Required Reading, Vol. 1: Hookers and Blow

If you're a regular visitor to Secret Dead Blog, you're probably a fan of crime fiction. Well, this week's City Paper cover story provides a double-barrel blast of the real thing. In "The Transaction," writer (and former addict) Jeff Deeney takes us on a midnight tour of Philly's sexed-up and drug-ridden underbelly, detailing a scheme that even local narc cops call "brilliant." It's also a raw, wild read. Enjoy! (Note: There's, um, a little nudity when you follow the link. Not exactly NSFW, but don't read it with your three-year-old sitting in your lap.)

Silence! Bill Crider Speaks!

Bill Crider (not shown at left, though I often confuse him with Galactus, Devourer of Worlds) and his lovely wife Judy have chosen the winners of the "Tell a Bill Crider Tall Tale" contest. I'll let the Man Himself deliver the news in his own words. Congrats to all three winners. Just send me your mailing address (duane.swier at verizon.net) and you'll have authentic Criderabilia shipped to your home immediately. And if you lost... well, you can console yourself with the thought that, in your own, terribly small way, you've added to the Legend that is Bill Crider.

All the entries were so good that I couldn't decide. The embarrassing thing is that they were all better than I could have written. So I printed them out, cut them into individual strips, but those in a sack, and had Judy draw out the winners. I've stuck them down below.

Thanks for doing this and for helping me to become the most famous blogger in the universe.

Bill

The winners:

Laura said...
Bill Crider is so terrifying polite that, should you make the mistake of telling him the joke about Mexia and the Dairy Queen, he will not rise up and smite you with a single blow. But he could.

Scott Cupp said...
Vintage paperbacks don't kill people. Bill Crider kills people who buy them before he gets a chance to. Don't tell. Judy

Jim Winter said. . .
There has not been an act of terrorism in the United States since Bill Crider started his blog. When terrorists hide in caves, Bill Crider wins.

I Sit At the Left Hand of Sean Doolittle

And I couldn't be more pleased. Crimespree Magazine has just announced their Favorite Books of 2006, and topping the list is Sean Doolittle's The Cleanup. In second place, and playing actual cleanup, however, is The Blonde, followed by quite a few favorites of Secret Dead Blog. Interestingly, this is second year in a row I've come in second place--although last year I shared that position with Laura Lippman, Michael Connelly and John Connolly. (No, I don't know how I squeaked in there, either.) Thanks to all who voted, and of course, to the Family Jordan. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I have to carry around Sean's textbooks for a semester, or something.

Secret Dead Blog Recommends...

Aldo Calcagno was right (see comments in the previous post), as was Bill Crider. Walter Satterthwait's Dead Horse is a winner, packed with sharp writing, a fistful of cold-cocking surprises, and a satisfying (possible!) solution to the coolest true life noir crime I never knew happened. Even better, the subject is Raoul Whitfield, one of the original "Black Mask Boys" who helped define hardboiled writing during the 1930s. Pulp crime nerds jonesin' for some retro-goodness need look no further than this excellent novel. It reminded me a lot of Domenic Stansberry's superb Manifesto for the Dead, which revolved around Jim Thompson.

And folks, will you just look at that gorgeous cover? This is the kind of book I'm especially proud to flash on the Frankford El during my commute to work.

Now somebody needs to crank out a Horace McCoy mystery. Maybe even a quick Paul Cain thriller...

An Afternoon in Manhattan

The Bride and I made it to NYC incredibly fast--it took only 90 minutes to reach the Holland Tunnel from the outskirts of Philly. Then again, the Bride has always been a bit of a leadfoot. I should have called the book The Wheelwoman, and based it on her. She's the one you want for all of your getaway needs.

So we were asburdly early, showing up at 12:40 for the 2 o'clock event. After checking in with Dan and Sally (and saying hello to Otto) at the Mysterious Bookshop, the Bride and I decided to go for a walk. Naturally, we gravitated to the World Trade Center site, just a few blocks south of the bookstore. It doesn't look fundamentally different from when we saw it a year ago; I guess they're still prepping the site. Hard to believe the Freedom Tower will be up and gleaming in 2012. I snapped this photo from the sidewalk on Church Street; you can see, toward the right, the controversial Vesey Street Staircase, a.k.a. the "Survivors' Staircase." (Click the photo to enlarge.)

Next, we paid a visit to St. Paul's Chapel right across the street, because the Bride had heard stories that somehow -- despite two 500,000-ton skyscrapers collapsing just a few hundred yards away -- the church had remained unscathed, with not so much as a broken window. As we soon learned, this is true. A sycamore tree in the southwest corner of the cemetery bore brunt of the falling debris, and St. Paul's was spared. (The chapel also survived the Great New York City Fire of 1776.) That's one hell of a tough New Yorker. The exhibits inside were heartbreaking and uplifting at the same time. With one step, you'd embrace the tragedy. With another, you'd be reminded of the essential goodness of some people. The Bride lit a candle, and snapped a photo (at left) of a sample cot set up by the St. Paul's staff to house the rescue and cleanup crews that worked the site for eight months.

We made it back to the store with plenty of time to spare. And while the audience was a bit on the spare side, I had a lot of fun talking about the origins of The Wheelman, from the initial idea to research to publication. The only mistake I made, I think, was reading a chapter from The Blonde, something I've avoided in all of my public appearances for the book. The reason is simple: I suck at reading my own stuff out loud. I talk too fast, and I'm always overcome with the urge to edit my own work when I read it. In fact, I think I did edit a few lines as I read. God bless the patience of those gathered, and my apologies. Because honestly, I really fucking suck at reading from my own work. I work better in print. The Bride snapped the photo above when I was yapping about something or other. And before you ask, Dave White, no, that is not one of my infamous gray shirts. It's a dark blue one. Never before worn in public. So... there.

Afterward, the group snacked on soft prezels (imported directly from Northeast Philly) and swilled Starbucks coffee. My buddy Jon Cavalier showed up just as the event was ending, with excuses about being in Atlantic City the night before or something... dude, it's okay to say it was a brutal hangover. Meanwhile, I picked up a nice little stack of titles, including a Canadian paperback edition of David Goodis's Nightfall, a Peter Rabe collection from Stark House (which includes My Lovely Executioner and Agreement to Kill), and Dead Horse by Walter Satterthwait, which sports the coolest book cover I've seen in a long time. (Then again, I've never met a Dennis McMillan book I didn't want to hug.) Dead Horse is a "speculative novel" about real-life hardboiled pulp writer Raoul Whitfield and his wife Emily, who died under mysterious circumstances--officially, it was tagged as "suicide." I think I'll be cracking this one open first.

Thanks to everyone who made it out to the event, and to Dan, Sally, Otto and the rest of the Mysterious staff.

Oh, and to my Bride, who drives faster than anyone I know.

Contest: Tell a Bill Crider Tall Tale!

In honor of Bill Crider's kick-ass Edgar nom for his kick-ass Damn Near Dead story "Cranked," the Sweepstakes and Gaming Department here at Secret Dead Blog has decided to hold a little contest: Tell a Bill Crider Tall Tale!

The rules couldn't be simpler. Just cobble together a one or two-line yarn about Bill Crider, in the spirit of those Chuck Norris Facts, and post it in the comments section below. Enter as often as you like. You can live anywhere in the world. We don't discriminate here at Secret Dead Blog.

And you know what we mean by "tall tale," right? Stuff like, "Bill Crider doesn't get wet. Water gets Bill Crider." Yeah, you got it.

Wild Bill himself will pick three of the best, and the winners will receive a Crider-signed copy of Damn Near Dead. (In fact, those copies were signed last night--David Thompson pinned him down while he was attending Megan Abbott's reading for The Song Is You at Murder by the Book.)

We'll take submissions all weekend long until 9 a.m. Monday. Bill will then pick his favorites, and we'll announce the lucky bastards shortly thereafter.

What are you sitting around for? Start spinnin' those yarns!

Club Land

A while back I mentioned something about The Wheelman being the first selection of the Mysterious Bookshop's new hardboiled reading club. Well, the group will be meeting this Saturday at 2 p.m., and I've been invited to join 'em. (As if I need an excuse to hit NYC and hang out at one of its fine indie mystery bookshops?) So if you're in the area and want to say hello, stop by the store Saturday afternoon. They're at 58 Warren Street, just a few blocks from the WTC site and directly across the street from the Raccoon Lodge, one of lower Manhattan's finer shot and beer joints. C'mon, it'll be fun.

Also: Murder by the Book in Houston, Texas announced the March selections for its monthly discussion group a while back, with the theme of "Hot New Urban Thriller Writers." The books: The Wheelman, along with Charlie Huston's excellent Caught Stealing. It's nice to see the mute punk Irish bastard (I'm referring to Lennon from Wheelman, not Charlie Huston) still getting a little love.

Speaking of punks, be sure to check Secret Dead Blog tomorrow, because we're running a groovy contest in honor of America's favorite teenager, Bill Crider. Don't miss it!

Facing Death

From my City Paper editor's letter, simulcast at www.citypaper.net.

Last week I wrote about murders hitting home. Little did I know that a few days after that issue appeared, I'd be attending a funeral.

She was 84 years old when she died, and a great-grandmother many times over. She wasn't a murder victim, but her death felt just as abrupt: complications from surgery, followed by stroke, coma and then nothing.

We were driving to visit her Friday morning, about five minutes away from the hospital, when we heard the news.

A funeral service is nothing like the life that precedes it. Instead of a frenzy of tasks and goals, there's really nothing to do but sit there and meditate. You can pray. You can catch up with relatives you haven't seen in years. You can admire the floral arrangements. You can excuse yourself and smoke outside. You can hold someone's hand. You can eat a mint. Somebody always has mints.

Or you can look at photos taken throughout the deceased's life, affixed to a giant poster board. What you see is a life in short, random bursts, usually not arranged chronologically. The effect is a little surreal. There she is, back in time again, posing on the back porch of their wooden-frame house, built in the section of town for coal miners' families. The girl in that photo doesn't know she'll spend 63 years in that house, raising generations.

There are her daughters. In real life, they're standing across the room, surrounded by their own children and grandchildren. But in the photo, they're preschoolers. The color in the photo is almost faded away.

There are wedding shots, with everyone meticulously arranged. Holiday shots, where nobody is.

There's a shot of her wearing pearls, gloves and a summer dress. Nobody can remember the occasion, but from the smile on her face, it's clear she's happy to be going.

All of which to say is that you're suddenly face to face with someone's entire life just as it has slipped away. You may not know her as well as everyone else in the room, but you can't help but be touched. All because of two dozen photographs, attached to a piece of poster board with glue and ribbons.

What if we did this, citywide?

Forget the murals. They're pretty and everything, but now they're just an all-too-familiar part of the landscape, and too easily ignored.

What if for every murder victim, we cleared a wall? And we put up photographs — random bursts from their lives.

As if to say: This is what was stolen.

Four hundred deaths per year, 400 walls. More than just their faces looking back at us. Their entire lives.

None of those lives would span 84 years.

Maybe it's a crazy idea. But maybe this would remind us that too many Philadelphians are attending more wakes than they should.

Smokin' CHUD

Cameron Hughes over at CHUD.com (that's short for Cinematic Happenings Under Development) just named his Top 15 Novels of 2006, which I'm happy to report includes The Blonde. My little psychotic lady finds herself in good company, what with Connelly, Crais, Koryta, Pelecanos and Winslow on the same list. Thanks, Cameron!

While you're over at CHUD (God do I like typing that... CHUD... CHUD... CHUD...) be sure to check out the multi-part interview with Joe Carnahan, director of Smokin' Aces, which hits theaters this Friday. Some of my co-workers have already had the pleasure of seeing Aces (looking at you, Mr. Lazor), but I'm hoping to be able to sneak out with The Bride to catch a viewing. I'm a big fan of Carnahan's Narc, and love his debut flick just for its title: Blood, Guts, Bullets and Octane. I'd love to give a novel a title like that someday. Though with me, it'd probably be Spit, Kielbasa, Darts and Kerosene.

James Brown in Finland

Here's something cool: the first foreign translation of my fiction. While it's true that the Spy's Guide I co-wrote has been translated into a number of foreign editions, and there's a German version of The Blonde coming soon, this is the first time a piece of my fiction has been rendered into a foreign tongue. This is all thanks to Juri Nummelin, who asked if he could include "State Trooper Joke" (originally written for Bryon Quertermous's and Dave White's "Junk in the Trunk" blog project) in an edition of his Finnish crime magazine, Isku. Here, it's called "Maantiepoliisivitsi." (Which was my original title for the story.)

There's also a story by Joe Konrath here, but I'll be damned if I can tell you what's it called, or what it's about.

And while it's cool to see something I wrote in another language, some things are universal. Like the second paragraph of the story, which I think can still be understood by all:

James Brown soi päässäni. I feel good, daa-naa-naa-naa-naa-naa-NAA.

I feel good, indeed. Thanks, Juri!

Crider House Rules

I spent most of the week coughing my lungs out (and let me tell you, stuffing them back into my chest cavity is the most painful part). But just yesterday I was greeted with the incredibly cool news that Bill Crider's "Cranked," which appeared last in year in Damn Near Dead, is up for an Edgar Award!

This is also cool for David Thompson, whose Busted Flush Press is already knocking out Edgar contenders in what, its first year? Rock on, Mr. Thompson.

By extension, this is cool for me, because I'm able to brag that I edited an anthology that contains an Edgar nominee. Which makes me what.... an Edgar nominee, twice removed? A second cousin to an Edgar nominee? (Since this is probably as close as I'll ever get to an Edgar, I'm going to milk it for all its worth, baby.)

So thanks to Bill, and the rest of the stellar Damn Near Dead lineup, for continuing to make me look good by association.

(Laura Lippman has suggested that we celebrate with a special Damn Near Dead cocktail: two parts gin to one part Metamucil. Which would give new meaning to the phrase, "Down the hatch!")

Great Expectorations

Secret Dead Blog hasn't been posting much because Secret Dead Blog has bronchitis, and has been coughing so much that the muscles in Secret Dead Blog's neck feel like they're ready to snap, permanently, leaving its head forever tilted to one side like a bobblehead doll with a broken spring. But don't worry: Secret Dead Blog is popping antibiotics daily, so the T.B.-like fits of hacking should end any month now.

The Bride is especially not amused. You wouldn't be, either, if you were sleeping next to a guy who sounds like Edgar Allan Poe with his first pack of cigarettes.

But all is not dark in the land of Secret Dead Blog. (It helps to refer to myself in the third person when I'm sick.) How could it be, when...

* John Scalzi interviewed me over at By The Way, his wildly popular AOL Journal. How popular is it? Dude, it's so popular, it was even quoted in the AAN Newsletter, the official voice of the alt-weekly industry. Even my notoriously-cranky managing editor was impressed.

* Spinetingler named The Wheelman a "best read of 2006." Never mind that it came out in 2005--as the site explains, there was no need for the book to have been published in 2006. Righteous!

* Don Crouch at NewMysteryReader.com gave The Blonde five "bolts" and says that it "swirls with violence, humor, politics and just plain craziness."

So what's there to be upset about? It's not like I need both lungs.

Return from Oblivion

From my "Editor's Letter" in today's City Paper. (I swear, this will be the last David Goodis post for a while.)

Your name is David Goodis.

You grow up in East Oak Lane — nice neighborhood, good parents. You have a kid brother who dies when he's only 3. Another kid brother who is born mentally challenged — though they don't call it that back then. His name is Herb.

You're a jokester. Your cousin thinks you're the next Jack Benny. Years later, he'll tell people about the goofy stuff you do, like pretending that your toe was caught in the Girard Avenue trolley tracks and yelling at the top of your lungs for help.

Life makes you laugh.

You go to Simon Gratz; later you earn a journalism degree from Temple. You graduate, hit New York. Advertising. You write a novel — Retreat from Oblivion. The first line: "After a while it gets so bad that you want to stop the whole business." Some wags repeat that line in their reviews of your novel. Fuck 'em.

You write pulp stories. Tough men's adventure stories featuring boxers. Airmen. Soldiers. Cops. You name some of these characters after Herb.

Then in 1946, the Saturday Evening Post in your hometown of Philly wants to pay you 12 grand to serialize your next novel, Dark Passage. The first line: "It was a tough break." But it's your big break. Even before it hits hardcover, Warner Brothers snaps up the rights. The movie version stars Bogart and Bacall. It's a hit. Hollywood beckons. You're signed up to a fat contract. Your first screenplay, The Unfaithful, is a hit, too.

Out in Hollywood, you're still a jokester. You go to Hollywood parties in a ratty old bathrobe, pretending to be an exiled Russian prince. You tell people you're too cheap to buy your own place, so you're renting a couch from a lawyer buddy. For $4 a month. You wear the same blue suit. You dye it when necessary. You sew designer tags on the sleeves, mostly just to fuck with people.

After a few years, though, things start to sour. Hollywood isn't for you. You ache to return to Philadelphia.

In 1950, you move back into your parents' house in East Oak Lane. Your bedroom is impossibly tiny. Your bed and typing desk barely fit in the same room. But it's all you need.

You write Cassidy's Girl, the first in a string of brilliant, dark novels that will only be recognized as "brilliant" and "dark" years after you're dead. They only pay you $1,500 for each book, a far cry from the gravy days of the Saturday Evening Post.

You don't seem to care.

You set your novels in the streets of Philadelphia — in Port Richmond, in Southwark, in Northwood, in the Tenderloin, on Skid Row, along the icy Delaware River. Books like The Moon in the Gutter and Black Friday and The Blonde on the Street Corner. They all spring to life in your bedroom.

You dig boxing. Jazz. Ribs. Obese black women.

You can replicate entire Charlie Parker solos on the kazoo.

You like shooting pool at Mosconi's up on Broad Street with your brother Herb. Nobody knows you're a writer. You never make a big deal of it.

Your parents die, which breaks your heart.

It's just you and your brother Herb, in that house in East Oak Lane.

You see a TV show: The Fugitive. It seems to be ripped right from Dark Passage. You call your agent, asking if you still own the copyright to Dark Passage. You do. You decide to fight back. On an envelope, you write two things to remember: Sue the makers of The Fugitive. And then: Buy toothpaste.

You lose the suit, though later, your estate settles for an undisclosed amount.

And then — it's not clear if this is true or not, in fact, it's hazy for you, since you're dead — but in early January 1967, somebody tries to take your wallet. Word around the neighborhood is you fought to keep it. Somebody knocked you on the head, took it anyway.

Either way, on Jan. 7, 1967, 11:30 p.m., you die. You're not even 50. The doctors list "vascular cerebral accident" on your death certificate. Herb is sent to an institution.

As you'd put it: It's a tough break.

You're forgotten.

Then 40 years later, a bunch of people gather in a playhouse in Center City for a lit conference, talking about your life and work. They love your work, talk about how much Philadelphia you infused into it. They just can't figure you out. They pick over the known facts of your life, and there are so many contradictions.

Which, in some weird way, makes you laugh.

David Hiltbrand on GoodisCon

The Philadelphia Inquirer's David Hiltbrand (who's also a mystery novelist--his latest, Dying to Be Famous, is out this month) stopped by to check out GoodisCon on Saturday and filed this cool report. My favorite quote comes from Goodis's cousin Herbert Gross, who recalls:

"I knew him very well. And I say that with a question mark. I don't know that anybody knew him very well."

There's a quote from me, too, but it's mostly gushing. (What can I say? When it comes to Goodis, I gush.) I also wrote a tribute to Goodis in my City Paper Editor's Letter this week. I'll post it when it goes live on the web this Thursday.

And look in the above photo... see that copy of Street of the Lost in the corner? That's the one I bought!

I now return you to your regularly scheduled life.

Yo, Holmes

You know how I once said in an interview that I want to take a crack at every crime/mystery subgenre? Well, folks, I was serious.

Hold on to your wigs and keys, because here's a bit of news you probably didn't expect:

I've written a Sherlock Holmes novella.

Yes, that Sherlock Holmes. Deerstalker, Inverness cape, all that. It's called The Crimes of Dr. Watson, and it will be published in book form by Quirk Books (the same folks who published my Big Book O'Beer and Perfect Drink for Every Occasion). This won't be your ordinary novella, either; it will be an interactive mystery, full of cool pull-out maps and letters and clues so you can solve the mystery right along with Dr. Watson. I've just turned in the manuscript, and if all goes well, it will be available at fine bookstores everywhere this fall.

Now you may be saying to your computer screen: But Swierczy, you're like... like... a dude who writes books with profanity and bullets and exploding heads. What business do you have writing a Holmes pastiche?

And believe me, I asked myself the same question.

But when I was approached about the project, and started to think about it, I realized that within Holmes is the DNA of everything I love about crime thrillers. He's not just a man of deduction; he's a man of action, too. Go on. Re-read the canon. Holmes is the godfather of guys like Jack Reacher and Jack Bauer, adapting disguises, unafraid to mix it up with the criminal element. Plus, there's the cocaine thing. I mean, you can't get more hardcore than that.

The novella is only 15,000 words long, but it was an absolute blast to write. I don't want to reveal too much of the plot and spoil things for you, but the story is set during the "Great Hiatus," a few years after the events in "The Final Problem." Dr. Watson is in deep shit. Holmes is presumed dead. 221Baker Street is firebombed. Furry creatures are running amok in England, as well as one-eyed thugs and mute urchins. You know... the usual Swierczy madness. Only, set in Victorian London.

(And, because I can't resist, Philadelphia.)

I'll keep you posted on progress in the coming months. What's really exciting is that Quirk publishes some absolutely beautiful books; the care in design and artwork is top shelf. So even if my story is absolute crap, you can rest assured that you'll be buying something that looks like a million bucks.

Yeah, believe it. Me and Holmes. Who would have thought?

David Goodis (1917-1967)

Forty years ago today, at 11:30 p.m., David Goodis died. This past weekend, a group of his fans and relatives gathered to pay tribute to his life.

GoodisCon was hatched at Julie's Bar in Port Richmond, just about a year ago. I idly mentioned that on January 7, 2007, Goodis will have been dead 40 years. Lou Boxer, who'd never read a Goodis novel before, loved the idea of a literary conference in his honor. Quickly, Lou became a real expert on the man and his work, spending the better part of last year contacting scholars, relatives and fans, and meticulously planning every last second of this tribute weekend.

Which was a huge success, and that's entirely thanks to Lou, as well as co-organizers Deen Kogan and Greg Gillespie. Everyone seemed to be having a blast, which says a lot, considering we were there to honor a guy who, it's been said, wrote novel-length "suicide notes." Some personal highlights:

* Meeting Robert Polito, the author of Savage Art, the award-winning Jim Thompson biography, which I re-read at least once every year. But I was a fan even before that book, because when I was 19 years, I picked up a copy of Fireworks: The Lost Writing of Jim Thompson, which Polito co-edited. I still have that book; Polito was kind enough to sign it for me yesterday. Next up for Polito: a book called Detours, which will examine the lives of several pulp fiction writers, including Goodis.

* Moderating a panel that included Seymour Shubin (author of the brilliant Witness to Myself), Charles Ardai (of Hard Case fame), Jason Starr (Lights Out), Richard Sand (Watchman with a Hundred Eyes) and Jeremiah Healy (the John Francis Cuddy series). Best softball moment: When Charles said that a few Goodis novels weren't up to his usual level, I was able to crack: "You mean the not-so-Goodis?"

* Listening to Herbert Gross, a cousin of David Goodis, talk about him as a unrelenting jokester. For instance, Herbert said, he used to enjoy walking along Girard Avenue, then pretend he had his toe caught in the trolley tracks, screaming for help.

* Listening to Harold "Dutch" Silver, an old pool hall buddy of Goodis's. Sometimes, you can just hear a person speak, and their words act like a time machine. For a few brief minutes, I felt like I was back in that pool hall, looking across a sea of green felt and hazy smoke, and seeing Goodis, cracking a smile. Dutch also brought along a true Goodis relic: a thank you card he'd sent to Dutch. A few of us lined up to touch it. (Yes, I'm serious.)

* Buying two bottles of Goodis wine, which were adorned with the covers of his novels. I picked up The Burglar and Down There, the latter of which is the perfect name for a bottle of wine. Especially if you're going to brown bag it and sneak off to a cold alley somewhere.

* Enjoying Jay A. Gertzman's slide show history of Goodis's Philadelphia, which taught me a lot about this town in the 1940s and 1950s. One photo in particular is burned in my memory: a skid row street on a hot summer day, with rain pummeling the streets. Most old photos of Philly seemed to be taken on a crisp winter day. This one really felt like Philly in the summer: hazy, wet and tough.

* Meeting Larry Withers, the son of Elaine Astor, who was briefly married to Goodis. Larry is a filmmaker, and happily, he's preparing a Goodis documentary, which will include material from GoodisCon.

* Finding a copy of the only Goodis novel I'm missing: Street of the Lost (pictured above). Now while it's true that I don't own a copy of The Wounded and the Slain, Hard Case will be reprinting it in May, so my collection is almost as good as complete. Unless the world ends before May. Which would suck. (For more on the looming apocalypse, visit Victor Gischler's new blog.)

* Learning an intriguing tidbit about Goodis's death: it wasn't the booze or his heart that killed him, according to his death certificate. Instead, the immediate cause was listed as a "cerebral vascular accident," and according to Lou Boxer, there are stories that Goodis was mugged and beaten a few days before he died. Which would mean that Goodis, poet of the mean streets of Philadelphia, was a murder victim. I've got to write a true crime piece about this.

* Watching the 1957 Paul Wendkos adaptation of The Burglar, filmed from Goodis's own screenplay. And shot here in Philly and Atlantic City! (There's even a scene with the famous diving horse at Steel Pier.)

* Hanging out with Ed "Hardcore Book Nerd" Pettit, who looks so much like a college professor, I look smart just by standing next to him.

* Meeting a surprising number of people who heard about GoodisCon right here at Secret Dead Blog. You guys rule, and it was awesome to meet you.

* Realizing that, in the end, David Goodis was (and will probably remain) a true enigma. No one picture of the man emerged; just a lot of tantalizing pieces. Which is probably the way he would have wanted it.

Cross Words

My short story/novella, "The Wrong Man to Cross," is finally up at Thrilling Detective!

This is not Kevin's fault, nor Gerald's. I took absolutely forever to make my revisions--a combination of the holidays and ever-looming deadlines. Thanks to both Kevin and Gerald for their patience and sharp edits.

"The Wrong Man to Cross" is one of those odd stories that I thought might be a novel, but ended up being more comfortable in that ever-so-awkward novella length. (The version I sent Gerald was something like 14,000 words. I thought he would plotz.) Both editors helped me trim the sucker down, and for the better. At least I think so.

I don't write many private eye tales. Or first-person stories. But this is an idea I've had banging around in my skull since I was 15, and I'm glad it's finally had the chance to see the light of day.

Savvy readers might notice that John MacNeil's house is the same house that Saugherty inhabits in The Wheelman. (Presumably, somebody has repaired the garage and mopped up the blood in the meantime.)

As always, I'd love to hear what you think...

Is It Just Me, or Did a Lot of Bullshit Stories Push Real News Aside in '06?

It's not just me! In this week's City Paper, Shaun Brady runs down the year's top fucktard stories, including "Melgate" and (my favorite) "Va-jay-jay-gate," all of which distracted us from stuff like, oh I don't know, government wiretapping and global standoffs. Check it out! Now!

Paul Giamatti... IS... Lennon

Over at Murderati, Mike MacLean was kind enough to completely waste one of his blog entries doing a Q&A; with me. Mike asked me about my "dream cast" for The Wheelman, and I jokingly suggested Paul Giamatti. But you know the more I think about it, the more I think he'd be right for the role. Not that he looks the least bit Irish, but he could easily pull off the mute thing. The man could mug his way through Hamlet blindfolded, you ask me.

In completely unrelated news, I was a little bombed on champagne when I read that The Blonde had made January Magazine's Best Crime Fiction of 2006 list. So let me now lift a magnum of extra dry to Kevin Burton Smith, who called my book "pure pulp fiction popcorn, in all the right ways."

Speaking of Mr. Smith, there's a new issue of Thrilling Detective slowly crawling its way to life, and I'm happy to report that this one features my novella, "The Wrong Man to Cross," along with ace stories by Jack Bludis, Karl Koweski and Stephen D. Rogers. I'll post the story link when it's up and running.

Exclusive: Secret Dead Blog's New Year's Day Mimosa Recipe

Ingredients

One bottle of extra-dry champagne
One half gallon of orange juice (no pulp)
One champagne flute

Pour champagne into flute, right up to the top. Show the champagne the container of orange juice. Tell it, "This is orange juice. It is something you will never experience, champagne." Do not apologize to the champagne. You should never apologize on New Year's Day, not even to a flute of champagne. Drink the champagne. Pair with a half-pound of Polish kielbasa (optional) and finish the bottle before noon.

2007

Just a little while ago I was hanging out with Greg, my best friend since high school. We often get together on New Year's Eve. Just after the big glass ball dropped on Times Square, Greg stepped outside for a smoke. I joined him, figuring I'd drain the rest of my champagne outside in the fresh air. It was raining, lightly. The skies outside rumbled with fireworks.

"Sounds like Baghdad," Greg said.

"Perfect cover for a terrorist attack," I said. "It'd be hours before anybody figured out what really happened."

Greg smiled and took another hit of his cigarette.

Across the way, two girls came charing out of their house, screaming "Happy New Year."

They made it across the street in one piece, then walked in front my house. "Happy New Year," they said.

"Happy New Year," I said.

Greg smiled and took another hit of his cigarette.

If our life were a movie, the girls would have invited us to a bangin' New Year's Eve party, and I'd have to decline with the perfect movie line:

"Sorry, sweethearts. I'm married with two kids, and Smokey here is a Catholic priest."

Our life is not a movie. Which is only regrettable in that I thought that was a pretty good line.

The girls continued down the block.

The rain fell harder. The cold made me shiver.

"2007," Greg said.

"I don't even think science fiction novels go that high."

Greg smiled and took another hit of his cigarette.

I've spent five New Year's Eves in this house, and Greg has been with us for every one, save last year. And last year, his absence was felt. You might think it's weird, hanging out with a Catholic priest. It's not. Because it's still just Greg, who I've known for over 20 years. Today I've been thinking a lot about my fiction writing career--yeah, I can actually say that now with a serious face--and realize that it began a little over 19 years ago, in Greg's parents' basement. It was his birthday: December 28, 1987. I didn't have any money, so I wrote him a horror novella and gave it to him as a present. It had a "shock" ending. And when he reached the end, Greg let out a cry of surprise that I'll always remember. Because that was the moment I realized this is what I wanted to do for a living.

Philadelphia rumbled. Every once in a while, you could see a pinwheel of bright light up in the dark, rainy skies.

"You're freezing," Greg said, extinguishing his cigarette. "Let's head back in."

I was. So we did.

A short while later Greg took off for his parents' house. I told him:

"Watch out for the crazy drivers."

"Ah," Greg said. "Amateurs."

Happy New Year 2007, everybody.