Thomas Pluck's Blog, page 67

Christa Faust: Double D Double Cross

How can you not love a title like that? Especially if you dig classic pulp.



We immediately know the character. She's butch, but she's a fatale. She is a dyke, and she is a (private) dick. And there will be plot twists with twists who sport hefty hardware. I'm a sucker for alliteration, and it takes a cunning linguist to come up with a title like that. Ms. Faust takes the spirit of that cheeky title along for the full monty, dishing up a great read with lusty shenanigans, sharp humor, and a classic noir sensibility.



Butch is an ex-cop turned shamus, who hangs her shingle in Echo Park. An old flame drops by and she is nearly caught in flagrant delicto (well, she's licking something, but it's not her toe) when a client knocks on her door. It's Mickey, a line cook at a top restaurant, who hires Butch to find her missing girlfriend. From there, the story bounces along through back alley Los Angeles, Armenian gang wars, high priced escort services, and sleazy politicians- everything you'd expect from a classic P.I. story that doesn't just tease the tropes of the genre but delivers a rogue's gallery of endearing characters with lives of their own. It's a thrilling and campy caper that I truly enjoyed. The story plays your heartstrings, funny bone and gets your thumbs flicking pages faster than Butch's tongue on a Pinkberry... smoothie. Did I mention that it's also hotter than hell? Butch beds more broads than Bond on a Viagra bender.





I enjoyed Christa Faust's excellent novel (CHOKE HOLD), so I jumped on this e-book original like Butch Fatale on a busty femme. If you like your capers campy and your noir down and dirty, this read is for you.






Also available for Nook.








© 2012 Thomas Pluck

Conan: The Musical

Thanks to my friend, my dungeon master, Peter V. Dell'Orto for sharing this link.

© 2012 Thomas Pluck

Review: Blameless in Abaddon

Blameless in Abaddon by James K. Morrow

My rating: 4 of 5 stars



I really enjoyed this sequel to Morrow's excellent and imaginative novel, Towing Jehovah. This one recreates the Job story with a justice of the peace in a small town named Martin Candle in the unenviable position on the dung heap. The Corpus Dei from the previous book was bought by Baptists and towed to Florida as the centerpiece of a theme park to compete with Disney World, and Martin puts it on trial for crimes against humanity at The Hague. It's as amusing and joyfully blasphemous as the first, and does not shy from real philosophical discussion about the nature of a benevolent, omniscient and omnipotent God in a world scarred by evil, misfortune and terror. Morrow has a talent for existential absurdity and sardonic humor; half the novel is narrated by the Devil himself, whose snarky asides on human history are worth the price of admission. Morrow's second greatest talent is crafting endearing and realistic characters, which were enough to get me through a somewhat tedious trial - my eyes glaze over during most legal drama - and a difficult ending that brings us to an inevitable, but ultimately unsatisfying conclusion.

Rather like life itself: It's unfair. Do your part to make it less so.

Towing Jehovah comes highly recommended, and if you enjoy that, you must read this one. He closes the cycle with a third book, and I'll be reading that one soon. It took me 10 years to get to reading the second one, so don't wait up for me.



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earworm of the month

They have been inside of my head for weeks. But hey, it sure beats Sister Christian.

© 2012 Thomas Pluck

Reimbursable Flogger

My friend E.E. Zulkoski nominated me for the Versatile Blogger award. Because she finds glee in torment.





I hate these things. You want some good blogs? I got a list over on the right side. Scroll down. There you go. However, because Erin and I are collaboragatin' on a bizarre and gruesome novella about a baby-obsessed man named Tim and his "rescue" of a pregnant woman kidnapped and held hostage by religious psychotics, I'm taking the bait.



The novella's working title is The Creeping Uterus. I'm hoping to have it on Kindle, well, whenever we're done with it. It's gory and gross and creepy, like really awful drive-in fare. I won't compare it to Joe Lansdale, but his drive-in fiction is one of the inspirations for my side of the story.



I conferred with Crime Fiction's Doctor Love, Glenn Gray, about whether you could strangle someone with an umbilical cord. I also asked him if a strongman could tear off a person's head. You want answers, you'll have to read upcoming stories. (Hint: "Maaaaybe....")



Back to the award.

Conditions to the award are as follows:


In a post on your blog, nom­i­nate 15 fel­low blog­gers for The Ver­sa­tile Blog­ger Award. (15? What is this, the Oscars? 5. You get 5.)
In the same post, Add the Versatile Blog­ger Award. (Done)
In the same post, thank the blog­ger who nom­i­nated you in the post with a link back to their blog. (done, as sarcastically and passive-aggressively as possible)
In the same post, share 7 completely ran­dom pieces of infor­ma­tion about yourself. (see below)
In the same post, include this set of rules. (QED)
Inform each nom­i­nated blog­ger of their nomination. (I sent subpoenas. That's more fun)




Seven useless facts about me:





I did in fact jump off a roof, just because my friends did. It was a ticket booth at our local baseball field, and I landed wrong and snapped my tibia. Lesson learned. 
I once caught a falling refrigerator with my chin. 
All of my toes are big toes. (Okay, not really, but how freaky would that be? I can't wait to inflict this malady on a character). Real answer: I drove a heavily modified 5.0 Mustang convertible, through five hard Minnesota winters. Patience, a light foot, and a good set of snow tires go a long way.
My grandfather's family in Ireland took in a destitute neighboring family during the Depression, and left the ancestral home to them. I visited, and corresponded with them. Generosity is in my blood.
I own all of Walt Kelly's Pogo books and often say words like "rowrbazzle!" and sing "Deck us all with Boston Charlie" at Christmas when agitated.
I once accidentally stabbed myself in a public restroom. 
I can't play a musical instrument or speak another language, unless the butt trumpet and pig Latin count.






And here are five bloggers I dub with this ignominious award, because I enjoy reading their stuff.




Matt Taibbi

Ray Banks

Trina Likes Wine

Stephen Blackmoore

Darius Whiteplume




I bet Matt Taibbi won't reply. Prima donna.



© 2011 Thomas Pluck

Phil's Last Stand

For the Flash Fiction Friday prompt "Groundhog Day."




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Phil's Last Stand







Phil was scared.

Not of his own shadow, but of the three men from ConAgra who'd dropped a duffel bag of green outside his den the week before.
"Six years of long winters, Phil," he'd said. The man with no neck, and no ankles.  "We've had enough. It's no good for the growing season." He deposited the bag, then jerked a thumb at the men behind him. One had a shovel. The other wiggled a hose that trailed back to their Cadillac's tailpipe.
"Our boss, he's nicer than me. I said to gas your whole family. And I'd love to do it, Phil. When I was a kid, I had a pony. Used to ride him around the back yard, in my little Lord Fauntleroy suit. Broke his foreleg in a gopher hole. The old man made me pull the trigger. Said it would build character."
Phil wanted to mention that gophers were a different species entirely, but the words wouldn't come out of his mouth.

Tomorrow was the big day. He could feel the crowds stomping around the otherwise forgotten burg of Punxsutawney. The town depended on him, he knew that. He'd had the job since he was a pup, inherited it from his old man. Also named Phil. Who'd gotten it from his father, and so on, all the way back as far as he could remember. They had the gift, maybe it was merely a thin winter coat, as some grumblers said. But Phil knew he had it, that chill in his flanks that didn't simply mean frost on the grass outside the den. It meant six more weeks of winter. His first two years, it hadn't been there. He'd watched his old man waddle out, raise his gray-whiskered snout, and settle down to nibble the grass. People cheered, and sure enough, the crocus blossoms peeked from the snow, and winter was soon nothing but a forgotten harbinger of hibernation.

The name was an honor. Every other guy was named Chuck, or Woody, and liked it. Same as they liked sweet alfalfa, and shagbark hickory nuts. Even the odd Charles, who put on airs, had never tasted treats from a top hat-wearing mayor's hand. And they sure had never tugged a gym bag full of heirloom alfalfa sprouts down into their den, and watched their mate and pups stuff themselves silly on it. No, only a Phil could get in that kind of trouble.

There was no returning it. The kids were cuddled up in the duffel, now chewed clean through. His mate watched him from atop the pile, her liquid dark eye blinking every few seconds, as he nibbled on dry shells to wear his teeth down.
"What's on your mind, Phil?"
"You know. The job."
She laughed, her brown belly jiggling. "It's been what, eight years now? It always goes off without a hitch. Why worry this time?"
"It's a big responsibility." He couldn't tell her. She was liable to panic, dig another burrow. Maybe eat the children. "It's a heavy burden, sometimes."
"Why don't you meet me in the escape tunnel, and I'll see if I can ease it."
"Mating season's not for another month," he muttered into his paw.
"Maybe that salad's bringing my heat early," she whispered, and wiggled her little wedge nose.

He knew from experience they would come long before sun-up. The crowds arrived early, stamping their frostbitten toes, looking to get a good spot. The Mayor tapped his loafer in the grass, tossing a couple of roasted peanuts, in the shell, down the hole. One rolled in front of Phil's nose. He'd wake to that rich shell, usually. This time, he'd been up all night. Thinking of his old man shaking his distinguished furry head, and begging his flanks to not feel so cold, so cold.

"Ready for the show, kid?" The mayor said.
The escape tunnel beckoned. Rank with the scent of their mating, its exit was clear across the field. He had a running chance. Maybe the man with no neck wouldn't see him, wouldn't squash him like a fat furry grape under the front tire of his Coupe DeVille.
He could just be another Chuck, a Charles, even, and make a new life, in a new hole.
They'd back the Caddy up to the den the same evening, feed the hose down, and let it do its work. The kids could escape, Phil thought. No. They'd fill in the exits, once they knew how he'd make his escape. His mate would die choking, curled up in the shreds of the gym bag with the gasping pups.

Phil placed his paw outside his den. Acid in his belly, where tasty peanuts should have been. The crowded sighed, held a breath. All he had to do was nibble on the grass, ignore his instincts telling him to waddle back to the warmth of his hole.

But he couldn't.
No, he wouldn't drop pellets on his good family name. He'd take his lumps, when the men returned that night. Send his mate and the pups running.
Phil turned his back on the crowd, and with one dramatic look over his plump shoulder, waddled back toward his den.
"That's it, folks! He's seen his shadow," the Mayor announced. "Six more weeks of winter!"
The crowd issued a collective groan for the cameras.
Phil knew he'd done the right thing. He felt courage swell in his heart.
Then he felt the bullet burst his body apart, to the crowd's shrieks and panic.

----



© 2012 Thomas Pluck

The Seven Words You Can't Say in Crime Fiction

I'm over at The Crime Factory talking about cussin' in crime fiction. I believe cursing has its place. It will not elevate a mediocre story, nor will it drag a great story into the manure pile.

Here's what I have to say. Also includes my pitch for Lawrence Block's next Bernie Rhodenbarr novel.



I'm also over at Richard Godwin's Chin Wag at the Slaughterhouse shooting the shit.

Richard writes excellent dark fiction, and his novel Apostle Rising is no exception.





© 2011 Thomas Pluck

Review: Fast One

Fast One by Paul Cain



My rating: 5 of 5 stars







A deserving classic of the hard-boiled crime genre, Cain's spare prose is riveting with its minimalism. A character in a few strokes and exclamations. Gerry Kells, a hard-nosed crook who skipped to the city of Angels to gamble, goes to collect his winnings and walks into a politically staged murder. From that moment on he plays every operator against each other with ruthless efficiency and a cunning double-cross nature, daring with a level of violence his foes cannot conceive of attempting. Along the way we get a moll and a chubby gunman named Borg who delighted me with their gallows humor in the face of machine-gun slaughter.

Not a bloody novel, its stark brutality lies in its exposure of the ruthlessness of political machines and the rough men who keep them in power.



A must read for any fan of the crime story. No P.I.'s, just dirty cops, bookies and bootleggers scrabbling for each other's naked throats.









View all my reviews

Crime writers helping Crooks

The price of postage just went up. That means you have stacks of useless stamps lying around. Sure, you could go to the post office and buy 1 cent stamps. You can try taping a penny next to it. You can be extremely lazy and wasteful and use two stamps instead of one.



Or you could donate those stamps to Books Through Bars, who mail books to prison inmates.







They also accept paperback books, but check the page for their criteria. They don't want old textbooks, they don't want your junk. However, they do want poetry anthologies. Now that a majority of older poetry is online in the public domain, you can clear up shelf space by sending them your Complete Poems of John Donne...



I mailed them our old wedding stamps, and I'll be clearing my shelves of books I haven't cracked open in a decade.



© 2011 Thomas Pluck

Where I Write

The tool: 13" Mac Air 128gb



The playlist: Run DMC's first album and Raising Hell (Denny story in progress)



The beer: The Vixen, Samuel Adams chocolate chili bock



The cat: Charlie T. Cat Esq., aka Charliandoc, aka the Gray Siamesey with the One Bent Paw (he is a rescue, his paw is like a hockey stick, he was tossed out of a car as a kitten and rescued by my sister who found him bleeding from the nose and mouth, and nursed him to beer-label-licking health) P.S. support People For Animals



The book: Paul Cain's FAST ONE the collected Black Mask stories of Gerry Kells, bad-ass ne'er-do-well



and Tony Chachere's Creole Seasoning, which Makes Everything Taste Better. Even ice cream. Try it.





© 2011 Thomas Pluck