Piss and Gasoline

Just wasted an hour of my life watching Bush's "State of the Union" speech. Maybe it's just me, but isn't Bush declaring that "America is addicted to oil" a bit like Stephen King complaining that "America is addicted to books"? Or a street corner pimp whining that "America is addicted to pussy?" If you used to deal it, you shouldn't be allowed to complain about people being hooked on it.

Another thing that bothered me was the constant affirmation. Bush barely squeaks out a sentence, and then everybody's standing up and clapping. I know this is part of the whole "State of the Union" schtick, but for Christ's sake... it makes us look like a nation of needy idiots. I wish I had a built-in studio audience whenever I had something important to say. "Now is the time to empty my bladder." (Wild applause.) "Until my bladder is empty, I will have no peace... not now, not ever." (Exuberant applause.) "So here I go, upstairs to the bathroom, to empty my bladder." (Wild, insane applause; babies crying; women weeping; men pounding their chests.)

Secret Dead Blog is cranky this evening.

Barnes Storming

Yesterday's Barnes & Noble table signing (not to be confused with a "table dance") in Jenkintown, PA was a mixed bag. On one hand, I only managed to hand-sell six copies of The Wheelman... which was a far cry from the 24 copies the store had ordered. On the other hand, I had the chance to talk to some really cool people.

First was Edward Pettit, who runs the newly re-launched Bibliothecary blog. A few cool things about Ed that I didn't realize: a.) He lives right there in Jenkintown, b.) he's a a graduate of La Salle University, my alma mater, and c.) he has five daughters. Five! Anyway, Ed made me look very important and cool by his very presence.

I also talked Ed into buying a copy of Ken Bruen's The Guards; he was torn between that and a vastly inferior crime novel. (Ed... was I right or was I right?)

Then came Marc Lombardi, former Philly Mag intern extraordinaire (circa 1996), who brought with him a copy of Charles Willeford's Pick-Up that I'd loaned him back in... well, I guess it was 1996. It's a sweet Black Lizard edition I completely forgot I owned at some point. In fact, I feel funny having it back. If anyone wants to borrow it, shoot me an e-mail.

A short while later, a stern-looking man approached. Picked up the book. Eyed it. Said: "You're selling these, huh?"

I gave him my usual wisecrack: "Hey, you could steal it if you want. Either way, it counts as a sale!"

"He'd better not," said his wife, standing next to him. "He's a cop."

Not just a cop, but a retired Philly homicide detective named David Clark. And hot just a retired homicide detective, but a guy who has spent the last 18 months training new police officers in Iraq. Yeah. A real hardboiled type, right there in the flesh. The reporter in me fell in love; this was a man I needed to take to lunch. We talked about W.E.B. Griffin, and then Stephen King (not that King needs it, but I found myself recommending his latest, Cell, to pretty much everyone who stopped at my table). Best of all, Mr. Clark purchased a copy of The Wheelman. Of course, now I'm a bit worried he'll think it's full of shit and decide to arrest me, just to teach me a lesson.

There were some odd moments... like the woman who walked up to my table, picked up a copy of the book, sighed, then said "Okay, I guess I'll buy it."

"Great," I said. "Would you like me to sign it?"

Her eyes narrowed. What kind of scam was I pulling?

"It'll be worth 35 cents more that way, when you sell it on eBay later."

She was skeptical, but allowed me to sign it anyway.

Later still, a guy walked by, said: "Hey, how's your book?"

"Excellent," I lied.

"Hah! You're biased, aren't you?"

"Could be worse," I said. "I could be James Frey."

Thanks to everyone who stopped by to talk. Even if you didn't buy a book. Remember: you can always steal the thing.

Sunshine Across the Land

That's right. See that smiling, apple-cheeked lad at left? You're looking at an Edgar nominee. Uh-huh. Damn straight yo. Earlier today, Al Guthrie's Kiss Her Goodbye was nominated for the Edgar in the category of Best Paperback Original. I couldn't be more proud. Personally, I think everything Al writes should be nominated for every possible award, including the Pulitzer and the Oscar and the "Most Improved Hygiene" Award they give out at the dentist's office over at the Roosevelt Mall. But the Edgar... hell. In the mystery field, it just doesn't get any bigger. The only thing better than telling Parker and Sarah tomorrow morning that their Uncle Al is an Edgar nominee? Being able to tell them that Uncle Al is an Edgar winner a few months from now.

This Weekend (and Next): Mayhem in Milwaukee!

Well maybe not literal mayhem. Like, sawed-off body parts and arterial spray-style mayhem. But with Bryon Quertermous and Christin "BFF" Kuretich in the equation, anything's possible.

Tomorrow morning I fly out to Milwaukee, where I'll be doing a reading/signing thing at Mystery One, and then hanging out with my gracious hosts, Jon and Ruth "Crimespree" Jordan (and Jennifer "Fuck Noir" Jordan). The signing starts at 2 p.m., so if you're anywhere near the greater Milwaukee area, and have some free time, and want to hear about this new "Wheelman" craze all the young kids are talking about, stop on by: 2109 N. Prospect Avenue.

And if you're still in the greater Milwaukee area next week, you're in for a treat, because Sean "Rain Dogs" Doolittle and Neil "Oh Look At Me, I've Got a Cool New Blog, Even Though I'm Not Calling it a Blog" Smith will be in town. Catch the alpha crimedogs next Saturday at 11 a.m.

Finally, please indulge me in three pieces of shameless self-promotion. But these are too cool not to mention. Honest.

1. I've made a bestseller list. No, not that NYT one. Or the PW one. Or the USA Today one. It's even better: The Wheelman hit #3 on the December Hardcover Bestsellers list at the Mysterious Bookshop. I'm still pretty stunned, and not entirely convinced there wasn't a miscount or something... but heck, I'll take it. Huge thanks to Otto, Hillary and the gang, who are apparently hand-selling the novel at gunpoint.

2. There's a very cool review of ol' Wheels at Mystery Scene magazine. Most blurbworthy moment: "Swierczynski has devised a double-jointed plot that twists and turns so furiously he could take the gold if contortionists competed in the Olympics."

3. And Sharon Wheeler at Reviewing the Evidence.com has some really groovy things to say about the novel: "There are no conventional goodies here, and you'll spend the book trying to work out who's badder than the rest!" She also includes the best casting suggestions I've heard in a while: Stephen Rea as Lennon, and Dennis Hopper as Saugherty. (They're a bit older than the characters I'd envisioned, but you can't go wrong with Hopper. ) Thanks, Sharon.

Juror #13

That was me yesterday.

I sat there among my peers, hoping for a criminal trial. After all, I'm a crime novelist. If I'm going to be in a courtroom all day, might as well have it be something that will come in handy someday, right? The panels were assembled fast and furious: Criminal trial, panel of 60. Criminal trial, panel of 25. Criminal trial, panel of 40. (Business is apparently brisk in Philly.) But as the herd was thinned, I started to worry. What if they ran out of criminal trials?

And of course, they did. "Civil trial, panel of 20." I was #13. Crap.

This also meant we had to trudge to City Hall across the street, in the howling, pissing rain. And then take the elevator up to the sixth floor. And sit in the jury box. And wait. And wait...

The Bailiff-looking guy collected our questionnaires (which he pronounced, "question-ears"); told us it would be about 15 more minutes. That turned into 50 minutes, with the lawyers looking at us, talking to each other, stepping out of the courtroom, looking at us some more. Ho hum. I read the last 50 pages of Charlie Huston's Already Dead (which was really excellent; like I Am Legend, Huston's book is rich with a vampire mythology that makes total sense and is screamingly clever). I took a careful look at the courtroom, and realized that a determined sniper could take a room at the luxury hotel across the street and make easy pickings of any judge who sat behind this particular bench. Then I read the first chapter of Sara Gran's Dope and tearing into the next when the bailiff guy came back.

The case had been settled. Apparently, we intimidated the shit out of them.

It was 11 a.m. We were told to break for lunch now and report back by 12:30. I retrieved my cell phone--they make you check it in at the front--then darted across the street for a BLT from Quizno's that was overly-burnt, slathered with enough mayonnaise to choke a horse, and packed with so much lettuce I could hardly find, let alone taste, any bacon. It cost $8.31. I was being paid $9 for my jury service today. Cool. I was 69 cents ahead of the game.

Got back to the courtroom by 12:15. The women in the row ahead of me were talking about a mystery novel; two of them were holding oversized postcards, showing the cover. Then it became clear that the woman next to them was the author. She turned out to be Cordelia Biddle, who co-writes a series of crossword mysteries with her husband under the name "Nero Blanc."

Yep. One jury panel, two mystery writers. (And a goddamned civil trial, to boot.) What are the odds?

Wait... it gets better. Cordelia's next book, under her own name, will be published next year by St. Martin's. (It's a dark thriller set in 1842 Philadelphia called The Conjurer.)

Yep. Two St. Martin's authors, one jury panel for a civil trial.

Clearly, this intimidated the shit out of the lawyers for the next case, because they didn't even show up, and by 1:00, the bailiff was back, saying, yeah, they settled, too. Go back to Room 101 across the street and wait for reassignment.

This gave Cordelia and I a chance to talk shop, which was very cool. We gabbed about the indie mystery bookshops we loved, the writing process, historic Philadelphia... and in the process, we somehow dodged the bullet. Everybody who was back in Room 101 was tapped for another panel except our panel. But I thought we'd done our civil duty for that day. Two cases settled in the span of a few hours? True that, double true.

Though I still would like to sit in on a criminal trial one of these days.

She's In!

Received the word yesterday: St. Martin's has officially accepted The Blonde. My editor, "Marquis" Marc Resnick, called to tell me he dug the revise and sent it through for copyediting. I responded by asking him a series of frantic, insecure questions (e.g., "You sure the part where the bus rolls over the cheerleader doused in kerosene was okay?"*), which he handled nicely.

In fact, his only suggestion was that I should lose the prologue--something new I'd cooked up. It was my favorite part of the revise, which of course means that it's probably the most suspect. (Kill your darlings, right?) I also remembered some talk about prologues a while back at Sarah's place, and the consensus seemed to be: waste of ink. It's not as if the first chapter of The Blonde takes a while to get moving; you're pretty much in the thick of things from the beginning. (The first line of the novel: "I poisoned your drink.") So I told Marc to hack off the prologue, and if I really miss it, I'll make a case for it later.

But aside from that, it's ready to roll, and now starts the process of being turned into an attractive hardcover that will hopefully hit bookstores sometime this fall. There will be a sample in trade paperback edition of The Wheelman, and in a few weeks, maybe sooner, I'll reveal the back cover copy. And maybe even that excised prologue at some point.

How am I celebrating?

Um... jury duty.

Yeah, in fact, as I post this, I'm running a little late. Gotta be at the Criminal Justice Center by 8:15.

* Note: Not a real scene from The Blonde. (Saving this for the next one.)

A Stone Cold Classic

Ed Gorman mentioned a David Morrell novel on his blog a while back, which inspired me to pick up a Morrell from my TBR pile: The Fraternity of the Stone. The first 58 pages should be handed out and used to teach a master class in suspense writing. I started it on my El ride to work last week, and I was so absorbed in Drew MacLane's escape from a monastery full of dead monks that I barely noticed that my stop was up. (Fortunately, my stop is the first one after the train plunges into darkness.)

What really impresses me is that if you boil down those 58 pages, it's relatively simple: Guy narrowly avoids death, and escapes from the bad guys. We've seen it a bazillion times. Give this plot to a mook like me, and I'd probably whip through it in 10 pages... 12 if I'm feeling poetic. But what Morrell does something pretty amazing with those first 58 pages: he creates this breakneck pace that somehow includes mutiple flashbacks, so you're delivered the bit of backstory you need, just as you need it. And this doesn't slow the pace one bit. There's not a wasted word, yet Morrell engages as many senses as possible (not just sight) to create a vivid, three dimensional world. When Drew's up in an attic, hiding out, you're almost choking on the dust along with him.

And the rest of the book, I'm happy to report, is just as enthralling.

The other writer who comes to mind (along these lines) is Thomas Perry. The opening sections of the first two Jane Whitefield novels -- Vanishing Act and Dance for the Dead -- are like the first 15 minutes of the best action flicks they never made. Utterly surprising, totally relentless.

I Received the Most Terrible News Via E-mail...

... from a lawyer in Nigeria. I'm stunned and shocked and... I almost can't bring myself to go on. Read for yourself.

Mozark Associates & Solicitors
Raymond Plaza,6th Floor Suite 26 Kola Avenue
lkeja

Dear Duane Swierczynski,

It is with trust and believe that I write to you.I am Mozark Balawa,a Barrister at Law and solicitors to the supreme court. I am the personal attorney to Mr.William .M.Swierczynski,a National of your Country,who used to work with Shell development Company here in Nigeria.

That's odd. I don't remember anybody named "William" in my family... unless he's referring to the guy who used to come around in the 1970s to sell my parents some Hawaiian Gold. We called him Uncle Billy, and he was always hungry. He would go through an entire box of Fruit Brute in one sitting, no milk, just the cereal, palmed directly into his mouth.

Could this really be Uncle Billy? Working for an oil company? Hmmm...

On the 21st of April 2003,my client,his wife and their only daughter were involved in a car accident along sagamu express road OndoState. All occupants of the vehicle unfortunately lost their lives.

Oh my God! Uncle Billy! With... a wife and daughter? Christ, it must be true. Stopped selling dope, turned his life around, settled down to a lucrative job, had a family... only to reach this tragic end.

I can't believe it.

I'm numb.

Since then I have made several enquiries to locate any of my clients extended relatives, this has also proved unsuccessful.

Uncle Billy... (sobbing)... I really didn't care you ate all of the Fruit Brute. Really. If you can hear me now, please accept my apology. Oh... oh God, it's just too much...

After these several unsuccessful attempts, I decided to track his last name over the Internet, to locate any member of his family hence I contacted you.I have contacted you to assist in recovering the consignment contained the amount valued at US$18.7 Million dollars left in a Finance House by my late client before it gets confisicated or declared unserviceable by the Finance House where this consignment contained huge amount was deposited.

Hang on. Is that all you can think about? Business? You want to put a fucking price tag on a man's soul!? I don't care if it was $18.7 BILLION fucking dollars... My Uncle Billy is DEAD, you shameless ghouls! DEAD! NEVER TO COME BACK! (more sobbing...)

The said Finance House has issued me a notice to provide the Next of Kin or have the money confisicated within the next twenty one official working days.Since I have been unsuccesfull in locating the relatives for almost 3 years now, I seek the consent to present you as the Next of Kin to the deceased since you bear the same name with him,so that the release of this US$18.7m will be cleared and transfer into your account.

Uncle Billy's corpse has been buried in the cold, fetid earth of Nigeria for three fucking years now... and NOW you drop me a goddamned e-mail? What kind of monsters are you? Oh, Uncle Billy...

Therefore,on receipt of your positive response, we shall then discuss the sharing ratio and modalities for the clearing and transfer of the money.I have all necessary information and legal documents needed to back you up for claim. All I require from you is your honest co-operation to enable us see this through.

No, motherfuckers. Here's what we're going to do. We're going to investigate your ass. Car accident, my left butt cheek. I know all about those infamous accidents along Sagamu Express Road. It's easy to cut a brake line, isn't it? So easy. Just a slip of the knife. Pay no attention to the baby seat in the back of the car. Yeah, with the little stuffed duck on the seat. Just cut that cable. Go ahead. Walk away. Listen to the brake fluid splatter the dusty asphalt of the parking lot. Don't turn around. Don't give it another thought. Walk away.

You assholes are in for a world of pain.

I'm doing this for Uncle Billy.

I guarantee you that this will be executed under legitimate arrangement that will protect you from any breach of the law.I would be grateful if this mail will be favoured with an urgent reply.It is necessary that you call me immediately you get this message for further clarification and information.

Clarification will be coming, my good friend.

Oh yes.

First you'll feel it. A tingle in your back. Just between the shoulderblades.

And last thing you'll hear is a voice whispering in your ear:

"This is for Uncle Billy."

Best Regards,
Barr.Mozark Balawa(ESQ)
+234-80-3947-7666
Alternative email address:barrmozark@hotmail.com

You've so helpfully supplied me with everything I need. Thank you.

Sleep well, my friend.

Sleep well.

Another Reason I Love This Town

The cover of today's Daily News: MEAN-SPIRITED: SHE USED FLAMING VODKA TO KILL HER PAL, D.A. SAYS. Seems that two friends got together, got drunk, started fighting. The sweet cherub you see on the cover (at left) then knocked her friend out with a vodka bottle, poured the remainder over her unconscious body, then, just to make sure, poured some nail-polish remover over her, too. "I lit that bitch on fire," the woman allegedly said.

Say what you will about Philly -- high murder rate, ridiculous wage tax -- but crime writers here are never hurtin' for story ideas.

The Blurb I've Been Waiting For My Whole Career

The Philly Inquirer? Sure, that was cool. Washington Post? Certainly groovy. But in my family, you ain't nobody until you get yo' ass reviewed by the Polish-American Journal, the national publication dedicated to preserving and promoting Polish-American culture. (Current staff, shown at left.) Even better, it's a positive one, with some caveats:

In short clipped sentences and one-liners, this noir thriller contains violence, foul language, deceit, suspense and corruption as the Russian and Italian mafia and political officials get in the act trying to get their hands on the loot...

If you like rough and tumble non-stop action and don't wonder too much on how Lennon and his buddies are able to survive close encounters, grenades, bullets and being dumped for dead in a pipe upside-down, you will enjoy the book.

Notice that the review appears directly beneath the review of a similar book: The Legacy of John Paul II.

As my Polish grandmother used to say: "Sto lat, bitches!"

Short, Hot and Fast

No, I'm not talking about Al "Sunshine" Guthrie on a Saturday night. I'm talking about the winners of the City Paper's 20th annual writing contest. (Technically, it's a fiction contest, but it's been called a "writing contest" for so long, I thought it'd be bad form to change it.) This year, we asked for Philly-set stories that clocked in under 1,000 words. Out of 60 plus entries, our judges took a shine to these:

"Myspace or Yours" by Nicole Sonsini

"Mistress Hebblethwaite Rediscovers Her Calling" by John Shea

"Novelty" by Ian Heller

Big congrats to all three. We'll be honoring them tonight at a little get-together at Voices & Visions in the Bourse Building. Fun kicks off at 7 p.m. Stop by if you can.

The Secret Dead Habitat

Lee Goldberg kicked off a meme about the places where writers work... so who am I to resist? Above is a photo, snapped tonight, of my home office.

Swear to Baby Jesus, I didn't tidy up before taking this picture. I actually am this anal about my desk. Whenever the Bride leaves something that doesn't belong, I accuse her of messing up my shui. I'll yell at her: "You're a shui-messer!" (She just ignores me.) Let's see... that stack of pages on the left, bound with a rubber band? That's the first draft of The Blonde. Some day soon, I will surrender this office to my daughter Sarah, the original blonde, who will be needing a bedroom of her own. Which means I'm going to have to finish the basement. Crap.

But here's the real money shot:

My primary bookcase, situated directly behind my chair. Toppermost shelf: the classics. Chandler. Hammett. MacDonald. Woolrich. Willeford. Cain. And a hurley from Ken Bruen. Next shelf: my crap. Next two shelves: a combination of my TBR stacks and my Crime Fiction Hall of Fame. The TBR read stuff is stacked towards the front; let me save you some trouble. Right now, I'm loaded up on Europa Editions, Thomas Perry, David Morrell, Lee Child, Horace McCoy, Sean Doolittle, Bill Hicks and George Pelecanos, among others.

There's also a Celtic Cross from Ken Bruen, a stuffed Yukon Cornelius and Sam the Snowman, and a bag of personalized M&Ms;, stamped with "The Wheelman," which was a gift from Laura Lippman, who is not only mystery fiction's big sister, but pretty much the most thoughful person I know. I can barely bring myself to eat them.

What's On Deck: 2006

The mimosa hangover has worn off (what else are you supposed to do with leftover champagne?) and I've spent some time thinking about the year ahead. Lot of cool stuff on the horizon, including three books with my ridiculously large name on the spine. Maybe even spelled correctly this time.

Here's a quick and dirty rundown:

Damn Near Dead: An anthology of hardboiled geezer stories (or as Sean Doolittle calls the sub-subgenre, "oldboiled"), coming this spring from Busted Flush Press, the brainchild of Murder By the Book's David Thompson. I'm blown away by the stories in this book. I don't mean that in a "ooh, look at me, look what cool stories I selected" way. It has nothing to do with me. I just asked some of my favorite writers to contribute stories, and they brought it. Big time.

There are a few stray stories out there, and a few over-the-transom tales I'm considering... but for the most part, it's shaping up to be a can't-miss collection. Now I just need to write my story...

The Wheelman: The Paperback. Yep, it's official: St. Martin's will be bringing out a spiffy (and cheaper!) trade paperback version of the novel this fall. Although I'll be honest: I was hoping for a mass market paperback, because I think people are more willing to plunk down $6.99 for a crime novel by an unknown writer, as opposed to $12.95 (or more). But a trade paperback is better than no paperback. Besides, folks might be more inclined to pick this up because it will include a sample chapter or two of...

The Blonde. My editor has read it... and my editor very much digs it, which is a huge-ass relief. He recognized that I was going for a bigger book, with a larger canvas and a slightly more wild plot. That said, there were a few spots where it went off the rails (though not in the place I thought it would, interestingly.) The great thing about my editor is that we really are on the same wavelength; once he pinpointed the shaky spots, I saw them, too--clear as day. What was I smoking, right? Anyway, we talked it through and I spent part of the Christmas holidays revising a bit. Mostly, the opening teaser and the ending. (I guess I'll save the original opening and ending for the DVD.)

So unless I've completely cocked it up, you can expect to see this baby in stores this fall. What's it about? I hate tipping my hand too early, so let's just say it's a thriller about a guy who meets the wrong woman at the wrong bar on quite possibly the worst night of his life... and things get worse from there. Oh, and there's a minor character from The Wheelman who takes center stage in this one. Which was fun.

What else what else...

Couple of events in the coming weeks, too. This Wednesday I'm headed up to Manhattan to sign more copies of The Wheelman at The Mysterious Bookshop, which has selected it as their Decemeber Hardboiled Club main selection. (I know, it's January... but they're a little behind because of the move.) So that's groovy keen.

This Thursday I'll be on hand to introduce the winners of the 20th annual City Paper Writing Contest at Voices & Visions. (Winners' stories will appear in print and online this Thursday.) Also joining us: Philly novelists Don Silver (The Backward-Facing Man) and Melissa Jacobs (Lexi James and the Council of Girlfriends).

Then in three weeks I'm headed into Jordan Territory.... Jon and Ruth and Jennifer Jordan, to be specific. I'll be doing a signing at Mystery One in Milwaukee on Saturday, January 21st. (Kuretich, you'll be coming up from Gurnee, right? Right?)

And a few weeks after that, I'll be headed to Birmingham with Sean Doolittle, The Gischler, Jim Born, Harry Hunsicker and a group of other cool folks for Murder in the Magic City. It'll be my first book tour stop in the south. Unless you count Baltimore as "south."

Hope to see some of you at one of these events. (Or collect 'em all!)