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Jackpine Savages by T.K. O’Neill  

(ebook and paperback)


Ebookit.com  https://bit.ly/2GME30V

BarnesandNoble.com   https://bit.ly/2sc4w2q

Amazon.com  https://amzn.to/2km8F0f  


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 month’s 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.

(To be continued)

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

“The 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.”

Jackpine Savages by T.K. O’Neill  

(ebook and paperback)

Ebookit.com  https://bit.ly/2GME30V

BarnesandNoble.com   https://bit.ly/2sc4w2q

Amazon.com  https://amzn.to/2km8F0f  


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.

(To be continued)

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In late January of 1978, with football season over and hopeful Christmas tree lights throughout the vast northern winter darkness switched off in defeat, full-time cabdriver, sometime card shark Keith Waverly witnesses the violent abduction of a local street hustler. Later, when the man is found with his head ventilated by bullet holes, Waverly is dragged into a world of high-rolling gamblers, crooked politicians, violence and really bad weather, with only his wits and his new girlfriend to pull him out.

CHAPTER 8 Acid Reflux

Excerpt 7

     I drove to a spot on Fifth Street across from the Boulevard Lounge, walked across the street and started searching for Johnny Wells’ big Chevy. Found it in the back parking lot, nose-up to the rear door of the bar in a spot marked Management Only Violators will be Towed.

The blood pounded in my head.

I thought about going back inside but put the kibosh on that. I was too fucked up. I considered standing outside by the backdoor but a cold and relentless freezing drizzle was coming down—and even I knew enough to stay out of the rain.

I had to talk to Mary and say my piece. That was what Stephanie wanted.

The fuck did I care what Stephanie wanted?

I owed Mary.

Why is that?

Because she said she loved me.

Did she show any love on that stage tonight?

I don’t know.

She’s doing hard drugs. There’s a warrant out on her. She can’t be trusted. 

     What am I doing here then?

I don’t know. 

I should leave.

But now there she was.

Out came a steady stream of people. I watched Mary peel off to the side, reject an overzealous fan and stop alongside Wells’ car. She leaned against the bricks of the building, pulled a cig from the pocket of her most-likely-new black leather jacket, and fired up. Took a big drag and blew smoke into the rain. Then a deep pull of fresh air, holding it in for a few seconds, head tilted back.

I followed her gaze up to the streetlight. Shining, blinding, raindrops fell. I was almost to her before she saw me. Shock and a wry, groggy amusement played over her tired features but she still looked sexy in her black stockings and burgundy thigh-high skirt. I tried to say something but she beat me to the punch.

“You fucking loser,” she said with a snarl. “What are you doing here? You didn’t want anything to do with me. I’m a stripper—remember? And you’re just so damn good, aren’t you. Ain’t it that the same old story. Ain’t that how it is.” Her voice was metallic, like a spoon rapping on a counter top. “Now I got a real man, so why don’t you split before he comes out and kicks your ass. I don’t want him thinking I’d have anything to do with someone like you.” She pawed the ground with the toe of her knee-high black boot and looked away from me.

“What the hell are you talking about, Mary? You expect me to believe that shit? Or is this some weird way of punishing me for your own delusions?”

Coherence wasn’t coming easy for either of us.

Mary scowled and spit out her words: “You don’t have to have anything to do with me if you want—that’s fine.” There was moisture welling in the edges of her eyes and my chest was about to explode. “Why did you come here? Why did you do that to me?” Her voice cracked.

“I don’t know. Something came over me. I was drunk. The band was weird. My brain broke. Why do we need a reason? How about this thing with you and Wells? What about all those things you said about him before? They’re not true anymore? Stephanie told me a few things about Johnny, like he’s a baby raper, for one. Or maybe you knew that. Did you know that?”

“Steph’s just making that up because she wants Johnny back.”

“Popular guy for a grease ball. Why don’t you just split, Mary? Get out of this town for good.”

Who was saying these words? I wondered. Who was making this body move?

Surely not me.

“Steph is just saying it because she wants to be where I am. I’m tired of running. And Johnny gives me things—things I like. And I make good money. Everywhere I go—everyplace else—I always have to leave.”

“That’s such bullshit. How can you even say that? Can’t you see what Wells is trying to do?”

“Somebody looking for me?”

Wells was standing there in the rain sneering, his narrowed eyes locked on me. He flashed that thin and viciously gleeful grin I‘d seen once before. He was wearing the same ugly leather jacket and the same pointy-toed boots as that time at the Castaway. Screw baby raper, this guy was a killer. Crazy Harvey Dornan knew it but could no longer tell anyone about it.

I stared in Wells’ face like a drunken fifteen-year old defending his first love from the neighborhood bully. “Yeah, I am,” I said with as much bluster as I could muster.

Then his gloved left hand flashed out like a snake’s tongue and crushed my nose. My knees slammed down on the wet gravel. I spit blood and tried to clear my head. I’d been expecting the right hand. His fists were like lead. Then a boot crashed up into my chin and I saw green and red stars and everything went fuzzy. Too gone to beg for mercy, gang.

Goodbye, goodbye, I’m diving into this puddle.

Sounds and voices now—lots of voices—and scuffling in the gravel. Johnny was yelling. Mary was close to hysterical.

Out of my one good eye I saw some bikers dragging Wells back toward the door of the bar. It was Big Dog and Frank and some pals. They formed a ring around Wells and wouldn’t let him get to me.

Then a kind-eyed man in a light-colored golfing jacket helped me up off the ground and held me steady. He tried to keep from getting blood on his jacket but I think some got on there. “You’re in rough shape,” he said, studying me with concern. “Maybe you should go to the hospital.”

“No, man, I’m all right,” I wiped away blood and mud and bits of gravel from my face with my sleeve. “That asshole just straightened out my crooked nose for me, that’s all.” I was about to puke on the guy’s nice jacket.

Pain of a different kind surged through me when I caught sight of those hurting brown eyes staring out from behind a row of cars. I saw tears through the rain.

“Why won’t you leave Johnny and I alone?” she yelled out, just a hint of panic at the back of her throat. “You know how it is. Why don’t you go away, you weirdo?” Then she gave me one last sad look that made me think this wasn’t over yet, turned and walked quickly back into the club.

The show must go on.


Dead Low Winter available on ebook at all online bookstores.

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In late January of 1978, with football season over and hopeful Christmas tree lights throughout the vast northern winter darkness switched off in defeat, full-time cabdriver, sometime card shark Keith Waverly witnesses the violent abduction of a local street hustler. Later, when the man is found with his head ventilated by bullet holes, Waverly is dragged into a world of high-rolling gamblers, crooked politicians, violence and really bad weather, with only his wits and his new girlfriend to pull him out.

CHAPTER 8 Acid Reflux

Excerpt 6

     “Can’t be pissing yourself away like a child,” said a deep voice in the darkness.

I jerked and turned in the direction of the voice. A tough looking old man in a bowler hat was frowning at me from ten yards away. He crossed his arms against his old fashioned clothes: wool topcoat, round-collar shirt, tie, Navy blue wool suit.

A bolt of lightning popped inside my temple like a soundless firecracker. “What’d you say to me? The fuck are you laughing at old man?” I waved the geezer away. “Get the hell out of here, you old bastard.” I bent over and scraped some mud off the ground and threw it at him. He moved aside before it got half way there.

The laughter got louder. Now it was inside my head.

Then I recognized him. It was James Wallace Waverly, a grandfather I had never known. His picture was on the wall when I was a kid. According to the stories I’d heard, he was a tough sonofabitch, a hard-bitten Englishman who worked as a bouncer on the trains in upper Michigan during the depression. Had to disarm and disembark freeloaders all the time. But he had died before I was born. And now he was standing right there in front of me.

This was some strong fucking acid.

“What are you doing here, old man? It ain’t Halloween. Why don’t you leave me alone? Everyone else sees Jesus, and I get you.”

“Screw Jesus,” snapped old Jim. “Jesus was a martyr. You have to be dead to be a martyr. You want to be dead—like me?”

Now his face was a skull, worms wriggling from the empty eye sockets.

I freaked and rubbed my eyes and looked again. This time he had a face, a face that was giving me the Look. The look you see on the pioneers’ faces in the photos in the museums. I always admired the Look but I’d never understood what was behind it.

“You trying to tell me that I’m a coward—taking the easy way out? Look at me. I’ve been beaten to shit. Knocked every which way. My marriage is long in the trash barrel and now Mary is playing house with a psychopath, and the Big Perv killed my friend. And these other guys, they—ah, hell. It’s just not worth it anymore. I don’t see the point of life.”

Again the laughter burning in my ears.

“What’s the point of death, son? Anything worth having is worth suffering for. Unless you’d rather give up, of course. It is your choice.”

“That is funny,” I said. “And trite. Do you like that word—trite? I went to college, y’know. I know a lot of words. And they’re all about to come spilling out here on the ground at any moment. What do you want with me? Welcoming me to the graveyard? Introducing me to the family?”

All I got was The Look.

I was close to him now. I took a swing at his head, a looping overhand right.

He disappeared.

Bad acid, probably. Indigestion maybe. Chemicals in the booze. Unhealthy lifestyle. Hormones in the hamburger. Could be anything.

Then the world jumped to the left. Then back to the right. Stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight. Whattsa matter, can’t you see straight?

      My stomach lurched; loins itched. Some kind of crazy energy came up from the ground. I felt it in my legs—then everywhere. Nostrils the size of Mason jars and my breath rushing like a hurricane. Ready to run with the wild dogs. Then the laughing again—no longer in my head maybe but I really couldn’t tell. Then I saw him across the street encircled by a million pulsating raindrops.

“No sex in the grave, boy,” he shouted as he toe danced in front of a boarded-up theater. I couldn’t remember ever seeing the building before.  Today’s feature was written in bold but fading letters on the peeling marquee: Waverly’s Demise.

More laughing seemed to come from behind me then but when I turned there was no one there. A strange electric buzzing, like from a recording, reverberated off the deserted asphalt and the empty buildings. Then I heard a wailing sound, at first getting stronger and increasingly mournful, before finally fading.

Then a harsh whisper: “The beast is on a short tether, boy.”

I looked everywhere. No Gramps. When I turned back around the theater began to crumble before my eyes. In an instant it was an empty lot with an old tire and a broken concrete block lying in the middle of dead weeds. The distant wailing sound came back again—as a siren this time—getting louder and coming my way. I ducked into the darkness and ran until my legs stretched out. Now everything was clear. Ever clear ever true. Running was good. You just had to have direction.

I got back to the car all ready to go.


(To be continued)

Dead Low Winter available on ebook at all online bookstores.

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In late January of 1978, with football season over and hopeful Christmas tree lights throughout the vast northern winter darkness switched off in defeat, full-time cabdriver, sometime card shark Keith Waverly witnesses the violent abduction of a local street hustler. Later, when the man is found with his head ventilated by bullet holes, Waverly is dragged into a world of high-rolling gamblers, crooked politicians, violence and really bad weather, with only his wits and his new girlfriend to pull him out.

CHAPTER 8 Acid Reflux

Excerpt 5

     Back in the womb now I started it up and drove around until I found a street lonely and dark enough. I parked next to a big black oak tree whose branches seemed to point at me accusingly. Across the street a vacant lot divided a row of dark little houses with their shades pulled down. I took a blast on the bottle and the whiskey swirled into the bottom of my gut, hot and shivery at the same time.

I felt myself sinking down, giving up. But I needed a smoke. A man needs a smoke. My matchbook said “Relax and Enjoy” but it was empty. I flipped open the glove box and rummaged for matches because the car lighter didn’t work. A sheet of green pyramid LSD fell out onto the torn rubber floor mat.

What the hell, I thought. Why not do some right now? Could it make things any worse? Always sick, always in trouble, always guilty—don’t get much worse.

I tore off a strip of the acid, sixteen hits at least. Washed them down with Windsor and laughed a bitter laugh like everybody’s fool. Then me, and my friends Whiskey Man and Mr. Cigs, went for a little walk—or stumble, as it were, around the empty streets. I could no longer feel the cold and the icy rain soothed the wounds on my face.

But could I save face in outer space without a trace of sanity?

In a time that seemed like an hour but could have been ten minutes, I came upon a boarded up church, a small, white, clapboard building with a bogus steeple on the roof. I walked toward the rear of the building with the intent of relieving myself. There was a strange metallic taste in my throat. Glands in my neck were going squirrelly. My brain was shifting gears like a sixteen-wheeler rolling down hill in a snowstorm. Putrid smoke from factories was thick in my nostrils. Cars on the bridge whined in my ears and the universe vibrated through me in intermittent waves. Lights on the hillside—miles away—hurt my eyes. Pain always there to remind me.

Bad thoughts tumbled out with the rushing urine: The High Bridge would be a good place to end it all. It would be a big deal—women would cry. What a rush, just walking up to the middle, cars zipping by like you’re not even there and you not caring about jackshit. Every time they whoosh by your heart just about explodes and a chill of fear grabs your balls. Up on top of the span, the wind would be blowing and you’d look down at the dark and icy water below and the voice would be screaming Jump. Jump you miserable coward. Jump.

You’d just go numb—it wouldn’t be that bad.

     Come on, what are you waiting for? Take the plunge. You’re outta here. Gone Johnson. People would be yelling. Horns would be honking. When Johnny comes marching home again, hurrah, hurrah. The lights… the water… all around me they swirled. Inside me it swirled.

On the ground in front of me it swirled.

Jesus, it was a long goddamn piss.

I zipped up and pulled out the bottle and sucked hard on the whiskey.  Take me back to my daddy’s knee, sweet whiskey; take me back. 

     I knew if I stayed here much longer they’d have to change my name to Catatonic State. I could dye my hair orange….


(To be continued)

Dead Low Winter available on ebook at all online bookstores.

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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 .




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Nice email yesterday:


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.


Ellen Reid

President & CEO

National Indie Excellence Awards



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