Meet Turner Hahn

So you're going to write a novel, mon ami!  Swell!  Groovy!  What's it about, hon?

I wrote a novel.  Called it Murderous Passions.  About two homicide detectives named Turner Hahn and Frank Morales working on four separate and unrelated homicide cases.  A case of 'whodunit' overkill for those who are fans of the mystery/detective genre.

Okay.  You write a novel about homicide detectives you need to create a visual image--make an in depth character study--of them.  Make the character(s) strong enough, interesting enough, and the book has a strong chance of actually being read by someone.   In Murderous Passions there are two main characters.  Equals.   Not the traditional main character with a tagalong lap dog following around repeating like a dull echo everything the main character says.  I wanted to write a complex novel.  Among other things, I wanted to create a 'buddy' novel.  Show that it was possible two equally intelligent, tough, interesting mugs could occupy the same space at the same time.  I think I succeeded.

The mugshot above is the spitting image of one of the main characters.  Turner Hahn.   Yeah, you guessed it.  The photo is Clark Gable--the 30's matinee idol of moviedom.  One tough, hard nosed, but likeable main leads in filmland to come down the pike.  I wanted to paint a mental image in the reader's mind what Turner Hahn looks like.  Clark Gable fits the bill.

Turner is bigger.  Stronger.  Has a thicker neck and a thicker mustache.  But there's that same dark hair.  That same smirk like Gable's.  That same smart-ass attitude that marked all of Gable's roles.  I'll be honest with you, pilgrim.  One of the other reasons why I wanted to write a novel, and hopefully an entire series, about two tough, hard headed, smart-ass good guys is because I think we've seen the venerable ol'genre of the mystery/detective turn into a cheering section for the anti-hero.

The bad guys and/or 'I really don't know what they are!' anti-hero is winning out.

Not good, me bucko.  Not good at all.

I think all of us need our heroes.  We need stalwart figures to stand up in literature and hold back the gathering hordes of those who prosper in chaos and mayhem.  That's Turner Hahn.  Big.  Mean when he has to be.  Gentle when he has to be.  A forever smart-ass; but as intelligent as they come.  A working blue collar cop who came off a piss-poor farm in Missouri and left it forever when he got a football scholarship to a major university.  Married once; but divorced.  Likes women but has a hard time keeping one around for long.  And rich.  Yeah, buddy;  I said the guy is rich.

One day a lawyer shows up at the precinct house and tells him a grandmother he thought was long dead left him a sizeable inheritance.  So overnight he goes from being a cop who lives from paycheck to paycheck more or less like the rest of us--suddenly finds himself wallowing in an ocean of money.

Yet he remains a cop.  Still keeps his detective's badge and goes to work every day. 

The second book of the series is coming out soon.  Called A Taste of Old Revenge.  It fills out the character sails of Turner's past and makes him a more complete man.  And you get to meet Turner's grand father.  That in itself is one interesting experience.   With luck the novel will come out in e-book form in June.

If you've read any of the many short stories I have out featuring Turner and Frank, you'll get a feel of the men.  And I'm hoping you'll like'em.  I think they'll remind you of the classic noir/hardboiled main honchos of the past--but discover they are uniquely different as well.  So go hunt up one of their stories, or the novel, and sit down and read it.  You won't be disappointed.

Now that you've met Turner there is the other half of the duo to know.

Tomorrow I'm going to talk about Turner's partner; Frank Morales.  So come back and let's do this again.

Evil Wins Out

Question: Why do noir/hardboiled readers prefer the bad guy over the good guy?

I pick up on this more and more. The more I write about 'Smitty,' my black-eyed, coldly efficient killer, the more people say they love reading about him. He's not just a killer. He's not just one deminsional in nature. There's some twists and turns in his persona that you necessarily wouldn't expect.

On the other hand, I have two characters who are the good guys. Turner Hahn and Frank Morales. Homicide detectives. As tough as anyone out there. Smarter than most. They too have their personality quirks which sets them apart from smiliar characters found in the genre. And they have their fans, to be sure.

But, sadly--and quite curiously--not nearly like the fans for Smitty.

So what's going on here? Why do fans root for the bad guy more so than the good guy? What kind of deep psycho-babble is going on here? Do we really prefer our bad buys to win out? Does that say something about all of us; that maybe . . . just maybe . . . all of us want to get down and dirty with the world around us and get away way with it?

To play honest and fair in a world not so honest and fair, takes significantly more strength, as well as restraint, than being dishonest. You would think Turner and Frank would be more admired for getting down and dirty sometimes in solving their cases. But nope. So far the pendulum swings the other way.

We much prefer seeing Smitty use his switch-blade on someone. Or plug someone between the eyes with a silenced .22 caliber Ruger. Or use enough plastique explosives to take out a Caddy filled with mobsters. Do the hit with no regrets. No bad feelings. No hesitations.

And ask for more.

Which, I'll admit, in the end is okay by me.

Question: How do you create a character who is as ice-cold as a cadaver when it comes to killing someone--yet one who actually posseses a conscience?

Or put it another way, in a sea of hit-men/assassin killer types found floating around face down in the dark waters called hardboiled, how do you create a character who is different. Different--unique--sympathetic.

A challenge. And that's putting it mildly. But one I wanted to try out one day on a kind of a spur-of-the-moment writing exercise. And . . . I'll be go to hell . . .what popped up on the screen was a guy named Smitty. Fully developed. Mean as back alley Wolverine with an aching tooth--with the black eyes of a pit viper who took in everything and anything in one glance. Reticent in speech--yet rather eloquent in his reticence.

One mean sonofabitch. That's Smitty. Yet . . .

Read the stories closely and you discover Smitty only takes out those justly deserving to be taken out. He's like the grim Angel of Death coming to collect his due among the miscreants and sadistic. And he does it spectacularly. Guns, poisons, explosives--even the front end of an F-150 Ford truck. It doesn't matter. When Smitty sets his eyes on you as his next prey--buddy, you're as good as dead.

Ah. But now, how to make him sympathetic? Make him someone from the dark side who you wind up willingly . . . or unwillingly . . . rooting for? Therein lies the McGuffin, as Alfred Hitchock used to say concerning his films. There's the catch that hooks the reader. And the answer is; I haven't a fraken' clue. It just happened.

One day Smitty was born in the back of my subconscious. He came out like some god of Greek mythology; sprung from the sea fully formed and magnificent to behold. But a god clearly hailing form the shadowy lands of Hades.

Take him for what he is, kid. The guy really does get under your skin and makes you want to read more about him.