Paul Bishop's Blog, page 50

EBENEZER ~ A HARDBOILED CHRISTMAS CAROL

EBENEZER ~ A HARDBOILED CHRISTMAS CAROL

Bob Marley was dead to begin with.  I don’t know why that thought entered my head, but it may have had something to do with the radio station playing reggae on Christmas Eve.

I was in my office in the Star Building overlooking what had once been a thriving amusement park called Jungle Land.  It was now deader than disco, and had been for years.  Where Jungle Landonce stood, there was now a monstrosity that housed not only city hall, but also a huge concert auditorium, a dinky concert forum, and a rat warren of other offices.  A typical story of city officials getting together to waste sixty-five million tax dollars on the effort, all in the name of culture.

The structure was a four story building in a city where only two story structures could be built.  It was a cubist, architectural eyesore, in a city where all other buildings were required to have a Spanish-style motif.  So, it was sixty-five big ones spent for an edifice that broke every standard the city had ever established.  It wasn't even decorated for Christmas.  

The way this project had been ramrodded through the city council, I wouldn't doubt there's a body or two doing the concrete boogie in the foundation. Intimidation and greed can move mountains a hell of a lot quicker than faith.  Somebody ought to start an investigation.  But not me.

No. Not me.

I'm a private eye, but my heart isn't in the game anymore.  I'm an ex-cop, an ex-husband, an ex-altar boy, and an expert at self-delusion.  I hadn't had a client in a month, my rent was overdue, my heart had a hole in it, and I was down to my last fedora.  So much for a merry Christmas.  Bah humbug.

I milked the last of the bourbon bottle into a tooth glass and swilled the swallow down.  I looked out the window at the Christmas lights in the surrounding hills and despised each and every one.

The door to my office swung open and a dame stepped in.  Trouble always starts with a dame.  This wasn't just any dame, mind you.  This was a dame named Tricksy Spillane – more trouble than a bitch in heat at a dog show.  

Tricksy had been my last partner before I was bounced from the force a couple of years prior to retirement.  She was a looker with legs going straight down to Hades, blond punked-out hair, and a libido that was kinkier than a permed afro.

She swayed over to my desk one hip at a time on spiked heels that defined cruel.  The rest of the voluptuous package was wrapped in a gray trench coat.  The collar was turned up and the belt cinched tight at her almost invisible waist.  There was a soft tinkling whenever she moved as if she were an android and some of her parts were loose.  In Tricksy's case, however, it was probably just her morals.

"Merry Christmas, Ebenezer."  Her voice was honey over a three day growth of beard – throaty and full of prurient promises.  It brought images of torch songs immediately to mind – silk stockings being dragged over smoke and whiskey and the bad lighting in a hundred cheap motel rooms.

"Bah humbug," I said.

"Sounds as if you've got a bad hairball there, Ebby baby.  Maybe you should be drinking Petromalt on the rocks instead of the rot-gut in your hand."

"Go scrooge yourself," I said, setting the bourbon glass down on the desk with a bang.  "What do you want coming 'round here anyway, Tricksy?  Can't you see I'm busy celebrating?"

"Busy wallowing in self-pity."

"What do you know about anything?  Get lost, why don't you?"

She hitched one of those marvelous hips onto a corner of my desk, leaned forward and placed the palms of her hands flat on my blotter.  The view down her trench coat was enough to make a grown man cry.  I brought my eyes up to her face.  Her baby blues smirked at me, knowing they'd caught me looking.  She breathed deeply and the tinkling noise made itself heard again.

"I'm on my way to a party, Ebenezer, but I wanted to stop by and give you a Christmas present."  She undid the belt at her waist and the trench coat fell open.  Underneath was a sliver of a black sheath covered in chains of tiny silver bells.  It was cut low on top and short on bottom to save on weight.  Two things appeared to be holding it up, and they were both pointed at me.

"You expecting an assassination attempt?" I asked.

"Humor was never your strong suit, Ebby."

"I’m more a polyester guy.  It's lighter than those bell chains you’re wrapped in."

She shimmied her gorgeous shoulders and the bells tinkled louder than a young boy in the morning.  "Polyester doesn't feel near as good with nothing on underneath."

I swallowed.  "There is that," I agreed.

She twitched the trench coat closed, disappearing all that lovely, bell-chained wrapped, feminine flesh, and treated me to one of her rare smoky laughs – an aphrodisiac for the ears.

"Ebenezer, you were a good cop once, but you allowed yourself to be foisted on Romeo's petard."  She reached into one of her trench coat pockets and pulled out a fresh pint bottle of bourbon.  She hefted the bottle in her hand, as if judging its weight, then set it in the center of my blotter.  "The facts were clear," she said.  "Romeo was a dirty cop.  He got what he deserved."

I shook my head at her, feeling the cold in the pit of my stomach.  This was something I didn't want to get into.  I felt like a tiger looking at a staked goat.  The tiger knows it's a trap, but it has to eat the goat anyway.  

I looked at the bottle and licked my lips.  "Romeo was my partner before you, and what he got was dead.  Whoever did it is still out there running around when he should be worm food.  Tonight the bastard is probably swilling wassail, eating plum pudding, and counting visions of sugar plum fairies.  So, it ain't such a merry Christmas, if you ask me."

"Stop it, Ebenezer.  You want to blame everyone but yourself for your troubles.  You ended up in this dump trying to follow the trail to the Romeo's killer.  You did everything you could, but in the end all you hit was a brick wall.  You were making too many waves.  Making the department look bad.  Telling everyone that if Romeo was crooked, there had to be somebody higher up more crooked."

I shrugged, feeling renewed anger.  "Internal Affairs did a whitewash.  It was a typical damage control action – fry the little fish, but let the sharks keep swimming."

"So you claim, but there was never any evidence."

I shrugged.

You couldn't let it go, though, so they found a way to expose you for the drunk you are, and you ended up out on your ear."

I didn't need this stuff.  "Romeo was the worst of cops and the best of cops.  He may have been on the take, but he was there when I needed him –"

"Yeah, yeah.  I heard it all before, Ebby.  He saved your worthless life.  So what?  He's dead and buried."

"He was my partner.  I owe him.  You of all people should know what that means."

Tricksy smiled and stood up.  "Yeah, I know what that means."  Her voice had softened.  "You were my partner also.  You taught me a lot when I was still wet behind the ears.  I owe you."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that while you've been sitting on your sorry butt scratching both your groin and a living by peeping in keyholes, I've been using what you taught me to dig up Romeo's killer."

I felt my bowels clench.

She smiled again.  Thin lipped this time.  She knew she'd hooked me good. "I know who killed Romeo,” she said.

Sweat broke out on my forehead and my heart was pounding my ribs hard enough to break them.  I finally forced out the one important word.  "Who?"

"I owe you a chance to figure it out for yourself, Ebby," she said.  "But it's going to be up to you to do the right thing."

"Why the games?" I asked.

"Why don't you just hang around and have a drink," she said, ignoring me. "Maybe it'll give you some inspiration.  Think about things, Ebby.  See if there isn't a way for you to square your past and change your future."

She started to walk out of the office, tinkling all the way.

"Wait," I said.

She turned and, just like Santa in the story, she lay a finger alongside her nose.  "Merry Christmas, Ebenezer.  Keep up the good fight."  

She rose up the proverbial chimney before I could stop her.  But then again I wasn't sure I wanted her stopped.  I'd learned a long time ago playing with Tricksy was like playing with a flamethrower – sooner or later you were going to get burned.  She was a good detective.  Maybe too good.  If she could prove who killed Romeo the prior troubles would be nothing compared to the coming storm.

I reached forward for the bottle she'd left on my desk.  The seal was already cracked, but I wasn’t going to deny Tricksy a swig or two off the top.  I sat there contemplating the bottle.  I tried not to think about the glad tidings Tricksy had brought my way.  Well, I had my visit from an angel.  Now, all I needed was a visit from three wise-guys to make my Christmas Eve complete.  If I'd had a manger handy, I'd have crawled in and gone to sleep.

***

When the cuckoo clock on my wall chirped one a.m., Tricksy’s bottle was three quarter's empty – even from an optimist's point of view.  I didn't remember falling asleep, but then they say your memory is always the second thing to go.

I jerked my head up from the desk when there was a loud clatter outside my office.  My door swung open and somebody ducked their head to enter.

"Santa?" I asked.

"Call me Ishmael," the black giant said.  Mickey Mouse would have envied his voice.  This guy was going to be a whale of a lot of fun.

"I'll call you whatever you want,” I said, thinking of the old joke about what you call a six hundred pound gorilla.  "But as I remember, the last time you and I did the nightstick and handcuff two-step, you were called Tiny Tim.  What's with this Ishmael stuff?  You convert to Muslim all of a sudden?"

The giant smiled and what light he wasn't blocking glinted off a gold front tooth.  He looked around the office.  "Ain't much," he said.

"You a critic for Decorator's Weekly?  You don't like the furnishings then make like a tree and leaf."

"How 'bout a drink for an ol' friend?"

"You were an informant, not a friend.  What do you want?"

"Come on, we be goin' for a sleigh ride."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Suddenly, Ishmael had my collar in one of the meat hooks he calls hands and I was upright and heading for the office door.  My head was swimming and I realized the bottle Tricksy left behind had been doctored.  I'd been slipped a mickey as easily as a john trying to pick up a Singaporewhore.

I don't remember the sequence, but the next thing I knew, we were in Ishmael’s sled – a convertible Caddy held together by rust and luck.  The cold wind cleared my head, but my body felt too heavy to move.  I could only hope we were going on a sleigh ride and not a slay-ride.

The Caddy was light blue with dark blue trim.  There was also something familiar about it.

The streets were deserted and it didn't take us long to drive to the small strip mall where Romeo had been gunned down in a drive-by shooting.  It was at the top end of the same boulevard where the Star Building was located.  The shops here, however, were set back from the street.  There was a bookstore, a hair salon, a nail clip joint, an escrow company, and a tux shop.  

I knew now why the Caddy was familiar – the guy who blew Romeo's brains out had been driving one just like it.  A drive-by shooting using a Caddy convertible.  Who says crooks can't have class?

The windows of the stores were like blind eyes staring into my soul.  I don't mind telling you I was scared – feeling more like Halloween than Christmas.

Ishmael pulled the Caddy over and parked under one of the spreading oak trees lining the sidewalk.  Actually, it was not just one of the spreading oak trees.  It was the spreading oak tree.  The one under which Romeo had died.

"What are we doing here?"

"Consider me the Ghost of Christmas Past," Ishmael said.  "Christmas day, one year ago, Romeo be catching the bullet train right here at this stop."

"Tell me something I don't know."  I looked at the sidewalk and imagined I could see the remains of the chalk outline where Romeo's body had fallen.  I felt sick.  Romeo, Romeo, why for did thou die here, Romeo?

"You always be tellin' me I was your best snitch.  Ain't that right, Ebenezer?"

"It's still Mr. Ebenezer to you, punk.  But yeah, you was a good snitch.  If you couldn't get the information by asking somebody, you'd beat it out of them.  Pretty effective."

"But you're gone now, Ebby, and I still gots a jones to feed."

"Ain't Tricksy taking care of you?  I passed you on when I was bounced."

"Detective Spillane, she's a nice lady.  She don't talk mean like you – just dirty.  She even pay more than you."

"Then she's a fool."

Ishmael C-clamped my throat back against the headrest.  "Don't you be talking bad about Detective Spillane.  You hear?"

"Yeah," I barely managed to croak.

"She bin askin' questions 'bout who killed Romeo –"

"I already asked all the questions," I said, after Ishmael gave me my throat back.  "There aren't any answers."

"There be answers," Ishmael said.  "They just ain't the ones you want to hear.  You know who killed ol' Romeo.  You just don't want anyone else to know."

I wanted to ask, "What are you talking about?" but my head was swimming again and things went blank.

***

When the haze cleared, I was sitting propped against the glass door of the bookstore.  Ishmael didn't seem to be anywhere around.  I peered through the glass and saw a soft light in the bookstore's back room and it drew me like a moth to the flame.

Things were getting mighty weird.  Whatever Tricksy had slipped me was bringing on the paranoia big time.  I clawed my way to my feet and freed my forty-five from under my left pit.  The butt of it in my hand felt as warm and familiar as a lover's breast.

The address on the glass door was 2-B.  Maybe I could run, but I couldn't hide.  If I left now, the past would just catch up again later.  2-B or not 2-B? That is the question.  Whether it is better to suffer the cruelties and self-recriminations of a coward, or to take up my forty-five against whatever sea of troubles lay ahead and by charging straight ahead defeat them.

Stream of consciousness wasn’t one of my strong suits either.  I pushed open the door and bulled in hard and fast.  I took the corner into the back room like a whirlwind and was brought up short by a classy looking dame munching on milk and cookies.

"Ah, Ebenezer," she said, in a calm voice.  "I'm so glad you came.  It's Christmas time in the city, you know?  And I'm just checking my list to see whose been naughty or nice."

"Isn't that the big fat guy in the red suit's job?"

The dame laughed.  "Don't be silly."  She took a huge scroll off her desk.  It had SANTA'S LIST in big letters at the top.  She started unravelling it as if she were a kid playing with a toilet roll.  "Now, let me see – Ebenezer? Ebenezer? Hmmmm."  She slid on a pair of reading glasses, which had been bouncing on her remarkable pulchritude on a chain around her neck.

"Ah, here you are."  She squinted a little.  "Oh, my."

"Oh, my?"  I asked.

She turned to me, brushed the forty-five away, and walked into the main part of the store.  I felt foolish holding the gun.  I slipped it back under my pit for safe keeping and followed the dame.  She turned on a low light at the front desk. 

She was studying the list again under the light.  "Oh, my. Oh, my. Oh, my!"

This was getting monotonous.

"Can we cut to the chase here?"

"I'm surprised at you, Ebenezer.  You have been a naughty boy."

"Who are you?  My mom?"

"No, Ebenezer, I'm the Ghost of Christmas Presents."

"Give me a break.  And don't you mean the Ghost of Christmas Present?"

"Ebenezer, you little dickens.  You always were a nitpicker."

"Used to sell those nits by the bushel load.  Made for good off-duty income."

"Yes, it certainly did."

"Hey, I was only joking."

"No, you weren't, Ebenezer.  The nits you picked were everybody's little secrets.  Cops get to know lots and lots of secrets.  They get to know all the skeletons in all the closets, where all the fabled bodies are buried."

"It goes with the territory.  You find out stuff, you make an arrest –"

"Ah, Ebenezer, but that's where you became a naughty boy, isn't it?  Instead of arrests, you started making blackmail demands.   No, no toys for you from Santa anymore.  Just a lump of coal at the bottom of your stocking.  You crossed the line, Ebenezer.  Naughty, not nice."

I felt grim.  This broad was getting under my skin.  She knew too much for her own good, and mine.  My forty-five was hanging heavy in its holster.  "Make your point,” I said.

"The point is, Romeo wasn't the dirty cop.  You were.  Blackmail is such a sordid little sideline.  Romeo was on to you, wasn't he?  Partners are close, very close.  You couldn't keep something like blackmail hidden from him forever."

I felt as if I was sweating blood.  My head was starting to sway and fear was crawling out of my gut like an evil specter.  "You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Oh, yes I do, Ebenezer.  It's all here on Santa's list." The dame held up her scroll.  "All the naughty and nice things everyone does.  I check it twice and then forward a copy to St. Peter."

I gave the dame a quizzical look.

"What?" she asked.  "You didn't know Heaven subscribed to our mailing list?  Absolutely.  Helps keep the lines down at the Pearly Gates if St. Peter already has St. Nick's list.  There's a lot more riding on this naughty or nice stuff than just a new red bike or a lump of coal."

"Give me that list," I said.  I reached out to grab it, but the big dark opened up again and I fell in.

***

When I came around, I was back in my office sitting behind my desk.  I thought maybe I was looking in a mirror, but then I'd never installed a mirror in the client seat opposite my own.  I closed my eyes and shook my head, but I was still there when I looked again.

"What are you selling?" I asked. "Gold?  Frankincense?  Myrrh?"

"You don’t look as if you could afford anything, boy," my mirror image said. "In fact, you look like Hades."

"If you're me," I said, "then I don't look too bad."

"I'm you, alright, but I'm you before you became what you are now."

"Run that by me again.  Ain't you supposed to be the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, or some such nonsense?  I mean, let's keep the story straight."

"There may be no Christmases left for you, Ebenezer.  This might just be it."

I stared into my eyes and knew I was telling myself the truth.  I reached for the remains of Tricksy's bottle with a shaky hand.

"You drink too much," I said to me.

"What are you?  My friggin' conscience?"

"Exactly."

"Whoa," I said.  I was taken aback, despite myself.  After a second, I found the nerve to ask, "What about Ishmael and the weird dame with the list?"

"All parts of you – just like me."

"Get outta here."

"Ishmael is the brute in us come to the surface, the terror that helped us face down scumbags without succumbing to fear."

"And the dame with the list?"

"We were a good cop, because we were anal-retentive.  Always had her around to take care of the details."

I went for my forty-five, fear running my every emotion, but mirror image or not, real or imagined, Mr. Conscience was faster. He was there first and snatched the gat away.

"Come, come, Ebenezer.  It's Christmas Eve.  Is this any time for gun play?"  He threw the gun on the desk in front of me.  I went to grab it, but it was suddenly heavier than an anchor.

"What do you all want from me?"

"Redemption, Ebenezer.  Redemption."

I started to cry.  "There is no redemption.  I killed him.  My partner.  Romeo found out about the blackmail.  I couldn't let him tell the world I'd crossed the line, so I drove by and shot him like a punk in the street.  I planted evidence.  Made him the bad guy –” I blubbered on an on, the words flowing out in huge waves, gasping for breath between tears.  "But nobody knew.  Nobody knew.  Just me."

"Santa knew," Mr. Conscience said.  "He knows who's been naughty or nice."

"There is no redemption for what I've done," I said to me again.

"There is always redemption.  There is always forgiveness.  Especially, on Christmas Eve."

I looked at the weapon on my desk.  "You want me to smoke my gun?"

"There’s no redemption in suicide.  There has to be atonement."

"I can't carry this burden anymore," I said, yanking at the gun to pull it free from the desk.

"Ebenezer, calm yourself."

I stopped my frantic tugging.  There was something, something from the part of me that hadn't turned rotten.

"Don't fight yourself anymore, Ebenezer.  You know what is right.  You've strayed from the path, but you still know what is right.  You can still be forgiven – can get yourself back on the nice list – get a red bicycle for Christmas.

I sat back slowly in my chair and closed my eyes.

***

It was cold up on the roof.  I was sitting at the base of the bright neon star topping the Star Building.  Could there really be redemption?

I'd had alcoholic blackouts before.  I'd even seen the creatures brought on by the DTs.  But I'd never experienced anything like the hallucinations Tricksy's bottle of bourbon delivered.

I looked at the neon star.  It was Christmas.  I loved obvious symbolism.

Next to where I was sitting were the two items.  My forty-five and my cell phone.

Two choices.

Naughty or nice.

A red bicycle or a lump of coal.

Redemption through confession and atonement.  Or having St. Peter displeased when he came to my name on his copy of Santa's list.

I'd been a nice cop once.  I was a naughty ex-cop now.

Could there really still be a chance to get back on the right side of the list.

When I made it, the choice wasn't really that hard.

I picked up the forty-five and snuggled the tip of the barrel up against my temple.

I always did have a flair for the dramatic.

I held my pose for a second and then slid the magazine out of the gun butt, flipped out the bullets, and scattered them over the edge of the building like hard raindrops.

I watched them fall and listened to them ping off the concrete so very far below.

I walked back and picked up the phone.

I dialed the number of the detective squad room.  I knew it by heart. 

She answered.  I knew she would.

"Hello, Ebenezer," she said.

"Hello, Tricksy."

"I was beginning to worry," she said.  "I thought maybe I'd overestimated you."

"How'd you like to come over?" I asked.  "I have something to tell you."

"I hope it's more than Merry Christmas."

"Bring your handcuffs,” I said and hung up.  Tricksy was kinky enough to like the last part.

I looked out across the city.  Christmas lights twinkled with promise in the false dawn.

Merry Christmas, I said to myself, beginning to unwrap the gift of redemption.  And to all a good night.

FIGHT CARD ROMANCE: LADIES NIGHT CHRISTMAS!

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Christmas, 1955 … Hollywood Legion Stadium …

Light heavy-weight champ, Jimmy Doherty is boxing Carlo ‘Toro’ Bassani for the Christmas benefit, even though Jimmy is sure Toro is under the thumb of gangster, Mickey Cohen. He doesn't know if Toro will deck him with a ‘Sunday punch’ in the first round or flop in the third. Even though Jimmy feels sorry for the pug who has cast his lot with the devil, he isn’t sure if he should give this boxer an early Christmas gift of his self-respect, by forcing him to fight like a man, or let Toro kiss the canvas.

Jimmy's bride, Lindy Doherty, is front row center where she always is when he fights. Not many dames would stay in their man's corner consistently cheering him on. She's taking in the action and praying her husband won't get his head handed to him on a Christmas platter. While waiting to watch Jimmy duke it out in the center ring, she and her six month old son, Patrick, along with her two Precious Roses, meet the brightest star in the Hollywood Christmas sky.

Can Jimmy retain his light heavy-weight title and keep a fellow boxer from accidently ‘falling’ off the San Pedro Pier? And what is Lindy’s special Christmas gift for Jimmy?

UP TO SCRATCH

UP TO SCRATCH

ON WRITING FIGHT CARD SHERLOCK HOLMES BLOOD TO THE BONE

ANDREW SALMON

Blood to the Bone is the second Fight Card Sherlock Holmes tale to be penned by award winning Sherlockian author Andrew Salmon. His first Fight Card Sherlock Holmes novel, Work Capitol, is also available on as a Kindle e-book and in paperback…

The first novel in the Fight Card Sherlock Holmes series, Work Capitol, presented a number of daunting challenges. Not only did I have to learn how Victorian fighters plied their trade, but also how Sherlock Holmes would put his inimitable spin on the science of pugilism. Added to that was the responsibility of discerning how Watson would describe a fight in the language of the time.

Research and a lot of pondering led me to the solutions. Hearing from readers since the book's release, I was pleased to see these solutions were met with positive reactions. The book even snagged an award nomination along the way. Holmes fans enjoyed the book, which was a tremendous relief to me and the Fight Card team.

Now, all I had to do was pull it off again! More than that, actually, as the second book could not and should not be just more of the same. No matter how much readers liked Work Capitol, the new one had to be different. We writers don't like to repeat ourselves.

Well, with the fight stuff all worked out and a first attempt at determining how Watson would narrate a boxing match successfully under my belt, I felt I was slightly ahead of the game. Also, in my research for the first book, I had collected a vast treasure trove of information, trivia, dates, events, names, places, etc.

One of those pieces was supposed to be an important clue for Holmes to discover in Work Capitol – except, when all was said and done, I'd forgotten to use it! So, I had that in my back pocket for the second book as well. Hey, it was a good clue – far too important to throw away.

Next came a read through of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's bare knuckle boxing novel, Rodney Stone, to set the tone. The novel provided me with an opportunity to pay homage to Doyle – we must never forget, it is his sandbox modern day Holmes scribblers play in after all.

My tip of the deerstalker takes the form of the pub Holmes, Watson, and my female fighter visit as the Waggon and Horses is visited by Doyle's characters in his book. What's funny, when you think about it, is that, really, two sets of his characters visit the pub a century apart in real time. Rodney Stone also gave me the title for my book, Blood to the Bone, from a phrase used to describe a true blue fighter common at the time.

With all of the above in my corner, I felt pretty good about the next book. And the research sealed the deal. We historical fiction writers are like fishermen. We cast our nets upon history in the hope of finding something interesting, something different, unsung, something today's readers may or may not know about, but we think they'd get a kick out of reading about.

My nets landed smack dab in the middle of the forgotten Victorian female pugilists of the 1800s. As the first book had not featured a female lead, this find immediately struck me as something different yet still staying well within the world of bare knuckle boxing. Endless research showed me the female fight game was a great element, which simply couldn't be ignored.

But how the heck was Holmes going to fight in the women's ring? Stumbling upon the tag-team aspect of women's boxing saved the day. Discovering that couples used to face off against other couples with the ability to tag up like wrestlers and switch partners saved my bacon. Holmes and my female lead could now step up to the scratch line together. Phew!

But what brought them together? Wait a minute! Tag-team couples! What if a husband in one of these tag-teams suddenly disappeared and Holmes and Watson were asked to investigate? Yeah, that would work. Okay, I had Victorian circuses, the forgotten boxing booths of the time, the somewhat obscure history of female bare knuckle boxing, a couple of other little known chapters of history (too spoilerish to talk about here) and a lunar eclipse thrown in for good measure. We were off to the races.

Then tragedy struck.

I had my ducks in a row, the opening scenes playing out in my mind and on my computer screen as I typed away, when my wife's best friend, Linda Gavin, passed away suddenly in July. Best friend? They had been as close as sisters these last 18 years. My wife's grief took precedence and the tale was set aside as we struggled through the shock of it. There was the celebration of life memorial to attend as well and this was a moving, unforgettable event – one we should all hope for when our time comes.

It was during this sad time I got the idea to model the female fighter in my Holmes tale after Linda. No small tribute, as Linda was a strong believer in gender equality and would have adored the character of Eby Stokes but, also, her husband, Doug, was a life-long Sherlock Holmes fan.

I had named a character after Doug in two previous Holmes tales a different publisher had brought out in recent years much to Doug's delight. As one always feel helpless when tragedy strikes another, here was something I could do for Doug, and he was moved when I told him of my plans at the memorial. I told him I would be dedicating the book to Linda as well as changing the name of my female fighter to Eby Stokes – Eby being Linda's maiden name.

I took things a step further by asking cover artist Mike Fyles if he would be willing to use Linda's likeness for his depiction of Eby Stokes. Mike's a great guy and readily agreed. I sent him off a pair of shots of Linda in her youth (boxing is a young man's and young woman's game) and he came back with the incredible cover you see on the book.

Things got a little spooky with the cover.

Take a look at his rendition of Eby Stokes. She does indeed resemble Linda, but what he did not know was that she always posed for photos with her hair down in front of her left shoulder. Always – except in the shots I sent Mike, as these had been shots of her in her youth.

I had made no mention of it to Mike, wanting him to be free to go where his considerable talent took him. Yet there is Eby Stokes with her hair hanging down in front of her left shoulder! Coincidence? Something more? We can each come up with our own answers. It sent chills down my spine, that's all I have to say about it.

As I gradually got back to writing the tale, the book took on more personal importance to me. Holmes tales deal with logic, deduction and adventure, not overburdened by emotion. This being my eighth Holmes tale, I was well versed in this. But now the book was to be my tribute to our departed friend. I had to make it a fitting tribute and I had to create an Eby Stokes to make Linda proud.

Have I succeeded? That's up to you, dear readers. I gave it everything I had, but the proof is in the reading, and I hope the story entertains and keeps you guessing.

It was a bitter-sweet experience writing Blood to the Bone. Thanks for getting this far with me and I hope you enjoy the book.
 

WOMEN PUGILISTS GET THEIR DUE

WOMEN PUGILISTS GET THEIR DUE VICTORIAN FEMALE BOXERS ENTER HALL OF FAME ANDREW SALMON Blood to the Bone is the second Fight Card Sherlock Holmes tale to be penned by award winning Sherlockian author Andrew Salmon. His first Fight Card Sherlock Holmes novel, Work Capitol, is also available on as a Kindle e-book and in paperback…  The Bare Knuckle Boxing Hall of Fame in Belfast, New York held an induction ceremony on July 12th, 2014, where the great, unsung female boxing greats of the Victorian age took their place amongst the legendary male fighters of yesteryear as part of the rich history of the sport.  Elizabeth Wilkinson (Stokes): Winner of first ever recorded female bare knuckle fight in 1722. Anna Lewis: Staged first Women's Championships, brought publicity to the sport in the 1880s.  Hattie Stewart: First Female Bare Knuckle World Champion, 1884.  Hattie Leslie: First American Championess, 1888. Alice Leary: A six-foot slugger, athlete, was 52-0 w/24 knockouts before losing to Hattie Leslie. Hessie Donahue: Knocked out John L. Sullivan in 1892.  These great fighters, along with a selection of modern day women pugilists, join the ranks of past inductees, including John L. Sullivan, Jem Mace, James Figg, Jack Dempsey and dozens of others.

THE WOMANLY ART

THE WOMANLY ART

AN OVERVIEW OF WOMEN'S BARE KNUCKLE BOXING

ANDREW SALMON

Blood to the Bone is the second Fight Card Sherlock Holmes tale to be penned by award winning Sherlockian author Andrew Salmon. His first Fight Card Sherlock Holmes novel, Work Capitol, is also available on as a Kindle e-book and in paperback...
Elizabeth Stokes, Anna Lewis, Hattie Stewart, Alice Leary, Hattie Leslie, Hessie Donahue, Cecil Richards, Dolly Adams, Polly Burns – if these names are unfamiliar to you, then keep reading.

The women listed above were just a few of the many great women pugilists of the Victorian age. Not much is known about these accomplished fighters because the press at the time rarely covered their matches unless to either ridicule them or call for their abolishment. Society, for the most part, looked down on female fighters in that bygone age (some would maintain people still do) and, as a result, the matches were rarely advertised. It is only recently that their rich history is gradually being stitched together. The Bare Knuckle Boxing Hall of Fame just inducted its first batch of female fighters this past July.

Women fighters have been around since ancient times, but for the sake of this overview we'll limit our focus to the dawn of female prize fighting. The Hall of Fame's coordinator, Scott Burt, tells us it all began with Elizabeth Stokes. As the winner of the first ever recorded female bare knuckle boxing fight in 1722, Stokes fought Hannah Hyfield for a prize of three guineas. The women fought with a half a crown in one fist. The first to drop the money, lost the fight. This set a precedent for future fights. This was a smart addition to the women's Fancy, as the closed fist cut down on scratching and gouging.

Much like its male counterpart, women's bare knuckle boxing began with very different rules. The womanly art allowed hair pulling, kicking, kneeing, scratching and gouging to all parts of the body. Wrestling throws were also legal, making the sport more a primitive form of mixed martial arts than simply boxing. As such, it displayed a marked similarity to the Boxe Francaise or Savate fighting, which combined boxing with a variety of kicks using both heel and toe.

The fights were brutal and savage affairs. As a result, the women were often severely injured, and some died in the ring. Usually trained by men, either their husbands or fellow pugilists, the women fought men as well as each other, sometimes winning despite the tremendous risks. There were exceptions, such as the time Hessie Donahue knocked out John L. Sullivan during an exhibition bout when Sullivan angered her by accidently hitting her too hard.

The women often boxed bare chested. This served two functions. The first served the promoters with the obvious salacious draw of sweaty, topless women punching away at each other, but there was a sound reason for this as well. Without antibiotics of any kind, the risk of infection ran high. Dirty fabric pressed into open cuts incurred during a fight could mean death for a fighter. And injuries did not just result from a fist or boot heel. There was the very real risk of the various wires found in female clothing of the time puncturing the skin as well.

Women's bare knuckle boxing became popular on both sides of the Atlantic as the eighteenth century drew to a close despite being considered indecent and unladylike by many. Women's boxing classes were held in gymnasiums everywhere, but catered mostly to the upper class.

As the sport was open to all comers and substantial prizes were to be had. This prize money far exceeded what the lower or middle class women could earn at other jobs. As a result, despite the risk, the temptation to toe the line was, for many, the only avenue out of poverty. For others, it was an opportunity to escape the confines society placed on them, to be strong, independent and capable.

By the 1880s, women's boxing flourished in dance halls and at fairgrounds where women put on boxing displays and/or sparring with fair goers and engaged in tag–team fights where male and female teams (often husband and wife) squared off against each other with a tag to switch partners. As the 19th century drew to a close, the sport, still frowned upon by the press, gained more respectability. Bare knuckles eventually gave way to gloves as the Queensberry Rules were put in place.

The sport continued into the 20th century and was even an exhibition sport at the St. Louis World's Fair/Olympics in 1904. It was also considered an excellent way for a young lady to stay healthy and safe well into the 1950s, though by then, the sport had lost most of its ferocity. By the 1970s, women boxers began to fight in greater earnest to secure the rights and opportunities their male counterparts enjoyed.

If you want to delve deeper into the world of female bare knuckle boxing, check out the Hall's website above or pop over to this Russian site, Female Single Combat Club, which offers both English and Russian versions of its pages. Here they explore the history in depth and I'm indebted to them for the research materials I found at the site.

FIGHT CARD UPDATE NOVEMBER 2014

FIGHT CARD UPDATE NOVEMBER 2014

I am delighted with the strength of the final two Fight Card titles for 2014.  As we wrap-up three years of monthly novelettes with 40 published titles (including two Fight Card charity anthologies), the stories in the series are as vibrant and hard-hitting as when we started.

First up in November is The Iron Fists of Ned Kelly, the third Fight Card novel from the battered typewriter of our man from the land down under, David Foster (King of the Outback, Rumble in the Jungle). This is a piece of historical fiction – featuring Australia’s infamous outlaw, Ned Kelly – which David was destined to write. A rip-snorting true tale of a man done wrong who has a chance to even the score the best way he know how – with his fists.

The Iron Fists of Ned Kelly also features a knockout cover from illustrator Mike Fyles, who has also turned in another dynamite cover for our second Fight Card Sherlock Holmes outing from Andrew Salmon, Bad to the Bone, which will be our December Fight Card title.

FIGHT CARD: THE IRON FISTS OF NED KELLY

"I wish to acquaint you with some of the occurrences present past and future." Edward Kelly – The Jerilderie Letter 1879 

The story of Australia's ironclad outlaw, Ned Kelly, has been told countless times in film, book, and song. The shootout at Stringybark Creek and the infamous siege at Glenrowan are events which shaped the nation – but there is more to Ned’s story, including the character defining, bareknuckle, scrap with feared bar-room brawler, Isaiah 'Wild' Wright.

Ned was only sixteen when he rode into the township of Greta on a horse loaned to him by Wright. Ned had no idea the horse was stolen, but he was still arrested, beaten, and sentenced to three years hard labor.

Ned can't get those years back, but he can make the horse thief pay for his deception. With honour and justice at stake, two of the hardest men of all time will come to scratch in a battle for the ages. 

A story of betrayal, revenge, and ultimately friendship, The Iron Fists of Ned Kelly is another rollicking tale from the author of King of the Outback.



Along with his Fight Card entries, David is also the author – under his James Hopwood pseudonym – of two novels (The Librio Defection / The Danakil Deception) featuring swinging sixties neophyte British agent Jarvis Love. Both are available from Amazon and are must reads for anyone who enjoys their spy fiction with the cool vibe of the swinging sixties when martinis were served shaken not stirred.

Special thx this month to Bobby Nash for his efforts in providing FaceBook banners for so many of our titles …

Till next month … Keep punching …

PULP NOW: DAY OF THE DESTROYERS!

PULP NOW: DAY OF THE DESTOYERS

COMING MARCH 2015 

JIMMIE FLINT, AGENT X-11, MUST SAVE AMERICA

I HAVE A STORY IN THIS COLLECTION …

Based on a real historical event during the Roosevelt administration!

Day of the Destroyers is an all-original linked prose anthology - each story is part of a larger arc wherein Jimmie Flint, Secret Agent X-11 of the Intelligence Service Command, battles to prevent the seditionist Medusa Council from engineering a bloody coup overthrowing our democracy.

Agent X-11 fights across the country preventing an aerial assault on Chicago’s rail lines, destroying a secret factory of gas meant to enthrall millions in New Mexico, racing to stop a machine of fantastic destruction in Manhattan, and so much more! 

Written by pulp fictioneers: Ron Fortier, Adam Lance Garcia, Gary Phillips, Paul Bishop, Eric Fein, Tommy Hancock, Aaron Shaps, and Joe Gentile.

Introduction by pulp historian and award-winning author Robert Weinberg!

Guest starring pulp heroes The Green Lama, The Phantom Detective, and The Black Bat!

Softcover / 6”x9” / 276 pages / $13.95
Hardcover / 6”x9” / 276 pages / $23.95

FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS ~ AUDIO!

FIGHT CARD: FELONY FISTS ~ AUDIO!

Los Angeles 1954. Patrick "Felony" Flynn has been fighting all his life. Learning the "sweet science" from Father Tim the fighting priest at St. Vincent's, the Chicago orphanage where Pat and his older brother Mickey were raised, Pat has battled his way around the world - first with the Navy and now with the Los Angeles Police Department.

Legendary LAPD chief William Parker is on a rampage to clean up both the department and the city. His elite crew of detectives known as The Hat Squad is his blunt instrument - dedicated, honest, and fearless. Promotion from patrol to detective is Pat's goal, but he also yearns to be one of the elite - and his fists are going to give him the chance.

Gangster Mickey Cohen runs LA's rackets, and murderous heavyweight Solomon King is Cohen's key to taking over the fight game. Chief Parker wants Patrick "Felony" Flynn to stop him - a tall order for middleweight ship's champion with no professional record. Leading with his chin, and with his partner, LA's first black detective Tombstone Jones, covering his back, Patrick Flynn and his Felony Fists are about to fight for his future, the future of the department, and the future of Los Angeles.

COMING NOVEMBER 11TH

FIGHT CARD STALWART DAVID FOSTERWRITING AS JACK TUNNEY

COMING IN DECEMBER!

COMING IN DECEMBER! ANDREW SALMONWRITING ASJACK TUNNEY A NEW TWO-FISTEDTALE OFSHERLOCK HOLMES FIGHT CARD:BLOOD TO THE BONE