Independence Maul

As a treat for Secret Dead Blog readers everywhere, I took a moment at lunch today to snap a camera phone image of Independence Mall, arguably Philadelphia's finest tourist attraction. I stood on the northeast corner of 5th and Market and snapped the image you see above.

Immediately, a black van came screeching to a halt to my left. I turned, and a black hood was thrown over my head. The fabric was rough and smelled like a cocktail of blood, sweat and human desperation. A couple of kidney punches and one brutal blow to the head later, I woke up in the sub-basement of what I could only assume was an anonymous government building in downtown Philadelphia. I was bound to a chair, arms behind my back, with my face resting in a strange bit of head gear, not unlike the set up you'd find at an optician's office. My eyelids were clamped open, which gave me the weird sensation of waking up without ever having opened my eyes. Three men in identical black suits and white shirts were standing around, and questions began immediately. What is your interest in Independence Mall? Do you visit it often? Where were you thinking of going to lunch? And, by chance, were you thinking of ordering mustard? Do you like mustard? Do you think of mustard when you think of the Liberty Bell? Who said anything about a Liberty Bell? Were you thinking of blowing up the Liberty Bell? Would you eat mustard afterwards by way of celebration after blowing up the Liberty Bell? The one on the right, who looked a lot like Paul Giamatti, only he spoke in a crisp British accent, moved his arm toward me. It took a few seconds to realize that he had gently sliced my eyelid, and now, I was looking at him a crimson haze, and soon the effect was startling, like I was actually drowning in a lake of my own blood, and they started in with the mustard questions again...

Okay, that's not really what happened. But it could have. The whole place had that vibe today.

So at great risk, I bring you the above photo. I hope you enjoy it.

Black Tuesday

Here's a photo of my desk at the City Paper yesterday morning. It's still early, but already, it's damn near smothered in page proofs. This is why I refer to every single Tuesday as "Black Tuesday." (We publish 52 issues a year. Like the Pinkertons, we never sleep.)

I read everything in the paper at least twice -- once early in the process, so I can make some editor's notes -- and then at very end of the process, when I look at page proofs, searching for obvious mistakes. We ship the paper at high noon on Wednesdays, so Black Tuesday becomes the day when I read almost everything in page proofs. By day's end, I'm ready to remove my eyeballs from their sockets and place them in mason jars.

(Okay, okay, I posted this entry mostly to see if a photo I took with my cameraphone would work using blogger's new "upload photo" feature. We'll see if it does...)

A Message to You, (El) Jefe

When I'm not busy reprogramming my children (see previous post), I've been booking dates for The Wheelman Tour '05, which may or may not be subtitled, "Brakes? We Don't Need No Stinkin' Brakes!"

I'll reveal the full tour schedule soon, but I thought I'd mention one stop in particular:

November 5th, I'll be at Mysteries To Die For in Thousand Oaks, just outside L.A., home of our favorite Crime Dawg and Cabana Boy, Aldo Calcagno.

Still up for that home invasion, El Jefe?

It's been years since I've visited L.A., and I'm very much looking forward to returning. Special thanks to Terrill Lankford, author of the excellent Earthquake Weather (now in affordable paperback) and its sequel, Blonde Lightning (now in collectible hardcover) for helping me set it up.

A New Hope: Claiming a Small, Yet Important, Victory in the Battle to Turn My Children Away from the Dark Side of the Force (i.e., Country Music)

I've been trying to reprogram my children's musical tastes, feeding them a steady diet of classic and modern rock whenever possible. At long last, I can report real progress.

Today, the Bride and the kids picked me up from the train station. We stopped at Blockbuster, and the Bride ran inside to rent a copy of The L Word (for her) and Things to Do In Denver When You're Dead (for me). The radio was set to 92.5 WXTU, Philly's only country station. I seized the opportunity like George W. seizing a pretext to wage war in the Middle East. I punched buttons wildly. After a few seconds, the chorus of the Foo Fighters' "The Best of You" filled the car.

"Daddy!" Parker called from his car seat. "Leave that on."

"Leave what on?" I asked, baiting him.

"The Best Of You."

He remembered it. He actually remembered it from our car trip to the library this Saturday afternoon, where we feasted upon the audio delights of Fountains of Wayne, Queens of the Stone Age, the Stones, Blondie and yes, the Foo Fighters... far, far away from his mother's Sith-like musical influences.

This is only the beginning. I won't completely rest until Sarah is hoisting the car lighter and asking for the "motherfucking Clash."

The Writing Life

Regular readers of this here blog (yes, all three of you... no, I didn't forget about you Joe Bob, nor you Sue Ellen May... tell your mother thanks for the chicken soup) know that I don't blog about my day-to-day writing triumphs or setbacks. You know, stuff like, Wrote 33,000 words today, and that was before breakfast... booyah, beeatch!

That stuff is fine, and it appeals to writers with a competitive streak. (In other words, all of us.) But it's not something I'm comfortable blogging about. The jinx factor is one thing. Even if I were to one day crank out 33,000 words before my first bowl of Lucky Charms, I'd no doubt blow some kind of circuit, kick-starting a 14-year funk, ending only when Sarah Weinman e-mails me as part of her long-running series "The Really Forgotten: Writers So Damned Obscure, They Haven't Even Heard of Themselves."

Also, I think writing is like sex with someone not exactly attractive: the magic can only happen when the lights are out. And the last thing you want to do is go telling everybody about it.

That said, I am comfortable in saying that I haven't blogged all week because I'm deep... real deep (pardon the unfortunate metaphor)... into novel #3, and it's asorbing every square inch of my free time. I'm very happy with novel #3 so far, because it's forcing me to flex different muscles than I did with The Wheelman. Which is my main goal as a writer. Improve with each book, and maybe by the time book #10 or #11 rolls around, I'll actually know what I'm doing.

So while this new one is a lot like The Wheelman (fast-moving, a crime thriller, set in Philly), it's also wrought with more challenges and writerly "special effects." That is, narrative shit I haven't tried before. Otherwise, what's the point?

And at the same time, I know it's a book I'm ready to do. I have a long list of novels I want to write someday, and I have them ranked by difficulty. For instance, there's a horror novel I want to tackle, but there's no way I'm going to be able to write it before I turn 40. I just know me. I can't pull it off yet. I am mere grasshopper; this mofo's going to require a Kung Fu Master.

My God. I've done it. An actual blog entry about writing. Maybe I'll try it again soon.

Maybe I'll work up enough nerve to leave the lights on next time.

(Nah.)

Everything Is All White

Remember that "certain Honorary Brain Hotel resident" I mentioned last week? The one who also has a story in The Adventure of the Missing Detective and 25 of the Year's Finest Mystery and Crime Stories?

That person would be Dave White, who blogs about it here. Big congrats to Mr. White. I'm so damned proud, I won't make a single Paul Giamatti crack.

Long before I knew Dave, I read his story "Closure" at Thrilling Detective, and I immediately wondered: Who is this punk kid? And how come he's so damned talented? Years later, I realize that "Closure" was no fluke, and this latest honor is merely a glimpse of the many great things to follow.

My glass of merlot* is raised to you, good sir.

(*Whoops! Sorry!)

Sarah's 2nd Birthday Party: Totally Buggin'

Strange thing, this getting older. One day, "party planning" means having enough rum, condoms and Jimmy Buffett albums; the next, it's making sure you have enough sippy cups and plastic ladybug headgear that blinks.

Today, we threw Sarah's 2nd birthday party at home.

Sarah is fond of ladybugs, so The Bride ordered a bunch of ladybug-themed party supplies: banners, cake decorations, balloons, as well as that aforementioned blinking headgear. Doesn't it seem odd that certain members of the insect kingdom -- ladybugs, catepillars, bumblebees -- are considered "appropriate" for children's parties, while others are left in the cold? I mean, when's the last time somebody threw a Vietnamese Hissing Cockroach-themed party for their toddler?

Anyway, about an hour before the party, I ran the last errand: pick up the cake from the supermarket. Easy enough, right? The guy at the bakery counter asked me for the name on the cake, and I told him. He checked, then carried over this massive, blown-out pink box that looked like it had been used to transport heavy artillery to Kabul. I flipped open the lid; the cake looked fine. "Happy Birthday Sarah." Spelled the right way.

But something else seemed off. The top was adorned with butter-cream butterflies (yeah, another "safe" insect for children's parties). I distinctly remembered that The Bride had requested the top of the cake to resemble grass, so that she could place the ladybug cake decorations all over it.

I would have argued, but it was hot, and I was running out of time. Butterflies it was. I drove back home to discover my mother-in-law had arrived early. Yay!

Showed the cake to The Bride. She shook her head. "Nope, this is the wrong cake." She didn't ask for butterflies. She wanted grass. The fact that this was the wrong cake was confirmed at 4 p.m., when we sang "Happy Birthday" and cut into the cake, revealing it was vanilla layer -- not marble, as The Bride had requested.

Sarah loved it anyway; I've never seen her smile like she did today. She was in her glory all day long.

But I can't help but think about the other Sarah, somewhere in the City of Philadelphia, celebrating her birthday, and wondering how she wound up with a marble cake with a fucking lawn on top.

Sarah Turns Two

Two years ago today, the girl who will someday break my heart was born. Here's the e-mail I sent out to family and friends back then:

Ladies and gentlemen, let's have a warm welcome for Sarah Evelyn Swierczynski.

Born July 15th at 8:57 p.m., Miss Swierczynski opted for the old-fashioned entrance into the world, unlike her brother Parker. "He couldn't take it, but I said, bring the pain," said Sarah during a brief post-birth press conference. Weighingin at 8 pounds, 13 ounces, and measuring an astounding 21 and a quarter inches, Sarah added: "I hear my so-called 'big' brother was barely seven pounds at birth. Boy, is he in for a rude awakening. There's a new boss in town,and I'm not talking about Bruce Springsteen." (Parker Swierczynski, away on retreat, was unavailable for comment.)

Sarah's mom is recovering nicely after a birth process that featured more gruesome special effects and jaw-dropping shocks than The Matrix Reloaded. Sarah's dad is presumed stable, although doctors had to remove him from the floor after he passed out, muttering something about "oh my God, the placenta."

I wasn't kidding about that last part. While Parker was delivered like a slice of toast (c-section), the Bride decided to try the conventional method the next time around. And while childbirth is a wonderful, life-affirming thing, it was also the most horrifying event I've ever witnessed.

Come to think of it, the bit about Sarah being the new boss wasn't too far off the mark, either.

Happy Birthday to my sweet, smart, fearless, country-music-lovin' daughter.

Just Asking!

WHY was your humble narrator up close and personal with an anatomically-correct blow-up sex doll this week? Find out here!



WHO complained about the smell of trash lingering in his car for days on end? His name is right here!

WHAT made my day yesterday? Read it right here!

(Kind of stumped on WHEN and WHERE questions at the moment. Sorry.)

Cover Gold

Amazon recently posted the cover to The Adventure of the Missing Detective and 25 of the Year's Finest Mystery and Crime Stories, edited by Ed Gorman and Martin H. Greenberg. This is where my story, "Hilly Palmer's Last Case" (originally from Plots With Guns) will appear.

But even if I didn't have a story in this book... even if it caused static cling and told lies about my mother... I'd still be deeply in love with this cover.

I mean, look at it:



Retro-pulp in all the right ways. Sharper than Stephen J. Hawking. Sweeter than Jennifer Connelly's smile. I'm absolutely drooling. Especially when I see the all-star lineup listed on that same cover.

In Breaking News: Word on the street has it that a certain Honorary Brain Hotel Resident -- see column at right, and scroll down -- will also have a story in this anthology. No, I'm not referring to Laura Lippman. (She's on the cover... like, duh!) Somebody else. Someone who... I will say no more. When this person is ready, this person will announce the news on this person's blog. If they even have a blog. I'm just not sayin'.

(Christ, this blind item stuff is hard!)

Anyway... it's July. But it's never to early to pre-order this sure-to-be-wonderful anthology, out in time for the holidays.

Proof My Children Have Been Listening to Wayyy Too Much Country Music

Tonight, at the dinner table, my daughter Sarah started singing: "Jolene... please don't take my man."

She's not even two years old.

I think an intervention is in order.

The McLemee Meme

A few days ago, Edward Pettit, one of the co-masters of The Bibliothecary Blog, invited me to take part in a meme. My first meme! I've been hanging along the wall of the gymnasium for months now, just hoping someone would ask me.

Anyway, Edward wrote:

Recently, Scott McLemee who writes the Intellectual Affairs column for Inside Higher Ed started a blog meme and tagged myself among others to continue it.  In turn, we have been asked to tag others.  I would love it if you could do it (and in turn tag a few others).

I certainly do that. I thereby tag Mr. Ray Banks, Mr. Dave White, Ms. Sarah Weinman, Mr. Paul Guyot and Ms. Christin Kuretich. Go on. I double-dog dare ya.

Here the questions, along with my answers:

(1) Imagine it’s 2015. You are visiting the library at a major research university. You go over to a computer terminal (or whatever it is they use in 2015) that gives you immediate access to any book or journal article on any topic you want. What do you look up? In other words, what do you hope somebody will have written in the meantime?

Hopefully, within 10 years, Charles Ardai over at Hard Case will have gotten his act together (kidding, Charles, kidding!) and republished every lost noir classic that I've been trying to track down, such as Black Wings Have My Angel and David Goodis' Fire in the Flesh. Come to think of it, the Complete Goodis would be nice, too, as would the Complete Charles Williams, the Complete Wade Miller, the Complete Day Keene and the Complete Gil Brewer. Oh, and the Goodis biography finally translated into English would be groovy.

And I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't check my own name. Though I'm sure the joke would be on me, and I'd discover that I'd written books with titles like California Sex Lawyer, Put a Little Love In Your Heart: The Jackie DeShannon Story and The Wheelman 2: Electric Boogaloo.

(2) What is the strangest thing you’ve ever heard or seen at a conference? No names, please. Refer to “Professor X” or “Ms. Y” if you must. Double credit if you were directly affected. Triple if you then said or did something equally weird.

This is easy. I've only been to one conference, and that was a few weeks ago. And without using names, I'd have to say it's seeing Publisher X, Classifieds Manager Y, and Editor-in-Chief Z wander into a Tijuana shithole only to be force-fed Cuervo by a voluptuous Mexican barmaid armed with a whistle and a towel. This place was so classy, it had its own mechanical bull. And even though the men's room was equipped with little more a metal trough (the bottom of which was lined with bottle caps, dessicated lime slices and cigarette cutts), the attendant manning the paper towel dispenser would frown at you if you didn't hand him a buck or two.

Yeah, that was pretty strange.

(3) Name a writer, scholar, or otherwise worthy person you admire so much that meeting him or her would probably reduce you to awestruck silence.

Donald E. West.... (shudder). See? I can't even say His Name without breaking down. Let me try it again: Donald E. Westla... ah, fuck.

(4) What are two or three blogs or other Web sites you often read that don’t seem to be on many people’s radar?

Let's see... I'm a fan of horror writer Brian Keene's blog ("Hail Saten"), which is well known in the horror community, but not too well known in mystery/crime circles. Then again, maybe it is--Brian's written a terrific heist thriller called Terminal, just out from Bantam Dell.

But the rest of my usual bookmark suspects are fairly well known (Romenesko's Media News, The New York Observer, Ed Gorman & Friends, Confessions of an Idiosyncratic Mind, etc.). I'm such a friggin lemming.

My Neighbor, Lee Marvin

Today I bought the new DVD version of the 1967 John Boorman classic, Point Blank. The cover art confirms my worst fear: my neighbor Larry looks just like Lee Marvin.



Seriously. It's damn freaky. Look at that disgruntled tough guy in the poster above. Now imagine that mug staring at you as you try to carry trash bags from the garage to the front of the house.

"Hey, Duane, how's it going?" he says.

But really, all I can hear is: "I want my 93 grand."

It's Lee Marvin, saying hi as I clean our gas grill. It's Lee Marvin who waves at my children. Lee Marvin, taking his car out back to wash it with a cloth diaper and a bucket of soapy water.

And someday, he's going to ask for his 93 grand.

I just know it.

This Week's WTF: Andrew Vachss Special

This week, I had the opportunity to talk to Andrew Vachss about his latest novel, the excellent Hammett-esque Two Trains Running, which editor Sonny Mehta calls an "investigative novel." This intriqued me, since I split my time between journalism and this crazy crime fiction business. Can a piece of fiction also be considered journalism? I think so. But read more about my thoughts on the topic right here.

Interesting bit of trivia: On the phone, Vachss sounds an awful lot like Charlie Stella. Swear to Christ.

Ken Bruen Remembers Ed McBain

Mystery legend Ed McBain passed away yesterday afternoon following a long battle with cancer. McBain (real name: Evan Hunter) influenced countless crime writers, including Ken Bruen. Anyone who's read a Bruen novel knows that Ken loves to drop references to other crime writers. But no writer was more sacred in the Bruen canon than Ed McBain.

Late last night, I e-mailed Ken to see if he'd be willing to share his memories of McBain. Here's the response I received this morning.


ED MC BAIN HAS INFLUENCED MY READING AND WRITING LIFE FOR SO LONG, I CANT THINK OF A TIME THERE WASN'T ED

BE IT EVAN HUNTER, OR MC BAIN, HE STOOD SHOULDERS ABOVE EVERYTHING ELSE.....WHEN I FINALLY GOT TO MEET HIM, HE WAS THAT RARITY.......A TRUE GENTLE MAN AND AS I WHINED ABOUT SIGNINGS IN THE JAN WINDCHILL FACTOR, ED, VERY ILL THEN, ALWAYS SHOWED UP FOR EVERY READING, SIGNING AND SAID TO ME, MY READERS SHOW UP, YOU THINK I'M STAYING HOME?

I HAVE A PHOTO WITH HIM AND HIS HEAD IS SLIGHTLY TURNED, LISTENING TO EVERY WORD I SAID...SUCH WAS HIS WAY

HE REACHED AND TOUCHED ME IN WAYS THAT NO OTHER AUTHOR EVER DID OR WILL

IN IRISH , WE SAY, MO CROI IS BRISTE.....MY HEART IS BROKEN AND IT IS, HIS WIFE , DRAGICA, WAS SO PROTECTIVE OF HIM AND THE OBVIOUS LOVE THEY SHARED WAS SOMETHING TO WITNESS

THE BLACK ORCHID BOOKSTORE, LIKE HIS SECOND HOME WILL BE A SAD LOCATION TODAY......WHEN OTTO PENZLER TOLD ME OF ED'S PASSING, I LET OUT A HOWL OF ANGUISH AND I KNOW THAT HOWL WILL BE ECHOED AROUND THE GLOBE

HE WILL LIVE IN MY HEART, WARM, GENTLE, COMPASSIONATE AND A MEGA TALENT OF EXTRODINARY TALENT, CODLADH SAIBH MO DEARTAHIR.......SLEEP IN PEACE MY FRIEND

Just Returned Home from a Grueling Post-Holiday-Weekend Close At the Newspaper, Only To Discover My Mother-in-Law is Staying With Us For Two Days

If anybody needs me, I'll be in the garage.

Miller Time

When I find a writer I like, I get obsessive. Not Glenn Close, boil-a-bunny obsessive, but... I guess the right word is "completist." I'm overwhelmed with the urge track down everything that writer has published.

Right now, I'm crushing hard on Wade Miller.



If you're not familar with Miller's work, you soon will be. Hard Case Crime just reprinted Branded Woman this month, marking the first time Miller's been back in print in over 10 years. Of course, Gold Medal/vintage paperback/hardboiled fans (looking at you, Crider and Guthrie) will be extremely familiar with Miller, and know the basics:

Wade Miller is the pseudonym of two writers, Robert Wade and Bill Miller. (Thank God they weren't named Goldblatt and Wojciechowski.) Friends since childhood as well as World War II vets, Wade and Miller were probably best known for their hardboiled series about a San Diego private eye named Max Thursday. The Thursday novels are very well done--they're surprisingly dark and brutal. But they also wrote dozens of stand-alones, and these are the books I've been flipping over.

Take Branded Woman, a fast-moving, whip-smart thriller about a female smuggler named Cay Morgan who was completely dicked over by a business competitor. And by "dicked over," I mean the guy branded her friggin' forehead with a "T." Not cool. (It pretty much dooms our heroine to a life of wearing bangs.) But watching her seek revenge was the greatest thrill ride I've taken since The Bride and I hunkered down to watch our Alias Season 2 and 3 DVDs. Do yourself a favor. Spend the six bucks and enjoy a long hot summer afternoon with Ms. Morgan.

I was happy to discover that this novel was no fluke. After enjoying two Max Thursdays (Calamity Fair and Murder Charge) during my recent trip to San Diego, I hit ABEbooks. Hard. I always cringe when I tell The Bride how much I spend on books in a given week... okay, that's not true. I can't bring myself to tell her, so I leave her notes. And hope she won't yell at me.

But yeah, I found a shop in Massachusetts that had a virtual case of Miller, so I ordered up The Killer, Kitten With a Whip, Uneasy Street and Devil May Care, the latter of which was just as blistering as Branded Woman. In this one, a soldier-of-fortune named Biggo Venn (what a name, right?) has to travel down to old Meh-hee-ko to deliver a precious document to a fugitive from the law. Of course, such missions are never what they seem, especially when a rival shows up to get Biggo's panties in a bunch. Classic, classic stuff.

So now I'm jonesin'. I've ordered even more Wade Millers (sorry, my Bride) and figure I'll start tracking down Wade Miller's other psuedonyms (Whit Masterson, Dale Wilmer, Will Daemer) soon enough.

I'm happy to report that Robert Wade is still with us, and writing a monthly mystery review column for his hometown paper, the San Diego Union-Tribune. (Tragically, his partner Bill Miller died from a heart attack at age 41.) For a great essay about Wade Miller, check out Ed Lynskey's "A One-Two Punch: The Author Duo of Wade Miller" at Sunshine's Noir Originals site.

Live from Philadelphia

Here I am, trying to get some writing done, and all I hear is the sound of cheering crowds and like, all this rock and roll music. What the hell is going on? Pretty soon I'm going to go outside and tell those kids to pipe down already. The grown-ups have work to do.

Just messin' with you guys. Happy Live8 to all, and to all a good holiday weekend.

(Note to Sunshine: We're still on for that bet. You show your white butt painted with the phrase "Bollocks to G8" on international TV in Scotland, I'll do the same on this end... so to speak... in Philly.)

Update: In-Home Book Signings

Leave it to Ken Bruen to come up with the perfect name for doing a book reading/signing in someone's private residence. Especially if the author is a crime novelist.

Henceforth, they shall be known as:

Home Invasions.

There's a reason this man is Pope.

Drinking the Days Away

Yes, the rumors are true. Hide your women and children: they've turned The Big Book O' Beer into a desk calendar. And it goes on sale today.

You can check out the front of the box here, and the back right here.

I've gotta say, I'm very pleased with what Quirk Books has done with my stuff over the past few years. So far, my work has been turned into a poster, translated into two foreign editions, and now, this desk calendar thing.

(Of course, I won't be truly happy until there are action figures.)