Jeremy Lee's Blog, page 3
February 21, 2013
Gangland Days
This is why I wrote a book about these gangland characters, they're self obsessed, ruthless, and driven. Some of these guys, Capone, Luciano, and Moran are still household names even today because of the lengths they went to for a few dollars more. They weren't alone, they just played the game more spectacularly and violently than most of their competition. Gun-fights and melodramatic crime-lords alone couldn't have made the twenties into a setting screaming for novelization though.The Roaring Twenties didn't earn their nickname just because of the stock market. With Prohibition in place more people were drinking the night away than ever before, a by-product of being told they couldn't. Even the most law-abiding citizen could easily step out over the line of the law. Corruption ran deeply through the police and government, and even organizations like museums could end up hiring gangs to help them acquire artifacts for their collections. The line between law and lawlessness blurred to the point of the wild west. The battles for unionization led to both sides, workers and companies, hiring thugs to duke it out in the streets. Some of these hoods became celebrated like local heroes, at least until the violence reached a fever point and society finally began to look sideways at these criminals.
All of these elements come together in the book, a snap-shot of the twenties as a time gone amok. I think this is why we're still fascinated by the twenties, a time so close to our own, and so out of control, the corruption, the politics, the crime, and at the heart of it all the chase to make our dreams come true. For some people that chase came in an at all costs kind of way.
October 31, 2012
King's of New York Chapter One
Chapter
1 – Bound For the Promised Land
“The poor, the
tired, the weak, huddled masses, that’s what they ask for in New York. Is it any wonder that every coward, hood,
killer, and businessman thinks he can crawl to the top of Manhattan?”
On the north
end of Chicago a flower shop was the epicenter of life in the neighborhood, but
no one ever chanced more than a glance at it.
There had been a time when things were different and lovers stopped by
to buy bouquets for their sweethearts and husbands apologies for their wives. When O’Bannon had been knocked off by Capone
the rumors swirling about the shop went from tall tale to brutal fact. The storefront had nothing special to it, two
big windows full of arrangements and the careful wording declaring the name.
Same as the
store, the four men inside looked nothing like what they were either; all
dressed in sober suits with drab ties and razorblade sharp haircuts. One did wear an apron over his three piece and
was pruning some roses, but he couldn’t make the look work for him. He was also the one talking and the others
were paying attention. The two standing
in the middle of the shop couldn’t help but be distracted by the flowers, but
the last guy in the shop had taken a seat and was a rapt, if silent, audience.
Bugs Moran was
in a foul mood. When he pricked his finger on one of the roses he was working
with, he kicked at the table, let out a string of curses, and punched the
counter, finally venting some of his pent up fury that had been choking him the
last few days. After O’Bannon’s funeral
he’d taken over the North Side Gang, but Capone was still alive and that
bothered him, and he still had competition in the booze game. Scarface was a problem for tomorrow. He had more pressing business today.
A two-bit hood
had turned up a few months before who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. He called himself Shakes and that was the kind
of man he was looking for just now. Bugs
doubted the man had ever had a mother. More
likely he had crawled out from under a rock, so Shakes could have been as close
to a real name as the guy had ever had. Just
a day before Shakes had been sent out with a couple of the other boys to take
what Bugs affectionately called a ‘tithing’ of the neighborhood. Just as they were wrapping up collections, Shakes
had shot the others from the backseat of the car and lit out with the money.
There was a little
more to it, there always was in this racket when a man was willing to cross one
of the big gangs, and that was how Bugs knew Shakes was heading for New
York. That was the part of the story that
had him thinking that he should be chasing the bastard himself. He couldn’t take vendetta vacations anymore;
he had half a city to run and another half to conquer. He’d just have to settle on seeing what his
boys could put together for him and if any of them had the stones to pull it
off.
“This guy’s got
no heart, men like that just taint all our reputations.” Bugs Moran smoothed
his tie and gave his pruning shears a few practice clips while he looked the now
misshapen rose stems over. He’d never
found flowers as soothing as his predecessor, but it was good to try and relax.
“You said it
boss.” Jacks belatedly remembered to chorus. He wasn’t all that sharp, but he wasn’t on the
payroll for his intellect. He’d always
understood that his job was just to point and shoot or aim and swing a bat.
Tommy took a
little more time in trying to say something, he liked to fancy that he brought
something to the table. Why else would
the boss ask him to be there? His eyes
darted to the man in the chair. He hated
that guy, so did just about everyone, except Bugs. “He’s bound to cross somebody in New York. Why not let them handle it? Maybe we could call in a favor and have
somebody waiting for him.”
“There’s a
honey to the situation.” Bugs flashed his eyes at them, but subtlety was
usually lost on Jacks and Tommy.
“Who’s the
dame?” Jacks did his best to keep his eyes from drifting to the wedding
bouquets. They were really quite lovely
and his girl would probably be over the moon if he brought home flowers like
that.
Bugs allowed
himself a bit of a grin at the thought of letting the two in on the grand
scheme. When O’Bannon had first told him
the story, he hadn’t been too sure if he believed it, still wasn’t, but he had
to play it safe when the word ‘priceless’ came up in conversation. “Call her the fat lady.”
“To her face?”
Tommy was going to stand there and wait to be sure that the boss wanted him to
laugh regardless of how absurd anything sounded.
“She’s two feet
tall and seventy-five pounds.”
Jacks scrunched
up his face from the effort he was putting into thinking. “Like some kind of overweight midget?”
“Or a big dog?”
Tommy offered with a shrug. Both men
were fast realizing that they should have kept quiet, the look on Bugs’ face
was making that clear.
“Boys, it’s a
long story and we’re no closer to pinching Shakes.” A fresh rush of exhausted
anger flooded Bugs Moran. O’Bannon had
always had the patience for all of this nonsense, the long talks, coded
language, and round robins. Then again,
he’d made time to let Capone kill him too.
Jacks and Tommy were shuffle footing, it was like they’d figured out
they were in trouble. Slow isn’t the
same as stupid.
“Denny, you’ve been awfully quiet.” Bugs
finally said to the man in the chair.
“I do what I’m
told Mister Moran, and you haven’t told me what you want done about this mess
yet.” Denny had a thick Cork accent. He’d
crossed the pond in his teens but hadn’t even thought about making a go of it
in New York after he got a look at the great filthy city. He made a good effort at looking presentable,
but he had a dirtiness to him that never washed off no matter how high-end a
suit he put on, and his eyes were cold, people called them dead, lifeless eyes. Most nicknames people called him were only
ever said behind his back, but they were said often.
Bugs let out a
laugh, a true cackle, and nodded his head.
The other two did the smart thing and stayed back out of the way and out
of sight. “I want you to get down to the
big apple and I want you to bring me back my lady, and I want you to make
Shakes hurt before he dies.” There was no need to tell Denny any more than
that, he’d known about the fat lady for a while now. O’Bannon had let him in on the secret of the
fat lady before he died. Denny was the
only guy he could send down there alone too.
“Can
do boss.” Denny got to his feet and grabbed his fedora from the rack by the
door. With a nod to Bugs and a glance to
the others, he was out the door. There
was no need for ceremony with him. That
was the thing that bugged Denny about all these mob guys, they obsessed with
formalities as if they were royalty in the old world. He just liked to do his work and get a
paycheck, and the more work you did, the more paychecks you cashed.
September 25, 2012
River of Doubt - Theodore Roosevelt's Dark Journey
Candice Millard will take you on a journey through the Amazon in the last days when there were still places on the earth that were un-mapped and waiting to be explored and documented. Expertly researched, this book delves into the politics of South America at the turn of the last century, the geological and evolutionary uniqueness of the Amazon basin, the history of the Progressive Party in the United States, and even the revolutionary technology of telegraph lines. Yet for all the annotated information that this wonderful book has for the reader it continues to tear along at a furious pace that very nearly tricks the reader into thinking that they're holding a work of fiction in their hands and dreaming of running off into the bizarre wilderness of this Amazon, feeling more than ever like a semi-mythical place.
Millard is never afraid to pause her narrative to illuminate her cast of characters, from the intriguing contradictions and drove Theodore Roosevelt to the steadfast romanticism and Victorian heroism of Roosevelt's son Kermit. The stoic mask presented to the world by Rondon, one of the most famous Brazilian explorers of all time (pictured above along with the famous former president) who is driven by a passion to illuminate the interior of his country and bring the native Indian tribes into the modern nation. A murderer is in their midst, hard-working camaradas, an affluent priest, a failed explorer of the South Pole, American naturalists, Brazilian military officers, rugged semi-civilized rubber tappers, and shadowing them every step of the way a hostile Indian tribe that no one from the outside world had ever made contact with. One comes away with the sensation that the tale which just took you for such a ride is nearly unimaginable. The suffering and adventure move as quickly as an Indiana Jones novel, but you have to stop yourself in the end and remember that the profound difference between this and a rip-roaring popcorn escapade with a John Williams score is that this adventure actually happened. This landscape is all the more awe-inspiring for the realism and I wish that more history was written as riveting as this.
Just in case you want to go ahead and travel down the Roosevelt River, here is a link to River Of Doubt on Amazon.
September 20, 2012
A Look Back: Stagedoor
That was when I started remembering old friends and fun adventures from the theater, from high school to Off-Broadway gigs, the insanity, love affairs, melodrama, stress, and just plain bizarre fun. Mix that potent cocktail of sweet and mildly insane memories with rereading Homer and the plot to what turned out to be my first book fell together in an afternoon of scribbling. Two months later, working around both a day job and writing for comics, and Stagedoor was done. I'll admit, I've improved in my work since then, if I hadn't I'd be ashamed, and it's perhaps more goofy and direct than the projects I've focused on since, but maybe I'll return to satire one of these days, few things are as exhilarating and challenging to write. Stage-Door will always have a special place in my heart, after the way that story poured out of me I haven't stopped working, and haven't stopped enjoying the work either. For those who might want to check out what all this blathering is about, here's a link to the book on Amazon, and if you have some theater stories in your past you might see a bit of yourself in those pages. Theatricality, a drink, a good friend, and ancient Greek poetry, doesn't that sound like one of the really good parties?
