Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘crime fiction’

AUTHOR T.K. O’NEILL RECEIVES NATIONAL RECOGNITION FROM NIEA

Noir writer switches gears with hard-boiled Lake Superior detective novel

The 2014 National Indie Excellence® Awards recognized Jackpine Savages by author T.K. O’Neill as a finalist in the category of crime fiction finalist in this year’s competition.

This prestigious national award is open to all English language books in print from small, medium, university, self and independent publishers. Also this year, O’Neill’s detective fiction was judged “outstanding” in the 22nd Annual Writer’s Digest Self-Published Book Awards.

A trending Christmas gift favorite for fans of the genre, Jackpine Savages is hard-boiled detective fiction in the tradition of Ross MacDonald and Robert B. Parker, set on the rugged north shore of Lake Superior. It features novice private investigator Carter Brown, who, thanks to an inheritance from a well-to-do uncle and a mail order P.I. diploma, realized a boyhood dream. When word spread of a homegrown private eye in the backwoods of northern Minnesota and Carter landed his first case, Brown Investigations was born. Before he could cash his first check for services rendered, Brown found himself locked up on a murder charge and soon entangled in trying to solve a murder of which he was also accused.

Bluestone Press published T.K. O’Neill’s latest crime fiction in both ebook and paperback formats. O’Neill is also author of the noir Fly in the Milk, exclusively on ebook, and has also authored three pulp/noir books under the pseudonym Thomas Sparrow, one of which was translated and distributed by Fusosha Publishing in Tokyo, Japan.

Bluestone Press was established in early 1999 in Duluth, Minnesota. Jackpine Savages (trade paperback ISBN #978-0-96-720066-8; ebook ISBN #978-0-9672006-5-1) is available at major online retailers, including Barnes and Noble, Amazon, Google, iBookstore (Apple), Sony Reader Store, Kobo (Borders) and ebookit.com. Book sellers can contact Ingram/Lightning Source. Excerpts from Jackpine Savages and other publications are available at www.bluestonesblog.com .

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/jackpine-savages-tk-oneill/1115718708?ean=2940016711300

http://www.ebookit.com/books/0000002959/Jackpine-Savages.html

Read Full Post »

Nice email yesterday:

Congratulations!

It is our great pleasure to inform you that you are a Finalist in the 2014 National Indie Excellence Awards. Your book truly embodies the excellence that this award was created to celebrate, and we salute you and your fine work.

The lists of winners and finalists will be highlighted on our website. Please go to www.indieexcellence.com to see your name and book cover among those of the other proud winners and finalists.

The entire team at the National Indie Excellence Awards sincerely hopes your participation in our contest will serve you well in creating the success your book deserves. You have our sincerest congratulations.

Warmly,

Ellen Reid

President & CEO

National Indie Excellence Awards

www.indieexcellence.com

ellen@indieexcellence.com

Read Full Post »

Excerpt from Thomas Sparrow’s crime noir Northwoods Standoff.

Available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other booksellers. Also available directly through the publisher. Contact bluestone@duluthmn.com

I woke up late the next afternoon and suffered through a lonely Christmas Eve. At dusk I opened a can of tuna and scooped it out with a few Wheat Thins. Happy Holidays. Then came Christmas morning, and I knew Santa had passed me by. Looked out the window of my bedroom at the gray morning sky and wondered what the fuck it was all about. Tried to fall back asleep but my head was spinning in counterpoint to the spasms in my gut. At dark I drove twenty minutes to the nearest convenience store and picked up another can of tuna, a fresh bag of chips and some macaroni and cheese for Christmas dinner. Glory Hallelujah.

Around nine, with tuna on my breath, I drove by Dotty’s Tavern. Finding it closed, I turned around in the parking lot and headed back home. Halfway up my driveway, I saw bouncing headlights coming toward me. Roy’s hulking Pontiac. My headlights flashed on his bad teeth and wicked grin. I wasn’t so sure I wanted company.

Seeing my truck, he stopped, threw his shifter in reverse and backed up to the house. He parked facing out and I rolled in next to him. Standing there with his door open, eyes bright and excited, yellow interior lights reflecting off his red parka with fur-trimmed hood, he said, “Let’s go ice fishing.”

I was too burned out to argue. Plus, it seemed like I had my first real friend in my new life. If I could only remember to call myself by the right name.

I went into the house and changed into my warmest stuff: Carhartt bibs, down jacket and Sorel insulated boots. Roy sat in the kitchen and rolled joints. Before we left I grabbed the last six-pack of Bud from the yellowing Kelvinator refrigerator.

We drove about thirty minutes through the blackness to a little road leading to a small lake. Up high in the clear sky, shining down on a little shack about twenty yards from shore, was a three-quarters moon. The new snow looked bright and soft and peaceful.

“We going after muskies here, Roy?”

“Nah, gotta go a little further for them. Here we might get a northern or some panfish. Maybe even a bass.”

After trudging through the shallow snow to the small wooden shack, we sat on canvas chairs in the glow of a Coleman heater and bounced tiny jigs tipped with minnows, using the bottom halves of old fiberglass spinning rods. The beer, the smoke and one of Madison’s rock stations coming out of a little one-speaker radio made the night a beautiful thing. In between catching four crappies, six bluegills, one perch and a three-pound northern pike that flopped around on the ice while we laughed hysterically, we talked a lot. More correctly, Roy talked a lot. I learned more about Roy Hollinday than he did about Randy Slade.

Roy said the name Hollinday came from his mother and was originally Hole-in-the-Day in the native tongue. Roy’s mother was a Chippewa Indian who had raised him alone after his French Canadian father ran off with a white woman when Roy was four. This arrangement lasted until eighth grade when Roy, experimenting with a bow and arrow that he and his friends had fashioned out of a willow branch and some fishing line, had the misfortune of shooting another kid in the ear.

As Roy put it: “Four white kids and one skin… and who do you think shoots someone with a bow and arrow? We had an old, broken arrow with a nail stuck in the end, and everybody was betting me that I couldn’t hit Charlie McMillan, who was about seventy yards away. I never thought I’d hit him, but I drew back that flimsy bow and let fly and the goddamn thing came down and stuck poor Charlie right in the fucking flap of his ear. You should’ve heard the screams. Charlie took off running and screaming like Apaches were attacking Silver Bay.”

Roy was placed in a reform school where his name was changed to a more-white sounding Hollinday. Adding injury to insult, there were constant attempts by the staff to beat him into submission and “change his attitude.”

Years later, in high school, Roy finally rebelled against the years of conditioning, punched a teacher in the nose and was expelled. According to Roy, the baseball coach/history teacher used to take great pleasure in saying Roy’s entire name—Roy Rogers Hollinday—in front of the class, often remarking how unusual it was for an Indian to be named after a movie cowboy, as they were always killing Indians. Roy took exception to this disrespect and after school did a John Wayne on the instructor.

Shortly thereafter, Roy left northern Minnesota and joined the Marines.  About said duty, spent mostly as a military policeman in Korea, he wouldn’t speak, only saying, with a haunted look in his eye while squeezing furiously on a red rubber ball, that he’d “done some things over there….”

Mustering out, he enrolled in journalism school at the U of Wisconsin on the G.I. Bill, where he “smoked a lot of reefer and fucked a lot of white girls.” A few years later, after discovering that the local TV stations were bending over backwards to hire “people whose skin wasn’t white,” he jumped at the opportunity.

Then followed a run of a couple years as an on-air personality where he became somewhat of a local celebrity known for his provocative stories as well as his womanizing. The bottom fell out of his little dreamland when the old temper flared up again and he punched out the station manager for cracking too many Indian jokes.

Now he was a lone wolf, who no longer thought much of reservations or big cities and was happy out here living off the land and staying away from trouble and troubling people.

That night he talked fervently about the ancient wisdom of his people and how he’d recently gained much knowledge of the “old ways.” Occasionally he’d refer, with much vitriol, to a group of people he called “the Locusts,” how they were growing in numbers in the cities but couldn’t get to him out here—at least not yet.

It seemed that “living off the land,”—at least like Roy was doing—was suiting him very well. Except for the need of some dental work, it looked like he was doing all right.

I never did say very much about Randy Slade or John Flint or Keith Waverly, my trinity of aliases. Just mentioned that I was originally from Minneapolis and was out here living off an insurance settlement for a damaged leg I’d suffered as a result of a car accident. Trying to find myself, after the accident and a terrible divorce, you know, just drinking and getting high…  Someday I have to find a job…. 

The day after the ice-fishing excursion I was feeling a little off. Dana’s return was looming on the morrow like an erotic brass ring, the carrot in front of the horny horse. I was sitting around stewing when Roy called from the bar. It was around ten o’clock and he said he wanted to come over, had a present for me. I begged off, told him I was going back home to Minnesota for a while over the holidays and needed to rest.

He wouldn’t have any of it. Hearing I was leaving only made him insist all the harder. Finally I gave in. I was too wired to sleep, anyway. In a few minutes I heard Roy’s glass packs rumbling. I stubbed out my Marlboro aside the pile of butts in the green plastic ashtray.

Roy came in alone, except for a big badboy between his lips and a case of Budweiser in his hands. “I got you a going-away present,” he said, setting the cardboard case down on the kitchen table. “The girls said they’d be here in a few minutes, but I have my doubts. Asshole Donny Ralston walked in right after you left and the two of them glommed onto him like flies on a turd. Those two are crank sluts and Donny usually has the trash, so I wasn’t going to argue with the likes of that.”

“Who’s Donny Ralston? He make Purina?”

Ignoring my feeble attempt at humor: “He’s the ’skin with the ponytail that you had the pleasure of encountering the other night.”

“No shit. He’s the candy man, eh?  People do a lot of speed around these parts?” I was curious.

“Half these assholes couldn’t survive without their speed. Used to be just white cross, but Ralston learned how to make meth and he’s introduced the product to the people. Around here they drink to get through the long winter nights, and then they do the crank to get through the long workday, and then they do it all over again. Some guys work for days straight without sleeping and then crash for days. About half of’em eventually disappear into the city, only to have new ones roll in. You’ll never get rid of speed out here, as long as the guys are prisoners of the system and their own ignorance.

“And it’s nice to see you’re not one of them, Randy. This house here had a couple of genuine, high-volume speed freaks living in it before you came along. They both ended up getting busted, she for stealing drugs from the hospital where she worked, and he for stealing from the old people at the nursing home where he worked.”

“Sounds like a real lovely pair—must be some bad vibes leftover in this place,” I said.

“That’s what I’m here to help you with, my friend. I’m here to impart some of my primitive mystical powers upon you and your dwelling. I will have it all cleaned up for you in no time. But first you must swallow this.”

He extended his hand in my direction. His closed fist seemed to grow bigger as it came to a stop in front of my eyes, turned over, and opened up like a large brown flower, revealing a pill the color of red clay and about the size of an aspirin.

“No, man, thanks, but I’m too fucked-up as it is. I don’t want to be taking any goddamn pills. I need to drive to Minnesota tomorrow.”

“No, no, my friend, you’re are unjustly excited, don’t be alarmed. This is sacred mescaline that I acquired from some skins in South Dakota. They know some chemistry wizard makes this stuff. It will have you feeling great, I promise. Your body and your mind will get everything they need when you ride with Juan Mescalito, my friend.”

“You trying to lay that Carlos Castenada shit on me?”

“Who?  What shit?” His eyes flashed red.

“You know, that writer—from Mexico I think—he writes about the same kind of shit. Tripping out on plants—Juan Mescalito and everything.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Oh.”

What the hell, I thought. What could it hurt?  I could always wait another day. The thought made my stomach churn.

I pulled back the top of the beer case and lifted out a bottle, flicked off the top with a church key I kept on the kitchen table. Took a long swig of lukewarm suds and accepted the tablet from a grinning Roy, who was still dutifully standing there with his hand out.

“That’s better, he said.

So we sat at the table and drank beers—at least I did—and smoked from Roy’s pipe. The girls never showed, just as Roy had predicted. When the mescaline started kicking in I no longer cared. My mind soared towards the infinite. I understood time. There was no need to worry about the future or fret about the past, because things happen when they will. I became serene and invigorated, relaxed and energized. Roy’s face seemed to change color. A pulsating aura of red and green and blue surrounded him in alternating layers. He began to speak in a voice much deeper than normal that seemed to come from the center of the earth.

As an accompaniment, the sweet low sound of electric blues floated in from the living room, courtesy of a Chicago FM station. Warm air blew from the registers and the lights grew dim. My head got heavy as Roy began to move about the room, weaving a most fascinating and mind-blowing tale. A strange and absorbing saga that took me places I’d never been, made me feel things I’d never felt. The whole thing seemed like a dance. A crazy, shaman-like Native American dance with an eerie background of black blues and British blues-rock.

Sometimes Roy was a marine, down on the floor doing push-ups and extolling the virtues of physical fitness. The next moment he was a twelve-year-old kid, seeing his life collapse around him and watching the white man take over his destiny. Often, he was a glib and intelligent television reporter from Madison, reciting with charm and confidence his conquests and experiences in the city. But most often, the narrator that winter’s evening was a slightly feral, slightly mad creature.

In my dilated pupils, he ceased being Roy Rogers Hollinday and became a warrior/shaman. Maybe it was the French Canadian in him fueling the fire of the mescaline, as he tried to explain it, but I wasn’t convinced. Something bigger was taking place. I was lost in the cosmos. I was a student in front of the teacher.

I held him in my gaze and felt strange rumblings inside me, as his eyes sunk deeper in his head and turned momentarily empty, like marbles or an animal’s eyes. At one point, he glided way over to the edge of the living room in one effortless motion. After a pause he turned back to talk and his tone was more serious, more emphatic.

I was ready to believe just about anything.

He moved in so close I could smell the marijuana on his breath. He began to recite, in a rhythm that seemed to fit perfectly with whatever song was drifting out of the tuner, his warning. Standing above me, body pulsating, he looked into my eyes.

“I can see it in you, Randy Slade, and feel it in your spirit. You are one of us. You are simpatico of a dying breed; a breed I call the Primitive Mystic.  A breed that is both ancient and evolved at the same time. There are things you feel and know that you keep secret from the world. I can feel it in you. I sense it like I sense the pulse of the earth.  One does not need to be Native American to know the pulse of the earth.  Many blacks have the ability in their blood, but they’ve been living too long in the cities, away from their homeland. Here, in North America, most have lost their connection to the earth.

“There are others, white men such as you, who feel like we do. Men that observe all around them the slow but steady destruction of all that is wild and sacred. You feel the pain in your soul, but know not from where it comes. You seek to drown it in alcohol or run from it with hard drugs. But the white man’s powders and potions never give lasting relief and lead to death and destruction. At the very least, the mind and spirit become weakened.”

To which, I shakily responded:  “I’ve seen you drink rum and cokes, and a few beers once in a while. What about that? And you smoke a ton of fucking pot.”

“A few drinks never hurt a French Canadian, Randy,” Roy said, suddenly looking perfectly normal and straight. “Got to give the devil his due. Some drugs help you see and feel, while others put a cloak over you. A shroud, perhaps… take away your senses. Have you ever seen me drunk?”

“No, I guess not. But still….” My longtime toxic ways were hurting my brain. I tried to choke back the knowledge but couldn’t.

Dark and brooding electric guitar came creeping in from the living room and Roy slipped back into character, eyes glowing like a wolf in the firelight. “Listen to me now, very carefully,” he said, “it’s getting late.”  Jimmy Page’s axe growled and spit. “We are at a dangerous time in the history of the world, especially in North America. The very same forces that nearly wiped out the Indian nation and then enslaved us to their culture are stronger now than ever. The spirits of the blue-belly soldiers and the Indian killers and the buffalo butchers are all coming back together again for one final push at world domination.” A guitar howled and moaned. “Today they are cops, generals, corporate greedheads and right-wing Jesus freaks duping the common working man into being their unwitting foot-soldiers. A lot of ’skins have been made into fertilizer because of Jesus, we all can attest to that.”

He paused for breath, looked toward the heavens and then came back into the kitchen. He sat down on the kitchen counter, feet dangling above the cracked blue linoleum.

“As surely and as effectively as a swarm of locusts, they are preparing to denude the earth of all we hold sacred. The railroad barons and the mining companies are back together with the politicians who looked the other way the last time while their pockets were being filled with blood money. These are reptiles. You have the Reptiles leading the Locusts, and the Cockroaches there to feed on the remains. The cycle is starting all over again. You need look no farther than the president this country just elected in a landslide vote. Reagon used to play an Indian-killing soldier in the movies, for fuck sake. Now he’s waving his flag for all to see. This man will rally the Locusts for one last run at whatever is left out there to consume. They’ll cut down the forests and dam up the rivers and poison the air trying to satisfy their insatiable appetites. And it will be done so smoothly that few will notice until it is too late. Those that speak out will be effectively silenced.”

He stopped talking long enough to pull out a bud from a black, plastic film can and tap it into his reddish stone pipe. He fetched a stick match from the box above the stove and struck it with a quick slash up the thigh of his black jeans. His body seemed to vibrate as he drew on the pipe and handed it to me. My hand shook as I took it. Pressure was building from within. The pipe died and Roy fetched another match. He flicked the tip with his thumbnail and the room turned red and yellow. Smoke went up like a snake.

“You see, Randy, by not participating in their world, by not being a part of the locust swarm in any little way that you can, is at least doing something. You set an example for others by your non-compliance. Strong young men like you and I, however, can make a much broader statement.  We can make a lot of money and spend it on the underground. Local law enforcement must be shown the light, on a personal basis, because the Locusts will use money and influence to twist the laws in their favor. The lawyer is their weapon, and the law schools are churning them out like M-1’s for World War II. We might even have to kick some old-fashioned ass, from time to time.”

He went into a boxer’s stance, throwing jabs and hooks and bobbing and weaving. I puffed on the pipe. Each hit torqued up the mescaline and sent colored pinwheels dancing in front of my eyes.

Roy was grinning widely, not hiding his rotten tooth. For a brief flash, he looked like Keith Richards. And then suddenly, he turned calm and normal, almost flat.

“And that my friend is all I’ve got for you for tonight,” he said finally.  “You need time to digest what you’ve heard. Something to think about when you go back home to Minnesota. Something, to lively up your family’s dinner table, perhaps. I believe that the longer you think about it, the more you will find it ringing true down deep in your primitive soul. I believe you will eventually realize this, and for the first time in a long time, lose the discomfort that sits on your shoulders like a yoke. Consider tonight my Christmas gift to you.” He bowed slightly and walked over to his parka, where it hung from the back of a kitchen chair. “Enjoy your time with your people, and I’ll see you when you get back.” Putting on his jacket, “If you want, I can stop by and check out the house for you while you’re gone.”

Before I had a chance to answer, the door was open and he was going through it. I got up and walked to the door and heard the engine rumble to life, saw the lights come on. As the little cherry stars of his taillights faded past the bend and into the dark skinny trees, steel-gray light was coming over the trees.

Sunrise—and I hadn’t even slept yet. It was clear that Dana would have to wait a few more hours.

I was surprised how easy and painless the decision was.

I picked up the beer bottles in my kitchen as the sun came up, then went upstairs and soaked in the tub. Later, after toweling off, I looked at myself in the full-length mirror mounted on the bedroom door. My body seemed wild and beast-like, as if there was hair growing where there wasn’t. A primal strength inside me was closer to the surface than ever.

I dressed in sweatpants and a thick wool sweater, went downstairs and cooked a little oatmeal and ate it at the table, looking out the window at the gray dawn. The warm porridges brought me down enough to feel like sleeping. It was about ten a.m. when I hit the bed and fell asleep instantly.

I dreamed I was walking through an Indian burial ground at dusk.  Suddenly it turned into a cemetery like one in those classic horror movies, with ground fog, headstones and mausoleums.  It grew dark but I could still see clearly.  I walked until I came to a freshly dug grave that was yet unfilled.  The gravestone read: Keith Waverly. He Stood for Nothing and Died for Nothing.

My gut sank with sadness. I walked on. Soon I came to a small stream running along the edge of a forest. It was daylight again and the air was warm. Birds sang their songs to the morning sun and insects glided through the sweet air, felt about a hundred years ago. I knelt at the bank of the gurgling brook and watched the trout dart in and out of the shadows, wishing I had a pole and a can of worms. Extremely contented, I leaned back against a tree trunk and fell asleep.

I awoke for real. I was in my bed. The metallic-blue sky filled the bedroom window. It was three in the afternoon and the light was already on the wane. With a tired and very relaxed mind I dressed in a slacks and sweater combo, cooked some eggs and packed all my good clothes in my leather suitcase. I made sure to put plenty of cash in the bag before I put on my good boots and leather jacket and drove into Madison.

(End of excerpt)

Read Full Post »

Excerpt from Thomas Sparrow’s crime noir Northwoods Standoff (available through major online bookstores):

State Street, Madison, Wisconsin—Halloween, 1979:

The street was blocked off to cars. Costumed freaks cavorted drunkenly; grotesque creatures drank from plastic cups. The Big Bad Wolf, Little Red Riding Hood and the devil himself were huddled together as I approached. Smoke seeped from their mouths as they caught site of me. Satan’s eyes met mine and the trio quickly separated, merged into the surging crowd.

I chuckled. Figured it was my Armani suit that drove them away. They probably believed it was the real me, didn’t know it was just my Halloween costume. A bit more expensive than theirs, that’s all….

I walked through the surging, laughing throng for a few minutes, checking out the fantastic regalia. Then I decided to have a drink, get myself in the mood. There were taverns everywhere and I went in the first one I came to.

Laughter and boisterous voices hit me; beer signs blinked hello. Fucking place was jammed. Costumes and masks mingled in the narrow, smoky space. Along the left side of the room ran a long wooden bar with a brass foot rail. The Lone Ranger and Tonto were tending.

I bellied up and ordered a Stoli screwdriver from the masked man before lifting a pack of Kools from the pocket of my white silk shirt. People seemed to be looking at me funny. Hadn’t they ever seen a successful businessman before, for the Christ sake? They didn’t know I had a quarter of a million dollars of tax-free cash locked inside a Samsonite suitcase in my hotel room. Nevertheless, I felt like I deserved more respect than I was getting.

I lit a cigarette, and then tried and failed to find the pleasure I’d lost years ago. After two drinks, I attempted conversation with a bearded guy on my left. He nodded politely to what I said, then moved away without a word. I tried my luck with a red-haired fairy princess and a prom queen in a faded, aqua, sleeveless gown to my right. They shuffled off to somewhere else, like I was contagious. They were curt. Cute chicks who were curt, it fucking hurt.

I ordered, received and promptly drained my third drink before deciding to hit the street. I put down a fiver for a tip, stood up and got dizzy. I’d forgotten how strong they make the drinks in the Badger State.

Nausea rolled through me. Must be the stress catching up, I thought to myself. Too much for the old nervous system. Circuit breaker must’ve popped.

I sat back down and rubbed my eyes with my knuckles, leaned my elbows on the bar and sucked deeply of the smoky air. Little green stars flew around the back of my eyes.

“You all right, sir?”

A woman’s melodic voice, smooth and warming, like good red wine, brought me back from the darkness. I looked up gingerly into a pair of mischievous, deep-brown eyes dancing behind a silken mask. Full and sensuous, honey-red lips lit up my world like the desert sun at noon. She was tall, with a sculpted chin. Wide across her back with slim shoulders and a delicate alabaster neck, auburn hair spreading deliciously against it. Knee-length burgundy velvet dress, black stockings and high black boots. The elegant mask that matched her dress covered prominent cheekbones.

I immediately felt better. “Yeah, I’m all right,” I said. “Must be jet lag or something.”

“Really… where did you fly in from—Europe?”

“No, ah… just, ah… California.” It was really Florida, but that seemed too low-ball to impress her, so I lied. Something I was pretty good at—lying. “I’ve been flying all over the country lately, and I’m afraid my ass is lagging behind.”

She smiled thinly and motioned to the Lone Ranger as he flitted up and down the bar in a failing attempt to satisfy the clamoring horde. She caught his eye and he seemed to recognize her, came without hesitation. Sliding up in front of us, the masked man grinned and asked the Velvet Lady what was her pleasure. She smiled sweetly and handed him a folded white card with a ten-dollar bill pressed against it.

I couldn’t stop looking at her.

“This is for Raymond,” she said to the Ranger. “Make sure he gets it.” Then, turning back to me: “I’m glad you’re feeling better, sir,” leaning close enough that I got a blast of her sweet scent. “You’re kind of cute, I think. Maybe we’ll run into each other again someday.”

She said, “Ciao,” turned from the bar and me and walked away in a burgundy hurricane, the scent of cinnamon and money lingering. By the time I regained my composure, she was out the door and gone and I was feeling blue. Couldn’t believe she’d said Ciao.

I grabbed for my drink.

I sipped cautiously and watched the Lone Ranger as he slid the little white card into the frame of the cloudy bar mirror. An idea sprang to life inside my cluttered head.

“Hey Masked Man,” I said, loudly, waving a crisp twenty in the air. “I think Silver needs a few bags of oats.”

He was on me in an instant.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“Twenty bucks says that I’m Raymond, and I get to read that card.”

“You fucking crazy?” he puffed up his chest and frowned.

“Forty?” I pulled out another fresh double-sawbuck and waved it at him. Unlike the real Lone Ranger, this guy could be bought. He grabbed the bills, looked up and down the bar quickly, lifted the card from the mirror and threw it down in front of me.

“Read it and then give it back,” he said bluntly. “It’s just an invitation to a private after-hours party. They won’t let you in, anyway, without the card.”

My heart sped up as I opened the folded white card:

Admit one treasured guest

Halloween Night, 1979

Wolves and Lambs

314 John Avenue

Midnight

Wolves and Lambs? What kind of cockamamie shit was this? Too damn intriguing to pass up.

I stood up, feeling much better. Dropped another twenty on the bar, now drunk and cocky. “Thanks a lot, Masked Man.” I said, as the bartender served a beer to a guy dressed as a toilet.

Then the front door burst open and a loud crowd of masks and costumes came pouring in. I stuffed the card in my trouser pocket and wove through them like O.J. Simpson shredding the Dolphins on a cold day in Buffalo. Out the door and gone in a flash, I heard the bartender yelling after me.

I hit the street and looked to my left. Just another maze of freaks. Turned right and kept moving, just in case the bartender had any heroic ideas in his head. Maybe the Lone Ranger bullshit was getting to him; you never know.

I searched the swirling mass of color. Caught a glimpse of the burgundy-clad beauty disappearing into a group of beer-bellied elves and wasted dwarves. Satan was there, too. He was everywhere.

I raced past a porcine Porky Pig, only to find myself at an intersection where sawhorses with City of Madison printed on them demarcated the endpoint of the party. Beyond the barrier, the street was open to traffic. A few cars rolled by slowly as people walked away from the party. Two tired and impatient–looking policemen held their nightsticks at their sides and stood at the curb, watching.

Looking every which way, I frantically searched the crowd for the mystery woman. Couldn’t find her anywhere.

I sunk.

I started walking toward the cops, thinking they would know where John Avenue was. I was about ten yards away when they raised their bullhorns:

“PARTY’S OVER, CLEAR THE STREETS. BACK IN THE BARS OR TO YOUR CARS. EVERYBODY’S GOTTA GO. PARTY’S OVER. CLEAR THE STREETS”

My heart pounded. I stared, cringed and stopped dead in my tracks. They started toward me.

They passed me by with only an authoritative glare to show for it and I breathed a sigh of relief. One of the most underrated feelings in life, relief.

I moved in the opposite direction of the cops, searching for the nearest bar out of the party zone. My mind drifted in the cool autumn air.

I don’t know how long I’d been walking before I realized I was totally lost.The search for John Avenue had sent me down these windy streets until they were dark and empty.

I kept on walking aimlessly and time again drifted. Then I found the street sign. Or it found me. There it was, beneath the only light for blocks.

Yogi Berra used to say: “When you come to a fork in the road, take it.” So I did.

Down another narrow, darkened street with the wind at my back pushing me along.

There wasn’t much there.

After a nervous block, I noticed a bunch of parked cars up ahead, filling up both sides of an otherwise empty street.

I kept on walking. It wasn’t much brighter except for the gleam of the fine automobiles. The first one I came to was a dark green BMW. Then a Mercedes, a Corvette, a Jag and another BMW—a black one. Almost all the vehicles were world-class, not a junker in the bunch.

This must be the place, I thought to myself. But where was the party? The buildings all looked empty; some of them even boarded up. I moved further along into this car booster’s dream world, searching for signs of life. I crossed the avenue and peered in the darkened windows of abandoned storefronts. Then, right in front of me, above an iron door on a three-level brick building, was the number 314 in big, brass numerals.

The building was dark as pitch. I craned my neck, scanned the second story and found no signs of life. Something flashed below me. I looked down. Steps and a metal railing led to a doorway.

Then it flashed again, a plastic, paste-on, light gizmo above the door. Little yellow light blinked every thirty seconds or so.

I went down the steps and pounded on the blue, freshly hand-painted steel door. After about thirty seconds, it opened slowly and a large white man wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt and pirate’s hat became visible in the glow of a black light. Dude had biceps the size of tree trunks, a black eye patch over one eye and a skull-and-crossbones earring in one ear lobe.

He flashed a gold-capped grin. “Invitation please,” he croaked, deep like a bullfrog.

I pulled out the card and handed it to him. He rolled it in his massive fingers, had a quick look, stepped back and opened one of two glass doors behind him. “Right through here, sir,” he said politely, with the deference I’d been craving all night long.

I stepped through to a set of fancy stairs, going down to yet another level. The sound of Huey Lewis and the News’ “I Need a New Drug” hit me like a wet newspaper to the face. I cringed but kept on going.

Each stair was shiny black, rimmed with brass. There were lacquered black handrails and you could see your shoes in the darkened side mirrors with gold filigree around the edges. At the bottom was a vestibule with purple walls and another set of glass doors that opened into what at one time must have been a nightclub.

Big disco ball spinning above a large dance floor. A few people tripped the heavy fantastic, some in costume and some in fine evening wear. To the right was a large bar area. In a darkened corner, a lesbian couple dressed as baseball player and umpire groped each other with more show than go. A guy with oily hair and a thin mustache, like Rudolph Valentino, stood behind them staring with glazed eyes.

I made my way through the bizarre dance crowd. Behind the bar, shirtless bartenders held their pumped-up chests high as they struggled to keep pace with the hard drinkers lined up three deep. I watched a group of guys in fine suits putting the hustle on a couple of sweet young things in Shirley Temple costumes. I had found the Lollipop Fair but not the lady in burgundy.

Most of the men around the bar had gelled, slicked-back hair, looked like they were living in a wind tunnel. Made me wonder if I was falling behind the times with my recently dyed-blonde, surfer’s do.

Bartender came over to me and I caught myself staring at his nipple ring. First time I’d ever seen one on a guy. Wondered what it felt like.

I ordered a Stoli and cranberry juice.

“So, are you a wolf or a lamb?”

The slight lisp and lilting tone caught me unaware. My prayers had gone unanswered. I turned toward the sound.

A diminutive guy in a tuxedo had moved in next to me. He held a burning cigarette in a white holder in one slightly cocked wrist and a wineglass in the other. Reminded me of Joel Grey in Cabaret.

“I’m a muskellunge.”

Tres amusant,” he said dryly, moving closer and leaning his head toward mine. “But you must know that the reason for being here tonight is to play the game. You can’t even get in here unless you play the game. You look like a wolf to me, and I’m getting excited. Or are you just a tease?”

“Look, ah, mister—I’m only here because a beautiful woman in a velvet dress invited me here. I don’t see her here right now, but she’s the only reason I came. I’m new in town. This is my first visit to Madison, but I’m starting to like it.”

“So you’re one of Dana’s lambs, and you don’t even know it.” He reached out and ran his fingers down the lapel of my Armani. “She always seems to pick the ones with the best taste.” He looked coyly around the room. “Would you like some blow?” he said casually, eyes studying mine.

“Cocaine?”

“Of course, silly. My lord, what did you think I meant?” he smirked.

“Ah—nothing. But no thanks, anyway, I don’t do coke, anymore. It’s a waste of money.”

“One of those, are we? I didn’t mean that I was selling. I was offering, sweetie. I must be too subtle for my own good. Ever free-base? I swear you’ll love it.” His reddened lips puckered slightly and his eyes had a glint in them.

“No ah, really—no thanks. I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll just sit here and drink until Dana comes looking for me.”

“Suit yourself Captain Hunky. It’s your loss. But I should tell you that some of her flock have been known to wait for a long time—wait so long their little pee-pees shrivel up. Ah, but what the hell—youth. Ciao.” He spun on his heel and glided away toward the dance floor.

I sipped my drink and watched the dancers, synapses popping from the strobe lights and the spinning mirror ball. Then I saw a door open up in the middle of the wall on the other side of the dance floor. Two freaks staggered out bound up in shiny black bondage gear and slid through the crowd. They made their way toward the back of the room until I couldn’t see them any longer because of the stairwell.

I ordered a shot of tequila as two Shirley Temples walked off with one of the men in the nice suits. The guys at the bar turned their attention to a devil with a blue dress on as the Shirleys escorted their lucky hombre towards the door in the wall. Dude looked weak in the knees as he pulled open the purple door with a lightning bolt on it and disappeared into the dim light, Shirleys chattering at his side.

The bartender loaded me up with Jose Cuervo, salt and a lemon wedge. I put down a ten and said keep it. Licked the salt, sucked down the burning nectar, tasted the sting and jammed the lemon in my mouth. Said Whoa and held up my hand for one more.

I was riding the tequila train when she appeared at the back of the room. All of a sudden she was just there. Tall and thin but curvy, with an elegant chin and a chiseled nose, her deep brown eyes telling me there was a lot going on behind them. Just the kind of woman I was looking for.

She came striding elegantly toward me. I prepared to say something profound and clever but she walked right on by, only a miniscule moment of recognition flicking across her statuesque features, leaving me to stare after her forlornly. The lady in velvet, in a matter of seconds, had taken possession of my dick and my heart and was making rapid inroads on my head.

I watched, totally absorbed, as she approached a couple of the suits at the end of the bar. They were smoking cigars, holding martinis and singing loudly to “All That Matters is the Money,” along with the old-time jukebox.

I was fascinated as she motioned to the Brylcream Boys to be quiet by putting her finger to her lips in the way of a schoolmarm. And I’ll be goddamned, if they didn’t shut up.

I almost fell off my chair when she nodded in my direction before turning her attention back to the erstwhile choir.

The hackles on my neck started up. I wanted to turn up the collar of my coat, the way it was when I came in. I was thinking maybe I should leave before I had to fight my way out. I stared into the mirror behind the bar and saw her coming toward me. Little old me.

I was still young enough to think that true love was going to save me. I couldn’t help but hope that Dana was the one holding my ticket to ride.

She slid into the barstool next to me and I drowned in her sweet scent.

“I know you must have an invitation,” she said, studying my face intently. “Eric wouldn’t have let you in, otherwise. The unusual thing is—I don’t remember giving you one—and I never forget a guest.” She put her slender fingers to her chin and looked at me thoughtfully, wise beyond her years.

“That guy at the door is named Eric?” I chuckled and tried to meet her penetrating gaze. “Seems like it should be something more frightening, like Thor or Odin or something. And anyway, don’t you remember me? We met earlier tonight. The hands of fate guided me here.” Her eyes remained steely. “You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? Well for me, anyway, it was memorable. Back at that bar on State Street. Jimmy’s or Billy’s or whatever it was.”

“That invitation was meant for Raymond,” she said, touching one of her crimson fingernails to the bridge of her nose. “He’s not even one of mine. I mean that someone else invited him—not me.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And how did you manage to get hold of the invitation Mr. ah—” Her gaze got more steel in it. “I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“This is all very explainable, if you’ll give me the opportunity. Raymond sent me along to express his regrets. He had a headache and wasn’t up to attending. Said he thought it better that at least someone had some fun tonight, as long as he couldn’t, and all. Poor boy was just going to go home and wash his hair, so why didn’t I get out and kick up my heels.”

She moved her hand over her mouth. She was smiling underneath.

No rings on her fingers.

“Who are you then?” she asked, eyes smiling.

Here was where I had a problem. I didn’t want to give her my real name—Keith Waverly—and I couldn’t try any of the other aliases that I had used in the past, either. One never knows when an old identity will come back to haunt you. I needed a new name, something with a little panache, gravitas.

“You first,” I said, finally regaining some semblance of wits. “How about you tell me your name first—and then after that, you can explain to me about this Wolves and Lambs stuff. Then I’ll tell you all about me, if you’re still interested. Even my social security number—I promise.”

I fiddled out a pack of Kools from my coat pocket and offered her one.

“I don’t smoke and I don’t reveal my name to strangers,” she said, firm but not angry.

“I guess we’re in a pickle then, aren’t we,” I said, lighting up and blowing the smoke toward the bartender. I leaned forward on the bar and stared at the rows of top-shelf liquor glistening in the amber light.

“You are in a pickle, I should think,” she said laughing haughtily. “What if I have you thrown out of here?”

“Oh come on, please—that won’t be necessary. If you really want me to leave, I will. But I think it would be nice for both of us, if you sat down here and had a drink with me, told me all about yourself and your little get-together. I’m just a lonely boy out on his own, looking for someone to show him the ropes in a new city and maybe have some fun. It is fucking Halloween, after all.”

“Yes it is.” Her eyes went down to her elegantly manicured hands. “Are you a cop?”

I damn near spit. “Me? Are you kidding? I don’t even like cops.” I turned and faced her, longing on the rise.

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, blinking slowly.

“No, I am not a policeman or a member of any law enforcement organization, I do solemnly swear. How’s that?”

A gleam in her eyes. “What if I told you this was a cop party?” she said, cracking a crooked smile that made my dick twinge.

“Than I’d say to you that I now know why they call this town “Mad City.” Never seen cops that dress and act like these people do. You know—the obvious signs of wealth—not to mention the fetish gear.”

She seemed to settle down into her stool a little bit, looked across the room at her gel-haired friends. They noticed her attention but turned away and pretended they weren’t the least bit interested.

“Champagne, please, Rick,” she gestured to the nipple ring-wearing barman, ran her fingers through her hair and tossed her head back. “You must realize Mr.—”

“Jones.”

She suppressed a grin. “What Mr. Laugh-a-minute Jones doesn’t understand, is that this is a very expensive little get-together he’s crashed. He must understand that many people have put out good sums of capital to ensure that all the right ingredients are present. These people give the invitations to those they know will give them favors or services in return. Thus, with you here instead of Raymond, we have somewhat of a financial imbalance, if you will. Not to mention the other awkward possibilities.”

This was sounding too good to miss. “If it’s a matter of money, I can certainly kick in my share,” I said, nice and polite. “I’ve been doing quite well lately. Or are you hinting that Raymond was supposed to blow someone or something, and I might not want to play the same nasty game?”

She sniffed, nostrils flaring, eyes fiery. “Let’s not worry about it any longer. I’ll take responsibility for you—you shall be here as my personal guest, so you better not screw up. My only request is that you leave after one hour. Out of respect for me, and my position with these people. I can pass you off as an old friend. That way, I won’t lose favor with the bosses.”

“Now that were old friends, I have to tell you that you’ve really got me intrigued, Dana old pal.”

Her neck snapped erect. “How did you know my name?”

“Joel Grey told me.” I pointed at my one-man greeting committee, who was busy chatting up some androgynous types. “He said I was one of Dana’s lambs and didn’t even know it. Although you don’t seem like the shepherd type, I put two and two together and got you.”

Mirth wrinkled across her perfect eyebrows: “I’m not sure you’d quite fit the bill. As a lamb, that is.”

“One never knows, I guess. And what exactly is the deal with the wolves and lambs?”

“It’s from Steppenwolf.”

“The rock band?”

“The book,” she said with a withering glance. “By Herman Hesse. Are you at all familiar with it?”

“Yeah, read it when I was in college. All I remember is that the guy took drugs and had a strong aversion to being confined in an office or a barracks or anything like that.”

“That’s one theme, I suppose,” she said. “There are others.”

I mumbled about not recalling and downed a shot of cactus juice in one long swallow. I reached casually for a lemon slice from the nice white bowl stud-muffin Rick put in front of me before he poured Dom Perignon into a hollow-stemmed glass for Dana.

Suddenly nervous, I swung around and faced the dance floor, feeling the edge of vertigo as the booze hit my gut. I couldn’t keep my curiosity in check. “What’s behind door number three over there, Dana? Secret doors in the middle of walls fascinate me. You gonna show me? Dana’s a real nice name. I like it.” I couldn’t believe what a douche I was sounding like.
She looked at me, smiling slightly—or maybe painfully.
“Could you take me behind the magic portal before I have to leave?” I asked. “One hour is hardly time enough to take this party in.”

She tossed back her bubbly in one gulp, looking incredibly wild and sexy, like the blood was flowing to all the right places. “So tell me, Mr. Jones, what is it that you are doing so well at, lately, if I may ask?”

“I’m a businessman. And my name, isn’t Jones, it’s Flint. I was just keeping with the anonymous spirit of things. John Flint is my name, business is my game.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere, Mr. Flint. What kind of business are you in?”

“I’m sure it would bore you to death.”

“Oh no, please tell me, I’m truly interested, I assure you. I’m a businesswoman; I have my MBA—maybe I’ve even heard of your company.”

“I doubt that. But, it’s ah, Kirby Enterprises—out of Orlando. But right now, I’m trying to get out of Florida. Myself, personally, I mean.”

“Don’t like the weather?”

“It’s not that.”

“Didn’t you tell me you’d just flown in from California when we talked downtown?”

That she remembered our conversation made my confidence rise.

“California, Florida… what’s the difference? The weather’s nice and they’re both too crowded. Guess I don’t like crowds very much.”

“You are quite a little fibber, aren’t you Mr. Flint? Which one is it then, Florida or California?”

“I just flew in from LA, and my business is, like I said, in Orlando, Florida. I had an import-export business, but I’m searching for other opportunities. Thus—California. ”

“I see. And you swear you’re not some kind of cop?”

“Back to that, again? If you only knew… But come on now, this is supposed to be a party. And I have but a few short moments left in which to savor your beauty.”

“You really do go off, don’t you, John.”

“Must be the jet lag. But now it’s time for the magical mystery tour you promised me, darlin’.”

“If you insist. It’s time for your journey to the dark side, Mr. Flint. Perhaps it is indeed fate that finds you here. Before we go, I must tell you that our back rooms here are for the purpose of losing all inhibition and surrendering to one’s own desires. If this is going to be something you find difficult, then I suggest we cancel the trip.”

“I think I’ll make it.”

“Come along,” she said. “We’ll go through my entrance at the back of the club.”

“But I always wanted to go through a secret door like that one on the wall.”

“We’ll come out that way, honey, just for you. Now come along.”

I caught up to her and she grabbed my hand with an iron grip far beyond what one would expect from such a slender, delicate wrist. “I hope you’re not from the Midwest,” she said. “Your sensibilities might be offended.”

“I am from the Midwest. But my sensibilities were offended a long time ago. And to tell you the truth, I kind of liked it.”

We went past the bathrooms to a purple and white zebra-striped wall with a door in the center. Through the door to a narrow, dark hallway, dimly lit by a red bulb on the ceiling. As Dana was closing the thick door she looked deep into my eyes.

“You remind me of a wounded animal, Mr. Flint,” she said.

That threw me for a loop and no response was forthcoming.

My eyes struggled to focus; my senses struggled. The air was thick with the sharp odor of sex—raw, primal sex. Also heavy incense and pot smoke—high-grade—maybe a hint of opium’s sweetness lingering on the edge.

We walked along, shoes creaking on the wooden floor. Moans and muffled cries came from behind one of several crudely painted black doors bordering the dim hallway.

“Here is where the wolves and lambs play out their parts, John,” Dana said with a dramatic tone. “So you see, one must choose his role before he comes in here. And also prepare for it. Do you like to watch, Mr. Flint? Many of our participants encourage voyeurism. Some like to show, and others like to look. Some like to give, while others like to receive. This is the balance of the world.”

“Some like to pitch and others like to catch.”

“Exactly.”

Behind door number, two came the crack of a whip and a long, male groan, somewhere between pleasure and pain.

“Come with me now,” she said, holding out her hand like I shouldn’t say no, making me feel like a little boy—putty in her soft hands.

I could feel the stirring down below. I’d follow her anywhere.

We lingered by the third door. Behind it, bedsprings bounced and squeaked out a backbeat to the voices, laughter, grunting and screams of delight.

“We also respect those who desire privacy,” she said, moving down the winding hallway. “Perhaps they don’t want to be interrupted by strangers at the wrong moment, you understand—so we leave closed doors closed—although none have locks.”

I tried to speak but there was a lump in my throat.

Door number four was halfway open, affording a narrow look at a naked guy kneeling on a mattress on the floor with a black leather mask over his head. He had a hard-on the size of a bull while a black-leather-clad dominatrix twisted his nipple with her studded-gloved fingers and demanded he bend over and beg forgiveness with his ass in the air like “a bitch dog in heat.”

Flashbulbs popped from behind the door and a skinny kid in a beret came into the picture as he searched for a different camera angle.

Door number five was pretty tame. Just a couple of the slick-haired dudes getting blown by one of the Shirley Temples while the other Shirley crawled around on all fours shoving her ass at a naked guy who was chasing her around trying to hit her in the head with his huge dick. There were vodka bottles strewn around and a mirror with mounds of white powder on it, as well as a cardboard box full of plastic sex toys. That’s amore, I guess.

Door number six was closed but the room had a viewing window in the wall, like maybe it had been an office at one time. A special office preserved for those who like to show it off to the world. Strange off-kilter jazz music played inside. The display was boys only: six nude gay boys in a blow job daisy chain on top of several mattresses. Two other blue boys dressed in cowboy boots and black leather bondage gear stood above them giving each other hand jobs and swapping spit. I recognized the nipple ring on Rick the bartender. Must have been on break or busy working overtime. A slick-haired dude in black was catching all the action with a shoulder-mounted video camera.

My knees were weak and Dana was in total control. She seemed so superior. My over-priced clothes and my forty-dollar haircut weren’t cutting the mustard. I felt like a rube—a dirt farmer.

“Gosh,” I said. “All these people sure know how to have fun. Too bad my hour is going so fast.”

“Here,” she said softly, pointing toward a narrow passageway between the walls of the labyrinthine enclave. “This is the way to the door that opens onto the dance floor. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your fun—after you went to so much trouble finding me. And tell me, exactly how did you find this place?”

I ignored her query as we wove our way along through the crimson shadows. Close again to the throbbing music, arrows of colored light swirled under the door. On the other side, voices rose. Laughter. Shouts. Crazy fast talk.

Aroused, appalled and confused, I had bad hots for this Dana. But I couldn’t shake the lingering edge of fear. Once burned, twice shy, I guess. Except in my case you’d have to multiply those numbers.

I stumbled out through the secret door and had to dodge quickly to avoid the lesbians in baseball garb, who were doing the crocodile rock. Like a drowning man struggling for life, I wove toward the bar. The object of my desire followed behind me at an awkward distance. Awkward for me, that is. I was searching for a glib comment but had none at the ready.

I fell against the bar like I’d just crossed the wide Missouri without a boat. Dana glided up, looked at me inscrutably and motioned to the bartender.

“In answer to your last question,” I said, leaning closer. “I found this place by just walking down the street until I found John Avenue. Just lucky, I guess.”

“More than lucky, I should think. You don’t realize how difficult it is for crashers to find one of our galas. We go to great pains. You see, John, John Avenue doesn’t really exist.”

“Come on, I saw the sign. You, my dear, made one incorrect assumption— and now I’m here. That’s all, end of story. No big deal. I’m not going to do anyone any harm, I promise. I don’t care what these people do to each other in the privacy of these rooms. Fucking Christ, I could care less. Truth be known, I was only looking for you. Like I said before, I’m just a lonely boy looking for a friend. You seemed like someone I could like, that’s all.” I looked at my Rolex: “And goddamn, if my hour isn’t almost up. My, how time flies.”

“Have another drink on the house Mr. Flint. I’ll join you. Maybe we can get together some day, who knows.” She looked soulfully into my eyes and I thought I was going to melt like a hunk of butter on a radiator. “More champagne for me, Alex, and whatever Mr. Flint desires.”

“How about a rum and coke, Alex. You know,” I said, looking at her. “I’d like that—the getting together part. Can I call you someday when the sun is shining?”

“That would be all right.”

I couldn’t believe it.

“I’ll give you my card,” she said. “I’ve got some around here, somewhere. Then I’ll walk with you to the door and see that you get started out in the right direction. Did I hear correctly? You said you walked here?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Not a good place to walk at this hour.”

“I’ll be all right. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can, Mr. Flint—John.”

“I could take care of you, too, you know.”

“What if I don’t want to be taken care of?” She suppressed a laugh.

Realizing that I was very hammered and sounding like an idiot again, I shut my mouth and stared out at the dance floor.

What a sight to see.

And somewhere back in Florida, my poor wife was pining for me. At least I thought so.

This new and strange woman had made me feel funny but I liked it. One moment you’d think she was mature and strong willed and then the next moment she would seem a child, vulnerable and needy. She’d made me feel small and unimportant at times. And other times I’d sworn she wanted me to kiss her.

I took a swig of the freshly arrived drink and stood up.

“Well, I’ll be a good lad and get me arse up the stairs and onto the bleedin’ street,” I said, Cockney accent. I often go to the accents when I’m uncomfortable and stupid drunk. “Hate to cause trouble in a new town, ya know.” Somehow, Norwegian slipped in.

I went back to my normal voice, slightly loose. “You can just write your phone number on a matchbook, if you want, like in the movies. Save you the trouble of searching for business cards.”

She pressed her finger to her upper lip. Her eyes softened and she smiled sweetly, reaching over the bar and coming back with a black and orange, glossy matchbook.

“Got a pen mister?” she asked, playfully, her voice a sexy growl like Lauren Bacal in “To Have and Have Not”.

“No, but there’s got to be one at the cash register, don’t you think?”

“Of course. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll walk up the stairs with you. We can both say hello to Eric.”

“Yeah, you can introduce us. Maybe someday I’ll need a ski-joring partner.”

Her eyebrows arched while my heart ached.

“I’m sure Eric would love being your dog,” she said slyly. “Should I ask him for you?”

“Ah, no… never mind. I need a little work on my stride, anyway.”

We slid haltingly over to the cash register where, sure enough, there was a ballpoint pen.

Dana was opening the matchbook, pen in hand, when the glass doors at the bottom of the stairs opened. In strode a tanned, good looking, expensively dressed couple of indeterminate age. They moved like monarchs while we were mere commoners. For companionship, instead of basset hounds or Dobermans, our king and queen kept a member of the opposite sex on a leash. The nubile pets were clad in head-to-toe, black, skin-tight latex.

“Shit.” Dana hissed under her breath. Then to me: “I’ve got to go now. Sorry. Call me sometime.”

She quickly scribbled, handed me the matchbook and whisked off to greet the King and Queen of Deviance.

I slipped the matchbook in my trouser pocket as Dana reached their table and greeted the royalty. Pretty soon the entire entourage rose and made a stirring migration over to a large table at the edge of the dance floor, which had obviously been reserved for the hotshot king and his vampire queen.

The pets took their places on the floor, supine at their master’s expensively shoed feet as the festivities raged on.

Dana played the hostess-with-the-mostess, bringing their drink order up to the bar and generally bowing and scraping. At least that’s the way my drunken eyes were seeing it. These people either had something over her or had something for her, like cold hard cash. It quickly became apparent my new love was going to be gone from my presence for the remainder of the evening.

I quietly made my way up what now seemed an extra long and steep flight of stairs. By the time I hit the top my legs were like cement and my head was mush. My heart raced and my stomach flip-flopped. Visions of Dana danced in my head.

Big old funky Eric smiled at me as I came through the door. Guy must have been a sergeant in the German army in a past life. “Have a good night, sir,” he fog-horned, lifting the steel bar and shoving open the door.

I stepped to the doorway and was greeted by pouring rain, coming down in spikes.

“Whoa,” I said. “It’s raining. Maybe I should call a cab. It’s coming down in sheets out there.”

“Sorry sir, no outside phone lines tonight.”

“Well shit. There a payphone anywhere near, do you know?”

“Not that I’m aware of, sir. Is there something wrong with your car?” he said, rubbing his meaty hand underneath his nose.

“Fuck, man. I don’t have a raincoat or a car or even a goddamn hat. I’m staying at a hotel on State Street, and that’s a long ways from here in weather like this. I’ll ruin my suit in this kind of rain.”

“I do have a box of garbage bags, sir.”

“Garbage bags?”

“Yes, sir. We use them for the cleanup. But you could put one over your head, tear a couple holes for your eyes, and have yourself one bitchin’ rain poncho. Been known to use them myself, once or twice.”

“Well, Eric, let me tell you this—your boss told me your name was Eric. And your boss—Dana—and I, have become good friends, you see. I shall tell her what a true gentleman and fine doorman you are—certainly worthy of a fine raise—if you should find it in your power to fetch me one of those bitchin’ ponchos that you so kindly remembered.”

I held out a twenty.

“Certainly sir. Right away.”

(Northwoods Standoff available at major online bookstores)

Read Full Post »

T.K. O’Neill’s hardboiled Jackpine Savages now out on ebook and available at all major online bookstores at introductory price of $1.89. Coming out in paperback this fall:

CHAPTER ONE

I had wanted to be a private eye ever since I was a kid. Got the bug from watching detective shows on television. We had Mike Hammer and Michael Shayne, two trench-coat-wearing tough guys quick with the fists and the gunplay, and Peter Gunn, tough as railroad spikes but still cool, handsome and sophisticated.

These programs had a lot of things a kid could get behind. Hammer and Shayne never took guff from anyone and seemed to find a willing woman in every dive bar or lowball diner. Peter Gunn hung out in upscale nightclubs while the glamorous Julie London sang him torch songs. And he always looked like a million bucks at the end of a case. These guys’ world was exciting and dangerous and they had it all handled

In my teen years, I discovered the paperback detectives: Marlowe, Archer, Spade, Spenser and the rest. I was still hooked on the dream. But like it is for most of us, I suspect, the future turned out unlike anything I’d imagined in my youth.

Never did become the detective. Ended up getting married and divorced and married and divorced again. Went through a heavy drug thing in the late eighties and lost my longtime job at the county highway department. Drifted from there, with stints on the railroad, bartending, dealing blackjack at the Indian casinos and house painting.

And those were the legal jobs.

Everything changed when my wealthy uncle Carl died last year at the age of ninety-seven. The resulting inheritance—twenty-five grand in a lump sum and a guaranteed two-thou monthly for the next ten years—was truly manna from heaven. Carl was one of the precious few fortunates who’d purchased 3M Stock at twenty-five cents a share. His lifelong business was used cars (always drove a late-model Cadillac) but he’d made his big score in the stock market.

The money came as a pleasant shock, as Uncle Carl and I hadn’t communicated in any way since the late sixties. It was then, while arguing politics at a family reunion dinner, that Carl had icily offered his belief that Abby Hoffman and I were ruining the country. And I’d never even met Abby. But, although younger, I did have long curly black hair like his and had read his literary masterpiece, Steal this Book. I actually paid for it.

Upon learning of my windfall, I immediately assumed my uncle had acquired some wisdom before his death and finally accepted the truth in what I’d been saying back then, although, to be perfectly honest, I no longer remembered what it was.

I found out later that Uncle Carl was suffering from Alzheimer’s at the end.

With these incoming shekels from such an unexpected source, it seemed like the right time to pursue my dream of private eyedom. Then one winter morning, the path became clearer. It was a snowy Sunday and I was fantasizing about the future while browsing the morning paper. I opened the sports section of the Minneapolis Star Tribune and a card dropped from the fold and fluttered into my lap. I immediately felt the stars align, the planets jog into concurrence and Jupiter enter the seventh house. It truly was a message from above:

50 exciting careers to choose from!

Choose your CAREER DIPLOMA stamp, affix it to the postcard, and MAIL IT TODAY.

Sure enough, there it was in row four, column two, next to Psychology/Social Work DIPLOMA and directly above Interior Decorating DIPLOMA.

Private Investigator DIPLOMA.

Could the message be any clearer?

All I had to do was pop out my CAREER DIPLOMA stamp, paste it in the little box on the reply card and drop it in the nearest mailbox (no postage necessary). In a few short weeks the Drake Career Institute would have me on the way to a “brighter future.”

Sam Spade and Lew Archer would have nothing on me.

Now don’t misinterpret here, I held no illusions that being a private dick in Duluth, Minnesota would entail much besides spying on cheating spouses or tracking down deadbeats. That was all good with me. Creaky knees and a balky back made a lack of violent adventure a positive.

I mailed the card.

Six months later, after a June graduation from the Drake Career Institute for which there was no ceremony and no cap and gown, I put down the first and last months’ rent and a security deposit on a long, narrow one-bedroom apartment in Canal Park above a tony outdoor clothing shop.

My office.

I bought some used furniture: desk, chairs, file cabinet and a computer, splurged on a flat screen TV and started keeping regular hours like a genuine dick. My office was a block away from the Savannah Gentlemen’s Club and I took frequent advantage of this proximity, as they had a good lunch buffet. Which is, I suppose, like saying you buy Penthouse or Playboy for the articles.

The days rolled by.

As the vernal rapture of August came on I had yet to have a case. This wasn’t exactly surprising, considering that I hadn’t done any advertising. Except for my second ex-wife and a few close friends, the only people who knew I’d graduated from private eye school were fellow afternoon inebriates at the Savannah. I was beginning to get bored, thinking a few marriage cheaters or a landlord skip might be just the ticket for me.

Then one hot summer day I was standing in front of an open window in my office hoping to catch a breeze off Lake Superior, acutely aware that in a similar situation, Philip Marlowe would likely be drinking from the office bottle trying to ease the pain from losing the femme fatale on his last case. As I gazed out the window at the tourist traffic and contemplated happy hour at the Savannah Club—coming up in thirty minutes—I saw a brown Ford van pulling into the handicapped zone in front of my building, sun glaring off its smooth, polished roof.

I started to get annoyed. No way somebody driving that humongous vehicle could be handicapped. I wanted the space to be open for my own personal use, should the need arise in the course of the business day—or if I was tired.

I watched a man climb out of the passenger door of the van. The thick potbellied body and curly thinning gray hair were familiar, belonging to an old associate of mine name of Dick Sacowski. A resident of Taconite Bay, a small company town on the northern shore of Lake Superior, Dick was one of the few privileged souls who knew I was in the private eye business, as he’d been at the Savannah one afternoon when I’d been blabbing about my new occupation.

Sun glinted off the bald spot on top of Sacowski’s head as he slid open the side door of the van and leaned inside. A ramp with a wheelchair on it oozed out of the van and moved slowly down to ground level. Sacowski rolled the wheelchair off the ramp and again reached into the van. The ramp smoothly returned to the interior of the vehicle. Dick then wheeled the chair around to the driver’s door, opened it and helped a skinny loosely put together man with a slightly disoriented look slide out. Sacowski held him firmly under the arms and eased him down into the wheelchair.

Seeing them approaching my door brought to mind a story Dick had told me about a friend he occasionally did errands for, taking him to the doctor and the Ford dealership and other things. I recalled that it was a couple years back, during a blizzard, when the poor guy was T-boned by a Rourke Mining Company truck and sent catapulting off the highway into an unforgiving ancient pine tree, crushing the man’s lower spine. The resulting insurance settlement was allegedly gargantuan. Set the guy up in a fabulous cliff-side house overlooking Lake Superior equipped with all the fancy devices needed by a paraplegic, such as elevators and lifts and remote control everything. Including, according to Dick, a custom-made, specially equipped boat, which the man could operate with just his hands. Hardly a fair price for one’s spine but better than nothing, I suppose.

I craned my neck as Sacowski bumped the wheelchair onto the sidewalk and started toward the stairway leading up to my office. Dick’s large tanned biceps rippled out of a lemon yellow strap undershirt. He swung the chair around, opened the door, held it there with his work boot and started up backwards.

I heard the thumping and clumping on the wooden stairs and wondered if I should help. I quickly rationalized that the stairwell was too narrow for all of us together—and my back wasn’t right for lifting. Any guilt over this quickly faded away as I recalled Dick Sacowski handling one end of my first wife’s newly purchased upright piano—all by himself—as three of us struggled at the opposite end while attempting to traverse the front steps of my old apartment.

Dick was one sneaky-strong son of a bitch.

I was excited for my first possible case. I wanted to look right, like a real private eye. I wished I had a cute-but-not-beautiful secretary/receptionist to greet my prospective clients.

I couldn’t decide if I should wait calmly inside the office or go to the door and show them in. Before I could make up my mind, my brand new frosted-glass door, recently installed by one of the many former-hippies-turned-carpenters in the area, slid open.

Sweat rolled from Sacowski’s back and shoulders like spring runoff on a North Shore stream as he swung the wheelchair around, faced me and wiped his palms on his jeans. The dude in the chair was grinning up at me, his eyes kind of floating off to the side. I was wondering what drugs they had to feed the guy just to keep him going. Must’ve been one hell of a cocktail.

“Dick, come on in, man, good to see you,” I said, smiling at both of them in turn, and gesturing towards the interior of the office, the former living room.

Dick Sacowski gasped for breath, tried to speak but started coughing. He put his fist to his mouth, doubled over and retched for thirty seconds.

“Richard smokes too much,” said the guy in the wheelchair, his voice unsteady and weak.

Dick gave out one last hack and smiled sheepishly.

“You going to be all right, Richie?” the guy in the wheelchair said. “Think you can get me to the desk?”

I heard the sarcasm in his voice but I didn’t think Sacowski noticed. Or he didn’t care. Or he was used to it. He just shook his head, laughed nervously and wheeled the chair across the scuffed hardwood floor to the front of my oak desk.

“Gentlemen,” I said, going around to my side of the desk and taking a seat in the wheeled, cloth-covered gray chair. “How can I be of service to you today?”

“Billy here’s got woman problems,” Sacowski said, finally regaining his wind.

Of course he’s got woman problems, the business end of his body is fucking paralyzed.

“We haven’t been formerly introduced,” I said, getting up and going around the desk. I extended my hand as the dude twitched in the wheelchair. “Carter Brown.”

“Billy Talbot, Mr. Brown,” he said, his voice steadier and stronger now as he extended a slightly bent hand on the end of a wiry, thin arm.

I shook it. It was cold on a hot day. Surprisingly strong grip, though.

“Exactly what kind of woman problems are we talking here?” I said, going back to my chair.

Sacowski walked over to the open window and bent down to receive the breeze while Talbot straightened his torso as best he could. “It’s my wife, Mr. Brown,” Talbot said. “Since I’ve come into some money, she’s becoming—shall we say—a little difficult.”

“By difficult, you mean you think she’s having an affair and you want me to tail her?”

“I haven’t jumped to those conclusions yet. But there is some unexplained time—and some financial difficulties, as well. Ritchie tells me you’re perceptive when it comes to women.”

I tried to keep a straight face. “I’m sure my two ex-wives would agree,” I said. “But I’m still not clear on what it is you want me to do.”

“His wife is robbing him blind, Carter,” Sacowski interjected, pacing back and forth in front of the window. “She takes the mail and applies for all the credit card offers that come in, then maxes them out and sticks Billy with the tab. Any time he says something, she threatens to turn him in for smoking pot. Now and then he gets a slap on the back of the head.”

“This true, Billy?”

“My wife is from peasant stock, like most of us in this neck of the woods, Mr. Brown. Occasionally, she lets her frustrations get the best of her. I think if she is made to see the error of her ways, her behavior will change for the better.”

“I still don’t get it. Can’t you discuss this with her? Or have your mail routed to a post office box? Maybe a divorce? I mean, it’s not like I can stop her from driving to the post office.”

“He’s tried all that,” Sacowski said, depositing himself in the curved-back wooden chair next to Talbot. “She laughs at him. And if one of his friends says anything—well…what the fuck can we do about it?”

“Divorces are pretty cheap these days,” I offered.

“This one wouldn’t be, at least not at this point,” Talbot said, his face twisted and reddening. “No, divorce is out of the question at the moment. What I want is to get something on her. Adultery, or some violation of the law—anything to hold over her head that will help her, ah, toe the line.”

“I think I’m beginning to get the idea.” I was picturing a rough-hewn, Eastern European-type broad in a faded red babushka cuffing poor Billy with her paw-like hands. I didn’t like it. “So when do you want me to start?” I said, sensing my opportunity to be a real white knight of the streets.

“As soon as possible,” Billy said, attempting a smile that didn’t quite get there. “Tomorrow morning Ritchie and I will be in Two Harbors getting a part for my boat. Then we’ll be stopping at Sky Blue Waters Lodge for brunch. If you could meet us at say, eleven o’clock in the restaurant, I can fill you in on the particulars and put down a cash advance for any expenses you might incur in getting started.”

Talbot glanced over at Sacowski. Dick stood up. “That way you can see where she goes after the mail comes,” Dick said. “Damn near every fucking day one of those credit card offers comes in the mail, Cart. I’d follow her myself, if she didn’t know my car.”

“Or if your car was running, Ritchie,” Talbot said, with a crooked grin. Then his eyes darted impatiently and Dick grabbed the handles of the wheelchair.

“Yeah, okay,” I said as they moved toward the door. “But don’t you want to talk about my rates and stuff like that?”

“Charge what you need to, Mr. Brown,” Talbot said, not looking back. “Money is not a problem. As long as you’re successful, I’m sure the price will be right. Ritchie assures me that you’re an honorable man. Be sure to bring along any contracts you need signed.”

The wind was coming hard out of the southeast as I eased my Subaru Forester onto scenic Highway 61, a winding, predominantly two-lane strip of asphalt that traces the northern shore of Lake Superior all the way to Canada. It was the kind of day a travel magazine might claim we’re famous for around here. The lake was emerald green and churning with thin whitecaps. Seagulls circled in the air-conditioned winds that held the costal area at a pleasant seventy-four degrees while the inland sweated in the nineties. The type of day that attracted the tourists, the throngs who’d changed the region from the remote and isolated area it once was to the RV and SUV magnet of the present. The old motor lodges and commercial fishing shacks were pretty much gone, replaced by rustic-look condo developments, trophy homes and upscale lodges.

Sky Blue Waters Lodge, where I was to meet Talbot and Sacowski for brunch, was part of the “New North Shore.” Freshly milled log structure, flowery name and all. But I didn’t care. It’s not as if it was ever going to become like Florida up here, every inch of coastline filled with development. No, it was still winter half the year this far north and that simple fact was a time-proven natural ceiling on high-end growth. Or so it had always been.

Traffic was heavy through Two Harbors even at ten-thirty in the morning. Farther north, up past Crow Creek, a paved bike path meandered along parallel to the highway. Thing had fancy wrought-iron bridges that seemed to have yuppie bait written all over them. I was exceeding the speed limit because I didn’t want to be late for my first client, especially one who seemed to be generous with the filthy lucre. A private eye has to be punctual unless danger has somehow detained him. The only danger I sensed at this point was the pop-up camper directly in front of me dancing on the back-end of a Chevy pickup like a johnboat in a hurricane. The shock absorbers on the trailer were obviously shot, and the ones on the truck not much better. It brought to mind a past incident on this same highway. A horrific incident that occurred when just such a trailer broke loose from its moorings on one of the very same curves we were approaching. The wayward trailer then flew across into oncoming traffic, severing the heads of a young couple on a motorcycle.

Death by trailer was not the way I wanted to go out. Especially not when my fortunes seemed to be on the upswing. But I knew the Forester was a real safe vehicle because the ads on TV had told me so. Also a symbol of earth-friendly progressive thought and an adventurous spirit. Fortunately, I saw the Sky Blue Waters Lodge sign coming up on the right. I took a deep breath and flipped on the blinker, found myself wondering what a wealthy paraplegic eats for brunch. Told myself it was a stupid question and not worthy of one such as I. But that’s the way it is for me, the thoughts just come flying through, quality control non-existent.

Shortly I found out that a paraplegic—Billy Talbot anyway—eats scrambled eggs and a pile of bacon for brunch. Just like nearly everybody else in the nearly full restaurant. Myself, I had the eggs, American fries and coffee. I don’t usually drink coffee these days; stuff gets me too edgy, but I wanted to at least create the illusion of alertness.

We had a pleasant meal and Talbot agreed to my terms and fees, all of which I’d obtained from The Private Eye Handbook, a handy tome purchased on the Internet.

And now I’m going to be perfectly honest. I need to tell you that my Drake Career Institute Private Detective diploma was about as worthless as a paper shirt in a windstorm. As if you didn’t know. Maybe it could have been helpful if I had actually studied; but in fact, I had cribbed the answers to the final exam off the Internet. You can find anything on the Internet these days.

Leaving the restaurant, I was feeling pretty good. I had to thank Sacowski for lining me up with a sweet gig. Even sweeter when you consider it was the maiden voyage on my sea of cases, if you don’t mind a little purple prose.

Talbot had it all mapped out. Had me follow his van back to a wayside rest just down the highway from the entrance to his cliff-side home. I was to wait there until Rose Marie Talbot came bouncing out in her red Ford Focus. Then I was to follow her.

Surveillance. Put on a tail and make it stay. A simple and basic act that all fictional private eyes from Race Williams to Patrick Kensey depended upon. If I had known the situation in advance, I might have brought in an assistant. That way we could change vehicles if Rose somehow got hip to the tail. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t need any help. Most women, the only thing they see in the rearview mirror is their hair and makeup.

It was nice in that wayside, even a little chilly at times with the lake breeze coming in the car window. I had the sky blue water on my right and the brilliant, sun-speckled green of the hillside on my left. After an hour or so of waiting, just as my client had predicted, the postal truck rolled to a stop across the road from me. A short, squat guy in blue Postal Service shorts got out and stuck a handful of mail in the unpainted metal box mounted on a post at the side of Talbot’s steep driveway. Fifteen minutes after the truck drove away, a small red car came bouncing down the asphalt and pulled up next to the mailbox. I’d been trying to imagine what Rose might look like, narrowing it down to either a burly bowling broad type in a red and black lumberjack shirt or a gum-chewing nymphet in hair curlers with the IQ of a snow hare.

As she exited the car, I could see she landed somewhere in between. I put the binoculars on her—an indispensable P.I. tool—and found her to be cute, but not beautiful, with short brown hair and a few freckles. Tall, wide in the shoulders and hips but with a nice little teacup tush inside cut-off jeans that showed off strong and nicely shaped, tan legs.

She pulled a stack of mail out of the box and jumped back in the Ford, jerked onto the highway and headed north towards Taconite Bay. I gave her a little head start and followed, feeling confident she’d never notice me, at least until we got into town, if in fact that was where we were headed.

According to Billy Talbot, who’d been quite talkative at brunch with a load of coffee running through him, Rose was the daughter of a former Rourke Mining executive. Rourke Mining being the company that had essentially built the town of Taconite Bay. This seemed to contradict Billy’s earlier “peasant stock” comment but with the kind and quantity of drugs he was taking I’m surprised he could even string a sentence together.

Gamely continuing, Billy sadly recalled how Rose’s father had resigned from Rourke and taken his family to Minneapolis, shortly after the asbestos-like taconite residue the company was routinely discharging into Lake Superior caused a huge environmental scare and forced the state to shut down the entire operation. Taconite Bay had gone from boom to bust in no time at all but was currently on a slight rebound, as Rourke was back in operation on a limited scale.

Our sweet Rose, whose marriage to Billy had been against her parents’ wishes, had defiantly stayed behind in the dying town. Now it seemed she was nurturing some regret. After the accident had left her man only half there, she had allegedly begun to communicate more frequently with mumsy and dadsy. And, Billy said, was growing more receptive to her parents’ familiar refrain: Leave your husband and return to civilization.

Billy was obviously hurt, confused and suspicious. It was hard for me not to hate this woman without even having met her.

I swung the Subaru onto the asphalt and got the red Ford in my sights, staying comfortably behind until she drew alongside the Rourke plant, a looming, rust-brown industrial monstrosity with the aura of a Third Reich munitions plant, lines of belching smokestacks on the roof pointing to the sky like anti-aircraft guns.

The warning light at the railroad crossing was flashing red. Rose came to a stop and I had no choice but to roll in behind her. An ore-filled train was crossing the highway and chugging up the incline to our left, throwing out dust that was undoubtedly toxic. Rose fussed with her hair in the rearview. I turned my head toward the plant and pulled my Guinness cap down over my eyes.

Staring up at the gargantuan Rourke building, I recalled fondly how, in the middle of the aforementioned taconite tailings fiasco, my first wife had freely and frequently expressed a strong desire to blow this hulking polluter of the last clean Great Lake to shreds. Recyclable shreds, of course. Ah, for the good old days and dreams of social activism. Talk like that today and you get a visit from the friendly folks at Homeland Security.

The train passed, the red light went off and Rose sped away. A half-mile ahead another stoplight stood at the turn to Taconite Bay. I saw the left turn signal on the Ford Focus start to blink. I kept my distance. Although it had been a while since I’d been here, I knew everything in the tiny town of Taconite Bay was either on or very close to the main drag.

I followed the path of the little red car into town and found it in the parking lot of the municipal liquor store and lounge. It was 3:45 by my dashboard clock. I debated going inside for happy hour, thought better of it and instead parked at the edge of the lot where I could see both the front door of the tavern and the Focus.

Forty minutes later, my mouth was dry as a cob as Rose spilled out of the muni and flounced back into her car. She was alone, no men following. That was good. At least for Billy. I started the Forester and watched her pull out and head back toward the highway.

She wasn’t screwing around this time; blowing through town at fifty miles an hour with her arm lolling out the window, thumb flicking at a cigarette. She flew through the intersection just as the light turned red, made a left and headed north.

I got stuck at the red light.

Just as I was contemplating running the light, having deduced that local law enforcement was scarce, a sheriff’s department SUV appeared in my rearview. He must not have seen Rose’s turn because he stopped behind me and we both waited like good citizens for the light to change color.

The copper turned right and I went left. I put the pedal down and ran up the shore for thirty minutes, vainly searching every driveway and side road for red-red Rosey.

No luck. No sign of the Ford. I’d lost my pigeon. Failure in my first day on the job. I wanted to hit a bar and get hammered. Instead I got out my cell phone to call Talbot and tell him the bad news.

Goddamn cell phones.

Billy chuckled at my tale of woe. I felt my face warming and it wasn’t from the sun. My insides squirmed like leeches on a hot sidewalk.

“No problem, Carter,” Billy said. “My little Rose is a slippery one.”

“I don’t think she was hip to me, Billy,” I insisted. But I wasn’t so sure.

“You’ll just have to try again tomorrow, Carter,” he said dryly. “I think you should be there at ten tomorrow morning. I’m sure you’ll do better on your second day.”

The condescension iced my brain and made my temples throb.

The next day dawned like the kind of day the locals would say we’re famous for: gray and rainy skies with a wind off the lake keeping the coastal area in the low fifties. I drove up in the morning and had to put the car heater on—in August.

I sat in the wayside by Talbot’s road and listened to KUMD FM while the North Shore began to wake up. Nothing moved down the Talbot Road until after two in the afternoon. It was the same deal, the mail truck came and went and shortly thereafter the red Ford bounced down the hill and stopped at the mailbox.

This time she was dressed in a blue jeans and a blue flannel shirt with the first three buttons open. I caught her full frontal in the binocs and I thought she smiled at me, if only for a second.

I kept her in sight all the way to the municipal, where she pulled in to the same spot as the day before. I swung into my familiar space and threw the shifter in Park. I turned up the radio and the fan on the defogger. The college radio station faded and I punched the search button.

After half an hour of mind-numbing hackneyed classic rock from the likes of Styx and Rush and ELO, I was getting restless. This aspect of private eye work plain flat sucked.

I watched water droplets collect on my windshield. Again I pushed the search button on the radio. Pine trees bobbed and weaved on the hill across the road. A Canadian talk show came on the FM.

Is back bacon good for you?

I shut off the ignition and went in the bar.

It was a generic barroom, two-thirds full of guys in flannel or denim shirts and Carhartt overalls, the weather having evidently cut the day’s labors short. Rose was sitting in a high-backed chair at the brightly polished bar, a tall coke drink of some kind sweating on the counter between her and the bartender, a forty-something guy wearing an orange T-shirt with Ask Me For a Slow Screw printed across the front. He was leaning in close with his hands on the bar top.

He ignored me as I sat down.

I shuffled nervously and took a good look at Rose. She was cuter than I’d thought. Looked younger than her years, which I guessed to be mid-to-late thirties. She had a kind of athletic grace in her movements that more than compensated for her wide shoulders and hips. Old Billy must have been quite a stud back in the day to corral this sexy beast. But I was getting carried away. I was here to find out if she was having an affair, not entice her into one.

“Bartender, can I get a Budweiser please?”

The tender shot me a slightly annoyed glance, straightened up and sighed. He turned around and bent over, opened the cooler door and wearily dragged out a Bud. Without making eye contact, he twisted the top, set the bottle in front of me and continued down to the end of the bar where a wrinkled elderly couple was drinking Miller Lite and watching the wall-mounted television.

I put down a five, took a swallow of beer and snuck a look at Rose. She was smiling at me like a flower in the desert. Always a sucker for a pretty face, I felt like saying something to her. Instead I grabbed my beer and moved down to where I could catch the live poker action on the tube.

I saw Rose turn toward the front door as a blond wearing a blue denim jacket and jeans and sporting red lips and scary black fingernails sashayed in.

The pony-tailed blond sat next to Rose and the two women started talking excitedly, shutting the bartender out. I tried to listen but I had my weaker ear towards them and the TV was turned up high for the old couple. The bits and pieces of the conversation I could catch didn’t sound like much of anything. Nothing important or relevant to the case.

During a tense, quiet moment in the ESPN Texas Hold’em game, I heard Rose say: “God, I wish you could smoke in here. I can’t get used to not smoking in a bar.”

Another positive reaction to the statewide smoking ban.

The blond said, “Wanna go outside?”

Rose: “It’s shitty out.”

Blond: “Ain’t that bad.”

Rose: “All right then. You want a drink first?”

“I can wait.”

“A Bud Light for Gloria, Pete, on my tab.” Rose said. “We’re going out for a smoke.”

The two women both glanced at me at the same time. Quick, darting glances. Then they stood up and went outside. I took advantage of the opportunity and hit the men’s room. Came back out and got another Bud. Gloria’s Bud Light was still sweating on the bar top. I looked up at the TV. The poker game was in the final hand. High stakes. High tension. A bald guy wearing sunglasses eventually won. Had a full boat, queens over fives.

A few minutes went by and I started wondering how long it took to smoke a cigarette these days. But you know how it is with chicks: they talk a lot. Ten minutes later, I got a jumpy feeling in my gut and headed for the door. Once outside, I looked slowly around and saw no one, only mist rising from the gravel. I walked toward my vehicle. The red Ford was nowhere to be seen.

Rose had beaten me again.

I had to swallow a lot of shit to tell Talbot of my latest error in judgment. He took it well, and just said, ”Try it again tomorrow,” while I struggled to reassure him that his wife didn’t know she was being shadowed.

I knew this was just bad luck. I’d find my P.I. chops real soon.

Back in Duluth, I went directly to my apartment, a nicely designed basement one-bedroom in the elegant East End home of an elderly retired couple. I grabbed a beer from the fridge and got on the telephone. I was going to need help with this case.

The next morning there were two of us heading up Highway 61. I was behind the wheel of the Subaru. Following closely behind in his GROAT (Grossly Oversized American Truck) was my old pal Dan Burton. We had attended college together (when we actually chose to attend) at the University of Minnesota Duluth, and partied together for a long time after that. Dan was now one year sober and unemployed, which made him perfectly suited to be my sidekick. Not only, was he grateful for the work, but now I wouldn’t have to buy him drinks, something that could have amounted to a small fortune in the past. About six-two and over two hundred pounds, Burton was handy to have around should trouble start up, something I had learned a few times over the years.

I set Burton and his truck in the wayside near Talbot’s driveway. I parked on the shoulder about a half-mile south of him in case Rosie decided to alter her previous pattern. Burton and I had in our possession Motorola Walkie-talkies with a seven-mile range, recently purchased at a local Best Buy with some of the retainer money.

Just as before, I passed the morning playing tourist mesmerized by the beauty of the lake. It wasn’t difficult on a sunny and cool day with a clean northwest wind wrinkling the surface of the steel-blue water. Dan would occasionally pop on the airwaves just to fight his boredom and I’d have to tell him to stay off until necessary. I think it was hard for him to take the situation seriously. After all, it was Carter Brown he was working for. That fact alone was strange enough to him, I was sure.

The world slowly turned to early afternoon.

I was thinking about food when the walkie-talkie crackled.

“She’s got the mail and she’s headed your way,” Dan said hoarsely.

I snapped up the binoculars and homed in on a blinding sunspot on the hood of the Focus. Little blue spots erupted in my vision. I scrunched down in the seat and turned my head toward the lake as Rose hissed by.

“Get after her, Dan,” I said into the little black and yellow box, “I’ll follow you.”

Seconds later the big gray pickup roared by, Dan waving like an idiot.

We followed Rose to Two Harbors where she drove up to the small, brick post office building. I parked a block away where I could still see her car. Dan drove down past the post office and parked facing me.

It wasn’t long before she came through the double glass doors and strutted down the steps, got in her vehicle and left the lot. I was guessing she was heading for Duluth to do some shopping, as she was wearing a green, short-sleeved cotton dress. Exactly why the dress made me think she was going shopping, I really don’t know.

She quickly proved me wrong by turning north on 61 and moving away at high speed.

Burton and I gave chase and again the strange caravan began weaving its way along the scenic North Shore Drive. I was a little worried Rose might recognize the Subaru so I stayed back as far as I could while still keeping her in sight. The fact that these small SUVs were nearly as prevalent up here as the black flies, worked in my favor.

Rose was passing everything on the road and making it difficult to keep up. At one point, I had to hurtle past an RV and a UPS delivery van in rapid succession and cut back into my lane at the last instant, narrowly avoiding a speeding semi while the little Subaru “boxer engine” roared like a sewing machine about to blow. Up ahead of me, Rose’s Focus was making a left on Highway 1 and shooting off into the forest primeval.

I gave chase.

I rode the bumper of the Suburban in front of me, pushed down the turn signal and checked the rearview. Dan was hopelessly mired behind three other vehicles. I got on the squawk box and filled him in.

Minnesota State Highway 1, along which Rose was rapidly racing, flows north from Lake Superior to Ely, gateway to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area, a destination where thousands of tourists arrive yearly to paddle around in pristine, un-crowded waters and be harassed and shot at by drunken local youths.

Soon Dan’s big truck was right behind me as we sped along between the pines. I got on the walkie-talkie and told him to turn around and head home, I’d pay him tomorrow.

It seemed I didn’t want to share Rose.

I watched in the mirror as Burton pulled off at a forest road and turned back toward the lake. I sped on, came to the crest of a hill and caught sight of the Focus about a mile ahead, approaching a bridge construction site, flagman standing in the road. I felt my heart drop into my gut. I hit the gas and watched with growing frustration as the flagman (actually an aging blond woman with leathery, sun-baked skin) waved Rose through.

I had to hit the brakes when the flag bearer spun her little orange sign on its axis, showing me the STOP. I was forced to wait as the traffic from the far side trickled across the bridge in the only open lane, my gut like the inside of a beehive.

Again I had blown it.

Five minutes later, after ten or fifteen vehicles had gone past, the chesty blond spun the sign to SLOW—CAUTION. I raced ahead recklessly but Rose was nowhere to be seen. I drove all the way to Ely, futilely searched up and down the town for the Rosemobile before turning around and making the long drive back to the lakeshore.

First bar I could find with a view of the lake, I ordered a double-vodka on the rocks and called Talbot, told him the sorry state of affairs. The edgy tone of his voice let me know he was losing his patience. But the words he spoke were again understanding and sympathetic, ending with: “Tomorrow is Friday. What say you have one more try at it?”

Of course I agreed. The money was too good to quit. As long as Billy wanted me on the job, I’d be there for him.

Later that night I was collapsed on my couch drinking from a cold bottle of Molson Canadian and watching the Twins getting pounded by the Yankees. The phone jangled on the end table. I picked it up. “Hello,” I said.

“That you, Carter?”

I recognized Dick Sacowski’s voice. “Yeah, Dick. What’s up?”

“That fucking cunt smacked Billy again tonight, man. This shit has got to stop, Carter. He’d just come home from fishing with me—he’s sitting in his chair looking out the window—when she comes up behind him and snakes his bag of pot out of his jacket pocket. He grabs at it and she slaps him in the goddamn head, says she’ll call the fucking sheriff if he raises a stink. That’s the second time she’s done that shit.”

“Not good, man,” I said. “Not good at all. I tell you what; I got an idea. A change of tactics.” Inspiration had come to me just a few minutes prior while watching a TV replay of a stand-up triple by Twins first baseman Justin Morneau. “I got a friend here in town that’s pretty good with video. I was thinking we could get inside Billy’s house and set up some hidden cameras and microphones and stuff. Then if she pulls anything, Billy will have his bargaining chip.”

“Great idea,” Sacowski said. “I’ll tell Billy. How long you gonna need inside?”

“I dunno, couple hours at least, more if possible. Can we get away with that?”

“I think so. Rose usually hits the Safe Harbor Bar in Beaver Bay on Fridays for happy hour. They run a special on them Long Island ice teas. Bitch can really throw’em down. Usually stays a while.”

“Great. Tell Billy that my assistant and I will be up there tomorrow around one. I’ll call him when I get close.”

“Gotcha. See you then.”

After the connection severed and the line buzzed in my ear, the first thing that came to me was a question: Why didn’t somebody think of the hidden-camera bit a long time ago? Just about anybody who ever saw a reality TV show could have come up with it. But what the hell, that’s what I was getting paid for, coming up with clever plans to trick the evildoers. The kind of shit we dicks do.

By six o’clock Friday afternoon, my electronics-wizard friend Tommy Basulio had tiny cameras and voice bugs set up in strategic areas of Talbot’s house: kitchen, living room, carport entrance and Billy’s bedroom. I stressed to Billy that if he was going to confront Rose or accuse her of anything, it was best done in one of these areas. I was feeling pretty good as Tommy and I left that fabulous house on the cliff. Besides being blown away by the view, I felt we had gone a long way toward solving my client’s dilemma. Billy Talbot must have felt the same, because he’d written out a nice large check and told me my services would no longer be needed, at least, until further notice.

I could have taken this as a rude dismissal but chose instead to look at it as an acknowledgement of a job completed satisfactorily.

I took it easy for the next few days and tried to enjoy the fruits of my unlikely success. But I couldn’t shake the lingering feeling that the job was unfinished. That there was something more I could do to help Billy.

And then one day I got the chance.

I was at my office researching possible forms of advertising, idleness having proved to be not as fun now as it had been at age thirty or forty. The only marketing plan I’d come up with was an ad in the yellow pages of the phone book. I was nearly finished with the Brown Investigations ad copy, having rejected What can Brown do for you? and Brown gets Down, in favor of the straightforward Brown gets it done.

My desk phone sounded.

It was Talbot, croaking in a weak, hoarse voice: “Brown? This is Billy Talbot. I need your help again. Things here are getting out of hand.”

Seemed to me they’d been out of hand for a long while. “What can I do to help, Billy?”

“Today I got three credit card bills for a total of thirty-seven thousand dollars. Cash advances at the maximum rate of interest the bloodsuckers can charge.” His voice trembled.

“Jesus fucking Christ—that’s a lot of scratch. Have you thought of communicating directly with the companies that issue the credit cards? Get Rose on some list or something?”

Suddenly there was strength in his voice: “You think I should start contacting every fucking banking conglomerate that might issue credit cards? Not to mention the retail outlets and other financial institutions and whoever the fuck else…”

“It’s not like I can pull her over and confiscate her wallet or anything, Billy. My hands are pretty much tied. I can’t mug her at the steps of the post office. You’d think the recent state of the economy would limit the number of offers out there.”

“Maybe you could do a better job of surveillance, Mr. Brown. She’s gotta be doing something with all the cash. And she’s also become more violent, as of late.”

“Are you getting it on tape?”

“I’m afraid Rose discovered the cameras and broke them. Took out the tapes and destroyed them, as well.”

“Are you shitting me? That’s some expensive equipment.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. I’ve already contacted Mr. Basilio and informed him. I called the number on the business card he left with me when the two of you were here.”

“Oh. I see.”

“Got any other bright ideas, Brown? Things are worse now than before you set out to help me.”

“All right, Billy, I get the hint. Do you want me to put a tail on her again? I can find another vehicle and bring a partner. I’m sure we can stay with her this time.”

“If that’s the best you can come up with, I suppose it will have to do. Excuse me if I don’t jump for joy.”

Dude and his sarcasm were beginning to get on my nerves, disabled or not. Then inspiration hit me and washed the annoyance away. All private eyes had their little group of assistants and confidantes. I just needed to gather my own gang of cohorts together for a bit of subterfuge.

“You know what, Billy?” I said. “You’re right. I was piss-poor at surveillance. But now I’ve got a plan that will solve all your problems with your wife. All you need to do is have her home and in the house at a prearranged time and date. I’ll have some friends of mine pay her a visit with a message she’ll find hard to deny.”

“My ravaged heart is fluttering with anticipation.”

“That’s a start. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

I clicked off, relieved to sever the connection with Talbot, who seemed to have the power to suck out my energy through the phone line.

It took ten minutes of deep breathing before I could call around about renting a Ford Crown Victoria, preferably in black. I settled for a maroon one. Found it in the West End at the rental agency that used to try harder. I figured it would suffice, maroon being one of the Minnesota state colors.  Rah, Rah for the old Maroon and Gold and all that.

With transportation taken care of, I began recruiting players for my upcoming theatrical production of  “Scare the Hell out of the Misbehaving Wife.” I delved deeply into a mixed bag of old associates—burnouts, recovering alcoholics, head cases and general refugees from the past. I already had Dan Burton and Tommy Basilio on board and needed one more willing participant.

The spinning wheel stopped at the image of Jeff Tormoen—local actor, radio DJ and barroom brawler with the size, authoritative voice and upright bearing needed for the role I had in mind.

Being somewhat “between gigs,” Torm was more than willing to jump on for the ride.

The next step was ordering phony badges and blank identification cards off the Internet. After that, I assembled the cast of characters for a morning photo shoot with Tommy Basilio. We spent the afternoon going over our roles. Three days later, the ID cards arrived in the mail. We were well rehearsed and ready.

On the morning previously arranged with Talbot, Dan Burton, clean-shaven and dressed in a cheap brown suit and brown wing-tips, and Jeff Tormoen, similarly clad in a navy blue suit and scuffed black oxfords, motored up the North Shore in the big maroon Crown Vic. I followed close behind in the Subaru, staying in voice contact through the police-style radio system Tommy had installed in the Ford for the sake of realism.

It was another beautiful day in northern Minnesota: baby-blue sky, white puffs of clouds, not a breath of wind and temps in the mid-seventies. The lake was flat and glassy—the kind of day you wanted to bottle and save, not waste on a cheesy deal like this. But everybody knows that a P.I. must be steadfast and finish what he starts. A case must be seen through to its rightful conclusion for the good of all.

I pulled into the roadside rest as Burton wheeled the Crown Vic up the hill towards Billy Talbot’s castle made from heartbreak. My gut was jumping and I sensed something haywire, like the proverbial monkey wrench dropping into the gears. I tried to reassure myself. I’d spoken to Talbot and he had seemed confident and positive. I dropped the windows down and soaked up the lake air, trying to clear my head, shake the doubt and fear. Then the shortwave crackled: “Here we are, Brownie,” Tormoen said in his powerful baritone. “We’re going in.”

“Break a leg,” I said.

All that was left to do was wait. I kept an eye on the road. My neck was in knots. Thirty minutes went by and then time stood still.

I thought something terrible was probably going down, but I also knew how windy Tormoen could get when enjoying a role. I could almost feel sorry for Rose, with the big Norwegian hounding her in his cop voice about forged signatures on credit card applications and the dire consequences this type of behavior can lead to.

Yessiree, Mr. Tom Higgins, Assistant Director of the State Bureau of Fraud and Financial Crimes, could be a hard and unforgiving man. Relentlessly, he could hammer away at you, holding possible punishments over your head like the blade of a guillotine. But Torm could also bring out his soothing good-cop voice to reassure Rose that her husband had only her best interests at heart. Hadn’t Billy firmly refused to press charges as long as no further credit lines were opened? Surely only the most foolish and churlish among us would refuse an offer such as this. The presence of one in such a high position of authority as Mr. Higgins spoke volumes on both the severity and sensitivity of this situation.

Despite my anxieties, the boys eventually came down the hill and turned toward Duluth. I gave them a few minutes start and followed, joining them down the road at a predetermined wayside.

I climbed into the huge backseat of the Crown Vic. Burton had a grin like a lemon wedge. Tormoen’s chest was puffed out, his face flushed. They were sharing a joint and laughing at the memory of Rose’s deer-in-the-headlights look after being told she could go to jail for ten years. How the tears running down her suddenly pale cheeks and the shudders in her torso were indeed a sad sight.

“I was the Barrymore of Bullshit,” Tormoen said proudly. “Olivier would’ve given me a standing ovation. I had the wench writhing in agony and begging for mercy.”

“A gifted performance indeed,” Burton said, blowing out smoke and grinning like a leprechaun.

Later that night when I walked into my apartment carrying a slight celebratory buzz, I couldn’t shake a vague sense of uneasiness, possibly from a residue of unfamiliar scents picked up at a primitive level. Simply put, I had the feeling that someone had been there while I was gone. Because we all have atavistic instincts buried beneath the many layers of complacency civilization has piled upon us, I took the feeling seriously.

I searched through the place but found nothing obvious missing. Told myself I was just paranoid. Could have been Mrs. Swanson from upstairs checking to see if I was building a meth lab. But something still nagged at me. I went around the front of the house and knocked on the Swanson’s door. It was a little late and I was a little tipsy but Mrs. Swanson smiled knowingly and told me that two workers had come that afternoon to install new water meters.

There was my answer. I was in too good a mood to question it.

A couple days after the performance, I was at the office, staring out the window at the seagulls circling manically in the hovering exhaust of a nearby Burger King. The phone rang. It was Billy Talbot, informing me that he and Rose had begun marriage and financial counseling sessions and that Dick Sacowski was on his way to Duluth with a sizeable bonus for me. After I cradled the receiver, I couldn’t help but smile with satisfaction at a job well done.

Sacowski arrived an hour later with Billy’s check for fifteen grand. My career as a private investigator was off and running on all cylinders. And if the business suffered a seasonal slowdown (summer had quietly turned to fall), I had more than enough money to get through the winter. And in the downtime between gigs, I would certainly be entertaining many at the Savannah with the colorful tale of my first case.

During the early days of autumn, I savored my recent success and basked in the beauty of an Indian summer. Then one mild and starry night my joy became somewhat tempered as I emerged from a late-night session at the Savannah to discover that someone had sideswiped my trusty Subaru, damaging the front end and passenger side. Liquored as I was, I shrugged it off and assured myself that this was just another opportunity for profit. I would bring the car to my friend Jack Running for repair and old Jack would kickback some of the insurance money my way. Things were still coming up roses.

But everything changed in late October, just before Halloween.

I remember the day as damp and foggy, pea soup rolling in off the lake. I was at the Savannah Club for happy hour, elbows on the bar and eyes on the television, two beers already down. It was a slow day at the club; the evening news was droning on. They were showing footage of a wrecked car at the bottom of a ravine along the north shore of Lake Superior. The ground glistened with dead, wet leaves and the hazy air was popping with blue and reds from the lightbars of law-enforcement vehicles.

It took me a while before I realized what I was looking at.

A red Ford Focus all crushed to shit.

The footage had been shot the previous night. It was foggy and wet but it sure looked like Rose Talbot’s vehicle. My ears began to burn and ring. The room swayed; I thought I was going to puke. I sucked in a breath of beer-scented air, stood up and listened to the reporter’s words.

Young woman killed in late-night crash… signs of impact with another vehicle… possible hit and run… airbags failed to activate… no witnesses have come forth… investigation continues…

Then the tube blinked and a commercial for Ryan Ford of Two Harbors came on the screen. Stunned, I walked out of the bar—not saying anything to anybody—and drove home in a brain fog that matched the soup in the air. I stumbled into my apartment and flopped down face-first on the bed, passed out for three hours and woke up in the dark, my brain racing in circles like an Indy car on a short track.

I didn’t sleep much that night and got up at dawn to wait for the morning paper. My suspicions were confirmed. An article on page one, Taconite Bay woman dies in hit-and-run, told the sad story of the tragic accident that caused the untimely death of Rose Marie Engwar Talbot, thirty-seven years of age.

Anger, confusion, guilt and fear cycled through me and put me off my feed. I showered and dressed and left for the office in the hope that something there would distract me from my thoughts. The carpenters were scheduled to finish work that morning on a small reception area, where, someday, hopefully, a good-hearted and pretty-in-a down-to-earth-way secretary would greet my perspective clients.

Moving slowly up the stairs to the office and wrestling with my emotions, I passed one of the carpenters coming down, power saw in hand. We nodded a greeting and continued on our separate ways. I could smell sawdust and new wood and wood stain. It was clean and responsible and good. All the things I wasn’t.

The crew was putting the finishing touches on my new addition. I’d spent a lot of time convincing the landlord of its necessity. I guess I just wore him down. And now, there it was in front of me, smooth and glistening like a new penny. I walked through to my desk, sat down on the wheeled chair and wondered if there wasn’t somebody I should call to say something about Rose. Billy Talbot for one. It seemed I should call but I couldn’t pick up the phone. All I could do was waffle. Sit there and vacillate. Not what a private eye is supposed to do. Something had been taken out of me and I couldn’t dodge the thought that this was just the beginning of my troubles.

My fears were validated an hour later when, as I sat numbly, gazing out the window at the thick gray clouds and unwillingly focusing on the churning in my gut, there was a knocking at my shiny new door.

With nobody there to greet them, the deputy sheriffs and the plainclothes cop just walked right on through.

They identified themselves as members of the Creek County Sheriff’s Department and the Duluth Police Department. Badges were waved but I was too dizzy to really see them. They informed me of my rights and that I was being charged with the murder of Rose Marie Engwar Talbot. As well as working as a private investigator without the proper license.

Lead fell into my feet and I stammered incoherently as they pulled my wrists behind my back, put the cuffs on and brought me down the steps to a waiting cruiser, engine running.

The ride up the lakeshore was a blur of feverish silence broken only by the barking of the police radio. I didn’t even have a lawyer. Every goddamn P.I. has a slick lawyer. I was shit. Toast. Cannon fodder. Life handed me lemons and fate had made lemonade out of my ass.

They brought me to the Creek County lockup and put me in an interrogation room, a narrow windowless space with puke-green paint on the walls. Reminded me of a detention room in an old high school.

I had no alibi for the night in question. I’d been at the Savannah Club but I couldn’t prove it. A new bartender was working that day and I had left after only a couple of beers. I couldn’t recall seeing anyone I knew by name. Surely the cops would check. Wouldn’t they?

Gradually, the shock of arrest began to fade. I started to get my dander up. Embers of anger and righteous indignation began to smolder within me. I hadn’t done this. What could they possibly have on me?

I found out in one hell of a hurry. About as long as it takes for the other shoe to drop.

They had traces of blue paint obtained from the rear bumper and driver’s side of the crushed Focus. They were going to test my Subaru. To go with the paint scrapings, they’d also found a vaguely threatening note in Rose’s purse, written on my business stationery. With a signature that looked enough like mine to make my intestines bleed.

The final straw on the camel was a video turned over to them by the deceased’s husband, showing two men in suits getting out of a Ford Crown Victoria in front of the Talbot residence, a vehicle rented in Duluth with a credit card issued to one Carter Brown.

To accompany the video of the Crown Vic and the boys getting in and out, they possessed a copy of perhaps Jeff Tormoen’s greatest performance, Dan Burton providing the supporting role. A performance the sheriff claimed was a crime in itself. But more importantly, a demonstration of my willingness to resort to “extreme means” to achieve a desired end.

I wanted to explain but knew it wouldn’t come out sounding right.

They also had my bank statements. They focused on what they called my recent “abnormally large” deposit. I thought I had them there. Why would I kill her if I’d already been paid?

They had an answer for that.

Billy Talbot told them I’d offered to “dispose of his wife” for five thousand dollars. After which, he allegedly became so terrified that he paid me fifteen K to lay off and forget I ever knew his sweet Rose. Talbot dutifully added that I was a loser who had failed on numerous occasions to do even basic surveillance successfully, and that I probably killed Rose to prove I was a man.

I figured it was all cop talk. But the fight went out of me when they said a witness had come forth claiming to have seen a small, blue SUV playing bumper cars with the red Ford Focus on the night in question.

When they got through, my inner Mike Hammer had become a quivering hunk of Fletch. Gelatinous and weak, I had all I could do to keep from ratting out Jeff and Dan, wanting desperately to believe that it would go easier on me if I did, but knowing all too well that it wouldn’t. I was being set up for a long fall with no net and I knew it.

I refused to speak and asked for a public defender.

They put me in a cell. The air smelled of stale sweat and old urine with an overlay of cheap pine cleaner. Time slowly ticked away.

The court appointed a public defender.

Sam Frederickson was about my age, with curly salt-and-pepper hair, thick glasses and chronic garlic breath. Close quarters with Sam was a little like being in a barn stall with a scampi-eating plow horse, snorting and all. But the guy had energy and enthusiasm and was a lot smarter than he looked.

I quickly discovered the courts didn’t allow Sam the same level of respect as I did. Murder One in Minnesota requires a grand jury indictment. Nobody except me seemed in a hurry to proceed. I was remanded back to a cell in the county lockup as the gales of November came knocking.

Gray cloudy day after gray cloudy day rolled by my tiny window. I began to lose hope. I was almost beginning to believe I had actually done the murder while in a fugue state or blackout, like in a bad TV show. I began to search for ways to end it all. My life seemed over, all because I’d wanted to be a private eye.

In the days approaching Thanksgiving, my despair became unbearable. An opportunity for relief appeared to me one dreary afternoon in the form of some loose plaster on the ceiling of my cell. I discovered the slightly discolored soft spot, probably the result of a small leak in the roof, while lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, lost in torment.

I stood up on the bed, pushed on the ceiling with my fingertips and a chunk of plaster fell easily into my hand. I could see a thick overhead support beam through the resultant hole. More than adequate to hang yourself from, I thought, feeling an immediate sense of release.

I removed my orange jailhouse jumpsuit and tied the torso around the beam. I stood on the edge of the bed and carefully knotted one of the legs around my throat.

As I stood on my toes, ready to step off into sweet oblivion, I remembered reading that you had an orgasm when you hung yourself. I also recalled that a few kids had died trying to get off that way, back in the days when it was a fad. Maybe it was still a fad. Look what happened to David Carradine.

As I jumped off the bed and felt the cloth tighten around my throat, I couldn’t help but wonder:

Would I be going—or coming?

Read the rest of Jackpine Savages–available at most online bookstores, including

http://www.ebookit.com/books/0000002959/Jackpine-Savages.html

(also available at ebookit.com as pdf for reading on MAC and PC)

                                                                                                                                                                                                     

Read Full Post »

Enjoy Chapter 15 of T.K. O’Neill’s crime/noir enovel Fly in the Milk–and order the whole thing for just $2.99!

CHAPTER 15

William “Big Cat” Edwards always thought it peculiar how he grimaced when the cops passed by on the road. City cop, highway cop, sheriff or goddamn game warden, it didn’t matter. Every time he saw a vehicle with a flasher on the roof and a uniformed driver, he felt the stirrings of anger and resentment and maybe hatred. There was possibly a little fear, but he would never admit it.

Driving north on Highway 53 in his ’69 Buick Electra four-door, he wondered what his old parole officer would say if he ever told her that one. Like if he just came out and said I hate fucking cops, Marlene. The bitch would be busting her ass to get him back inside, that’s for sure. At least until after her period was done with and she mellowed out again.

The bitch. He’d see her in the bars all the time with her old man—her husband—both of them drunk as skunks. Yet they always found a way to look down at you, didn’t they? Give someone a job with power over others and they start thinking their own shit don’t stink.

Sure, he knew that all cops weren’t bad. And yeah, they were necessary to keep the real assholes in line, but he still swore to himself whenever they passed by on the road. Back when he was a kid, his teachers were always preaching that the cops were there to help you. He’d never seen much of the helping, only the throwing in jail part. His daddy… his uncle… him…

Sometimes he wished he were still a kid, innocent and playful, only worried about if his mother might embarrass him with her alcoholic incoherence or her lunacy. Now and then when he was a little down, he wondered if he’d be better off a retard like his younger brother. Ride around all day in a window van with all his tard buddies, making weird faces at the passing cars. Wouldn’t have to go through the grind anymore. Wouldn’t have a care in the world, except maybe if you crapped your pants or not. But maybe that wouldn’t bother you either.

Yeah, this life was getting to be a grind, that was true, but none of the straights would ever believe you if you told them. They think it’s because you’re lazy that you make your money on the other side of the law. They think it’s an easy life, running a blind pig. They don’t know it’s harder than running a regular bar, and you always got to worry about getting busted, besides. These days there’s lots of competition and the money is tight. People would rather stay home and get stoned and watch cable TV. And you’re always looking over your shoulder to see who’s coming after you. Is it the cops or just some crazy drunken asshole you eighty-sixed a month ago?

They think because the blackjack tables and the roulette wheel are always busy, it means you’re rolling in the dough. Nobody thinks that you got partners like anyone else in business. And you got cheaters coming in and trying to rip you off, and you got your own partners trying to skim every nickel they can get away with.

Nah, man, it ain’t easy being an outlaw. You got your times of underemployment just like anyone else. And if you fuck up, you don’t just get fired, you get thrown in the slam.

Big Cat, like his bud Johnny Beam, believed it was time to move on to sunnier shores. Bring the wife and kid down to where it was warm all year long. Score a nest egg and roll down to Florida; maybe buy into a bar or a liquor store and sell gin to retirees. It would sure be nice to not have to see Artis and Gary again. Why in fuck he’d ever partnered up with them, he didn’t know. Maybe it had been God’s will….

The rusty Electra rode like a pillow on a wave, floating along as the sky tried to decide if it was going to rain or shine. Twenty minutes past the Three Lakes Road at the first right after Dunston Road, Cat turned onto the gravel and pushed down the pedal, watched in the rearview as the dust kicked up behind him like an exploded vacuum bag. Two miles on the dirt and he’d be at the house, the sleazy shithole with the dilapidated chicken coops out back that Artis called home.

He was still kicking himself about the past, wondering how he could have let it happen like it did. If he’d been thinking back then, he would’ve asked Johnny to let him run the Hanging Dog. Just him alone, not the other two lizards. But the Big Cat, so named because of the three white vertical steaks along the left side of his full, dark head of hair and the feline grace he’d shown in the boxing ring, could never hang onto money. And Johnny had needed the bread up front. Gary Masati always had cash because there was money in his family. And Artis was Gary’s strong-arm guy. That was how the deal came together. But that was a long time ago and the Cat had always been Johnny’s man, the only one of the three that was smart enough to keep an enterprise going.

Artis Mitchell paced back and forth on the cracked, yellowed linoleum in his spacious and filthy kitchen. Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink and the place was getting too dirty, even for him. Time to get Elizabeth Hardy from down the road over again to do some cleaning. Maybe this time he would get her inside the bedroom and get her pants off. She was only sixteen but she could clean up the house real good. Three dollars an hour and she earned every cent. Watching her ass in them tight Calvin Klein jeans was worth two-fifty an hour alone.

Warmth flooded him as he replayed in his mind the night that had changed his life and brought a ray of hope into his otherwise bleak existence. That time when there was a knock on his door and Elizabeth was standing there in her red wool car coat, pretty as a pin-up. When she smiled that toothy smile, her lips all curvaceous, and asked so sweetly if she and her friends could come over to his house and party sometime, you know, hang out and smoke dope and drink beer—well, old Artis was thinking a miracle had happened. He’d hesitantly agreed, using every bit of his will, to keep from drooling and babbling like a diseased monkey.

On the evening of the much-anticipated party, five kids had showed up on Artis’ front porch: Elizabeth, her friend Jenny, and three boys whose names Artis kept forgetting. Ricky and Billy and Tommy or some shit like that. They’d brought their own weed and a partially consumed half-gallon jug of Red Mountain wine. Artis kept his own stash of Colombian pot a secret, but he did share a few cans of Pabst from his fridge.

The kids were nice to him but a little afraid of the man with the big beer gut and the huge, hairy arms. Artis chose to believe that their standoffishness was, in fact, respect and shyness.

After the get-together was over and the kids had stumbled out, leaving his little house quiet again, Artis had parked himself on the lumpy gray couch, beer in hand and cigarette burning on top of an empty Blue Ribbon can on the cluttered table, and come up with a grand scheme.

He would invite the gang over again, someday soon. Make sure he had everything set up just right before they got there: some nice Boone’s Farm apple wine for the girls and Steinhaus beer for the boys. Cheap booze always worked better. Then bring out the good weed and the Penthouse magazines and get the kids horny, tell’em to feel free and use the spare bedroom if they want to have a little fun. After a couple had been in the room going at it a while, he’d say he was going to roll a joint and go into the closet of the other bedroom where his camera was mounted on a tripod.

He could work the hole-in-the-wall action all night long.

When the film was developed he’d have leverage on the kids. They wouldn’t want their parents to know what they been up to, so they’d do some favors in exchange for the pics. Maybe some free weed or some stolen goods from the boys—maybe a grab-and-dash job or two. The girls—they got things they can do, too. Let your imagination work for you on that one.

Artis sighed, scratched a stick match on the window molding and fired up a Marlboro, looked through the dusty glass at the brush and scrub trees along the edge of his backyard. Dark clouds like buffalo turds were moving slowly across the steel-gray sky.

He was starting to get pissed off. Where in the fuck was that goddamned Masati? Fat fuck was supposed to be here an hour ago so they could work on their story… excuse… alibi… explanation for the discrepancies in the accounting books at the Dog. Porky son of a bitch was probably into the Valium again and would more than likely be totally useless in convincing the Cat of their innocence.

As Gary Masati bounced along the highway in his Ford Bronco in the direction of what he often caustically referred to as “Artie’s Acres” or “Mitchell’s Mansion,” he had indeed been into the Valiums. Trying to cut back on his coke and speed usage, he had ingested the tranquilizers as part of a self-prescribed therapy regimen.

Masati had two nicknames. One that you could say to his face: Assram, or Ram for short, which referenced his unique ability to break through locked doors using his sizeable hindquarters as a battering ram. The second nickname, “Gag me Gary,” referred to his predominantly rank body odor. You only spoke this behind his back, unless you wanted some trouble. At this moment, his jaw was a bit loose and his mouth hung open. He seemed to breathe and snore at the same time and he didn’t give a fuck about much of anything.

That’s the thing about Valium, take enough of it and you just plain don’t give a shit. No matter what you do, have done or are about to do, you care not. The little pills, be they yellow or big blue, were often prescribed as a means of putting the mind on an even keel, freeing the unhappy user from the sufferings of anxiety and fear and guilt. And they worked. Empathy, patience and tolerance were also frequently banished from one’s emotional repertoire by diazepam, but this side effect was one about which Gary Masati could not have cared less.

As far as he was concerned, the meeting was more for Big Cat and Artis; they were the ones who cared about the Hanging Dog. He, you know, didn’t give a fat fuck. He didn’t need the club and the club didn’t need him. He had an income, a monthly inheritance check from a long-dead uncle that kept him in the necessities of life, like food, dope and alcohol and a place to crash. And because of his ingenious method of entering locked rooms, he was a valuable addition to any burglary crew—and a damn good auto mechanic besides, if he had to work. If you had to work a steady, at least in a garage you could stay stoned on something all day. Currently, he had a tricked-out pick-up on the market that he’d assembled from all “borrowed” parts.

Sure, he’d skimmed a little off the top here and there at the Dog. Fucking anybody would, working that place. It’s not like there were any tips or anything. But the kind and size of the losses Artis was talking about had to be from something else. Like maybe fucking Artis was stealing a pile and concocting some kind of intrigue bullshit to cover it up.

Gary knew how easy it would be to start out small, lifting a few bucks here and there, telling yourself you were going to pay it all back later when you got ahead. But then you never got ahead and all of a sudden you were looking at a pretty big hole in the bookkeeping. That’s probably how it went down.

The road went by in a soft haze. Hardly seemed like any time at all before he was cutting the ignition and staring blankly at the dust as it swirled down on his hood and drifted into the side of Artis’ shitty house. Gary’s brain was a jellied mess, the last twenty miles a total blank.

He had risen that morning with a fierce craving for a burst of illicit chemical energy in the form of powders or pills, a habit that, in its infancy, he had told himself would be good for him, help drop a few pounds. Having finally assessed the damaging nature of such a habit to both his pocketbook and his mental health, Gary often fought the urges with a ten-milligram Valium, which usually reduced the craving to a muffled moan. He had boosted at noon with another blue tablet and nearly passed out during lunch at Silk’s pool hall. Then Peter Klang had given him a white cross in the men’s room to help him revive.

Gary climbed out of the fading orange Bronco, steadied himself on the doorframe and fired up a Viceroy with a black plastic lighter. Mellow but mean; he hoped nobody gave him any shit because he wasn’t in the mood. Didn’t want to pull out the .38 from the waistband of his jeans under the tail of his blue flannel shirt. All he wanted to do was rest. Rest and think about the burglary job that Tommy Soderberg had clued him to, a small safe with cash, old coins and jewels. The picture in his head glowed with warm colors that promised satisfaction like a five-course dinner.

He staggered up the incline and let himself in through the dirt-smudged, scratched-up wooden front door. In the nearly empty dining room, dust floated thickly inside an angled column of sunlight streaming through a high window on the west wall, the sun having found a break in the bank of clouds.

He saw a blurry Artis sitting on a wooden chair in the kitchen, nursing a can of Old Style, huge forearms resting on the rickety wooden table with a cigarette burning between his thick fingers. A steady blue-gray stream of smoke rose toward the yellowed ceiling. Artis looked worried.

“Jesus Christ, Artis, you pig,” Masati snorted, jiggling across the litter-strewn floor. “Don’t you ever clean this place? I remember that peanut butter jar over there from three weeks ago, for the Christ sake. You’re gonna get some kind of rat-shit fever or something. Smells like the fucking landfill in here.”

“Fuck you, Ram. Clean enough for a shitbag like you.” Artis bared his yellowed, tobacco-flecked teeth in an artificial smile that looked more like a grimace.

Masati sat down heavily. The wooden chair creaked and sagged. He dropped his cigarette into an empty Old Style can on the table and took a deep breath. His eyelids were heavy and so was his lower jaw.

“Well I’m heerrrrr…” he slurred.  “Whasss with all the drama? You knock up a sheep an need bread for an abortionnn?”

“I thought it was a sheep at first but then I discovered it was your mother.”

“You would fuck my mother, Artis, you sick fuck. Even the old man won’t do that anymore.”

“Who could blame him after you came out.”

“Fuck off. What the hell you call me out here for? What’s this goddamn emergency you’re all worked up about?”

“Big Cat’s on his way out. He’s gonna want to know why we’re out of liquor at the club and why we don’t have his usual share. Then, in a couple days, when he hears from Randall that he ain’t been paid, he’ll be ready for it.”

“It’s that bad, uh? We got to prepare him for the worst? Fucking shit. You never can tell… it ain’t my fucking fault.”

“Nobody’s saying it’s anybody’s fault. I’m saying we lost a ton at roulette last summer. I think someone was past posting. I think there was a team working us. Remember all those new guys? Them assholes with the Ohio plates?” Artis’ eyes pleaded slightly, hoping for backup on his grasp at straws.

“Nahhhhhh…… but, y’know… there’s new faces every summerrrr.  You can’t catch da same fish everrrryy day.”

“You better remember those faces when Cat shows up, Ram. You better remember how they slicked us. Otherwise he’s gonna think it was you and me been stealin’ him blind and causing the Dog to go tits up.”

“We’rrre tittsss ubp?”

“Like a beached sucker. We only got enough booze left for you and me to get drunk. We can’t afford the rent or the skid to Randall, and the women don’t want to come around no more  ‘cause nobody wants to spend anything on them. Dudes’d rather sit home and whack it to porn videos. And there just ain’t any money around. Not enough for a place like the Dog to stay goin’, anyway.”

“Hell’s gonna happenn to da stuffff?  Jukeboxss an pinball?”

“’Magine someone will come for them.” Artis said, watching the dust-filled column of sunlight as it faded away. “Can’t see Lambert or Johnny Beam leaving them behind. Unless the cops get there first. I think it was just a matter of time before we got popped, anyway, you know what I’m saying? It’s like, we’re getting out at the right time.” He heaved a heavy sigh. “You want a beer, man?”

“No thanks, I’mm watcchhin my waistline.”

“What are you watching it do, take over the county?”

“Fuck you.” Masati shot Artis the bird in slow motion.

Artis snorted, raked the empty beer cans off the table, pinned them against his barrel chest and stood up. He paused to gape at Masati’s head as it lolled on his thick, fleshy neck like a beach ball on a rhino, the chair creaking sharply each time it jerked back upright.

Then they both turned their heads at the sound of a blown-out, window-rattling muffler. Artis looked out the window above the sink and saw a big Buick pulling up, followed by a cloud of dust that swirled around the house. He dropped the beer cans in a plastic garbage pail under the counter by the sink and wiped his hands on the front of his blue denim coveralls.

The Buick jerked to a halt in the dirt. Big Cat held his breath as the dust cloud passed by and settled on the patchy lawn. The massive, copper-colored two-door hardtop with white vinyl roof shuttered and shook, chugging for twenty seconds before it finally wheezed and went quiet.

“Sounns like Cat couldd use hisss timing adjustedt,” Masati slurred.

“Why don’t you offer your services?” Artis asked, grinning.

“I hav in tha passst, I’ll havv yuu knowww—but he never sidts down long enough to gedt it donnne.”

“That’s another thing, man,” Artis said, eager for the opening. “He’s hardly ever at the club anymore, only shows up when we’re closing, to count the cash. Shit, lately he doesn’t even show up at all, half the time. Fucker’s been having me drop it off at his house. Trouble is… I ain’t brought nothing over for the last three weeks.”

“Thisss isss whadt I gedt when I de-le-gate yuuu sommme re-sponnsa-billlidty?”

“Fuck you, Masati, if you hadn’t been passed out in the office or not there at all every goddamn night, I wouldn’t have had to do it.”

“So it’sss my fauldt thattt you spennt the housse’s casssh?”

“I had to pay my rent and electricity, and I had a shit load of parking tickets—they were going to throw me in jail,” Artis frowned until the thick hair of his eyebrows joined at the bridge of his nose. “What fucking choice did I have?”

“I forgive you Artis,” Masati said, his speech momentarily returned to normal due to the rush of apprehension and fear brought on by Big Cat’s arrival. “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn. But you’re going to have to ‘splain that to our boy Mr. Cat. And I think I hear his footfalls a rustling on the porch right now.”

Then the front door scraped open and the screen slammed behind it. The six-foot-two former boxer and part-time musician known as Big Cat, came striding in, the heels of his blue and red cowboy boots knocking on the decaying wood floor.

“Greetings from the Land o’ Nod,” Masati said from the kitchen, his tongue thickening.

The three men jerked to attention as a clap of thunder ripped the sky. In an instant, a hard rain came ripping down from the black clouds, large oval drops hitting the dry dirt and bouncing. Drumming on the tops of the cars and tapping like a thousand tiny hammers on the shingled roof of the house.

“At least it will keep the dust down for a few days.” Artis said, looking out at the deluge as he moved slowly into the dining room. He kicked at a crumpled McDonald’s cheeseburger wrapping. “Hey, Catman, how’s it hanging?”

“Long and thick, as per normal,” Big Cat said, deep and mellow. He was a large man with wide shoulders, a strong chest and a square head, features that some mistook for Polynesian or Samoan.

“Beer, William?” Artis inquired, gesturing toward the kitchen and the grease-stained refrigerator that only a year before had been a shiny new unit, part of the swag from a warehouse rip-off on the Zenith waterfront.

“Yeah, I’ll have one, Arty.” Then, seeing Masati’s obvious intoxication, Cat went into the kitchen, bent down and looked into the fat man’s eyes. “And how are you today, Gary?”

“Pretty mellow, I guess.”

“Sampling the mother’s little helpers again, are we?”

“You might say that. Just a couple three, my man.”

“Blues?”

“Yessir. Want some?”

“No thanks. Maybe later. I got to stay sharp these days. These are trying times for the Cat. But that’s not what I’m here to talk about. We’ve got to make some changes, I’m sorry to say. We have to shut down the Dog.”

Artis felt his nerves lighting up as he returned from the fridge with a can of Old Style and set it down on the table. Big Cat grabbed a paint-splattered wooden chair, spun it around backwards and sat down with his arms resting on the back. He picked up the beer, popped the top and took a large pull.

“Annnd jus exacly why does the Dawg haf to die, oh great leader,” Masati slurred, his lips undulating in a failed attempt at a smile.

“It’s losing money,” Big Cat said. “There ain’t enough cash left to keep it running. Fact is, it’s been going downhill for a while now, as you’ve probably noticed. You guys—”

Artis shuffled his feet nervously, stuffed his hands deep in the pockets of his worn, Oshkosh coveralls, lowered his eyelids and studied his feet. “Look, man, I’m sorry—”

“I’m sorry it’s over, too,” Big Cat blurted, “but it’s partly my fault. I gambled away the capital. It’s that simple. I got into this big poker game with some real high rollers. Big-time dudes with deep pockets that I thought I could clean out. To make a long story short, I lost. I came so fucking close on one huge pot—I still can’t believe the cocksucker hit the third ace. He pulled a full boat over my spade flush. I was tapped. Blew like nine grand, right fucking there. That’s why I haven’t been comin’ around.” He took a chug of beer and sat up straight, a serious look on his face.

Artis and Gary shared subtle “do-you-believe-it?” glances.

“Jesus Chrise, Cat, shhit,” Masati said. “I hat three gran in the Dawg but I made that a hunert times over. You can take yer time payin me back, buddy, I donn’t giv a shit.”

“You don’t owe me nothing, William,” Artis said.

“You guys take all the machines that are left,” William the Big Cat said. “The pinball and horserace machines are gone already. Had the guy in there today from West Side Games. You got the bag of quarters, Artis?”

Artis shook his head and tried to look solemn, when in actuality he was relieved. “No… I don’t. Sorry man, I had to use that to pay off these parking tickets I had. I swear, Cat, they were gonna throw me in jail.”

Big Cat took a sip of his beer and shrugged. “C’est la vie say the old folks. So ah, in lieu of a bag full of quarters—anybody know any guaranteed moneymaking scenarios? I need something, real bad.”

“Hey ah, lissen yu guyss,” Masati said. “I, ah, wasn’ goin’ say nothin’ bout thisss, but Tommy Soderberg tole me about this job. He ah, ah—wants me to do thiss job with’im, ya see.  As lonng as yu guyss are’n such rough shape, y’know, why ah, ah—don’t we doit arselfes.”

Cat was disbelieving. Masati was a chronic bullshitter and Tommy Soderberg always worked alone. “Tommy Soda told you about a job? You fucking sure about that?”

“I swear ta Godt, Cat, I ain’t gonna shit you.”

“I can hardly wait to hear this,” Artis said.

“Shut up Arty, let him talk. It takes him long enough, already. You got any coke or speed or something to give him? It’s like listening to a walrus croaking.”

“But, guys, I’m tryin’ to wean maself from stimulants,” Masati insisted, eyes widening slightly.

“Bullshit,” Big Cat said. “I’ll wean you from your nuts if I have to listen to anymore of your mumbling.”

“I shall make an effort to enunciate.”

“Here, then,” Artis said, shaking his head. “Maybe this will help.” He reached in the pocket of his coveralls and came out with a silver bullet filled with coke, set it on the table in front of Masati.

Assram fish-eyed the dull gray metal vial with the tiny hole on the tip. “I do believe it will, gentlemen, I do believe it will.” Moments later, the life was back in his eyes and he was ready to go. “So anyway, as I was saying. Tommy Sodapop told me about a lovely little safe job that he has researched. A safe that is full of old coins, cash and jewelry, he says. Old man used to own a business, but now he’s retired, but he keeps this office to make him feel like he’s still got what it takes, y’know? Maybe he does a little business once in a great while, y’know? Anyways, Soda said he was in the building doing some painting—doing some work for Harold Greene of Meridian Realty— and he seen the old guy going in the safe and pulling out these books of old coins and shit.

“And then he says that later in the day he’s sitting around at the Golden Flow and the old guy comes in, still dressed in his suit and bow tie. The geezer sits at the bar and has one tap beer and then leaves. Soda asks Paul the bartender if he knows the guy and Pauly says Sure, the guy comes in five days a week, always at the same time of day, has one beer and then leaves. He says the guy is loaded, owned a jewelry store for sixty years or some shit like that.”

“Sounds good, Gary,” Big Cat said. “But what the hell did Soda want you to do? I mean, can’t he get in there by himself?”

“He wanted me to help carry the safe out. Said the two of us could haul it out of there and throw it in the back of my Bronco.”

“Thanks for clueing us in, Ram,” Artis said, sarcastically.

“When can we do it?” Big Cat said, setting the empty can on the table and rubbing his hands together like he was washing with unseen soap.

“We hit the place and Soda’s gonna know it was me,” Masati said. “Not sure I want him on my case for jumping his gig.”

“How much of a cut is it gonna take to get you over your guilt and fear?” Big Cat asked, dryly.

“Half should do it.”

“Half the take?” Artis sputtered. Little balls of spit flew from his mouth and stuck in his scraggly brown beard. “You gotta be fucking insane, you fat bastard.”

“Listen, you hairy Greek fuck, not only do I deserve a chunk for finding the job, I should get another bump for crossing Soda. He’s not exactly going to want to hug me for this, in case you’re thinking otherwise.”
“Soda ain’t gonna do anything to you, Ram,” Big Cat said. “Fucker won’t get near you.” He gave Artis a wink on the sly. “All he wants to do is get high and play ball. He’s not the violent type. He’ll just spread the word around town about your deed and hope you get what you deserve.”

“Which is?” Masati asked, warily.

“Judge not, lest you be judged, has always been my policy, Ram. I’ll let someone else decide your just desserts.”

“I’ve got some good ideas about that,” Artis said, wiping at his beard.

“I bet you do, you sick fucking pervert,” Masati said, eyelids growing heavy. “Got another hit of blow?” he said to the air, his gaze directed at a place on the ceiling where a crack in the plaster resembled the letter Z.

“Maybe I do,” Ram, Artis said. “Providing you stay right where you are and give us all the details on this job.”

“Can do, Artis, my friend, can do. It’s not like I was going for a jog or anything.”

Big Cat got up from the table and walked into the dining room. This was the kind of shit that drove him crazy, the way those two dorks carried on. Took them forever to do anything. How he’d gotten this involved with these two was beyond his comprehension. He must have been lonely back then—or maybe he’d taken pity on the pathetic bastards.

He stared out the window at the puddles and the splashing water and the wind pushing the leaves on the popple trees to their silvery backsides. Now it seemed he was getting in deeper with the diet-challenged duo. When he’d thought that all was lost, opportunity had fallen out of the sky. More correctly and certainly stranger, out of Gary Masati’s rubber-lipped mouth. This was as close to “out of the blue” as you were going to get.

Curiouser and curiouser, Cat thought, wondering where he’d heard that before. Way back in the anterior lobes of his brain, another tiny voice was trying to be heard. But it sounded too much like his parole officer—the bitch—and he tried to ignore it.

You seem to look for trouble, William, it was saying.

(End of Chapter 15)

Read Full Post »

PART SIX

(published in 1999)

The sunlight hit my eyes and I was reeling.  Life on the street seemed normal as I staggered toward my car.  I was parked in front of Tony’s Tap, a bar that had recently been closed down by federal marshals for amphetamine trafficking.  I was feverishly working my key in the lock when the front door of Tony’s opened up and a tall distinguished looking man with light brown hair and a receding hairline stepped out.  He was wearing formal clothing, like a butler or something:

“Just in time for happy hour sir; we have Black Stag on special today.  Won’t you join us?”  He smiled.  His teeth were brown decaying stumps.

The door lock popped up and I jumped in and jammed the key in the ignition.  Unlike the movies, the engine started immediately.  My intestines had a life of their own as I squealed out of the parking space and hot-footed-it out of town.

I was running scared down the highway at eighty miles an hour when I popped over the crest of a small hill into a construction zone that I didn’t remember being there on the way down.  About thirty yards in front of me, a big, red, Mack truck was pulling out from a side road on the right.  Another big, red truck was bearing down in the oncoming lane, doing about sixty and throwing up dust like a stagecoach on “Death Valley Days.”  All I could see in the rear view mirror was a large, gold grille and the word MACK.  They had me boxed in.  My mortality was as real as a February morning in Duluth—right here, right now.

I swerved to the right, hurtled off the bank, flew twenty feet in the air and slammed hard onto the new roadbed.  I fish-tailed and got her straightened out.  Gaining speed, I rocketed off an up-sloping piece of hardpan like a four wheeled Evel Kneivel, flew forty feet in the air and hit the old highway with tires spinning.  Behind me, dust filled the air and my tormentors could not be seen.

All those big red trucks got me to thinking: I wondered if the color had any significance… nah….

The road ahead was clear.  I sped on.  Five, ten, fifteen miles.  I had the thirst of a thousand slaves and a headache that a crate of aspirin couldn’t touch.  Then I heard a siren.

I pulled over for the cop, figuring I had no choice.  He seemed like a normal small town officer: slightly paunchy and slightly sleepy.  He walked slowly along the shoulder as I rolled down the window.

“Your driver’s license, please.”

I showed him my license.

“You know you were going pretty fast, Mr. Kirby.  What’s the hurry?” His dark aviator sunglasses hid his eyes.

“The devil made me do it.”

“Speeding is nothing to joke about, sir.  What is your business in this area?”

“Just visiting the Harper family, in Hell—er, ah—Shell Lake, sir.”

     “Oh… I see… well then, you may go.  Have a nice day.”  He gave me back my license, turned on the heel of his jackboot and went back to his patrol car.

It’s so good to be on the road again….  I was singing, yeah, but my skin was the color of a lily pad and nature was making all of its calls at the same time.  I needed a roadside rest, and—as if by magic—one of those blue signs appeared ahead of me.  I angled off into the oasis and pulled up next to the facility.

After I disgorged, I was walking out of the little toilet shack when I saw two geeks standing next to my car.  One was wearing an orange Sunkist T-shirt and a matching, sweat stained baseball cap, while the other had on a grease-stained, gray work shirt and a blue cap.  Both wore blue jeans that sagged below their pot guts.  Beavis and Butthead gone to seed.  I could see no vehicle anywhere.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, you long-haired, big-city faggot?” they croaked in unison like a two-headed lamprey on PCP.  “We don’t like your kind around here.  We are gonna mess you up.”

I jammed my hand through the open car window and grabbed a hold of the Penthouse magazine I had purchased at Hammond Spur for those lonely moments.  With a quick flick of the wrist I sailed the skin mag onto the grassy area by the john.  My two friends raced and dove for it, while I jumped in the Ford and got the hell out of there.

What seemed like hours but was really only minutes later, I began to feel safe.  By the time I could see Lake Superior, the whole thing seemed like a dream.  I’m still not really sure what happened….

Is their ritual satanic activity in Wisconsin?  Probably not.  Nothing organizes this demon, it thrives on emptiness and mind numbing boredom.  Lack of love is its siren’s call.  Does the devil live in Dairy Land?  I really can’t say for sure, but if the Packers make it to the Super Bowl, ask me again.

EDITOR’S NOTE:  The Green Bay Packers went to the Super Bowl both 1997 and 1998, beating New England in ’97 and losing to Denver in ’98.  Also in the late nineties, one of the largest internet child pornography rings ever investigated was traced to a man who lived just outside of SHELL LAKE, Wisconsin.

(The end)

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »