Bluestone's Blog

All T.K. O’Neill Books available here:  https://www.amazon.com/T.K.-ONeill/e/B09HPBWMJF

“In the spirit of true pulp… an utter joy… downright good reading.”

“… immensely entertaining…”

“… great hard-boiled writing…”

“Ray Bradbury said zest and gusto are among the most important elements to a writer’s makeup. (O’Neill)… may never have read this advice, but he writes like he has. His work sparkles with gusto…”

“(O’Neill) writes his tales from the dark side well.  His dialogue, in particular, sparks with life, and… the clever by-play between characters drives the plot and develops the characters expertly.”

“Another of (O’Neill’s) strengths is his action scenes—and there are a lot of them, as you’d expect with violent and unpredictable characters. His pacing is immaculate, and he handily transitions between introspection, slow scenes and pulse-pounding action.”

“(O’Neill) followed his loves and his hates into a book that holds your attention and enters your psyche.  It presents a coherent, if nasty, picture of the human condition and the world we live in.”

“Frankly, a lot of writers don’t get as far as (O’Neill) did… having something to say and saying it with a little zest and gusto.”

“This collection of short stories is like a peepshow curtain pulled back. You don’t want to look, but you can’t help it. And, when you do, your disgust is tempered by an amazement that makes you want to look – just a little bit more. There are few heroes— at least not the kind who get the girl, the house or win the lottery.”

…. a lean style that he uses well to establish the outlines of his characters early in the stories. Over the course of a few pages he artfully fills in those sketches, refusing to “stay inside the lines.” His laconic descriptions of failed schemes and skewered lives result in wonderfully entertaining tales about the perils and pratfalls of a menagerie of people that can’t help but make you feel better about yourself.”

“These tales are full of people who live their lives to the fullest, in a bizarre way – and examining where, exactly, they end up can be disturbing. Their dreams, often, are the things that make up nightmares for “normal” people. But his characters are the real McCoy…”

From SHOTS Magazine, UK, reviewed by author Russell James:   “Four tales of the coldest North American states… crammed with hard men, hard language, snow and speed.  The backgrounds are good – low bars, cheap diners, empty motels, lonesome shacks – and the characters are tough and quick with their firearms…  These are punch and shoot ’em stories, make it up as you go along; tough and for all we know, authentic … (O’Neill) can write…”

From judge’s comments at Minnesota Book Awards: “…vulgar, violent, venomous.”

From Canadian Chapters.Indigo review: “A beautiful scene in the wilderness—hiding some grisly secrets… mystery writer (T.K. O’Neill) combines the traditional hard-boiled style of James Cain to create a harrowing story of devil worship, death, lawlessness and crime…”

From SHOTS Magazine, Great Britain, reviewed by Mike Stotter, Editor:   “….His writing is dark and twisted, like his characters.

From Reader Weekly:   “…a part of O’Neill’s talent… a character that no one likes but everyone wishes well.”

“You won’t come away with a warm feeling for the Sunshine State… if anything, you’ll realize how the suffocating heat of the humid Southland seems to encourage slithering snakes and festering parasites.”

“(T.K. O’Neill) throws worlds of hurt at his ne’er-do-well characters… in the spirit of Raymond Chandler… his writing process builds on trouble… the underside of the American Dream… a perfect example of noir…”

From The Corresponder (Minnesota State University):  “(O’Neill) is a writer who isn’t afraid to take chances with his story. There are no good guys or bad guys here. (O’Neill) lets his characters run wild and take the reader on a fast paced ride. Feels like classic crime noir with the insanity of a mental ward tossed in for good measure.”

“…his prose soars fast and high and reflects a keen eye for character, plot and setting, and follows the most convoluted stream of events with ease.”

“(O’Neill’s) talented writing is not for the fainthearted of rough talk and experience.  He gives keen insight to the exterior and interior world of a lost man.”

“While the language and environment are in rough-hewn speak, (O’Neill’s) writing has an underlying elegance and his characterization a developed depth.  There is some playful surface dry humor weaving in and out of a tough world context.  Expressed through the series and in this book is a substantially perceptive sense of humanity and lost humanity.”

“While on a wholly different track, and in a style all his own, there are darkened shades reminiscent of David Lindsey, James Lee Burke and John D. McDonald….”

From SPR (Self Publishing Review):  “Capturing the raw energy, resilience, and murky lawlessness of a bitter wilderness, Northwoods Pulp Reloaded by T.K. O’Neill is a stirring and wild collection.

Three intensely told stories capped off with a visceral crime novella, this is a seemingly easy escape read, but the writing is smart and deeper than expected, from high-stakes morality parables to and illicit adventures that quickly get out of hand. O’Neill focuses a bit more on fast-talking dialogue and action sequences than he does on character development, but the world-building is immersive, with colloquial bits of nuance and detail that make the rugged scenes come alive.

The narration and internal monologuing of characters is strong and bold, particularly in the novella, but the dialogue does come off hackneyed at times. However, these stories are ripped from the gritty edge of experience, and even the rougher edges of writing reflect that source material. Told with a reverence for the culture, traditions, and demands of a part of the country that most will never experience, this homage to cold-weather rebels makes for a thrilling read overall.

For any reader who has ever pointed their fortunes north and let their moral compass waver, or loves reading about well-crafted antiheroes, O’Neill’s collection is an intense but entertaining dive into another world.” 

Read Full Post »

https://www.amazon.com/T.K.-ONeill/e/B09HPBWMJF

https://bluestonesblog.com/reviews/

“In the spirit of true pulp… an utter joy… downright good reading.”

“… immensely entertaining…”

“… great hard-boiled writing…”

“Ray Bradbury said zest and gusto are among the most important elements to a writer’s makeup. (O’Neill)… may never have read this advice, but he writes like he has. His work sparkles with gusto…”

“(O’Neill) writes his tales from the dark side well.  His dialogue, in particular, sparks with life, and… the clever by-play between characters drives the plot and develops the characters expertly.”

“Another of (O’Neill’s) strengths is his action scenes—and there are a lot of them, as you’d expect with violent and unpredictable characters. His pacing is immaculate, and he handily transitions between introspection, slow scenes and pulse-pounding action.”

“(O’Neill) followed his loves and his hates into a book that holds your attention and enters your psyche.  It presents a coherent, if nasty, picture of the human condition and the world we live in.”

“Frankly, a lot of writers don’t get as far as (O’Neill) did… having something to say and saying it with a little zest and gusto.”

“This collection of short stories is like a peepshow curtain pulled back. You don’t want to look, but you can’t help it. And, when you do, your disgust is tempered by an amazement that makes you want to look – just a little bit more. There are few heroes— at least not the kind who get the girl, the house or win the lottery.”

…. a lean style that he uses well to establish the outlines of his characters early in the stories. Over the course of a few pages he artfully fills in those sketches, refusing to “stay inside the lines.” His laconic descriptions of failed schemes and skewered lives result in wonderfully entertaining tales about the perils and pratfalls of a menagerie of people that can’t help but make you feel better about yourself.”

“These tales are full of people who live their lives to the fullest, in a bizarre way – and examining where, exactly, they end up can be disturbing. Their dreams, often, are the things that make up nightmares for “normal” people. But his characters are the real McCoy…”

From SHOTS Magazine, UK, reviewed by author Russell James:   “Four tales of the coldest North American states… crammed with hard men, hard language, snow and speed.  The backgrounds are good – low bars, cheap diners, empty motels, lonesome shacks – and the characters are tough and quick with their firearms…  These are punch and shoot ’em stories, make it up as you go along; tough and for all we know, authentic … (O’Neill) can write…”

From judge’s comments at Minnesota Book Awards: “…vulgar, violent, venomous.”

From Canadian Chapters.Indigo review: “A beautiful scene in the wilderness—hiding some grisly secrets… mystery writer (T.K. O’Neill) combines the traditional hard-boiled style of James Cain to create a harrowing story of devil worship, death, lawlessness and crime…”

From SHOTS Magazine, Great Britain, reviewed by Mike Stotter, Editor:   “….His writing is dark and twisted, like his characters.

From Reader Weekly:   “…a part of O’Neill’s talent… a character that no one likes but everyone wishes well.”

“You won’t come away with a warm feeling for the Sunshine State… if anything, you’ll realize how the suffocating heat of the humid Southland seems to encourage slithering snakes and festering parasites.”

“(T.K. O’Neill) throws worlds of hurt at his ne’er-do-well characters… in the spirit of Raymond Chandler… his writing process builds on trouble… the underside of the American Dream… a perfect example of noir…”

From The Corresponder (Minnesota State University):  “(O’Neill) is a writer who isn’t afraid to take chances with his story. There are no good guys or bad guys here. (O’Neill) lets his characters run wild and take the reader on a fast paced ride. Feels like classic crime noir with the insanity of a mental ward tossed in for good measure.”

“…his prose soars fast and high and reflects a keen eye for character, plot and setting, and follows the most convoluted stream of events with ease.”

“(O’Neill’s) talented writing is not for the fainthearted of rough talk and experience.  He gives keen insight to the exterior and interior world of a lost man.”

“While the language and environment are in rough-hewn speak, (O’Neill’s) writing has an underlying elegance and his characterization a developed depth.  There is some playful surface dry humor weaving in and out of a tough world context.  Expressed through the series and in this book is a substantially perceptive sense of humanity and lost humanity.”

“While on a wholly different track, and in a style all his own, there are darkened shades reminiscent of David Lindsey, James Lee Burke and John D. McDonald….”

From SPR (Self Publishing Review):  “Capturing the raw energy, resilience, and murky lawlessness of a bitter wilderness, Northwoods Pulp Reloaded by T.K. O’Neill is a stirring and wild collection.

Three intensely told stories capped off with a visceral crime novella, this is a seemingly easy escape read, but the writing is smart and deeper than expected, from high-stakes morality parables to and illicit adventures that quickly get out of hand. O’Neill focuses a bit more on fast-talking dialogue and action sequences than he does on character development, but the world-building is immersive, with colloquial bits of nuance and detail that make the rugged scenes come alive.

The narration and internal monologuing of characters is strong and bold, particularly in the novella, but the dialogue does come off hackneyed at times. However, these stories are ripped from the gritty edge of experience, and even the rougher edges of writing reflect that source material. Told with a reverence for the culture, traditions, and demands of a part of the country that most will never experience, this homage to cold-weather rebels makes for a thrilling read overall.

For any reader who has ever pointed their fortunes north and let their moral compass waver, or loves reading about well-crafted antiheroes, O’Neill’s collection is an intense but entertaining dive into another world.” 

Read Full Post »

ebook only 99 cents – through December 31!

“(Northwoods Pulp Reloaded) Three intensely told stories capped off with a visceral crime novella, this is a seemingly easy escape read, but the writing is smart and deeper than expected, from high-stakes morality parables to and illicit adventures that quickly get out of hand. For any reader who has ever pointed their fortunes north and let their moral compass waver, or loves reading about well-crafted antiheroes, O’Neill’s collection is an intense but entertaining dive into another world.” – SPR review

“Hole in the World” 

It’s nice and warm inside the Caddy but Roy is a little bit antsy. The guy on the radio is finishing up the weather report. Big storm, he says, maximum late winter blizzard. Like we can’t already see that.

“This is payback for the mild El Nino winter,” Roy says. “We better hope it’s melting by the lake.” He shuts off the radio. “This is getting bad. Almost need a four-wheel drive. At least reservation four-wheel drive.”

“What the hell is reservation four-wheel drive?”

“A big old rear-wheel drive American sled with a few hundred pounds of junk in the trunk. Old wheels, rocks, sandbags—anything with weight. You get some decent snow tires you can go almost anywhere in one of those boats. We’ll probably plow snow in some places with this beast, but we’ll make it.”

Now I’m nervous. This weather and all, out here in the middle of nowhere—I’m not used to this. It’s like nothing cares about nothing up here. No one or nothing around—forever. I’m just not used to it. Walking inside a nice clean bank in the morning before it opens—that’s more my speed. Pushing a gun barrel against the pasty neck of some guy in a suit—I can handle that. But this shit— Christ—you could die out here.

We roll by the spot of the accident, plowing snow here and there like Roy said we would. You can feel the car bog down. I’m sweating over the decision to come up here in a stolen car. Proves why you shouldn’t drink and take drugs. 

Another mile or so closer to the lake and Roy says it looks like it’s going to be better up ahead. 

“How can you tell that, man?” I say. Snow is blowing directly in our faces and the windows are fogged. In a Cadillac, you’d expect better. I can barely see the road, let alone four miles ahead.

I hear it first, kind of a VAROOM, then look behind us and see the derelict Charger roaring out of the dull gray nothingness. Now he’s trying to pass us on the left and the Charger is throwing out a cloud of gray-white mist, only the mist has weight and you can hear it hitting the side of the Eldor like ice cubes. You can feel it pushing us toward the ditch. My heart’s beating fast and I’m thinking about the gun and then they’re by us, disappearing again into the blizzard, the raw growl of the Charger’s exhaust fading quickly.

Fuck, Roy says.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

“We almost got sucked right off the road,” Roy says. “You get caught in the wrong windrow, you’re gone—see you when it melts, dude. Ditch devils drag you right in. Ah, but not to worry. We are home free now, Don, my man.” 

A little later he says, “Why don’t you roll a joint, man? The shit’s in my pocket.”  He lets off the gas, lifts his ass of the seat and digs his hand into his tight black jeans. “Grab the wheel, will you?” he says, digging further into his pocket. 

I grab the wheel and look through the smeary windshield at the oncoming blur. 

Then I see it.

“HIT THE FUCKIN’ BRAKES, GODDAMN IT, ROY! I holler, my hands death-gripping the steering wheel. 

Slow motion now, coming right at us. 

No—we’re coming at it. 

It’s not moving.

It’s stopped.

“BRAKES, MAN, BRAKES!”

Sliding, sliding, sliding, antilock brakes chattering, Roy on the wheel now, trying to steer out of it. 

No room. 

THUMP.

Big collision. T-bone job

Pain. Neck and back.

What the fuck? Where are those crazy fucks?  Why the hell did they stop in the middle of the road? Why didn’t the goddamn airbags work? Goddamn General Motors.

Roy has a strange, haunted look about him and his face is vibrating, turning feral. “It’s the name game, Donny,” he says. He grins oddly. “Get ready to play….”

“You all right, man? You hit your head or something? I—”

Roy jerks open the door and jumps outside. One of the Indian punks is coming out from behind the Charger. He’s charging. Roy stands his ground and throws a short right cross and the sonofabitch crumbles face first in the snow.

I’m reaching down for the Glock when a long-barreled pistol with a drunken Indian in a greasy blue parka on the other end of it pokes through the open driver’s door. I straighten back up and squint into the swollen red eyes. His breathing is heavy and fast. “Just sit there, asshole,” he slurs, steadying the gun at my face. “Don’t move.”

In the middle of the road now the one in the blue soldier coat is holding a deer rifle on Roy. And the guy Roy drilled is returning the favor by punching Roy in the back of the head and kicking him in the ass as they slog toward me in the knee-deep snow. Steam billows from the Caddy’s fractured radiator and the sick-sweet smell of antifreeze hangs in my nose. 

And out of the blue, Roy starts singing that “Name Game” song, using my name. He’s giving it the “Donny, Donnys, the banana fanas, the fee fi fos”—the whole nine yards. Then he starts up with Roy and goes through it all again. 

This is pissing our rifleman off. He’s grinding his teeth. His gaze jumps around at me and Roy, the two vehicles, and the great cloud of driving snow. The feathers in his hair shake in the wind and ice forms on his thick black eyebrows. 

The other guy is still slapping Roy from behind. He’s rasping, “Cap him. Cap the fucker. Cap the asshole. That’ll shut him up.” 

As this goes on the one holding the gun on me— Christ does the motherfucker stink—tells me to open the glove compartment and push the trunk button.

Roy is still singing.

In the rearview mirror I see the war-painted one lifting up the trunk lid. He looks at the one holding the rifle and yells, “Take him out in the woods and shut the smart-ass city boy up.” 

The asshole with the rifle motions for Roy to move.

The bizarre threesome heads off towards the woods. 

Passing by my window, Roy stops and looks in at me. “What’s in a name, Donny?” he says, face strangely calm. “It’s only a label. Just a surface to be lifted and thrown away when you choose, eh, paisano?  Just play the name game, Donny my boy.” 

Dude pokes him in the back with the rifle and Roy starts up the song again as they lead him toward the woods. Roy’s singing all kinds of crazy names now and it’s like nothing I ever heard before. 

Warpaint goes searching through the trunk. First thing he comes out with is Roy’s satchel. He brings it around to the side of the car to show his buddy, who’s still holding the pistol on me. I see their eyes light up when Warpaint unzips that fuckin’ bag.

Warpaint’s voice is thick with emotion: “Look at this, Leon. Told you they were drug dealers or something—car like this—shit—I told you.” He sets the satchel on the roof of the Cad and goes back to the trunk. I hear a war whoop. Found the money sack. My guard takes a look back to see what all the commotion is about and I jab my hand under the seat, feel the cold plastic. Guy I bought the Glock from said you couldn’t knock anybody out hitting him with a plastic gun. I showed him I didn’t need it for hitting. Broke his jaw with a straight right hand. He was an asshole.

Indian with the long-barreled pistol never knew what hit him. I put two in his chest so fast he only has time to fall down. Then I roll out the door into the thick snow and come up with the pistol ready, looking for Warpaint. I see him off and running towards the Charger with my money sack clutched under his arm like the Christmas turkey. I steady the gun with both hands, squeeze away and put three hunks of lead in his back, about halfway up. He jerks and falls forward and the bag flies up in the air, bills scattering everywhere, flapping and flying in the wind. 

I’m scrambling around frantically grabbing bills and stuffing them back in the sack when I hear the other two coming out of the woods. They’re shouting and arguing. I run over and crouch behind the dented Charger.     

I hear one of the dudes yell, “Did you hit him, you fucker?”  

“Don’t call me fucker, you little asshole,” shouts the other. “Of course I got him. Even though you let him break away, I still got him. I never miss.”

“Don’t know how he did it. Slipped out of my hands like he fuckin’ wasn’t there. And then I couldn’t see for a second. Fuckin’ weird. And if you hit him like you say, why isn’t he on the ground somewhere?”

Then they stop dead in their tracks as they come upon the two bodies and the occasional snowbound Treasury note. I jump up and cut loose. Hit the one with the rifle and he goes down screaming and writhing, starts crawling toward the ditch. He doesn’t make it; bullets travel faster than flesh. The other prick is moving fast down the road now and I do the same—in the opposite direction. 

It’s the name game. 

(To be continued)

ebook only 99 cents – through December 31!

Amazon/Kindle: https://amzn.to/3AzETuy

Barnes and Noble Nook:  https://bit.ly/3u24Y2O

Apple: https://apple.co/3D4kb6T

Kobo: https://bit.ly/3isQyUP

Scribd: https://bit.ly/3oskPXN

Indigo: https://bit.ly/2Yo4PeC

Read Full Post »

ebook only 99 cents – through December 31!

“Capturing the raw energy, resilience and murky lawlessness of a bitter wilderness, Northwoods Pulp Reloaded by T.K. O’Neill is a stirring and wild collection.” – SPR review

“Hole in the World” 

“The fire’s going, folks,” I hear Roy say and I turn to see him standing in the doorway of the den smiling peacefully at the both of us.

I can also see the fear in Ginny and the panic starting to rise. 

“Ginny?” I say, “Why don’t you get us all some brandy or something nice like that? Roy and I need to talk over our plans. The snow is really starting to pile up out there. Look at it come down…. ” 

“Must be over a foot on the ground already,” Roy says.

“What would you boys like?” Ginny inquires, always the proper hostess.

“I’ll have what you’re having, Ginny,” I say, looking in her eyes for something that isn’t there.

Ginny gets up and walks to the kitchen.

“Roy,” I say, “we need to get the fuck out of here as soon as we finish the drinks. Guy that owns this place got busted, Ginny’s new husband. The local cops got to be onto it by now. Do you feel like someone’s watching us? I do. They gotta be watching this house. Maybe the storm’ll keep ’em away. You think we can make it out of here?”      

He ignores my paranoia and tries to smooth things out: “It’s pretty much all downhill from here to the lake, podner. We’ll just have to see what it’s like. Sometimes it stays warm enough down there to keep the snow from sticking. Melts when it hits the blacktop.” He nods and scratches at his chin. “I can at least get us back to lovely Evergreen Point.”

“Fuck that. I have to get back to Superior to pick up my car.”

“So we will then,” he says. He squints at me. “Through rain and sleet and snow, always go with Injun Joe.”

I shake my head and smile weakly and try to figure him out.

Ginny comes out of the kitchen with the drinks and brings them to a table near the mammoth hearth and the hissing, popping fire. The huge living room sports big leather chairs, two couches and an antique looking rocker I bet Ginny picked out from a catalog.  Roy and I sit down on a darkly luxurious couch adjacent to the table with the drinks and stare at the blaze. Ginny takes her drink to one of the leather chairs, crosses her legs and sort of sinks into herself like she’s trying to close out the world.

That first brandy burns a bit going down—Moser never bought top-shelf booze in his life—but I feel so warm afterward that I let Ginny talk me into one more.

About halfway through the second one—which is bigger than the first—I start remembering how it used to be with Ginny, Stu and me when we first teamed up. Then I look at her there staring at the fire and acting helpless and I start to think it could be like the old days again, this time without Stuart. That thought leads me into another brandy. And before you know it, I’m feeling all that old pain again, just when I thought it was gone.

Then Roy pulls a joint out of his pocket and holds it up. “Anybody mind if I smoke?”

We suck that baby down and we calm down some and Roy takes up Ginny’s offer to go for a tour of the place. I get up and walk over to the picture window overlooking the road. It’s a lot darker outside than it should be. The snow flies by in sheets. Man, sweet Virginia—how I can ever forget her?

She and Roy come back down the stairs and walk silently back to the fire. Roy goes to poke at a dangling log and Ginny turns to me.

“Ginny,” I say, thick voiced, “Why don’t you come with us?  You and I can have a life away from all this trouble. We can make a new start somewhere: new names, new clothes, new haircuts.”  Why did I say that? Damn. I wasn’t going to start that shit.

Ginny turns away from the fire and looks into my eyes and for a second I think she’s going to say yes. I can hear the emotion caught in her throat: “Roy, you know I’ll always love you,” she says. Tears float at the edges of her sweet brown eyes. “You know I remember how it was before—before it happened… before you….” 

Then her face glazes over and I know I’ve lost her yet again.  She goes on with the stabbing: “But you and I both know that it can never be like that again. We’ve been through all this before. It’s impossible, Donny; you know that. I’m going to stay with Stu.”

“You’ll stay with that piece of shit until you’re both back inside for Christ sake. Spend the rest of your time sending love letters. What the fuck is the hold he’s got on you, Virginia?”

“Stuart and I are married, Donny. And I intend to honor the marriage vows, if it’s the only decent thing I ever do in my miserable life.”

“Probably be the last thing, honey.” I couldn’t ask her about the kiss. I knew. She can’t help herself. I look over at Roy who’s still stirring the fire and ask him if he’ll go warm the car while I say my final good byes. He looks at me knowingly, grabs his jacket and leaves, politely saying thank you and nice meeting you. 

Roy shuts the door behind him and Ginny brings me down a set of stairs to the unfinished basement where she rummages around inside a large food freezer and fishes out a seafood box with 278,000 dollars inside. She counts out a hundred and ten thousand for Stu’s bail and sets it aside on the workbench, putting the rest in a plastic garbage bag and wrapping it up nice and tight for me. I ask her for a paper grocery sack, saying I can recycle it later for luggage replacement. She doesn’t smile at my weak attempt at levity, just pulls open a workbench drawer and brings out a packet of casino receipts and a wallet full of fake IDs. She hands them to me. 

So call me Rick Tomasy. New name, new game.  A few dollars short but still on the outside. One just has to see the possibilities, the positive light, Roy might say. But first I have to check the freezer real good to see if there’s any more cash my old sweetheart may have forgotten. Part of me wants to grab her hair and twist a little—just until she yelps a bit—to see if there are any stashes left around she might have conveniently overlooked. But I can’t do that—not to Ginny. Unless maybe if I picture her sucking Stu’s dick and laughing at me because she knows it wouldn’t do me any good.

And that’s why I’m going to leave, clean. Say goodbye to Ginny and walk right up the basement stairs. Grab my jacket and bang—I’m out the door. Yeah, I’ll prove how easy it is, believe me. Because if I stay, I might kill her, I swear to God.

(To be continued)

ebook only 99 cents – through December 31!

Amazon/Kindle: https://amzn.to/3AzETuy

Barnes and Noble Nook:  https://bit.ly/3u24Y2O

Apple: https://apple.co/3D4kb6T

Kobo: https://bit.ly/3isQyUP

Scribd: https://bit.ly/3oskPXN

Indigo: https://bit.ly/2Yo4PeC

Read Full Post »

“Capturing the raw energy, resilience and murky lawlessness of a bitter wilderness, Northwoods Pulp Reloaded by T.K. O’Neill is a stirring and wild collection.” – SPR review

“Hole in the World” 

Right then I know I’m lucky to have Roy along. He takes his foot off the gas and doesn’t even think about hitting the brake pedal. We aren’t going very fast, probably forty, forty-five, but how he finds that shoulder without going off and rolling us over, is beyond me.

I look out and see a big blue Dodge Charger with a white racing stripe down the middle, blowing out of the cloud. They hit the brakes when they see us but it’s too late. The front bumper of the Charger bangs into the back of the small Chevrolet it’s passing and both vehicles go sliding by us in slow motion, spinning in circles. 

I’m struck dumb.

But miraculously, the cars stay on the road and fail to hit anything, except when they finally come to rest, front bumper against front bumper, headlights almost touching. 

Then I see four young Indian men come bursting out of the Charger. One’s wearing a frontier era U.S. Cavalry coat and another one’s got feathers in his braids and what looks to me like war paint on his face. The other two are generic in jeans and parkas. All four of them stagger toward Roy and I in the Cadillac instead of going to the car they hit.

I push open the door and amble out to survey the scene, squinting against the stinging snow. Out of the tan Chevy that’s kissing bumpers with the Charger pops an angry, older Indian guy. Heavyset, hair in a ponytail, with a little gray on the sides. He starts coming toward us, too. There’s a woman still inside the car, looking concerned. The dude in the cavalry coat gets up in my face and glares at me with bloodshot eyes. His long black braids reach down to the gold epaulets on his shoulders. “We don’t need you here,” he sneers. “You better leave.” Vaporizing alcohol rides by on a gust.

“We’re just here to see if everyone is all right and to offer ourselves as witnesses,” I say, glaring back.

Now the older guy is approaching, checking out these young hotshots, and the foursome is coming at me with what seems like ill intent when Roy steps out of the Cad and shows himself. They all stop dead. I figure seeing me with an Indian has thrown them off, drunk as they are. 

Roy doesn’t say a word, just looks at the two cars kissing and chuckles dryly. The older guy starts demanding to know who is the driver of the Charger and did he have insurance. The four young bucks kind of cower and grumble to themselves but then they start cooperating with the old guy. Roy and I trudge back to the Eldor and go spinning off, shaking our heads and feeling strange—or at least I am.

You couldn’t miss it, really. Not very far down County 13, standing there all shiny and new in the middle of a big clearing, is a two-story log house of considerable size with big windows all over it. Fire number 3397.

Roy hits the brakes and we slide past the driveway. He backs up and we turn in. There aren’t any tracks there ahead of us. It’s 12:30 Sunday afternoon and the oldies station is playing “The Name Game.”

Ginny, Ginny, bo Binny banana fana fo Finny… 

And then there she is, like sweet berry pie, staring out at me from the huge picture window on the main floor. Cute little red cheeks like I remember them, only now without the tears. But she doesn’t look happy. Her arms are folded tight across her chest and her eyes have that frantic, helpless look I remember so well. 

I think for a second I should leave Roy in the car but I say to hell with that and invite him inside. Fuck the Moser’s. If they’d been answering their telephone instead of using that goddamn answering machine, it wouldn’t have to be like this. Roy is my compadre now. We’ve been through some shit together. He doesn’t have to know about the banks and all that shit, but he is going to come in and warm up—maybe have a drink if he wants—while I pick up the cabbage. Or is it lettuce?

Ginny has the front door open before I even touch the fancy brass knocker. She gives me a hug that smells of brandy and nerves. “Jesus, Donny, honey,” she says, “Am I glad you finally got here. Everything is falling apart, Donny. They got Stu…. they—”

“Settle down Virginia,” I say to her in the deep baritone that used to calm her down. But this time it’s not working on either of us. “You can tell me inside,” I say. “I want you to meet my good friend Roy. He’s been kind enough to drive me up here.” Roy nods politely.  “Roy, this is Ginny Burns.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “I’m sorry, Ginny Moser, now. I forgot for a minute.”

“Hello, nice to meet you,” Roy says. “Hope you don’t mind if I come in and dry off a while. We witnessed a little traffic mishap down the road and I got a little wet standing out in the weather.”

“Of course,” Ginny says, bucking up a little. “Maybe one of you can get a fire going. A fire does cheer you up on a day like this.”

“Injun make fire,” Roy says, “White folks talk important business, organize things.”

I smile and she stares at him as we go into a huge living room with picture windows on two sides and dark natural woodwork everywhere. I stand there gaping. There’s a thick, dark-stained wood staircase leading upstairs. The house has an open ceiling plan, and on the second floor, a railed catwalk offers a view of the giant stone fireplace. There is a big skylight in the high ceiling. All I can see through it is snow coming down.

Roy is bending over the hearth when Ginny puts her arm in mine and leads me into a den at a back corner of the house: padded, green wicker chairs in a glassed-in room overlooking the forest. The painted eyes of a fake deer stare back at us from the puffy white yard. Before we even sit down Ginny puts her arms around my neck and pulls my mouth down to hers. Her tongue works against mine and stirs up old feelings. I push her away gently. Salty kisses again.

She starts sobbing. “They got Stu, Donny. The cops got Stu in jail in Nebraska. Stopped him for speeding and they found the money and guns in the trunk. What are we going to do, Donny?  What are we going to do?”

“Hang on now, hang on. What was he doing in Nebraska? And why was the stupid cocksucker speeding?”

My gut is on fire.

“He was visiting his brother. Jamie was helping him wash some of the money and working on some of the guns. Fitting silencers and stuff. Stu and Jamie are going to team up now that you’re retiring.”

“I told you that sonofabitch Jamie was trouble. He’s a fuckin’ alcoholic, for one thing. He smokes crack, for another. He’s got no discipline at all. I told fuckin’ Stuart that I wanted all my money up here waiting for me. I told him goddamn Jamie would bring us down. I fuckin’—”

“He wants me to go down there and bail him out.” She’s still whimpering. “All I’ve got is cash. But it’s all clean.”

“You bail him out with cash, they’ll pop you for sure.”

“I talked to a lawyer in Indianapolis Stu told me to call.  He said as long as the money is clean there’s nothing they can do to me. They might hold me for a night and try and sweat me, but they won’t be able to keep me there. The man also gave me the number of a shyster in Omaha, name of Burton, who I can call if they lock me up.”

“How much cash you got here at the house, Ginny?” My stomach is doing flip-flops now and out in the yard the snow is coming down harder and harder. The wind howls and whines against the windows.

Jesus Christ, my goddamn money isn’t here. 

“Goddamn it, Ginny, I want my cut. Is this some scam of yours? You and Stu? Fuck. You know, I really need to get far away from the both of you.” I look at her and she’s the poster girl of pathos. “Okay then, Gin, tell me how much you got here?”

“Almost three hundred K, I think.” She dabs her eyes with a Kleenex. “I’ll need a hundred and ten for Stu’s bond. They set it at a million one.”

“Stu finally broke the million mark, eh— one of his lifelong goals. But Christ, Virginia, three hundred grand is not even close to what I got coming. You sure this isn’t some sort of scam? You ply me with tears and kisses, knowing how easy it is for you? Thinking I’m going to believe anything comes out of your pretty little mouth?”

She laughs bitterly and blows her nose and goes over to a bookshelf in the corner. There are no books in it. She takes a newspaper off the top shelf and brings it to me. 

Duluth News Tribune, March 14: HOVLAND MAN ARRESTED IN NEBRASKA ON FIREARMS VIOLATIONS—1.6 MILLION IN TRUNK—POSSIBLE “OVERCOAT” BANK ROBBER, SAYS FBI.

The shit had really hit the fan.

(To be continued)

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