This week's WTF starts out sarcastic, but ends on a rather sappy note. Not sure you're going to like it. Not sure it fits in with my new "cruel and violent" image.
If you happen to be doing the tourist thing in Philadelphia anytime soon, you'll want to check out this week's cover story, in which we rate various historic tours.
If you're doing the sensible thing and staying home to watch Live8 on TV, you'll definitely need to load up on beer/wine/grain alcohol and consult our Live8 Drinking Game.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
The Most Revolutionary Idea in Book Promotion Since Late Yesterday Afternoon
So I was e-mailing Dave "Giamatti" White yesterday, and he asked about book signings for The Wheelman. I told him that I'm in the process of arranging a bunch for October and November. Mr. White then recommended a store near him, and jokingly added, "You should do a reading in my basement."
I jokingly replied: "A reading in your parents' basement would be fun."
Be careful when you say things "jokingly."
Next thing I know, Dave e-mails: "Dude, believe me. We can set it up."
I reply: "I think we might be onto something here. The Tupperware Party model... guarantee me 10 people, half of whom will buy books, and I'll do a basement/den/living room signing."
"Dude, if you're serious about this," Dave says, " I could guaranatee ten people five of which will buy the book."
Christ. As a first-time novelist, that's a better deal than I'd get at most bookstores.
But then a thought struck me: "Uh, Dave? Did your parents say it was okay?"
Dave went off to confirm, then shot back: "Just got the official OKAY. Swear to God."
So there you have it. Looks like one stop on my Wheelman '05 Tour will be in... uh, Dave White's parents' basement in Clifton, New Jersey.
Let me also extend the offer to anyone else crazy enough to want me in their home: I'd be happy to arrange a Wheelman reading/signing in your basement/den/living room, just so long as you promise an audience of 10, and sell-through of 50%. In exchange, I'll hang out, read, sign anything you want, shotgun a beer... heck, I'll even bring the beer. Offer applies only within a two-hour radius of Philadelpha; certain nights in October/November may already be booked.
Just think: if some day I achieve some small level of fame, you'll be able to say: "Hey! We had that guy in our den, reading from his cruel and violent book!"
Or if I sink back into obscurity: "Hey! Who was that fruitcake we had in our den, reading from his stupid little crime novel?"
What do you guys think? Genius? Or will I ended up dismembered in a cardboard box somewhere?
I jokingly replied: "A reading in your parents' basement would be fun."
Be careful when you say things "jokingly."
Next thing I know, Dave e-mails: "Dude, believe me. We can set it up."
I reply: "I think we might be onto something here. The Tupperware Party model... guarantee me 10 people, half of whom will buy books, and I'll do a basement/den/living room signing."
"Dude, if you're serious about this," Dave says, " I could guaranatee ten people five of which will buy the book."
Christ. As a first-time novelist, that's a better deal than I'd get at most bookstores.
But then a thought struck me: "Uh, Dave? Did your parents say it was okay?"
Dave went off to confirm, then shot back: "Just got the official OKAY. Swear to God."
So there you have it. Looks like one stop on my Wheelman '05 Tour will be in... uh, Dave White's parents' basement in Clifton, New Jersey.
Let me also extend the offer to anyone else crazy enough to want me in their home: I'd be happy to arrange a Wheelman reading/signing in your basement/den/living room, just so long as you promise an audience of 10, and sell-through of 50%. In exchange, I'll hang out, read, sign anything you want, shotgun a beer... heck, I'll even bring the beer. Offer applies only within a two-hour radius of Philadelpha; certain nights in October/November may already be booked.
Just think: if some day I achieve some small level of fame, you'll be able to say: "Hey! We had that guy in our den, reading from his cruel and violent book!"
Or if I sink back into obscurity: "Hey! Who was that fruitcake we had in our den, reading from his stupid little crime novel?"
What do you guys think? Genius? Or will I ended up dismembered in a cardboard box somewhere?
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Hilly Lives!
I'm happy to report that my detective story, "Hilly Palmer's Last Case" (which first appeared at the much-missed Plots With Guns last September) has been selected for Ed Gorman's Year's Finest Mystery and Crimes Stories 2004 (Carroll & Graf).
I've known for a few weeks now, but I'm a superstitious bastard, so I didn't want to say anything until the contracts were signed. Now it's official, and I'm just as thrilled. (Never thought I'd see my work in any book with the word "best" in the title.)
Big thanks to Mr. Anthony Neil Smith for accepting the story in the first place, helping me weed the "too cute" moments out of it, and kicking my ass to give it a proper ending.
And of course, thanks to Ed for choosing it.
Philadelphians: You'll probably recognize the bar which serves as the setting for much of this story. (Anonymous City Girl, I know you'll know this place.)
I've known for a few weeks now, but I'm a superstitious bastard, so I didn't want to say anything until the contracts were signed. Now it's official, and I'm just as thrilled. (Never thought I'd see my work in any book with the word "best" in the title.)
Big thanks to Mr. Anthony Neil Smith for accepting the story in the first place, helping me weed the "too cute" moments out of it, and kicking my ass to give it a proper ending.
And of course, thanks to Ed for choosing it.
Philadelphians: You'll probably recognize the bar which serves as the setting for much of this story. (Anonymous City Girl, I know you'll know this place.)
Monday, June 27, 2005
That's Mr. Cruel To You
Today I received a fairly interesting rejection.
My UK agent has been sending The Wheelman -- to be published in the U.S. this October by the good folks at St. Martin's Minotaur -- around to various foreign markets. One well-known publishing house in a certain foreign market (not to going to say which market; no, it wasn't Poland) took a pass, and sent the following note:
"I read the rest of THE WHEELMAN last nite - and though it is very accomplished I just found it too cruel and violent for my taste. However, I'm sure you'll place it with another publisher."
Too cruel and violent? Oh man, did that make my day. (Which served as a nice counterpoint to the black, sinking despair of being rejected.) I wish I could use that as a blurb. If nothing else, I'm going to take full advantage of this with my kids.
"Parker! Sarah! You two better simmer down. You know what [unnamed foreign publisher] said about Daddy."
Better yet... just wait until my daughter Sarah is old enough to date. I'll show this rejection to any would-be suitors and gently add: "And that’s just on paper, punk."
My UK agent has been sending The Wheelman -- to be published in the U.S. this October by the good folks at St. Martin's Minotaur -- around to various foreign markets. One well-known publishing house in a certain foreign market (not to going to say which market; no, it wasn't Poland) took a pass, and sent the following note:
"I read the rest of THE WHEELMAN last nite - and though it is very accomplished I just found it too cruel and violent for my taste. However, I'm sure you'll place it with another publisher."
Too cruel and violent? Oh man, did that make my day. (Which served as a nice counterpoint to the black, sinking despair of being rejected.) I wish I could use that as a blurb. If nothing else, I'm going to take full advantage of this with my kids.
"Parker! Sarah! You two better simmer down. You know what [unnamed foreign publisher] said about Daddy."
Better yet... just wait until my daughter Sarah is old enough to date. I'll show this rejection to any would-be suitors and gently add: "And that’s just on paper, punk."
Friday, June 24, 2005
"You Gonna Update this Goddamned Blog, Or Do I Have to March In There and Update It Myself?"
Yes, yes. Point taken. But until I get a real post up, you can check out this week's WTF column, which details the fun I had trying to take public transportation to the Philadelphia International Airport last week.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
San Diego Is My Beat...
... for the next four days anyway. I'll be attending the 28th Annual Association of Alternative Newsweeklies (AAN) Convention. For you mystery folks, it's kind of like Bouchercon, for alt weekly nerds. While I am looking forward to mingling and boozing with my colleagues at other fine alt weeklies, I'm also going to try to venture out to La Jolla to visit Raymond Chandler's old place at 6005 Camino de la Costa. My goal: snap a camera phone image of the "far better home an out-of-work pulp writer has any right to expect." (That's Big Ray speaking.) We'll see.
Being a mystery geek (as well as an alt weekly nerd), I laid in copies of two Wade Miller novels featuring San Diego's top prviate eye, Max Thursday. I was lucky enough to score a Signet edition of Calamity Fair at Whodunit, and just today my copy of Murder Charge arrived in the mail. Also going with me on the plane: James M. Cain's The Moth (another beat-up Signet edition that I found for a song--$2.95) and The Butterfly, as well as Ross MacDonald's The Way Some People Die (a snazzy Pocket Books edition from 1967 that features a babe in a bikini drinking booze in a bathroom with a revolver on the tile floor--yeah, I know, weird). When in California, right?
What I won't be able to bring on the plane are all of the excellent Blog Project 2.0 stories I haven't had a chance to read yet. They're going to have to wait until Monday, unless I can sneak some Internet time at the convention...
But the stories I've read so far have blown me away. Especially Bill Crider's. I still can't get the image of "raining willie" out of my head...
Until then, hang high on the down low. I'll be back with AAN stories... maybe even a good Raymond Chandler tale... when I return in a few days.
Being a mystery geek (as well as an alt weekly nerd), I laid in copies of two Wade Miller novels featuring San Diego's top prviate eye, Max Thursday. I was lucky enough to score a Signet edition of Calamity Fair at Whodunit, and just today my copy of Murder Charge arrived in the mail. Also going with me on the plane: James M. Cain's The Moth (another beat-up Signet edition that I found for a song--$2.95) and The Butterfly, as well as Ross MacDonald's The Way Some People Die (a snazzy Pocket Books edition from 1967 that features a babe in a bikini drinking booze in a bathroom with a revolver on the tile floor--yeah, I know, weird). When in California, right?
What I won't be able to bring on the plane are all of the excellent Blog Project 2.0 stories I haven't had a chance to read yet. They're going to have to wait until Monday, unless I can sneak some Internet time at the convention...
But the stories I've read so far have blown me away. Especially Bill Crider's. I still can't get the image of "raining willie" out of my head...
Until then, hang high on the down low. I'll be back with AAN stories... maybe even a good Raymond Chandler tale... when I return in a few days.
Going Twice: The Blog Project 2.0
As promised, here's entry in Quertermous's (and White's) Blog Project. The theme this time around? Items you'd find in a police auction--either coming or going. I chose the good ol’ fashioned family video camera. That's largely because I couldn't figure out how to write a story around my first choice: an oversized tub of butter-flavored Crisco. Oh, well. Maybe next time.
I hope you enjoy the story. But don't forget to check out the other excellent auction tales. You can find a running table of contents, as the stories are posted, at Sarah Weinman's joint.
"Seeing God"
by Duane Swierczynski
Inside the church on the edge of Pennypack Park, the tabernacle had been stripped bare. No flowers, banners, adornments. Nothing remained—not even a crayon crucifixion from a grade schooler. Holy Thursday was the most solemn of holidays, and Our Lady of Sorrows took its charge seriously.
That’s why the priest liked this parish. Too many churches were lax.
Still, Northeast Philadelphia had its problems.
At the beginning of Lent he’d broached the topic at meals, passing clippings from the Northeast Times and News Gleaner to the other priests. The desecrations. Not here at Our Lady of Sorrows, but other nearby parishes. Just last November, the state of St. John Neumann on the front lawn of St. Agatha’s was beheaded, with some of its fingers missing as well. The toes of the St. Francis statue at Archbishop Ryan had been severed, too, and someone had taken an axe to a statue of the Holy Family.
The police chalked it up to teenage vandals, and vowed to find those responsible. Other priests tsk-tsked, promised to pray for their souls, moved on to other pressing topics, such as how the Phillies looked this season.
Disappointing.
Maddening.
The priest spread his tools out on the formica countertop in the sacristy. He doused them with holy water from his brass sprinkler.
The glass bead rosary.
The cloth vestments.
And the silver crucifix, his own design, with a modification in the handle.
Nobody knew. They admired the Italian steel and the design and the way that it was nearly impossible to leave a fingerprint on the surface. But he never showed them the secret spring latch.
Our Lady of Sorrows took things seriously. But not seriously enough.
* * *
Oh no. This was wrong. This was sooooo wrong. But soooo… She moved her hands down his bare chest and it felt like she was reaching into his bones. Then her lips… God, her pouty bee-stung lips, which had attracted him after mass a few weeks back. Now moving towards him… no, his chest… no, Holy God, his nipple…
She was beautiful and crazy, and she was in Church every Sunday.
This wasn’t his church. He was a back-up organist, clearing $35 a mass, racking up two, sometimes three per Sunday. Funerals and weddings were extras. Just money; he wasn’t a Jesus freak. It wasn’t easy. Especially when you got together with your buddies, pooled your money, picked up a couple cases of the cheapest beer you could find—Natty Bo, Golden Anniversary, or Keystone Light—and you drank the living shit out of a Saturday night. And then you had get up the next morning to shower and dress and catch the bus way the fuck out to Northeast Philadelphia…
But she eased the pain, just by sitting in that pew, smiling whenever his eyes happened to pass over the crowd. And she would be turned around in her seat, looking up at him. Angela. With her red lips and curly black hair and bright green eyes and driver’s license with the year 1988 (or… Christ, 1989?) stamped on it.
Not good.
Not when your own says 1983.
But she’d first come up to him after Mass two Sundays ago, told him they should “do lunch.” That cracked him up. What was she, 15? They’d had lunch the very next Saturday. She was a student at St. Hubert’s High School for Girls, he figured that much out. She had gone Goth for their date: dark eyeshadow, skull earrings, low-plunging black dress, and of course, that bright wet-blood lipstick, the kind she wore even on Sundays.
She’d taken him into her mouth afterwards, sitting on a bench in the Pennypack Woods.
That never, ever happened to him on a first… oh, who was he kidding? It never happened to him. Not even with his college girlfriend of two years, after much pleading and promised reciprocation, and eventually, multiple performance, only to receive a but it’s degrading in return.
Maybe Angela only looked 15. Please God, maybe she was a senior.
He was afraid to look in her purse, let alone ask.
They saw each other every night that week, sneaking out to meeting places like the Roosevelt Mall or the Blue Grass Mall or the Neshaminy 24 theater (where she did it again during a showing of The Passion of the Christ) and even one night on campus, when Angela lied and told her single nurse mother that she was visiting the older sister of a friend at college. He’d had to sneak her into the back entrance of the apartment complex and spend most of the evening in the basement laundry room, on top of an industrial dryer, praying to God that nobody wanted to do laundry.
Then it was Holy Week, and he was at Our Lady of Sorrows daily, and their passions reached a fever pitch, and then she had the idea about sneaking up to the choir loft after midnight—after all, Father Kutch had entrusted him with a key.
So they were here, Peter Lewalski and Angela Panico, hidden from full view of the church by the loft wall, and his nipple was in her blood-red mouth, and she was sucking so hard that he didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs.
* * *
Kev felt stupid the entire walk through the park and up to the back door of the church. He’d thought they were joking. And the way they looked at him, like they were going to lash him to the rock instead of the dog. Assholes.
What the fuck did they need with real communion wafers anyway? Just white plastic-tasting little disks of nothing. Nowhere near as cool as those fat candles, which seemed to smoke and bleed black fluid at the same time. Or the rosaries or upside-down crosses. The wafers didn’t add any visual magic whatsoever. That’s why he thought they were joking.
Uh-uh.
What did Billy say?
The flesh of the Man-Savior is crucial to the integrity of the ceremonies.
Wonder where he read that shit.
And now Kev Buckingham, honor student and altar boy by day, fledgling Satan-worshipper and wafer-thief by night, had to break into church in the early hours of Good Friday. Most mornings, he was in the Church even earlier than Father Kutch, which is why the old guy finally coughed up a key and the alarm codes Still, it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk. The hosts had been moved from the tabernacle after Holy Thursday mass, and stowed backstage, deep in the sacristy. Almost nobody wandered into the church proper after-hours, but some of the priests went back and forth between the sacristy and the rectory—connected by a stairway and short hallway—on a regular basis. Priests just liked to hang out back there, Kev guessed.
But it was after midnight, and he knew how the priests valued their sleep.
Which was why he was surprised to hear noises coming from the choir loft.
* * *
“You hear something?” Peter whispered.
Mmmmmm…. no.
Guess not.
And really, who cared, at this very moment?
* * *
Holy fucking God… this was great! The guy on his back was definitely that geeky organist. But who was the mystery woman playing his organ? Kev wondered. He couldn’t really tell. Her head was bobbing up and down too fast. Her head full of curly black hair.
Kev tried to think about every girl he knew from grade school who could have fit the description, but came up empty. Trish Giannini? Nah. No way. Last he heard, she was at a diet clinic in Jersey.
A million thoughts raced through his brain. His eyes, peering from behind the choir door, wanted to record every single millisecond of this performance, which was truly beautiful. Billy would love this: desecration, right in the back of the church. Should he run and grab him, pull him away from the park and the pentagrams and the ceremony preparations?
No… too far. They might finish up by the time they got back.
Then a flash-thought: his father’s video camera.
Genius.
Kev only lived a block away from the church. It would take him no more than three minutes to get out, in, back out, and in here, taping. This would be legend. It was worth the risk.
Go. Go. Go. Do it.
But Kev was transfixed. It was a performance unlike he’d ever seen before, even in the lame porno DVDs Billy boosted from Movies Unlimited. This had passion. Vigor. Sheer lust for life.
Hope you’ve got stamina, organ boy.
Okay, I’m going.
Right….
Now.
Honestly.
Kev broke free of the vision and moved as swiftly and silently down the stairs as he could. Jesus Christ, this was priceless. This was a Kodak moment.
* * *
Peter hated washing off the red lipstick afterward. It got everywhere, and it creeped him out. Looked a little too much like blood. But he wasn’t about to bring that up now, with her nestled all cozy in the crook of his arm, and him, already wondering how stupid he had to be to agree to this crazy stunt. They didn’t have time to discuss it. They had to get out of here before this got out of hand.
“Angela,” he said, gently nudging her.
Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled, then snapped to the left. Her body jolted.
Behind him. Somebody.
Holy shit.
Somebody was standing there.
“Dress yourselves,” a deep voice said.
Oh my God.
Or to be precise: one of His employees.
Peter dressed, fumbling for his clothes in the pitch-black dark of the choir loft, wondering how deep the rabbit hole was. His ass was certainly getting fired. But it might be worse than that. Shit, could you get excommunicated for something like this? Or worse—prosecuted?
“Have you thought about the eternal suffering and torment of Hell?” the voice asked.
To be honest, not lately, Father, but now that you mention it…
“Have you?”
“No,” Peter and Angela replied. They were both products of Catholic grade schools, trained to respond in unison.
“An old teacher of mine, now a bishop, once described it to me in the most interesting way. Close your eyes and imagine it with me.”
Peter could see that the priest—or at least the shadowy outline of the priest—was now holding up a huge metal crucifix. It caught some of the moonlight and reflected it.
“Close them!”
Peter closed his eyes. Oh, God, save me. Get me out of this alive, and I’ll never, and I mean ever, do something this bone-headed again. What was I thinking? Couldn’t I just whack off in the shower like everybody else?
The priest cleared his throat.
“Imagine a beach. The largest beach on Earth, with borders stretching out into infinity. Now imagine a small white dove, swooping down to peck one grain of sand from the beach. That dove then flies off over the ocean, fighting the wind and sun, and finally reaches a point about a mile from the shoreline. The dove drops that grain of sand into the ocean, then returns to the beach to take another.
“The time it would take for that dove to clear the beach of sand is a mere fraction of the time the poor souls of the damned burn in Hell.”
Or, Peter thought, about as long as it feels like this lecture is going to be. He wanted this to be over already. Not knowing the punishment was infinitely worse than knowing what was coming, and bracing yourself for it.
“Now let us pray for forgiveness… O, My God, I am heartfully sorry for having offended thee…”
The priest slammed the base of the crucifix on the floor of the loft. The sound was like a gunshot.
“Let us pray!”
The years of Catholic training came back. Both Peter and Angela began repeating the words. Peter thought he heard Angela’s voice cracking a bit. How young was she anyway?
“O, My God, I am heartfully sorry for having offended thee… and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven… and the pains of Hell… but most of all…”
* * *
As Kev raced back to the church—having set a land/speed record for the trip between the choir loft and his parents’ den, where they kept their Panasonic Digital Video Recorder 8880—he heard a sound like a shotgun blast. At first he thought he was mistaken. Maybe that noise had come from the woods, and Billy was shooting at animals (again) while he waited for Kev to return with the wafers.
But no, no that sounded like it came from the church.
Maybe it was organ-boy’s big finish, and his little slam-hound was banging the kneelers into the floor in an orgasmic frenzy. No need to flick your lighter for more, thought Kev.
Just light a votive candle.
Ah, he cracked himself up. Why didn’t Billy and the others appreciate his sense of humor? Maybe they would, after this.
He flicked the button to REC, slipped inside the unlocked side door, then floated up the stairs to the choir loft. This would be the big cinematic build-up: the suspenseful ascension, followed by (Kev hoped) the big-dollar money shot. Captured on digital tape, to be treasured and copied for years to come. No pun intended.
But then he heard a voice. A deep, stern voice. That wasn’t Organ Boy. And it wasn’t his date—unless he’d been wearing a wig. Which would be even better.
“… your sins are cleansed, go in peace to love and serve the Lord forever,” the voice was saying.
Kev rounded the corner slowly, still taping, and saw him standing there.
The priest, with his back to Kev. And kneeling there was Organ Boy and…
Holy shit. Angela.
Her hair looked different.
“You should rejoice, Peter,” the priest was saying. “You’re going to enjoy the fruits of the Kingdom of Heaven now and forever.”
The organist had a weird expression on his face, something like regret and relief at the same time. Poor Angela. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She’d been put through the ringer tonight, oh boy. Wait until I tell Billy about this. Naw—wait ‘til I put a copy of the DVD in her parents’ mailbox.
“Both of you,” the priest said.
And now he held up this huge-ass crucifix—Holy shit, that’s the… now Kev knew which priest it was. Only one of the three who bragged about it. Italian steel, allegedly blessed by the Pope.
Kev trained the camera on it. The silver gleamed.
“Ergo te absolvo…”
There was a sharp clicking noise.
“… in nomine Patris…”
There. Kev refocused the camera. What was.. was that a blade? Holy shit. A motherfucking blade popped out of the base of the cross. How fucking cool was that? But what the fuck was he going to…
Reverse zoom.
“…et Filli, et Spiritus Sancti.”
The priest quickly flipped the cross upside down, holding it by the cross bar, like he was a knight with a sword.
“Amen.”
Kev caught the shot just in time.
The shot of the priest, swinging the blade of the cross beneath their chins in one powerful, clean movement.
* * *
This was a war, in Heaven and in Hell and on Earth, and only he was one of the aware who knew how to fight that war.
The war of the souls.
His actions meant personal damnation; the priest was aware of this. But many could enter into the Kingdom of Heaven, instantly, after being cleansed of sin. He had been saving souls for years now. This is why he had come to Philadelphia. It was his crusade, his calling.
Over 160 souls and counting.
I hope you enjoy the story. But don't forget to check out the other excellent auction tales. You can find a running table of contents, as the stories are posted, at Sarah Weinman's joint.
"Seeing God"
by Duane Swierczynski
Inside the church on the edge of Pennypack Park, the tabernacle had been stripped bare. No flowers, banners, adornments. Nothing remained—not even a crayon crucifixion from a grade schooler. Holy Thursday was the most solemn of holidays, and Our Lady of Sorrows took its charge seriously.
That’s why the priest liked this parish. Too many churches were lax.
Still, Northeast Philadelphia had its problems.
At the beginning of Lent he’d broached the topic at meals, passing clippings from the Northeast Times and News Gleaner to the other priests. The desecrations. Not here at Our Lady of Sorrows, but other nearby parishes. Just last November, the state of St. John Neumann on the front lawn of St. Agatha’s was beheaded, with some of its fingers missing as well. The toes of the St. Francis statue at Archbishop Ryan had been severed, too, and someone had taken an axe to a statue of the Holy Family.
The police chalked it up to teenage vandals, and vowed to find those responsible. Other priests tsk-tsked, promised to pray for their souls, moved on to other pressing topics, such as how the Phillies looked this season.
Disappointing.
Maddening.
The priest spread his tools out on the formica countertop in the sacristy. He doused them with holy water from his brass sprinkler.
The glass bead rosary.
The cloth vestments.
And the silver crucifix, his own design, with a modification in the handle.
Nobody knew. They admired the Italian steel and the design and the way that it was nearly impossible to leave a fingerprint on the surface. But he never showed them the secret spring latch.
Our Lady of Sorrows took things seriously. But not seriously enough.
* * *
Oh no. This was wrong. This was sooooo wrong. But soooo… She moved her hands down his bare chest and it felt like she was reaching into his bones. Then her lips… God, her pouty bee-stung lips, which had attracted him after mass a few weeks back. Now moving towards him… no, his chest… no, Holy God, his nipple…
She was beautiful and crazy, and she was in Church every Sunday.
This wasn’t his church. He was a back-up organist, clearing $35 a mass, racking up two, sometimes three per Sunday. Funerals and weddings were extras. Just money; he wasn’t a Jesus freak. It wasn’t easy. Especially when you got together with your buddies, pooled your money, picked up a couple cases of the cheapest beer you could find—Natty Bo, Golden Anniversary, or Keystone Light—and you drank the living shit out of a Saturday night. And then you had get up the next morning to shower and dress and catch the bus way the fuck out to Northeast Philadelphia…
But she eased the pain, just by sitting in that pew, smiling whenever his eyes happened to pass over the crowd. And she would be turned around in her seat, looking up at him. Angela. With her red lips and curly black hair and bright green eyes and driver’s license with the year 1988 (or… Christ, 1989?) stamped on it.
Not good.
Not when your own says 1983.
But she’d first come up to him after Mass two Sundays ago, told him they should “do lunch.” That cracked him up. What was she, 15? They’d had lunch the very next Saturday. She was a student at St. Hubert’s High School for Girls, he figured that much out. She had gone Goth for their date: dark eyeshadow, skull earrings, low-plunging black dress, and of course, that bright wet-blood lipstick, the kind she wore even on Sundays.
She’d taken him into her mouth afterwards, sitting on a bench in the Pennypack Woods.
That never, ever happened to him on a first… oh, who was he kidding? It never happened to him. Not even with his college girlfriend of two years, after much pleading and promised reciprocation, and eventually, multiple performance, only to receive a but it’s degrading in return.
Maybe Angela only looked 15. Please God, maybe she was a senior.
He was afraid to look in her purse, let alone ask.
They saw each other every night that week, sneaking out to meeting places like the Roosevelt Mall or the Blue Grass Mall or the Neshaminy 24 theater (where she did it again during a showing of The Passion of the Christ) and even one night on campus, when Angela lied and told her single nurse mother that she was visiting the older sister of a friend at college. He’d had to sneak her into the back entrance of the apartment complex and spend most of the evening in the basement laundry room, on top of an industrial dryer, praying to God that nobody wanted to do laundry.
Then it was Holy Week, and he was at Our Lady of Sorrows daily, and their passions reached a fever pitch, and then she had the idea about sneaking up to the choir loft after midnight—after all, Father Kutch had entrusted him with a key.
So they were here, Peter Lewalski and Angela Panico, hidden from full view of the church by the loft wall, and his nipple was in her blood-red mouth, and she was sucking so hard that he didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs.
* * *
Kev felt stupid the entire walk through the park and up to the back door of the church. He’d thought they were joking. And the way they looked at him, like they were going to lash him to the rock instead of the dog. Assholes.
What the fuck did they need with real communion wafers anyway? Just white plastic-tasting little disks of nothing. Nowhere near as cool as those fat candles, which seemed to smoke and bleed black fluid at the same time. Or the rosaries or upside-down crosses. The wafers didn’t add any visual magic whatsoever. That’s why he thought they were joking.
Uh-uh.
What did Billy say?
The flesh of the Man-Savior is crucial to the integrity of the ceremonies.
Wonder where he read that shit.
And now Kev Buckingham, honor student and altar boy by day, fledgling Satan-worshipper and wafer-thief by night, had to break into church in the early hours of Good Friday. Most mornings, he was in the Church even earlier than Father Kutch, which is why the old guy finally coughed up a key and the alarm codes Still, it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk. The hosts had been moved from the tabernacle after Holy Thursday mass, and stowed backstage, deep in the sacristy. Almost nobody wandered into the church proper after-hours, but some of the priests went back and forth between the sacristy and the rectory—connected by a stairway and short hallway—on a regular basis. Priests just liked to hang out back there, Kev guessed.
But it was after midnight, and he knew how the priests valued their sleep.
Which was why he was surprised to hear noises coming from the choir loft.
* * *
“You hear something?” Peter whispered.
Mmmmmm…. no.
Guess not.
And really, who cared, at this very moment?
* * *
Holy fucking God… this was great! The guy on his back was definitely that geeky organist. But who was the mystery woman playing his organ? Kev wondered. He couldn’t really tell. Her head was bobbing up and down too fast. Her head full of curly black hair.
Kev tried to think about every girl he knew from grade school who could have fit the description, but came up empty. Trish Giannini? Nah. No way. Last he heard, she was at a diet clinic in Jersey.
A million thoughts raced through his brain. His eyes, peering from behind the choir door, wanted to record every single millisecond of this performance, which was truly beautiful. Billy would love this: desecration, right in the back of the church. Should he run and grab him, pull him away from the park and the pentagrams and the ceremony preparations?
No… too far. They might finish up by the time they got back.
Then a flash-thought: his father’s video camera.
Genius.
Kev only lived a block away from the church. It would take him no more than three minutes to get out, in, back out, and in here, taping. This would be legend. It was worth the risk.
Go. Go. Go. Do it.
But Kev was transfixed. It was a performance unlike he’d ever seen before, even in the lame porno DVDs Billy boosted from Movies Unlimited. This had passion. Vigor. Sheer lust for life.
Hope you’ve got stamina, organ boy.
Okay, I’m going.
Right….
Now.
Honestly.
Kev broke free of the vision and moved as swiftly and silently down the stairs as he could. Jesus Christ, this was priceless. This was a Kodak moment.
* * *
Peter hated washing off the red lipstick afterward. It got everywhere, and it creeped him out. Looked a little too much like blood. But he wasn’t about to bring that up now, with her nestled all cozy in the crook of his arm, and him, already wondering how stupid he had to be to agree to this crazy stunt. They didn’t have time to discuss it. They had to get out of here before this got out of hand.
“Angela,” he said, gently nudging her.
Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled, then snapped to the left. Her body jolted.
Behind him. Somebody.
Holy shit.
Somebody was standing there.
“Dress yourselves,” a deep voice said.
Oh my God.
Or to be precise: one of His employees.
Peter dressed, fumbling for his clothes in the pitch-black dark of the choir loft, wondering how deep the rabbit hole was. His ass was certainly getting fired. But it might be worse than that. Shit, could you get excommunicated for something like this? Or worse—prosecuted?
“Have you thought about the eternal suffering and torment of Hell?” the voice asked.
To be honest, not lately, Father, but now that you mention it…
“Have you?”
“No,” Peter and Angela replied. They were both products of Catholic grade schools, trained to respond in unison.
“An old teacher of mine, now a bishop, once described it to me in the most interesting way. Close your eyes and imagine it with me.”
Peter could see that the priest—or at least the shadowy outline of the priest—was now holding up a huge metal crucifix. It caught some of the moonlight and reflected it.
“Close them!”
Peter closed his eyes. Oh, God, save me. Get me out of this alive, and I’ll never, and I mean ever, do something this bone-headed again. What was I thinking? Couldn’t I just whack off in the shower like everybody else?
The priest cleared his throat.
“Imagine a beach. The largest beach on Earth, with borders stretching out into infinity. Now imagine a small white dove, swooping down to peck one grain of sand from the beach. That dove then flies off over the ocean, fighting the wind and sun, and finally reaches a point about a mile from the shoreline. The dove drops that grain of sand into the ocean, then returns to the beach to take another.
“The time it would take for that dove to clear the beach of sand is a mere fraction of the time the poor souls of the damned burn in Hell.”
Or, Peter thought, about as long as it feels like this lecture is going to be. He wanted this to be over already. Not knowing the punishment was infinitely worse than knowing what was coming, and bracing yourself for it.
“Now let us pray for forgiveness… O, My God, I am heartfully sorry for having offended thee…”
The priest slammed the base of the crucifix on the floor of the loft. The sound was like a gunshot.
“Let us pray!”
The years of Catholic training came back. Both Peter and Angela began repeating the words. Peter thought he heard Angela’s voice cracking a bit. How young was she anyway?
“O, My God, I am heartfully sorry for having offended thee… and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven… and the pains of Hell… but most of all…”
* * *
As Kev raced back to the church—having set a land/speed record for the trip between the choir loft and his parents’ den, where they kept their Panasonic Digital Video Recorder 8880—he heard a sound like a shotgun blast. At first he thought he was mistaken. Maybe that noise had come from the woods, and Billy was shooting at animals (again) while he waited for Kev to return with the wafers.
But no, no that sounded like it came from the church.
Maybe it was organ-boy’s big finish, and his little slam-hound was banging the kneelers into the floor in an orgasmic frenzy. No need to flick your lighter for more, thought Kev.
Just light a votive candle.
Ah, he cracked himself up. Why didn’t Billy and the others appreciate his sense of humor? Maybe they would, after this.
He flicked the button to REC, slipped inside the unlocked side door, then floated up the stairs to the choir loft. This would be the big cinematic build-up: the suspenseful ascension, followed by (Kev hoped) the big-dollar money shot. Captured on digital tape, to be treasured and copied for years to come. No pun intended.
But then he heard a voice. A deep, stern voice. That wasn’t Organ Boy. And it wasn’t his date—unless he’d been wearing a wig. Which would be even better.
“… your sins are cleansed, go in peace to love and serve the Lord forever,” the voice was saying.
Kev rounded the corner slowly, still taping, and saw him standing there.
The priest, with his back to Kev. And kneeling there was Organ Boy and…
Holy shit. Angela.
Her hair looked different.
“You should rejoice, Peter,” the priest was saying. “You’re going to enjoy the fruits of the Kingdom of Heaven now and forever.”
The organist had a weird expression on his face, something like regret and relief at the same time. Poor Angela. Her cheeks were wet with tears. She’d been put through the ringer tonight, oh boy. Wait until I tell Billy about this. Naw—wait ‘til I put a copy of the DVD in her parents’ mailbox.
“Both of you,” the priest said.
And now he held up this huge-ass crucifix—Holy shit, that’s the… now Kev knew which priest it was. Only one of the three who bragged about it. Italian steel, allegedly blessed by the Pope.
Kev trained the camera on it. The silver gleamed.
“Ergo te absolvo…”
There was a sharp clicking noise.
“… in nomine Patris…”
There. Kev refocused the camera. What was.. was that a blade? Holy shit. A motherfucking blade popped out of the base of the cross. How fucking cool was that? But what the fuck was he going to…
Reverse zoom.
“…et Filli, et Spiritus Sancti.”
The priest quickly flipped the cross upside down, holding it by the cross bar, like he was a knight with a sword.
“Amen.”
Kev caught the shot just in time.
The shot of the priest, swinging the blade of the cross beneath their chins in one powerful, clean movement.
* * *
This was a war, in Heaven and in Hell and on Earth, and only he was one of the aware who knew how to fight that war.
The war of the souls.
His actions meant personal damnation; the priest was aware of this. But many could enter into the Kingdom of Heaven, instantly, after being cleansed of sin. He had been saving souls for years now. This is why he had come to Philadelphia. It was his crusade, his calling.
Over 160 souls and counting.
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
Watch This Space...
Coming in just a matter of hours: the second Blog Project, in which a crack band of bloggers and writers join forces to present stories around a surprise theme. As with the first Blog Project, the sequel was the brainchild of Bryon Quertermous, without no assistance whatsoever from Dave White. Nope, Dave didn't do a damned thing. Says he was busy playing with muffins, or something. Ah, who knows.
(I kid Dave. He knows that.)
The lineup:
Bryon Quertermous
Dave White
Dave Zeltserman
Ray Banks
David J Montgomery
John Rickards
Bill Crider
Gwenda Bond
Scott Neumyer
Paul Guyot
Stuart MacBride
Gerald So
Sarah Weinman
Christin Kuretich
Bob Mueller
Megan Powell
Pat Lambe
Steven Torres
Graham Powell
Jennifer Jordan
Jon Jordan
Bob Tinsley
Aldo Calcagno
Rochelle Krich
Alina Adams
,,, and me, your Friendly Neighborhood Pole With Soul.
Tune in tomorrow.
(I kid Dave. He knows that.)
The lineup:
Bryon Quertermous
Dave White
Dave Zeltserman
Ray Banks
David J Montgomery
John Rickards
Bill Crider
Gwenda Bond
Scott Neumyer
Paul Guyot
Stuart MacBride
Gerald So
Sarah Weinman
Christin Kuretich
Bob Mueller
Megan Powell
Pat Lambe
Steven Torres
Graham Powell
Jennifer Jordan
Jon Jordan
Bob Tinsley
Aldo Calcagno
Rochelle Krich
Alina Adams
,,, and me, your Friendly Neighborhood Pole With Soul.
Tune in tomorrow.
Monday, June 13, 2005
When Grown Men Act Like 13-Year-Olds
Al "Sunshine" Guthrie and I have been working on this TOP SECRET PROJECT for a little while now. I won't say much about it, except that it is TOP SECRET and that it involves demons. Like, from Hell. In some creative medium.
Maybe it's a story. Maybe it's a novel. Maybe it's an opera. I won't say anything about it, except that the working title is PLAYTHINGS.
And it's about demons. Like, from Hell. The kind who like to possess people, and spit up pea soup on members of the clergy.
This morning, we were ironing out a detail via e-mail, and I joked:
"Already got a title for [the next one]: SLAYTHINGS. About a serial killer."
Al responded:
"Possessed pottery: CLAYTHINGS. Possessed elephants: GRAYTHINGS. There's no end to the possibilities."
I wrote back:
"Possessed hookers: LAYTHINGS."
And from there it went, both of us furiously coming up with silly and mostly nonsensical titles for stories about demons that will exist only in our collective sick imaginations. Al would toss out one idea, I'd throw back two, just to show him who's boss, and he'd then school me with three or four. (The show-off.) Things like:
Possessed CEOs: KENNETH LAYTHINGS
Possessed bathroom scales: WEIGHTHINGS
Possessed 1950s-era actresses: DORIS DAYTHINGS
Possessed Yuletide transport: SLEIGHTHINGS
Possessed horses: HAYTHINGS.
Possessed coinage: PAYTHINGS
Possessed binary suns: RAYTHINGS
Possessed rappers: DR. DRE-THINGS
Possessed S&M; mistresses: OBEYTHINGS
Possessed bald men: TOUPEE-THINGS
Possessed online auctions: eBAYTHINGS
Possessed 24-hour shops: ALLDAYTHINGS
Possessed electric guitar effect pedals: DELAYTHINGS
Possessed blood-sport fanatics writing in a hardboiled style: HEMINGWAYTHINGS
Possessed first letters of the alphabet: 'A'-THINGS
Possessed spies: ATTACHE-THINGS
Possessed cosmetics salespeople: MARY KAYTHINGS
Possessed lost felines: STRAYTHINGS
Possessed British gangsters: KRAYTHINGS
At one point, Al asked: "Is this the most childish thing you've done in ages? (For fuck's sake say yes)."
To which I replied: "Perhaps... but that doesn't mean I surrender!"
The incessant punning continues, as it will continue, until California slides into the Pacific, and Earth packs up its belongings and shuffles home.
(Note to Al: "Possessed Members of the Four Tops: JUST WALK AWAY, RENEE-THINGS.")
Maybe it's a story. Maybe it's a novel. Maybe it's an opera. I won't say anything about it, except that the working title is PLAYTHINGS.
And it's about demons. Like, from Hell. The kind who like to possess people, and spit up pea soup on members of the clergy.
This morning, we were ironing out a detail via e-mail, and I joked:
"Already got a title for [the next one]: SLAYTHINGS. About a serial killer."
Al responded:
"Possessed pottery: CLAYTHINGS. Possessed elephants: GRAYTHINGS. There's no end to the possibilities."
I wrote back:
"Possessed hookers: LAYTHINGS."
And from there it went, both of us furiously coming up with silly and mostly nonsensical titles for stories about demons that will exist only in our collective sick imaginations. Al would toss out one idea, I'd throw back two, just to show him who's boss, and he'd then school me with three or four. (The show-off.) Things like:
Possessed CEOs: KENNETH LAYTHINGS
Possessed bathroom scales: WEIGHTHINGS
Possessed 1950s-era actresses: DORIS DAYTHINGS
Possessed Yuletide transport: SLEIGHTHINGS
Possessed horses: HAYTHINGS.
Possessed coinage: PAYTHINGS
Possessed binary suns: RAYTHINGS
Possessed rappers: DR. DRE-THINGS
Possessed S&M; mistresses: OBEYTHINGS
Possessed bald men: TOUPEE-THINGS
Possessed online auctions: eBAYTHINGS
Possessed 24-hour shops: ALLDAYTHINGS
Possessed electric guitar effect pedals: DELAYTHINGS
Possessed blood-sport fanatics writing in a hardboiled style: HEMINGWAYTHINGS
Possessed first letters of the alphabet: 'A'-THINGS
Possessed spies: ATTACHE-THINGS
Possessed cosmetics salespeople: MARY KAYTHINGS
Possessed lost felines: STRAYTHINGS
Possessed British gangsters: KRAYTHINGS
At one point, Al asked: "Is this the most childish thing you've done in ages? (For fuck's sake say yes)."
To which I replied: "Perhaps... but that doesn't mean I surrender!"
The incessant punning continues, as it will continue, until California slides into the Pacific, and Earth packs up its belongings and shuffles home.
(Note to Al: "Possessed Members of the Four Tops: JUST WALK AWAY, RENEE-THINGS.")
Friday, June 10, 2005
English Is Apparently My Second Language
Nancy French linked to this test on her blog. I took it, and was shocked to see that I'm a little bit country, a little bit rock and roll. Christ, I thought I'd be Yankee all the way.
Now if y'all excuse me, I need to go down to the cellar for a spell.
Now if y'all excuse me, I need to go down to the cellar for a spell.
Your Linguistic Profile: |
50% General American English |
30% Yankee |
20% Dixie |
0% Midwestern |
0% Upper Midwestern |
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Two Moments of Ennui from Two Different Writers Named "Charles Williams"
From Charles Williams:
It was sultry and oppressive, and after I took a shower and tried to dry myself the fresh underwear kept sticking to my perspiration-wet body. I sat in the room in my shorts and looked out the window at the back yard as the sun went down. It had a high board fence around it, a little grass turning brown with the heat, and a chinaberry tree with a dirty rabbit hutch leaning against it. This is the way it looks at thiry, I thought; anybody want to stay for forty?
(Hell Hath No Fury, 1953)
From Charlie Williams:
I knew one or two published novelists before I became one myself. I kind of held them in awe, of course. (It helped that I liked their books.) But it's only natural that you get to know a few more, once you're amongst their ranks. And the cool bit is that they don't laugh at you and make jokes at your expense anymore, once you're one of them. Instead they confide in you, telling you about all the wild shit that goes on at publishing parties. (I swear, you wouldn't believe...) And then they get all lachrymose and start telling you about their problems, about how they can't seem to reach the heights they once reached, or how this reviewer panned them because of plain old jealousy, or how their wife just doesn't understand that when your sitting quietly like that, staring at the wall, you're working...
("Thoughts from a One-Year Veteran," Charlie Williams' Blog, 2005)
It was sultry and oppressive, and after I took a shower and tried to dry myself the fresh underwear kept sticking to my perspiration-wet body. I sat in the room in my shorts and looked out the window at the back yard as the sun went down. It had a high board fence around it, a little grass turning brown with the heat, and a chinaberry tree with a dirty rabbit hutch leaning against it. This is the way it looks at thiry, I thought; anybody want to stay for forty?
(Hell Hath No Fury, 1953)
From Charlie Williams:
I knew one or two published novelists before I became one myself. I kind of held them in awe, of course. (It helped that I liked their books.) But it's only natural that you get to know a few more, once you're amongst their ranks. And the cool bit is that they don't laugh at you and make jokes at your expense anymore, once you're one of them. Instead they confide in you, telling you about all the wild shit that goes on at publishing parties. (I swear, you wouldn't believe...) And then they get all lachrymose and start telling you about their problems, about how they can't seem to reach the heights they once reached, or how this reviewer panned them because of plain old jealousy, or how their wife just doesn't understand that when your sitting quietly like that, staring at the wall, you're working...
("Thoughts from a One-Year Veteran," Charlie Williams' Blog, 2005)
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Quertermous Nails It
Yep, the correct answer is The Lean Body Promise by Lee Labrada. (Whose surname sounds like Labrava by Elmore Leonard, yes? No?)
Now you may be asking yourself: Self, how does a Polish dough boy end up ghostwriting a fitness book with a former Mr. Universe, and pal of Arnold Schwarzenegger? I mean, Swierczynski's a fucking far cry from "lean."
It's that Men's Health stint on my resume. Fools 'em every time.
Bryon, you'll receive signed copies of both Lean Body and Wheelman as soon as I receive 'em.. plus, a box of Rice-A-Roni, the San Francisco Treat. Send me your mailing address when you have a sec.
Thanks to everyone who wasted valuable time today playing this silly contest.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Ghost Story
In exactly one week, a non-fiction book I wrote will be released by a major New York publishing house. This book falls within an extremely popular genre of non-fiction. It already has a pretty high Amazon ranking, and there's an honest-to-God promotional budget and media blitz behind it.
Thing is, my name won't be on it.
Yep, it's a book I ghostwrote.
All told, the outlining and interviewing and writing and editing took me about a year, during which time I was also teaching. Multiple plane trips were involved, as were countless audio cassette tapes. It was also fun, and allowed me to stretch literary muscles I hadn't used in quite a while. And I don't mind not having my name on it, because it doesn't really fit into my usual genres (crime and vice).
Why do I bring this up? Why, because it gives me the chance to do a... Secret Dead Blog Contest!
If you can guess the title of the book I ghostwrote, you'll win a signed copy of said book and a signed ARC of The Wheelman when it's available later this summer.
Two rules:
1. David Hale Smith and Allan Guthrie are not allowed to enter. And they are not allowed to help you.
2. You can ask for hints in the backblog, but I am not required to give answers.
First person who nails it wins. Good luck.
UPDATE (11:00 a.m. EST): Okay, time for a hint. The last name of the author--the name on the book, not me--kind of sounds like an Elmore Leonard novel title.
UPDATE (5:30 p.m. EST): One final hint: the author of this book and Arnold Schwarzenegger have a title in common. Multiple titles, in fact. Guessing ends at midnight tonight.
Thing is, my name won't be on it.
Yep, it's a book I ghostwrote.
All told, the outlining and interviewing and writing and editing took me about a year, during which time I was also teaching. Multiple plane trips were involved, as were countless audio cassette tapes. It was also fun, and allowed me to stretch literary muscles I hadn't used in quite a while. And I don't mind not having my name on it, because it doesn't really fit into my usual genres (crime and vice).
Why do I bring this up? Why, because it gives me the chance to do a... Secret Dead Blog Contest!
If you can guess the title of the book I ghostwrote, you'll win a signed copy of said book and a signed ARC of The Wheelman when it's available later this summer.
Two rules:
1. David Hale Smith and Allan Guthrie are not allowed to enter. And they are not allowed to help you.
2. You can ask for hints in the backblog, but I am not required to give answers.
First person who nails it wins. Good luck.
UPDATE (11:00 a.m. EST): Okay, time for a hint. The last name of the author--the name on the book, not me--kind of sounds like an Elmore Leonard novel title.
UPDATE (5:30 p.m. EST): One final hint: the author of this book and Arnold Schwarzenegger have a title in common. Multiple titles, in fact. Guessing ends at midnight tonight.
Monday, June 06, 2005
The Art of Art
Last Friday, I made my way across Center City to visit one of my favorite stores: Whodunit, Philly's best (albeit, only) mystery bookshop. If mystery fiction is a drug, then Whodunit was my first and most influential supplier. And my first dealer? Art Bourgeau, a Southern gentleman with an astounding, encyclopedic knowledge of mystery novels.
If you don't already have a copy, you must immediately track down Art's Mystery Lover's Companion (Crown 1986), which lists and describes over 2,500 mystery novels with a rating system that's pure Art:
Five daggers: A True Classic
Four: Excellent
Three: A Good Job
Two: Could Be Better
One: Only Read This One When You're Drunk
Art was the guy who first turned me on to David Goodis, Dan J. Marlowe, Charles Willeford and Lionel White way back in 1994, when I was a 22-year-old fact-checker at the city magazine with a tiny bit of disposable income and the desire to spend it on two things: books and beer. Noir fiction was my meat. "Oh yeah, that what young guys read," Art told me back then. "It's the covers -- the scantily-clad bad blonde with her hair piled up, smoking -- which draw 'em, of course. And who else would have problems with bad blondes in the middle of the afternoon than young guys?"
Not this young guy, of course. But I didn't tell Art that. I didn't want to ruin my rep.
More than 10 years later, I consider myself fairly well-read in the mystery genre. I know the major, minor, and delightfully obscure players. Not only have I heard of P.J. Wolfson, but I own a copy of Bodies Are Dust. (Thanks, Sunshine.) My shelves are brimming with noir stars old (Marlowe, Willeford, Williams) and new (Starr, Bruen, Williams, Gischler, Bowker). Hell, I read Sarah Weinman's blog like I absorb air. I know my mystery fiction, okay?
Nope. Uh-uh.
One hour with Art, and I was properly schooled.
Art is great, because he'll take you around his store, plucking titles off the shelves and giving you a brief glimmer of the glories within -- perhaps with a brief anecdote about the writer, a spare, pointed mini-review, or just a full-on endorsement. Friday was no exception. And as loathe as I am to admit this, I hadn't heard of half the authors Art pointed out.
Here's a list of books I purchased:
The House on Q Street by Robert Dietrich (1959)
The Running Man by Ben Benson (1959)
Ask the Right Question by Michael Z. Lewin (1971)
The Physalia Incident by Art Spikol (1988)
Murdock Cracks Ice by Robert J. Ray (1992)
A Killing for Charity by Arthur Kaplan (1976)
Wall of Glass by Walter Satterthwait (1989)
Bloodfire by John Lutz (1991)
The Neon Flamingo by W.R. Philbrick (1987)
Puzzle for Fools by Patrick Quentin (1936)
In a Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes (1947)
The Two Dude Defense by Walter Walker (1985)
Rules of the Knife Fight by Walter Walker (1986)
The Curious Facts Preceding My Execution by Donald Westlake (1973)
Because the Night by James Ellroy (1984)
Now out of these 15 books, a dozen were Art's suggestions. (I had already picked out the Hughes, Westlake and Ellroy.) Four of Art's picks (Lewin, Lutz, Satterthwait, Spikol) were writers I'd certainly heard of, and in one case, very much enjoyed.
That left eight (Dietrich, Benson, Ray, Kaplan, Philbrick, Quentin, and two by Walker) that were completely new. Hello, clue phone, Swierczynski. It's for you.
Which is great. I love hearing about new writers.
Thing is... these aren't new writers. They're just new to me. Why hadn't I heard of these birds before?
Take Dietrich. Turns out, it's pen name of E. Howard Hunt, of Watergate fame. (I'm reading The House on Q Street now. It's terrific. I'll probably post something about it tomorrow.) Benson wrote about a Massachusetts State Trooper named Ralph Lindsey, and Art says his stuff is extremely "underrated." Let's see.... Robert J. Ray? Somehow his hardboiled Matt Murdock series escaped my attention. Ditto for Philbrick's T.D. Stash series. Kaplan's Charity won an Edgar. (An Edgar! And nobody told me!) And finally, Patrick Quentin -- the psuedonym of at least two writers who wrote a series of these macabre puzzle mysteries back in the 1930s and 1940s.
A trip to visit Art at Whodunit is both thrilling and depressing. Thrilling, because my TBR pile now has an interesting mix of books clamoring for my attention. Depressing because there's so much left to learn. As compared to Art's Jedi Master status, I'm barely a young Padawan learner.
If you don't already have a copy, you must immediately track down Art's Mystery Lover's Companion (Crown 1986), which lists and describes over 2,500 mystery novels with a rating system that's pure Art:
Five daggers: A True Classic
Four: Excellent
Three: A Good Job
Two: Could Be Better
One: Only Read This One When You're Drunk
Art was the guy who first turned me on to David Goodis, Dan J. Marlowe, Charles Willeford and Lionel White way back in 1994, when I was a 22-year-old fact-checker at the city magazine with a tiny bit of disposable income and the desire to spend it on two things: books and beer. Noir fiction was my meat. "Oh yeah, that what young guys read," Art told me back then. "It's the covers -- the scantily-clad bad blonde with her hair piled up, smoking -- which draw 'em, of course. And who else would have problems with bad blondes in the middle of the afternoon than young guys?"
Not this young guy, of course. But I didn't tell Art that. I didn't want to ruin my rep.
More than 10 years later, I consider myself fairly well-read in the mystery genre. I know the major, minor, and delightfully obscure players. Not only have I heard of P.J. Wolfson, but I own a copy of Bodies Are Dust. (Thanks, Sunshine.) My shelves are brimming with noir stars old (Marlowe, Willeford, Williams) and new (Starr, Bruen, Williams, Gischler, Bowker). Hell, I read Sarah Weinman's blog like I absorb air. I know my mystery fiction, okay?
Nope. Uh-uh.
One hour with Art, and I was properly schooled.
Art is great, because he'll take you around his store, plucking titles off the shelves and giving you a brief glimmer of the glories within -- perhaps with a brief anecdote about the writer, a spare, pointed mini-review, or just a full-on endorsement. Friday was no exception. And as loathe as I am to admit this, I hadn't heard of half the authors Art pointed out.
Here's a list of books I purchased:
The House on Q Street by Robert Dietrich (1959)
The Running Man by Ben Benson (1959)
Ask the Right Question by Michael Z. Lewin (1971)
The Physalia Incident by Art Spikol (1988)
Murdock Cracks Ice by Robert J. Ray (1992)
A Killing for Charity by Arthur Kaplan (1976)
Wall of Glass by Walter Satterthwait (1989)
Bloodfire by John Lutz (1991)
The Neon Flamingo by W.R. Philbrick (1987)
Puzzle for Fools by Patrick Quentin (1936)
In a Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes (1947)
The Two Dude Defense by Walter Walker (1985)
Rules of the Knife Fight by Walter Walker (1986)
The Curious Facts Preceding My Execution by Donald Westlake (1973)
Because the Night by James Ellroy (1984)
Now out of these 15 books, a dozen were Art's suggestions. (I had already picked out the Hughes, Westlake and Ellroy.) Four of Art's picks (Lewin, Lutz, Satterthwait, Spikol) were writers I'd certainly heard of, and in one case, very much enjoyed.
That left eight (Dietrich, Benson, Ray, Kaplan, Philbrick, Quentin, and two by Walker) that were completely new. Hello, clue phone, Swierczynski. It's for you.
Which is great. I love hearing about new writers.
Thing is... these aren't new writers. They're just new to me. Why hadn't I heard of these birds before?
Take Dietrich. Turns out, it's pen name of E. Howard Hunt, of Watergate fame. (I'm reading The House on Q Street now. It's terrific. I'll probably post something about it tomorrow.) Benson wrote about a Massachusetts State Trooper named Ralph Lindsey, and Art says his stuff is extremely "underrated." Let's see.... Robert J. Ray? Somehow his hardboiled Matt Murdock series escaped my attention. Ditto for Philbrick's T.D. Stash series. Kaplan's Charity won an Edgar. (An Edgar! And nobody told me!) And finally, Patrick Quentin -- the psuedonym of at least two writers who wrote a series of these macabre puzzle mysteries back in the 1930s and 1940s.
A trip to visit Art at Whodunit is both thrilling and depressing. Thrilling, because my TBR pile now has an interesting mix of books clamoring for my attention. Depressing because there's so much left to learn. As compared to Art's Jedi Master status, I'm barely a young Padawan learner.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
A wee bit o' the Oirish
Here's a brief interview with John Connolly, who'll be in Philly next Tuesday to read and sign his fifth Charlie Parker novel, The Black Angel. Nice guy; creepy-ass fiction.
And, in honor of the Listowel Writers Festival, check out this ridiculously insensitive McDonald's ad from the 1970s or so. (Reports that the actor in the commercial is a young Ken Bruen remain unconfirmed at press time.)
(Link swiped from Tim Harrod at Stay Free Magazine.)
Finally, this has nothing to do with the Emerald Isle: this week's WTF.
And, in honor of the Listowel Writers Festival, check out this ridiculously insensitive McDonald's ad from the 1970s or so. (Reports that the actor in the commercial is a young Ken Bruen remain unconfirmed at press time.)
(Link swiped from Tim Harrod at Stay Free Magazine.)
Finally, this has nothing to do with the Emerald Isle: this week's WTF.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
The Impromptu DT Questionnaire (Or: Dave White Forces Me Out of Lurkdom on DetecToday)
You've gotta love that Dave White fella. Not only did he waste a perfectly good Memorial Day weekend reading Secret Dead Men, but he was good enough to big it up at DetecToday, Gerald So's excellent detective fiction listserv.
And then he starts in with the Paul Giamatti imitation, whining about how I didn't respond to his post.
I told him the truth: I'm shy.
But Dave wasn't buying it. He posted four questions at DetecToday, thinking I'd be forced to crawl out of lurkdom to answer them.
You know what? He was right.
Here's how I responded:
A) Where'd ya get the idea?
Two sources:
The basic murder mystery plot (there is one... I swear!) was cannibalized, Chandler-style, from a screenplay I wrote back in 1994 called Nobody Knows. I wrote it on a whim for a "set in Philadelphia" screenplay contest. It lost. Like, big time. In fact, it's very possible that the only two people in the world who've read Nobody Knows are myself and some anonymous judge, who probably fell asleep halfway through.
The soul-collection/Brain Hotel stuff, came about when I started thinking about that old noir chestnut: split personalities. I thought: What if there actually were other people inside someone's head?
Marry the two ideas, and there you have Secret Dead Men. Sort of.
B) What's your writing process like?
I like to write during the times most people like to have sex: early in the morning and late at night. This is a habit carried over from high school, when that was the only time I *could* write. (Not have sex, I hasten to add. I went to Catholic high school.An all-boy's Catholic high school. Where the only female was the school nurse. And she looked like Bea Arthur.)
Usually music is involved. For Secret Dead Men, I allotted myself $100 in research money, and spent the whole thing on a Rhino box set of '70s music called "Have a Nice Day!" (SDM is set in 1976.) Two startling revelations: Someone actually did make a hit record about truckers talking over CB radio ("Convoy"), and Starlight Vocal Band's "Afternoon Delight" is actually about sex, not the early days of NASA (like I thought when I was a kid). I'm telling you, Catholic school. Represses the living shit out of you.
What else, what else...
I like to open up the previous day's work, play around with the words, cut, rewrite, etc. which puts me back in the story fairly quickly. I really don't do a first draft straight through; I'll go back and revise as I go along. Relentlessly. So I coudn't really tell you how many drafts I write; I could either say "one" or "54..."
Wait. You're still back on that "Afternoon Delight" thing, aren't you? C'mon--give me a break. "Rubbin' sticks and stones together makes the sparks ignite..." To a five-year-old brain, that clearly denotes early attempts at rocket combustion...
C) Are you seriously as awesome as you write?
Nope. I'm not awesomely serious, either.
D) Tell us more about this Del Farmer and if you plan on it being a series.
Del Farmer used to be "Del Winter"--at least, back when I talked Kevin Burton Smith into running an SDM excerpt on Thrilling Detective back in the day. A few revises later, however, I changed his surname to "Farmer," as a nod to "The Farmer in the Dell." Like in the song, the lead character is the central figure in an ever-expanding collection of souls. High-ho the dairy-o...
I'd love to make SDM a series -- I've actually plotted out the next two books, which move forward in time a la Easy Rawlins. But that all depends on interest in SDM, I guess. Personally, I can't wait for Del Farmer to go punk.
And then he starts in with the Paul Giamatti imitation, whining about how I didn't respond to his post.
I told him the truth: I'm shy.
But Dave wasn't buying it. He posted four questions at DetecToday, thinking I'd be forced to crawl out of lurkdom to answer them.
You know what? He was right.
Here's how I responded:
A) Where'd ya get the idea?
Two sources:
The basic murder mystery plot (there is one... I swear!) was cannibalized, Chandler-style, from a screenplay I wrote back in 1994 called Nobody Knows. I wrote it on a whim for a "set in Philadelphia" screenplay contest. It lost. Like, big time. In fact, it's very possible that the only two people in the world who've read Nobody Knows are myself and some anonymous judge, who probably fell asleep halfway through.
The soul-collection/Brain Hotel stuff, came about when I started thinking about that old noir chestnut: split personalities. I thought: What if there actually were other people inside someone's head?
Marry the two ideas, and there you have Secret Dead Men. Sort of.
B) What's your writing process like?
I like to write during the times most people like to have sex: early in the morning and late at night. This is a habit carried over from high school, when that was the only time I *could* write. (Not have sex, I hasten to add. I went to Catholic high school.An all-boy's Catholic high school. Where the only female was the school nurse. And she looked like Bea Arthur.)
Usually music is involved. For Secret Dead Men, I allotted myself $100 in research money, and spent the whole thing on a Rhino box set of '70s music called "Have a Nice Day!" (SDM is set in 1976.) Two startling revelations: Someone actually did make a hit record about truckers talking over CB radio ("Convoy"), and Starlight Vocal Band's "Afternoon Delight" is actually about sex, not the early days of NASA (like I thought when I was a kid). I'm telling you, Catholic school. Represses the living shit out of you.
What else, what else...
I like to open up the previous day's work, play around with the words, cut, rewrite, etc. which puts me back in the story fairly quickly. I really don't do a first draft straight through; I'll go back and revise as I go along. Relentlessly. So I coudn't really tell you how many drafts I write; I could either say "one" or "54..."
Wait. You're still back on that "Afternoon Delight" thing, aren't you? C'mon--give me a break. "Rubbin' sticks and stones together makes the sparks ignite..." To a five-year-old brain, that clearly denotes early attempts at rocket combustion...
C) Are you seriously as awesome as you write?
Nope. I'm not awesomely serious, either.
D) Tell us more about this Del Farmer and if you plan on it being a series.
Del Farmer used to be "Del Winter"--at least, back when I talked Kevin Burton Smith into running an SDM excerpt on Thrilling Detective back in the day. A few revises later, however, I changed his surname to "Farmer," as a nod to "The Farmer in the Dell." Like in the song, the lead character is the central figure in an ever-expanding collection of souls. High-ho the dairy-o...
I'd love to make SDM a series -- I've actually plotted out the next two books, which move forward in time a la Easy Rawlins. But that all depends on interest in SDM, I guess. Personally, I can't wait for Del Farmer to go punk.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
