clothes.  And the shoulder holster with the big .45 caliber Colt Government Model riding in it.  Grabbing the gun the bloody exact image of his brother standing in front of him came out the chair lifting, the gun coming up at the same time.             The crowbar came swinging through the semi-darkness of the room.  With a sickening 'Thunk!'  it broke Russell's gun hand just behind the wrist.  With a vicious back swing the crowbar came whistling through the air again and smacked into the side of Russell's face. Bone crunched and Russell's jaw shattered in three places.  Down the man went to the floor, face first, unconscious.  A bloody, mangled, nude copy of the man standing over him.             Johnny turned and stared at his wife.  She was on her knees in the middle of the bed, a sheet covering her nudity, her eyes wide in terror as she started up at him.             "Get your clothes on.  I'm getting you outta here."             The words came out of his mouth in a harsh whisper.  A eerie, unnerving sound which involuntarily sent chills down his wife's spine.             "Johnny, Johnny!  What's happened to you?  What happened to your voice?  You . . . you don't sound like the Johnny I know!"             "Get your clothes on," Johnny hissed, turning, stepping over the unconscious from of his brother on the floor beside him and then bending down to scoop up the .45 caliber semi-auto off the floor.  "Move!"             She dropped the sheet in front of her and leapt out of bed and hurriedly complied.  Grabbing her rudely by an arm jerked her toward the door and then stopped.  Half turning Johnny gazed down at the bloody form of his unconscious brother lying on the cheap, thread bare carpet of the hotel room.  Black eyes filled with cold rage stared for a heart beat or two at his brother before he turned and, still gripping the arm of Darlene firmly, opened the door and walked out into the hall.             The hairy hotel clerk downstairs wasn't around.  The hotel lobby was empty.  Stepping out into the monotonously falling rain no one was visible on the streets.  No traffic moved.  No dog or cat could be seen loping along.  No one stood and stared out of the store front windows at the gray gloom that colored the world.             He tossed her into the passenger seat of his car, slammed the door shut, still gripping the semi-auto in one hand, and walked around the front of the car.  Sliding in behind the steering wheel he slammed the door shut, laid the heavy weapon on his lap, started the car up and pulled away from the curb without saying a word.             Darlene stared with a drained face at her husband.  She was visibly shaking in terror.  Her red dress was haphazardly covering her braless and panty-less body.  She was still a beautiful woman.  Still desirable.  As she sat in the seat beside Johnny her dress opened partially and showed the long sculptured perfection of leg.             Johnny drove.  Drove and never glanced at Darlene.             Drove through the steady rain down empty streets and through the listless red lights of traffic lights.  Driving.  Driving out in the countryside.  Down sloppy muddy roads.  Past silent, lifeless, farmsteads.  Deep into the country.  Finally turning to drive down a road that paralleled the twin ribbons of a long forgotten rail spur.             Even before the car stopped he was out of the car and running around the front end of the car to throw open the passenger side door.  Dragging his wife out by her hair, gun in hand, he pushed her toward the tracks.  And kept pushing her until the two of them stood between the rails staring at each other.             "Kneel," he hissed in that strange, quiet, but soul numbing whisper.             A wail of terror and damnation came out of Darlene's mouth as tears streamed down her face.  She stepped toward her husband, her clasped hands coming up in front of her face in a pleading gesture, and begged Johnny to forgive her!  But coal black eyes and a passionless mask of Death stared at her with a kind of detached curiosity.             "Kneel!"             She fell to her knees, head bent down, eyes closed, unable to stop her wailing.  She knew what was going to happen.  Knew she was going to die.  Knew a bullet in her brain was just rewards for being so madly in love not with Johnny . . . but with Russell.             Johnny, hand visibly shaking, tears of rage running down his cheeks yet masked by the rain pelting his face, lifted the big semi-auto up and pushed the muzzle of the gun into the stringy wet hair of his wife.  Thumbing the hammer back---he knew a round was in the firing chamber---a finger curled around the trigger of the weapon.  And . . .             He tried.  The gun shaking in his hand.  The kneeling woman crying loudly.  He tried.  He groaned.  Tears and rain almost making him blind.  And he tried.             Tried to squeeze the trigger.  Tried to fulfill the raging desire to kill.             He tried.             And then, with a muffled scream, he jerked the weapon away from his wife's head, lifted it up to point toward the sky and thumbed the release that ejected the cartridge clip from the butt of the gun.  It flew out into the rain and fell into the mud at his feet.  Yanking the carriage back on the gun he ejected the lone round in the firing chamber and then angrily dropped the gun and shoved the muzzle into his wife's hair and pulled the trigger.             Click!             The sound of the hammer falling on an empty chamber!             Angrily, screaming in rage, he pulled the carriage back again and yanked the trigger again.             Click!             The same motion.  Click!  And again. Click! And again.  Click!             And then . . . .             Something happened to him.             Suddenly he was calm.  Cold.  But calm.  No rage.  No hate.  No desire to kill Darlene.  Cold black eyes stared down at the person that once was his wife and he felt no emotion whatsoever.  None.  Felt like ice inside.  Cold . . . but comforting in the frigid coldness that gripped his heart.  Totally emotionless.             Felt like a new man.  Someone totally different.             Pulling the muzzle of the gun out of her hair he looked at the instrument of death in his hand curiously and then tossed it to one side.  Without saying a word he stepped around Darlene and started walking toward the car.             Darlene, still crying violently and shaking like a leaf, hands clasped together and pressed against her lips, waited for the fatal bullet to come.  She cringed violently over and over whenever the sound of the gun firing on an empty chamber came to her ears.  Too engulfed in her own terror she did into hear the noise of anger and frustration that had forced itself out of her husband's lips.             But when she felt the gun pull away from her head a second time she opened her eyes and stared out into empty, rain filled space.  Stunned. . . surprised . . . momentarily speechless . . . she clamored to feet and turned to see her husband walking toward the car.             "Johnny!  Johnny!  Come back!  Come back!  I love you, Johnny!  I love you!"             The man that once was called Johnny stopped, remained motionless for a second, then turned slowly and faced the woman that once had been his wife.             "There is no Johnny, Darlene.  Not any more.  From now on just call me Smitty.  But Darlene, a word of warning.  Run back to Russell.  Be with him.  Love him.  The two of you deserve each other. So the two of you should be together.  Have a happy life.  But if I ever see you two again I will kill you both.  Understand?  I will kill you both."             Rain . . . perhaps mingled with tears . . . ran down the dark eyed man's cheeks as he stared at the women for a moment.  Eventually he turned and walked to the car and climbed in and drove away.  Drove away leaving the woman standing in the rain on an abandoned rail spur.             Drove away form a life that no longer existed.  Drove away and disappeared into the gray mist of the falling rain.  Never looking back.             Never looking back.

Spending some time with C.E. Lawrence

 Huh.

Along comes an invitation you realize you're too intrigued to turn down.   That happened the other day when someone asked me if I would be willing to share blog space with the writer/actor/playwright C.E. Lawrence (aka Carole Bugge).

I confess, C.E. (dropping head in shame and whimpering slightly)  I have not read any of your material.   Not yet!  But golly-geewhillickers!  The more I researched your books the more I found myself becoming intrigued!

I like a good detective/mystery novel and C.E.'s novels sounds like just the poison a doctor would prescribe on a cold windy night when the wolves are howling and the back door is rattling unnervingly in the wind.  That she actually goes off to Scotland occasionally and writes her novels in a drafty old Scottish castle somewhere out in the middle of nowhere doesn't impress me in the least (like hell it doesn't, sheeze!).

This is a writer I'd like to get to know.  Damn sure going to read her stuff.

I was asked to share some space on my blog with her. She has a new book out entitled Silent Kills .
Read what she has to say about it.  Go find her books.  I'm pretty sure you're going to be glad you did.


Silent Screams
Hi Everyone!
The experience of writing this novel about a serial killer was interesting, because I wrote most of it in a secluded cabin in the woods of Ulster County.  My "security" consisted of a feeble hook and eye lock that a five year old could pry off with a screwdriver.  My Home Protection System was a fat, indolent tabby who was more interested in chasing chipmunks and coming home smelling of skunk than warning me of intruders.
My beloved cabin is part of Byrdcliffe Art Colony in the Catskill Mountains, where I slaved over a hot manuscript for two summers, researching by day and writing by candlelight.  I put in requests to the Woodstock Library for every book they had on serial killers, forensics, and other sordid topics.  This was during the Bush administration, so I'm surprised they didn't flag my library card – I kept expecting a Lincoln town car to pull into my driveway with two Men in Black wearing Ray Bans and ear pieces.  I imagined being whisked away by the FBI or the NSA to languish in an Egyptian prison, where I would finally give up the names of my "handlers" – Pia and her colleagues at the Woodstock Library, where they don't charge late fees, because, according to Pia, "We tried it once, but it was too much trouble."
Such is the spirit of Ulster County at its best, and such were my summers, where recreation was playing an old upright piano (formerly owned by The Band), in between death matches of killer ping pong in the barn with fellow writers.  The closest I came that summer to real danger was the hike I took in the Catskills with Byrdcliffe colleague Alexandra Anderson and painter friend Lucy Nurkse.  We entered the woods at about ten in the morning, thinking we'd be out by tea time.  Our Three Hour Tour turned into a Death March that had us staggering out around sunset, covered with mosquito bites and poison ivy, down to our last bottle Evian.  I'm not sure which of us was Ginger and which was Marianne, but I'm pretty sure I was Gilligan.  We're still not sure why our copious maps led us astray, but I learned something that day:
The woods takes no prisoners.
So I came back to my cabin, settled in with a bottle of ibuprofen and a cup of coffee from Monkey Joe in Kingston, and worked on my manuscript.  I had a first draft by the end of the second summer there, and the rest, as they say, is silence – as in Silent Screams.
I wrote the sequel at Hawthornden Castle, an international retreat for writers in Scotland where I was a Fellow (I love saying that) last January.  The castle was a medieval structure which provided shelter to William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, and Bonnie Prince Charlie, during their rebellions against the British crown.  I hiked through the glens to Wallace's Cave, where he allegedly camped while in hiding from the English.  The castle was later owned by poet Lord William Drummond, and now is a retreat for writers owned by the heir to the Heinz corporation.  So every packet of ketchup sold by McDonalds helps support working writers.
In Scotland, I learned to eat haggis (notice I didn't say "liked"), took long hot baths in a tub the size of the East River, and was taken very good care of by the wonderful Scottish staff.  They kept tea out for us at all times, which was good, since the Scots apparently don't believe in central heating – and Scotland in January will freeze your tatties off.
Words can hardly do justice to a landscape that, even in January, brought tears to my eyes daily.  The glens are as romantic and craggy as I had hoped they would be, and the Scottish people were as friendly as their landscape was rugged.  My fellow writers included two wonderful British poets and a lovely Russian writer who spoke no English.  We communicated through a computer translator program, which was rather like being on a bad episode of Star Trek.
Ah, Scotland!  Ah, Ulster!  I long to return to you soon . . .


Visit C. E. Lawrence's website:
http://celawrence.com/

The evolving Smitty

 The ever evolving 'Smitty.'I'm really getting excited.  As you can see.  The image of what and who Smitty is is coming along nicely. If you scroll back through earlier examples of the artwork you will see how the image has matured.But a note of warning:  this is NOT the complete assemblage of the full cover I have in mind.  The original idea was have the above image seemingly lifting itself out of a blob of ink and becoming the three-dimensional hit man you see.  The original idea has morphed as well.  The blob of ink is no longer a blob of ink.  Now it's a blob of bright red blood.  Smitty may be behind the image now, walking away.  We MAY have Smitty out in the open and moving away underneath a brightly shinning street corner lamp.  Maybe not.
But whatever happens, I wanted to share this on-going creative montage with you.  I get kinda revved up doing this stuff!  I hope you do too.
If the rebirth of the Smitty short-story series takes place (and that is limited only to finding an ebook publisher willing to work with me)  I've got the line up for the first four short stories.  Yes, I want to make the series going four stories at a time.  Occasionally I might throw in a novella two short story combo.  But by in large, it'll be four stories in one package.  And it won't be going for ninety-nine cents a pop as it was at the other place.  By time Amazon takes its cut, and then the publisher takes his cut, out of the ninety-nine cents if I see a quarter out of it I consider myself damn lucky.  So the price will be higher.  Maybe pegged at around $1.99.   We'll see.
But there is a treat for you if the new series comes out.  I've rewritten the Call Me Smitty story--radically changed much of it yet keeping (if not adding) a layer of two of deeper raw emotion.  This revamp is called, There Is No Johnny--Call Me Smitty.
I'm pretty sure that when you read it, it'll knock your bloomers off and hand'em back to you.  Stay tuned.

Sharing an old Turner/Frank story today

 Turner HahnI thought I would share an oldie but a goodie with you today. A Turner Hahn/Frank Morales story I wrote a little over a year ago.  One of my favorites.  As, as I have often confessed, are these two characters of mine.You know, being a writer who loves to write various serial pieces featuring clearly defined characters, I had to say it is much like being a parent.  Characters come along and they are like your children.  You develop them.  Watch the grow.  See them become mature.  They do indeed develop their own personalities which aren't necessarily the same as their creator's.  Turner and Frank are my first two.  My oldest.  Of course they are closest to my heart.  I've spent more time with them than with any other character so far.
The story I am going to share today is called Jimmy's Dead.   It's a favorite of mine because it cuts right to the heart of what makes these two guys tick.  You see their humanity in them.  Their sarcastic brand of humor.  You begin to like'em.  Begin to trust'em.
Yeah, like several of you, I love my Smitty character--that cold-hearted, yet oddly moral, killer of the night.  But in Turner and Frank I find two old friends I'd love to sit down and share a beer with (if I drank) and swap obscene jokes and laugh over the strange things that happen in this world.
You know; the things you normally do with friends.
Hope you enjoy it.
Jimmy's Dead




In the back of the dimly lit pool hall the juke box was playing loudly.  Very loudly.  Playing to an empty space.  Playing to lost souls long since forgotten.
 Playing Smuggler's Blues by Glenn Fry.  Appropriate, I thought, shoving hands into my trouser pockets and staring at the folded mass lying face down on the rickety looking table shoved rudely up against a wall.  Fry's song told a story about drug buys gone bad, sleaze balls, and creeps you wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.
Creeps like Iggie Johansson and Mickey Mulligan.
Cops.
Cops like us–my partner Frank Morales and me.  Homicide detectives.  Except we worked in the South Side Division while Iggie and Mickey worked out of Downtown.  After that there was nothing good to say about them.
Creeps.  Sleaze balls both of them.  Standing in front of us with smirks on their faces and toothpicks stuck in one side of the mouths.  One had thick curly black hair slicked down by gobs of some shiny oil and dressed in a business suit that had to cost a grand or more.  A Chicano pimp wannabe.  The other had a butch flat top, beady little brown eyes and a big red pulp of a nose which had seen too many greetings from a hammy fist or two smacking into it.
Looking at Mulligan and his smirking grin I wanted to flatten his nose just one more time myself.  It would have given me great pleasure.  The only thing I could think giving me more pleasure was possibly putting a slug in him.  One that'd wipe that smirk off his face permanently.
But not today.  Not today.
Dammit.
The place we stood in was called Howard's Lounge.  It smelled of old urine and decades of the long forgotten smoking cigarettes as they tossed back shot after shot of cheap whiskey.  A dead place for dead souls.  Just a dive really–nothing but a long narrow room and a long oak bar stretching down one length of it.  The floor was worn through linoleum.  Once white linoleum but now a dirty brownish gray. The wall paper ancient, faded, and peeling.  The place was dark.  Only three or four light bulbs hanging from long electric wires down from a high ceiling lit the place.  Two of the three lit the green velvet tops of the six pool tables in the back of the place.
Frank MoralesThere were only five us in the entire place.  Five of us–and one of us was very dead.  His name was Jimmy Platt.  A kid about twenty-two or twenty-three.  Just a skinny, pimple-faced white kid who had an alcoholic mother and a druggie of a father he hadn't seen since he was about six or seven.   Just a good natured kid, for all his pedigree and upbringing, who liked to grin a lot and look for that quick score which would get him out of this section of town permanently.  Sure, he'd have a few scraps with the Law.  Frank and I had thrown his skinny ass in a holding tank two or three times over the years.  But nothing serious.  Nothing that resulted in any major charges.  Over the years we got to know Jimmy.  Got to like him.  Helped him out whenever we could.  A kid we wanted to help. Wanted to see get his life together and make something of himself.    He was someone we considered to be a friend.
Now he was dead.
Someone drilled him with a 9 mm in the back of the head at close range.  Drilled him here in the pool hall.  Drilled him sometime after closing time.  Around four a.m.  And interestingly, Iggie and Mickey were claiming Jimmy as their case.  Which was odd since the pool hall was in South Side's bailiwick and Jimmy lived just a couple blocks away from here.
"Well, well, well.  Look what the sanitation department forgot to pick up," Mickey growled his smirk widening as he pulled the toothpick from between his lips. "It's the rich cop and his pet gorilla for a partner.  How'ya doin, boys?"
Frank–who by the way, is built like the east side of the Rockies and has a distinct resemblance of a Neanderthal–hell, he might even be a Neanderthal–nodded and stepped up and almost into the face of Mickey.
"How's the rash, Mickey?  Is the medicine working?"
"What rash?  What are you talking about?"
"You know," Frank continued softly, almost grinning. "That rash on your pecker.  I hear it's tough to get rid of without surgery.  That's what you get when you start playing doctor with the girls on this side of town."
"I don't have a rash, you oversized monkey," the smirk leaving Mickey's lips as he stepped back angrily and stuck the toothpick back between his lips.  "Who the hell told you two to come here and stick your noses into our case?  Scram!  This is our case.  We don't need a couple of jerks like you fucking things up for us." "Oh, we can't help you fuck things up any more than they are," I said, almost grinning. "In that department you two boys don't need anyone's help.  No, we're here because we have an interest in this case."
"Says who?" Iggie grunted, dark black eyes peering at me with an almost bored expression as he rolled his toothpick to the other side of his lips. "What was this creep to you?"
"This . . . creep . . . as you call him was named Jimmy Platt.  He was a friend of ours.  A close friend.  Got a call from someone telling us to come down here and check it out.  Said something was screwy about his death."
Iggie's eyes narrowed as he reached up and pulled the toothpick from his lips.  Of the two Iggie was the brains.  And meaner.  Mickey Mulligan was an irritating oversized fly who needed to be squashed with an open palm.  But Iggie Johansson sadistic sonofabitch hiding behind a detective's shield who knew how to work the system to his advantage.  He enjoyed his work.  And the rumor was he liked inflicting lots of pain on people he didn't like.
Iggie didn't like me one bit.  Which was okay by me.  I didn't like him.  In fact I was really hoping he would try to correct the problem. 
But, dammit, I did say he had some savy to him.
"What do you mean something is screwy?"
"Just that, lover boy," Frank grunted, flexing his fists.  The popping of his knuckles was very audible to all of us.  "We talked to Jimmy day before yesterday.  He seemed happy.  Told us he was going to marry his girlfriend and the two were getting the hell out of this city.  Now he's dead.  Executed by the way it looks.  Looks screwy to me."
Iggie's blue eyes took in Frank's scowl with a look sheer boredom in them as he stuck the toothpick between his lips again. 
"Nothing screwy about this case, Frank.  We got the call about an hour ago.  As far as we can tell it's a contract kill.  Word is your friend was trying to put the touch on Nathan Brinkley.  Apparently he had some information which might seriously put a crimp on Brinkley's gambling operations.  Brinkley is not the kind of guy you want to mess with."
Nathan Brinkley was a hood.  A hood who had all of his sticky fingers deep into the pockets of just about every politician in the city.  He was into gambling, prostitution, and the ever lucrative drug business in a very big way.  He owned city politicians, state politicians, and some said even the governor.  He owned a few cops as well.
Like . . . maybe . . . Iggie Johansson and Mickey Mulligan.
"Got any proof to nail Brinkley?" I asked.
Iggie shook his head no.  As I knew he would.
"Witnesses?" Frank asked.
"So far, no one," Mickey popped up with a smirk on his lips I wanted to slap off with a tire-iron. "Back door to this place has been jimmied open.  Apparently your friend broke in here trying to get away from someone.  They found him in here hiding underneath the table and popped him in the back of the head."
Frank and I both turned and stared at fat nose.
"My, my, that's good detective work Mickey," I said softly.  "Your investigation told you Jimmy was hiding underneath the table when the killers found him?"
A little color drained from the smirking goon.  But before he could say anything Iggie jumped in.
"That's what we think happened, Hahn.  We don't know for sure.  But we figure if we find his girl she might give us some additional information.  We'll ask her just as soon as we find out where she lives."
"We know where she lives," Frank grunted, knuckles popping like the staccato bark of a machine gun nest again. "Two blocks over.  Wilmont Arms.  Apartment 50."
"Well now, isn't that sweet," Mickey put in, the arrogant grin on his lips again as he turned and nodded at his partner. "Isn't it wonderful what public education can do for the verbally challenged these day, Iggie? Just amazing."
Jimmy's girl was a young prostitute by the name of Mary James.  She was a relatively new comer to the city.  Which meant she wasn't the stung-out, desperate drug addict most prostitutes on this side of town eventually became.  How Jimmy and Mary hooked up was never explained.  But they had and–miracles of all miracles–something clicked between the two of them.  They fell in love.  They became a team.  Each worked magic on the other.  And together they became better people.  They wanted to change their lives.  Wanted to marry.  Wanted to have a family.
Wanted to be normal.
Wasn't going to happen.  Not with a 9 mm slug in the back of Jimmy's head.
"Tell you what," Iggie nodded and smiled. "We'll go over and see if she's home.   Follow us over and we'll talk to her.  All of us.  How's that for cooperation?"
"Sure," I said, nodding. "We're all for cooperation, Iggie. We'll be over in a couple of minutes.  Frank and I want to look the place over first.  You know, give you a hand in your investigation.  Maybe we'll find something you overlooked."
Mulligan laughed, shaking his head.
"Yeah, right.  I didn't know you were a comedian, Hahn."
Without saying another word the two men brushed past us and walked out of the bar.  When the door closed behind him I reached inside my sport coat and pulled out my cell phone.
"Calling Mary?"
I nodded as I flipped the phone open and lifted it to my ear.  It began ringing.   And ringing.  And ringing.
"They seemed too damn eager for us to follow them over to her apartment," Frank said, a hand rubbing his jaw.  "This smells, Turner.  Really smells."
I flipped the phone closed and dumped it back inside the coat.  Frank looked and me and frowned.
"Betcha a hundred clams she's dead already," I said, feeling the grim fingers of certainty gripping my stomach and grinding it into a small knot. "They iced both of'em.  What one didn't know the other did.  Jimmy found something nasty about Brinkley and told her everything.  So both of'em had to be eliminated."
Frank nodded in agreement and turned to stare at the door.
"Never wanted to pull my gun on anyone and shoot them, Turner.  Never.  Had to sometimes.  But never wanted to.  Tonight I want to."
"Let's go," I said, shaking my head but not saying anything else.
I felt exactly the same way.
Out in the summer's hot night air we walked to the '91 Chevy Z-28 Camaro rag top we were driving tonight–a car out of my collection–and started to get in.  The night was pitch black, the heat was stifling, and the air was as still as a tomb.  We were walking in a concrete and brick canyon of stillness and gloom and feeling a bit edgy. We were expecting almost anything.  So as we stepped past the black hole of an alley opening between buildings to get the car we heard the rattle of a beer can being kicked in the darkness to our left.
My Kimber .45 semi-auto and Frank's 9 mm Glock were in our hands before the beer can rolled to a slow finish between us. "Jesus, you two!  But the goddamn cannons away before someone gets hurt!"
The voice came out of the blackness of the alley.  But there was nothing to see.  It was nothing but a very black patch hanging in mid air of a black night between the dark shadows of two run down brick buildings.  Yet we didn't have to see.  The voice had a distinct British clip to it and we were quite familiar with it.  It belonged to the owner of Howard's Lounge.
"Christ, Turk! " I hissed, lifting the muzzle of the Kimber up and thumbing the safety on again before sticking it underneath my left armpit. "It's not the time of the night to play peek-a-boo!"
'Turk' Buchanan stayed buried in the darkness of the alley and refused to step forward.
"Turner . . . Frank, you can't let them get away with this.  Those bastards did it.  They killed Jimmy."
"Turk, come out here and let's talk," Frank grunted, the Glock still in his hands but the muzzle down as he glanced to his left and right. "Iggie and Mickey are gone.  They're not going to see you."
"Like hell!  I'm not about to show my face.  In fact, I'm leaving this place.  Leaving the goddamn country, mate!  I'm heading back to London tonight and you'll never see my white ass again.  Never!"
"Did you see them do it?  Did you see them pull the trigger?" I asked, stepping close toward the alley opening.  "If you did we have them.  We can put'em away for a lifetime."
"That's just it, Turner.  I saw nothing," the Cockney accent clipped back in anguish. "I was in the back room opening some cases of beer when I heard the back door jimmied open.  I didn't stick my head out to see who it was.  I turned off the storeroom light and hid behind some cases of gin.   I heard Jimmy's voice crying and pleading for his life.  I heard a second voice just laughing.  And then I heard the juke box start playing.  I thought I heard a gunshot, but I'm not sure."
"If you saw nothing, how do you know it was Iggie and Mickey?"
"Yesterday afternoon they came around asking about Jimmy.  They seemed really interested in finding him.   And the way they kept asking questions I got the feeling they weren't asking as cops.  They had other interests with Jimmy they wanted to complete."
"You see Jimmy before he was popped?" Frank asked.
"Yesterday morning," came the voice. "Early.  The kid was hopping with excitement.  Said he had tickets for Mary and him to get out of town that night.   All he had to do was make a phone call and get the money.  I said that was great.  I liked Jimmy, Frank.  I liked Mary.  Both were kids who had bad things they didn't deserve happen to them.  Just kids, that's all they were.  Just kids."
Frank glanced at me and nodded.  I said nothing and half turned to stare down the dark empty street.  In my gut I knew we were too late.  Too goddamn late.
"You got enough to get out of town?" I asked, not looking at the black opening of the alley. "Need in cash?"
"Naw, I'm fine, Turner.  But if you'd do me a favor, you could make arrangements to sell the bar and send me the cash."
"Sure.  Take care yourself, Turk."
We left the darkness of the alley and climbed into the Camaro.  It didn't take long to drive over to the Wilmont Arms.  When we arrived we found what we expected.  Mary was lying face down in her bed dressed in nothing but a pair of sheer panties.  Her legs were spread apart, her arms hanging off the edge of the bed.  She had long blond hair.  It fell like liquid gold down onto the floor.  Scattered over the bed beside her were various prescription bottles.  Sleeping pills and anti-depressants.  All empty.
Iggie and Mickey were waiting for us as we walked into the bedroom and found her.  Both had the looks of someone knowing they had pulled something over you and you knew you couldn't do a damn thing about it.  Their smirking faces almost got them killed.
"Well, that's that, Turn.  Case closed," Iggie grunted, his smirk spreading across his lips as he handed me a crumpled piece of paper.  "Nothing more than a murder-suicide.  Mary's the one who shot Jimmy.  From what the note says she found him in bed with another dame.  She tracked him down and found in at the bar at closing time.  After she pulled the trigger she went crazy.  Apparently she came home and decided to go to sleep.  Permanently."
I glanced at the note and then handed it to Frank.  It was Mary's handwriting.  It would hold up in court.  But it didn't matter.   The note was a lie.  Mary would never do anything to Jimmy.  She loved him.
"You expect us to believe this?" I asked, staring at Iggie and barely keeping myself under control.
"Don't give a damn what you believe, Sparky.  Like I said, case closed.  We'll just mosey downtown and start filling out the paperwork.  See ya."
For the second time that night they physically brushed past us and tried to move us aside.  Neither of us budged.  Turning, we watched them move to the apartment door and open it.  Iggie walked out the door first.  But Mulligan paused in the doorway, turned, and looked at us grinning.  Lifting a hand up, he pointed a finger at me and clicked his thumb forward as if it was the hammer of a pistol.  And then he left.  We heard the sound of his laughter echoing in the hallway outside.
It took a few seconds to get myself under control.  Frank's breathing was slow and measured as well.  But we did.  Barely.
"Turner, you know they as much as confessed they killed both of'em.  Iggie's comment about Brinkley puts them right in the middle of this bullshit."
I nodded, saying nothing, flexing hands into fists and staring at the apartment door.
"It ain't over, pal." Frank said softly, but not talking to me, as he stared at the open door of the apartment.   Whispering in a soft hiss that could raise the hairs on the back of the neck of a corpse.  "It's a long way from over.  We'll be seein'ya soon.  Very soon."     
I nodded in agreement.  It wasn't over.  Not by a long shot.