Frank Tuttle's Blog, page 31

Story in New Horror Anthology

Goot even - ing, Gentle Readers.

Igor.  Close the door.  We don't want them to escape.  Ahem.  I meant, there is a draft.

Tonight, I present to you a new collection of terrible tales, entitled Shadow Street.  Inside these pages you will find a number of unique and lingering horrors, each with an address on the Street.

My home away from home in entitled 'The Knocking Man.'

What is that?

Why yes, it does feature a mortuary.  And a cemetery.  How perceptive of you.

And yes.  Both show signs of neglect.

But beware, for they also show signs of recent and, shall we say, enthusiastic use.

Those of you who prefer Nooks to Kindles may prefer to shop here.


Igor will see to the lighting of the reading lamps.

I hope you survive -- er, enjoy your journey down Shadow Street.  I trust it will not prove too dangerous.

Still, we advise you to walk with caution, and above all else, to look both ways...

The Usual Nonsense, Plus Markhat News!

First of all, don't forget to enter my contest!  The grand prize is a signed print edition All the Paths of Shadow, shipped right to your door, stronghold, lair, or orbital battle platform free of charge.  Entering only takes a second, and requires only a small amount of bone marrow, so please enter.  Or else I'll wind up looking very foolish giving away a book to myself.

Next, I would be remiss indeed if I failed to remind everyone that tonight is the night for the second season premiere of AMC's brilliant The Walking Dead.  If you've never heard of the show, click the link.  If you have, watch!  It promises to be quite a ride, as the survivors flee the destruction of the Center for Disease Control lab in zombie-infested Atlanta.

And now, about the new book.  Hey, don't look surprised, you knew it was coming.  I'm talking of course about All the Paths of Shadow, and before I say anything else let me present you with a few links, to ease and encourage your shopping experience!

All the Paths of Shadow in Amazon Kindle e-book format!

All the Paths of Shadow in print!

All the Paths of Shadow in epub and mobi formats, for your Nook or other device!

So one of the above should set you up.

So far, Paths has 8 readers reviews on Amazon, all of them good ones (seven five star reviews and one four star).  So it seems people like it.

On the Markhat front, Barnes & Noble have already put up the latest Markhat novel, The Broken Bell.  You can pre-order it for the Nook now; it will be released on December 17 everywhere, including Amazon and the publisher's site, Samhain Publishing.  even if you don't own a Nook, you can sneak over to Barnes and Noble and check out the sweet, sweet cover on  The Broken Bell.  It's worth the click.

That's about all the news I have right now.  I'm feeling fine and have hardly any traces of rigor mortis, so it's a good night for The Walking Dead!

Take care, zombie fans.  Keep your doors locked, your car keys handy, and of course, safeties off....

BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

CONTEST! Win a SIGNED print edition of ALL THE PATHS OF SHADOW!

It's time for another contest!  Yes, Gentle Reader, you can win a signed print edition of All the Paths of Shadow in all of its stunning 484 page glory.  You get it all -- paper, ink, verbs, numbers, the whole works, nothing held back.  To make matters even more dramatic, I will announce the winner of the contest in my first-ever Web video, so that all and sundry can point and laugh.

And what must I do to obtain this most coveted of prizes, you ask?  Read on...

CONTEST RULES:

1) Contestants, hereafter referred to as 'contestants,' must originate from Earth or within five light years thereof.
2) Entry into the Contest shall consist of three parts.
3) PART ONE: The email to franktuttle@franktuttle.com, with
4) PART TWO: The subject line PATHS OF SHADOW CONTEST, and
5) PART THREE: In the body of the email, include an alternate title for ALL THE PATHS OF SHADOW.  Be funny.  Call it MY SOCKS ARE FILTHY AND I DON'T CARE.  Call it ANOTHER GENERIC FANTASY BOOK HO HUM WHERE IS MY STEPHEN KING.  Call it anything you want.  Be bold and use lower case.  Anything goes here, people.  But extra points will probably be awarded to people who have read the book and who choose to lampoon either the subject matter or the writing style.
6) Myself and a panel of distinguished judges (read that as a roomful of sleepy dogs) will choose what we consider the funniest entry and award that submitter the signed book.  The revelation will be made via video on my website on Halloween night.

That gives you plenty of time to enter.  And yes, you can enter as often as you like.  I hope to get a lot of entries, because I'll probably post them so we can all get a chuckle.  If you'd rather I not post yours, say so in your email, or I'll assume it's okay.


So put on your writing cap and enter!  Be as mean or as snarky as you want.  That's what I'm looking for!

Box O' Books!

Today was a Post Office holiday, but that doesn't stop the big brown UPS trucks from their appointed rounds.

One such truck delivered to me a heavy box filled with books so new I could smell the ink.  That's right, boys and girls -- All the Paths of Shadow is now out in glorious three-dimensional hold-it-in-your-hand  print!

And boy does it look good.


Here's another shot!


These photos just aren't doing it justice.  Behold, the open book, and the pages thereof!


Did I mention this is a thick book?  Because it is.  484 pages, baby.  This is a fat thick book --


That's right, you get nearly two full inches of text!  According to the calculations of resident mathematician Fletcher (shown below), that is, um...



Two billion, four hundred million, five hundred and eighty-seven thousand words.

Okay, Fletcher is a dog, and that's probably not an accurate figure.  But this is a big thick book and it looks stunning in print and I cannot thank the people at Cool Well Press enough for all their hard work and professionalism in bringing All the Paths of Shadow from manuscript to market!

There are few thrills which equal or exceed that of opening a box of new books.  This box certainly exceeded my expectations!

Look, e-books are great.  That's pretty much all I buy these days, with a few exceptions.  This book is worth the exception.

I'm going to go stare at the covers for six or seven hours.  Have fun!

All the Paths of Shadow

Pics and Sundry

I finally caught Thor in a calm mood, and got a couple of pictures of him and his pal Petey.

Here's a couple of Thor, who is openly suspicious of my camera:



Below is Petey, who has become Thor's new best friend.  Petey has always been a very shy dog, so it's good to see him coming out of his shell!

Finally, here's a snapshot of my desk, from whence all my writing springs.  Or is typed.  Anyway, yes, it's too dark, but that's because the camera's batteries died as I took this.  It has nothing to do with all the dust revealed by the flash.  Nothing at all.

And yeah, I built the desk right into the room.  It's nothing fancy -- 2 by 4s and 3/4 inch plywood.  You can tapdance on it, if you want, and it won't budge or flex.  
In other news, All the Paths of Shadow is up in print format from Amazon!  So if you don't have an e-reader but you want to read the book, click here!

Going Bump #2: The Phantom of the Yocona River

When asked, I usually tell people that I've never seen anything I can point to and say 'I believe that was a ghost.'  And that's true.  Try as I might, I just can't sneak up on a Class IV Free-Floating Vapor, or catch a poltergeist lounging in front of a TV.

Which is not to say I've never seen anything I can't explain.  I have, and since this is October it's time to spill the beans.  Maybe some of you will have insights into the matter, because after pondering this for some thirty-three years I still don't have a clue.

I was, I believe, 15.  And let me preface this entire recounting by noting that no alcohol or other recreational substances were at all involved.  Honest.  I know that may sound unlikely, but it's the truth.

So, I was 15, and the snake-infested banks of the Yocona River beckoned.  The Yocona is a slow, muddy river which winds its way through the hilly woods of north Mississippi, and as a wild and dangerous place it was a natural magnet for all the kids who lived near it.

One fine August evening my good friend John Redmond and I decided to camp out on the River.  We spent a lot of time on the River, and knew its perils well.  So we loaded his pickup with supplies and an aluminum boat and set out.

We pitched camp on a sand bar not far from what everyone simply called The Structure.  The Structure was actually a concrete waterfall built by the Corps of Engineers to halt the Yocona's erosion of the fields on its borders.  I can still hear the roar of the water rushing over it today, on still nights.

But on that night, John  Redmond and I saw something neither of us can explain.

It started sometime after midnight.  We both saw a light of sorts playing among the boughs of an enormous old water oak about two hundred yards upstream.  It towered up above the outline of The Structure and was silhouetted against the night sky.

We sat and watched, considering the source of the light.  Our first thought was a flashlight.  We quickly rejected that, as it became obvious that what we were watching wasn't merely a projected beam of light being played amid the branches, but a glowing, moving mass that spun about the tree as though tethered somehow to the trunk.

Swamp gas, we decided.  Even though the tree stood on high, dry ground.  But as we kept watching, we rejected that too, because the light, whatever it was, grew brighter and began to change shape and color.

This is where it gets weird.

And let me remind you again that no drugs or alcohol were involved.

The glowing thing began to morph into recognizable shapes.  Faces.  Outlines.  Now a perfect yellow sphere.  Then a scowling red face.  A half-moon.  A flying man, arms outstretched.

No noise.  Just the light, changing, moving, orbiting that oak for purposes unknown.

Were we frightened?

Um, yes.  We're on a sand bar miles from anywhere.  It's far too dark to risk a panicked flight through the water moccasins and the copperheads and the tangles and the snags.  We're observing an inexplicable light show which, for all we know, is both being presented for us and is the preamble to something more sinister.

So we do what any reasonable pair of fifteen year olds would do -- we turn the boat on its side as a shield, arm ourselves with clubs and knives, and hunker down until sunrise.

That glowing thing, whatever it was, danced and flew all night.

We darted out briefly, now and then, to replenish our campfire with driftwood.  And we watched the clouds sail past while the lazy sun took his time in rising.

When the skies did finally begin to lighten, our visitor dimmed, made a final blurred circuit from the bottom of the tree to the top, and then simply shot up into the sky, where it vanished.

We stamped out our fire as soon as it was light and made haste in getting out of there and we never ever camped on the Yocona again.

As far as I know, nothing like what we saw was seen before or since.  There's nothing particularly sinister about the spot.  No old murders, no hangings, no drama of any kind.  It was just an oak tree.

So, what did I see, that night more than three decades ago?

I have no idea.

As I said, I can still hear the River pouring over the lip of the Structure on still nights.  Sometimes I listen to the dull distant roar and wonder if a certain old oak tree is being lit by a whirling, changing light, or if what we saw was meant only for John Redmond and I, and only appeared that night.

If so, what did it mean?  What did it want?  What were we supposed to take away from there, aside from mosquito bites and sand in our britches?

Still don't know.  Probably never will.

So that's my tale of the Yocona River, and the flying light.

What's your story?

Email me at franktuttle@franktuttle.com

News, and More!

First of all, a bit of news!

The print version of All the Paths of Shadow should be available on October 18.  That's at both amazon and the publisher's site, Cool Well Press.  So if you don't have an e-reader yet, no worries, you don't have long to wait to grab a printed copy of your own.

Also hitting the stands on the 18th of October is the YA horror anthology Shadow Street.  I've got a story in this one, so I'm eager to see it.

If you're on Facebook, you can chat with Meralda and Mug, who have been known to post on the new All the Paths of Shadow Facebook page.  Please, stop in, poke at Mug with a stick, leave a comment on the wall.  Mug is especially eager to offer advice in the fields of finance, horticulture, and romance, though I'd be wary of placing any credence on his advice in at least two of those fields.

So hit Facebook, because we *know* you've got a session up, and say hello.  

Going Bump #1: Voices in the Graveyard

I just looked up and realized it's October.

If I had to pick a favorite month, it's October.  The weather is mild.  The leaves are turning.  The lawn can jolly well go mow itself.  The stores are full of jack o' lanterns and poorly-made scary stuff and both SyFy and the Chiller Channel make a half-hearted effort to show a few decent horror movies.

And then of course there's the culmination of the season in Halloween.

I love Halloween.  Spare me the crushing emotional baggage, the doomed expectations of some Hallmark moment, the mad rush to buy gifts for people you barely know.  The other holidays have all that covered.  Halloween is scary and cool and fun.  Nobody expects or even wants you to have some misty-eyed moment over eggnog or tinsel.  Instead uou can paint your face green and put in fake fangs and go out shambling and moaning and people will laugh and smile and not once will they dial 911.

So, in honor of Halloween, I'll be blogging this month about things that go bump in the night.  Ghosts, spectres, haunts, haints, poltergeists, residual hauntings, intelligent hauntings, bad pipes, good pipes, dogs and cats sleeping together -- you know.  The usual spooky stuff.

So, do you believe in ghosts?

Do I?

I can't answer for you, and the best answer I can give for myself is yes, and no.

I believe rational, sober, intelligent people on occasion see, hear, or otherwise experience phenomena that can't be explained by mundane means.  No, I don't believe *every* sound in the night is a spook.  Most are water pipes or wind or passing headlights.

Most, but not all.

Which still doesn't mean that even the unexplained phenomena are ghosts.  They're just that -- unexplained phenomena.  Without better data, and a lot of it, I don't think anyone can categorically claim 'Ghosts exist, and are composed of this and that, and exist in realm X, and interact with us via this mechanism and for these reasons.'

Yeah, I know a lot of people say that very thing, filling in the thises and thats with whatever floats their belief system, but I've never seen anybody back it up with good hard data of any kind.  Show me physical evidence of ghostly manifestations that proves they exist.

I can prove radio transmitters exist with ease.  Turn on a radio.  Track the signal source using triangulation.  Measure the EM output.  Record it, analyze it.

That's the kind of proof I need.

We've all seen the flashing lights on K2 EMF meters on all the ghost hunting shows.  And sometimes they do seem to indicate the presence of some unseen source of weak EM emissions.

I have a K2 meter myself.  It's fun to wave around.  It's also fun to make it light up at surprising distances using nothing but an outgoing call on my cell phone.  Am I saying that's what you're seeing on TV?

No.  Not necessarily.  I am saying the instruments weren't designed to be hand-held ghost detectors.  So I don't fully trust their flashing lights -- it could be reacting to so many mundane sources.

In addition to the K2, I've got a Ramsey TM3 Tri-Field meter, an IR thermometer, a couple of digital recorders, and an ion detector I designed and built myself.  And yes, I've dragged all his stuff around in various cemeteries, just to see what might happen.

I never got so much as a blink on the K2 meter, which isn't surprising since these were rural spots well off the beaten path, much less the power grid.  Ditto on the TM3 and the ion detector.

I have, though, recorded several very interesting sounds.  EVPs, in the parlance of the paranormal.  Electronic Voice Phenomena.  And believe me, I was shocked when I heard what sounded like actual voices on recordings I made, when I knew I was alone in a quiet graveyard.

To make things even weirder, I tried recording EVPs in less spooky locales.  The warehouse at work.  My patio.  My office.  Here, in my study.

Not once have I picked up an EVP anywhere but a cemetery.

Now, when I say voices, I don't mean perfectly clear words of the 'Hi, my name is Bob, you're standing on my grave, you idiot' variety.

They've faint.  They're indistinct.  Some are little more than distant murmuring.

Take this one, for instance.  I was in a tiny old cemetery in Tula Mississippi.  My wife and I were the only people for miles.  She wasn't speaking.  And yet on playback I clearly heard a conversation taking place nearby, even though no one was there.

I'll upload the audio clip to my site and post a link to it.  If you've got headphones, use them, and crank the volume.  It's very short -- I only included the actual EVP.  And no, I won't play any silly jokes like inserting a loud BOO or anything like that.

Here is the file:

Voices in Tula Cemetery

If you've got ghostly photos, stories, or EVPs of your own, I'd love to see or hear them.  Email me at franktuttle@franktuttle.com!

Finally, what would a blog be without a pitch for my new book, which you can get from Amazon for your Kindle here, or in epub for your Nook or other device here!

Go on, you know you want a copy.  And if you listen really closely to the voices in the EVP, that's what they're saying..."buy the boooooooooook..."

Yet Another Contest!

Time for another contest!

The prize this time is a free copy of my new book, All the Paths of Shadow, in either Mobi or epub format (your choice).  Amazon's Kindle can read Mobi, and pretty much everything else can read epub, so you're covered either way.

This contest is a bit more involved than my usual first-ten-to-reply win.  Because this time I'm going to ask you a question, and only the first five correct entries get the book.  The question isn't hard.  In fact, it's easily found somewhere in the free sample Amazon will happily provide from you here.

The question is this:  How many eyes does Mug have?

And the answer can be found by downloading the free sample.  I promise it's in there.  And it's not hidden, concealed, or otherwise obscured.  It's plainly stated.  In whole numbers.  No math involved.

When you have the answer, just email me at franktuttle@franktuttle.com.

Couldn't be easier.

Is this simply a ploy to get people looking at the book and possibly downloading the sample?

Well of course it bloody well is!  But I am giving away free stuff.  Cutting my own throat, I am, as Dibbler would say (bonus points to anyone who can identify that reference).  All I ask is that if you do win, and you do like the book, drop me a line or two of glowing praise on Amazon!  Books live or die by reviews and word of mouth, and I'm not too proud to beg.  Or wheedle.  Or whine, if that will get results.

So grab the free sample, find the answer to the question (How many eyes does Mug have?), and email it to me.

Ready -- GO!

Happy Endings

Not every book has a happy ending.

Good books have satisfying endings, whether they're happy ones or not.  If the hero or heroine dies a good death, if you close the book saddened but satisfied, then it's still a good ending, even if everyone fails to live by the happily ever after rule.

I've not been brave enough to kill off any of my major characters.  Well, I did once, but after my editor explained why that was a Bad Move, I repented and rewrote.  Which is a good thing, because had I not the series would truly have suffered.

But that doesn't mean every character lives, or meets a good end.  You can't write about detectives, even fantasy ones, without the odd bit of murder here and there.

But of all the many hapless characters I have dispatched over the years, one stands out.  He was called Stick, and he makes his first and final appearance in a Markhat novella, The Cadaver Client.

In the story, Stick is a weed addict.  Weed in Markhat's world is a powerfully addictive drug, easily obtained, rather like ice and meth in our own world.  And like meth, from the first time a user tries the drug, his or her whole life is centered around getting more weed.  Nothing else matters but the next puff.  Weedheads quickly forget who they were, and pay no mind to what they have become.  For a weedhead, there is no future. They just want more weed, and they want it now.

Markhat hopes enough of Stick is left to remember something from his past.  So Markhat seeks him out, and finds him, and -- well, read for yourself.  The whole scene is below.  It's always been one of my favorites, and I hope you enjoy it too.

FROM THE CADAVER CLIENT:


The bathhouse attendant, a blind old man named Waters, gathered up Stick's clothes with the end of his cane and without a word hurled them into the furnace.

"That there man stinks," offered Waters. "Use all that soap. I'll go fetch more."

And off he went grimacing and muttering.

I gave Stick a couple of good hard slaps, which roused him to mutter but not open his eyes.

So I hauled him up by the scruff of his neck and simply tossed his ugly naked butt into the big hot copper bathtub.

 Three-leg Cat couldn't have put on a better show of flailing and howling and sputtering. I put my right hand on his head and pushed him back under briefly.

"Good morning, Mr. Stick." I had him by the hair, and though he punched and struggled all he did was splash. "It's bath day. If you behave yourself, it'll also be breakfast day. If you keep making a ruckus, well…"

I put him under again. The water, I noted, was turning muddy.

But at least it was cutting down the smell. Waters arrived as I let Stick back up for air and dumped a bowl of something fragrant into the tub.

"Gonna need more of that," he opined, before shuffling off again.

Stick was furious, but beginning to wake up. He quit trying to punch me, and a ghost of recognition flashed across his face.

"You."

"Me," I agreed. "The finder? The one with the coin? The one who wants to know all about Cawling Street and a woman named Marris Sellway? Ring any bells, Stick?"

"You said you pay."

"I did. And I will. But first you're going to get yourself clean. And then you're going to eat. And then you and I are going to sit and talk about the Bloods and Cawling and Marris. Got it?"

Stick closed his eyes and brought up his hands to run water over his face.

"Got it."

I let go of his head and tossed him a bar of soap. "Waters here did your clothes a favor and burned them. I'm going to go back to my place and get you some of mine. If you want the coin you'll be here when I get back. You do want the coin, don't you, Stick?"

The weed-lust in his eyes was the only reply I needed.

"Don't make trouble for Waters, you hear?"

"I hear."

I told Waters what I was doing on my way out. My place is just a short walk away, and I swear I could still smell Stick in the still early morning air all the way back to my door.

I found an old shirt and an old pair of brown trousers and a pair of socks with holes in the toes under my bed. They bore the faint aroma of Three-Leg, who had apparently been using them as a bed, but even so they were a vast improvement on anything Stick was likely to ever own again.

A pair of old black shoes, soles worn paper thin, completed Stick's new ensemble. I gathered them all and headed back, more worried about Waters and the possible application of his cane to Stick's head than I was about anything Stick might decide to do.

Mama popped out of her door as I neared.

"No time now, Mama," I said. "Bath emergency."

Mama eyed my bundle wrinkled her nose at me. "Something stinks. Come back around when ye finish your doings. Got some things to say."

Don't you always, I thought. But I just nodded and kept that to myself.

Stick was still in the bathtub when I got back. Waters had near-empty bottles of bath salts lined up by the tub, and he was emptying the dregs from each one onto Stick.

He had at least managed to knock the smell down.

"Gonna have to charge you double, Markhat. Can't use this water for nothin' but fertilizing flowers."
"Not a problem." I put the clothes down where Stick could see them. I think he muttered a toothless thank you.
Beneath the grime and the filth, Stick looked thin and pale and weary. And no amount of bath salts was going to wash that yellow skin away, or heal those open sores.

I paid Waters and got Stick dried off and dressed. The man had to have help getting shoes on. He simply couldn't operate more than two fingers at a time.

We left the bathhouse to the sound of Waters draining the tub and burning the towels.



 "You're bathed. You're fed. Now let's talk about Cawling Street and Marris Sellway."

Stick swallowed the last bite of biscuit and washed it down with water. I'd never seen a toothless man eat a slice of baked ham before. I hoped I never did again.

"She lived in old Number Six. Up top. Nice lady. Baked us bread when she had extra."

I nodded. Number Six hadn't been on the waybill either.

"What did she do for a living, Stick?

He looked confused by the very concept.

"Did she have a job? Did she take in laundry or sewing?"

"She sewed some," said Stick. "I remember. She sewed some."

"That's good, Stick. That's very good." I shoved another biscuit his way. "Now tell me about her husband. Did you know him too?"

Stick had half a dry biscuit in his mouth and he nearly choked trying to reply.

"No husband," he finally choked out. "Dead. Dead and gone."

I frowned. But maybe that's what she told people, when he didn't come home.

"Died in the War?"

Stick shook his head no. Biscuit crumbs went flying.

"Kilt in a bread riot. Stabbed in the street. We brung him home. She cried and cried."

Something in the back of my mind said, softly but plain, I told you so.

"What? Tell me again. And tell me who died, and who you brought home."

Stick rubbed his chin. "Mr. Sellway. Got hisself stabbed dead in a bread riot down on Forge. We found him, brought him home. Me and Eggs and Lark and Stubby. Mrs. Sellway. Marris. She cried and cried."

Bread riot. The last one had been on Midsummer Eve, a year before the War ended.

Which meant my dead client—or Granny Knot—was lying through his metaphorical teeth.

"Army wouldn't take him. Mr. Sellway. He had a bad leg. Bad hand, too, all twisted up." Stick curled his right hand into a claw and held it limp at his side. "We didn't know what to do. She just stood there crying and screamin'. Eggs started cryin' too. Lark took off. Me and Stubby wound up sitting with her 'til the dead wagons came. She had to let him burn. Couldn't afford no burial. Can I have another biscuit?"

"Are you telling me the truth, Stick?"

Stick tilted his head, genuinely confused. "I think so. Is that not what happened?"

I looked into his yellowed, rheumy eyes, and I realized he no longer had the capacity to create such an elaborate lie.

"I'm sure it is, Stick. Here, have two."

I sat back and watched him gobble down a week's worth of food. Tears ran down his cheeks, from what I couldn't discern.

"What happened to the lady after that, Stick? What did she do? Where did she go?"

Stick gobbled and nodded. "Heard she took up with some other fella," he said. "Or something. Moved after the second fire. Up and took off, left her door wide open. Don't know about that." His face clouded. "War ended, them soldiers came. Lark dead. Eggs dead. Stubby…"

He teared up again. I tossed him my last biscuit. He gummed it and gobbled like he'd not just eaten six of its kin.

"So let me get this straight. Her husband died in a bread riot a year before the War ended. She was seeing another man shortly after. Then came the fires, and she left in a hurry. Is that about right?"

"About."

"Any idea who this second man was? A name?"

Stick shook his head. "Don't know," he said. Worry creased his brow. "Sorry. Don't know."

"Doesn't matter. You've told me what I needed to know."

"I get the coin? The twenty crowns?"

"That was the deal. You did your part. I'll do mine."

I flipped him a single Old Kingdom gold crown. He could buy a decent place to sleep with that, for a month, and food, and clothes, and maybe even a middling good set of carved oak false teeth.

Or he could blow it all on weed and vein and whatever other drugs were in vogue, and wind up encrusted in his own wastes and drooling before the Curfew bell rang again.

It took Stick a long time to count the single coin he gripped in his skeletal hand and realize that one coin was, just possibly, fewer than twenty.

His face darkened.

"You said twenty."

"I didn't say all at once." I pulled my Army knife out and stuck it point-first in my desk. Weedheads don't respond to subtlety.

"We both know what'll happen to you if you walk out of here with twenty gold crowns in your pocket, Stick. You got a place? You got a bank? Have you got so much as a sack to keep your money in?"

"I want my money."

"Those pants your wearing have holes in both pockets. So that coin will do you for today. I'm going to put the rest in a bank, Stick. They'll keep it safe for you, and you can take all of it out, if you want. I hope you won't. I hope you'll clean yourself up and get off the weed and have what's left of your life. I doubt that'll happen. I figure you'll march into whatever bank I choose and take all of it out and you'll be dead before you spend a tenth of it. But that's your decision. This is mine."

He eyed me and eyed the knife and finally his eyes fell on the crown in his palm.

"This is a lot of money," he said.

"Enough to buy you a brand new life. Come back around before Curfew. I'll tell you where your bank is, give you the bank chit so you can get to the rest anytime. Deal?"

Maybe, just for an instant, Stick really meant to start over. Maybe he realized what a stroke of rare good fortune had befallen him, and maybe he meant to turn his miserable life around.

He stood. He looked me in the eye. And after I stood, too, he shook my hand.

"Thanks," he said. "I mean it."

And then he was gone.

I did all that, by the way. I went to Crowther and Sons. I opened an account in the name of Mr. Stick. I deposited the nineteen gold crowns. I had the bankers make up a chit just for Stick, made them promise not to throw him out even if he stank, and I put Stick's bank chit in my pocket.

Stick never returned. The chit is in my desk, waiting for him. I suspect it will wait forever.

Even rare good fortune can be too little and too late.

END EXCERPT

Poor Stick.  I've always felt sorry for him.  There was a decent person in there, under the grime and the weed.

You can get The Cadaver Client in Kindle format from Amazon by clicking here.  You can get it in any other format by clicking here.

And I'd be remiss if I didn't plug my latest book, a light-hearted fantasy entitled All the Paths of Shadow available in any format from the publisher here.