Monday, November 19, 2012

Allan Leverone . . . good man. An even better writer

In today's Cavalcade of Devious, Dark Writing Minds is a feller by the name of Allan Leverone.  Good man.  One hell of a writer. (and dammit!  I gotta say, except for certain amount of hair missing, he reminds me visually of some one.  Jes' can't remember the dude's name!)

But Allan is one of those writers who excels in the dark reaches of the mind.  Sink into one of his stories and you sink into an ocean of dark mood.  Or abject horror!  Really, you gotta love a writer who brings out your suppressed emotions and hidden fears and exposes them fully and unabashedly for all to see.

I'm always curious to hear another writer's views on the nuts and bolts of his profession/obsession.  For many of us it actually is more of an obsession than a profession.  How a writer writes, and thinks about writing, is instructive to me.  As, I suspect, it might be to a large number of bloggers who tune in occasionally and read this blog.

So without wasting another word, let's get to it.  And keep an eye out for question number five and his answer.  That one hit home for me.


1.      All right, up front and to the point: you write dark mystery and dark horror. But which one is closest to your heart? And tell us why.

 

I like to write books and stories where the protagonist faces challenges above and beyond what he feels capable of overcoming, and then see how he responds. When he does, I throw more stuff in the way. It’s the classic genre fiction recipe. Once you start down that road, the difference between mystery and horror becomes much less than you might think. It’s a difference of degree, more than anything else.

 

Horror, mystery, cozy mystery, noir, they all contain many of the same components. Generally speaking, the body count – and the gore component - might be higher, say, in a horror novel than a cozy mystery, but at their hearts, the genres share many similarities.

 

Closest to my heart? For me, it all boils down to whatever I’m working on at the moment. I’m currently in the editing phase of a thriller set at the end of the Cold War titled PARALLAX VIEW, so right now I love thrillers the most. If you had asked me this question six months ago, when I had just released the second of two consecutive supernatural suspense novels, my answer would probably have been horror.

 

I’m a genre writer through and through. I have nothing against literary fiction, but I write books I would want to read, and I’ve been reading King, Poe, Child, Block, Westlake and other genre masters for as long as I can remember.

 

 

Find Here
2.      It seems like a lot of horror folds into the plot the supernatural. Is that because the supernatural represents the mysterious unknown that surrounds us? Or does it speak more about the dark fears inhabiting all of us in our subconscious?

 

The monster under the bed. Or in the closet. Who hasn’t gone to bed at night and heard a noise you couldn’t identify, and pictured a fanged monster shambling down the hall, gibbering and bloodthirsty? I hope it’s not just me.

 

I think the fear of the unknown is ingrained in all of us, and it goes back to the earliest days of our species, when we huddled in caves trying to keep the night and its dangers away with little more than fire and superstition. The supernatural element in horror fiction puts us back in bed with that monster shambling down the hall; it brings us right back to our ancient roots, where every snap of a twig outside that cave entrance represented the possibility of violence and death.

 

If you think about the modern world, the horrors we face are things we understand to some degree, even if we abhor them. Kidnappers, rapists, pedophiles – they might be the worst of the worst, but their offenses can be studied and quantified. With the supernatural, an element of uncertainty is added into the mix. How can the revenant be overcome? Is it even possible?

 

 

 

3.      You inhabit a field that is literately bursting at the seams with others who write in a similar fashion. How do you separate yourself . . . make your own distinctive style . . . and promote yourself?

 

That’s a question every writer not named Lee Child or Steve Berry or Stephen King probably struggles with. I know I sure do.

 

A few years ago I attended Thrillerfest, held annually in July in New York City. A big part of Thrillerfest is the Craftfest portion, where readers, aspiring writers, and fans can attend workshops given by some of the biggest names in the thriller genre. I was fortunate enough to attend one given by Lee Child, and he said one thing I’ll never forget (it’s been awhile, so I’m paraphrasing here): everything’s been done, and probably by a better writer than you.

 

At first glance, that’s a pretty deflating thought. If everything’s been done, why bother?

 

But the point he was making is just the opposite. Don’t try to be the next Lee Child or the next Elmore Leonard or the next Dean Koontz. Be the first Allan Leverone, be the first B.R. Stateham. Write what appeals to you and tell absolutely the best story you possibly can. After that, it’s out of your hands.

 

When you think about it in those terms, it’s kind of liberating. I’m obsessive about editing and rewriting, but once I’ve put the book out in front of people, their reaction to it is out of my control. Some will like it, hopefully, and some won’t, but as long as you can look yourself in the mirror and not have regrets about the tale you told, that should be good enough.

 

As far as promoting goes, if I knew the answer to that question I would be selling a hell of a lot more books than I am! But writing novels is a marathon, not a sprint, the rare overnight successes notwithstanding. My goal has always been, and still is, to write the best books I can and build a solid core of readers, then hopefully expand that core with each succeeding book.

 

 

4.      What pleasures are there in writing for you? Do you find yourself sitting back and admiring a sentence, or a paragraph, or an entire book that you've just written? And how long does that pleasure vibrate within you?

 

I was lucky enough to interview the legendary Lawrence Block on my blog a few months ago, and one of the things I asked him was whether there were any characters or any books he would go back in time and change if he could. He said, “I’m embarrassingly fond of my own work, so they’re all my favorites. And no, I wouldn’t change any of them.”

 

If that attitude’s good enough for Lawrence Block, I see no reason to feel any differently. While I’m writing, if I can pound out something I feel works really well, I might sit back and enjoy the moment, but I revise a lot, almost compulsively, so rather than feeling self-satisfied, I’m usually filed with doubt and convinced what I’m trying to say could be said much better if I’d only get my shit together.

 

It’s been said that writing is revising, or something to that effect, so by the time my work is ready to go out in to the world, I’ve usually been working on it for so long that I’m sick of it and ready to move on to something else. It’s more a feeling of hopeful relief than anything else.

 

 

 
5.      Tell us about the business side of writing. How difficult is it to break into the bank vault called publishing success? Is there a thread of luck involved? Is talent the prevailing requirement to succeed? Are there any short cuts a novice might use to strengthen their chances of success?

 

Another great question, and another one I’m probably not qualified to answer.

 

First, the easy part: There are no shortcuts. A writer has to write. It’s like anything else – the more you do it, the better you’re going to get at it. Fortunately, most writers do it because they’re almost compelled to. Let’s face it: most of us are never going to write a New York Times bestseller. Most of us will never be able to support ourselves solely from our writing. If you’re writing to get rich, you should save yourself a lot of heartache and just take all of your money and buy lottery tickets. Your odds of success are much greater.

 

As far as achieving publishing success goes, I don’t think anyone would deny there is a thread of luck involved. Probably more than a thread. More like a rope. Like one of the ones they use to dock the Queen Mary. One of the things this “publishing revolution” has taught us is that there are scads of unbelievably talented writers out there who would never even have gotten a contract with a Big-6 publisher.

 

That’s not to take anything away from the folks who have written New York Times bestsellers. Most of them are talented, and it shows in their work. But talent alone isn’t enough, you have to be in the right place at the right time as well. It’s no different than in sports. Tom Brady was an unknown backup who would likely never have had the opportunity to play were it not for an injury to Drew Bledsoe, and Brady turned out to be arguably one of the top five NFL quarterbacks ever.

 

Talent and timing. My thriller, THE LONELY MILE, broke into Amazon’s Top 25 overall paid bestseller list back in February. I like to think I wrote a pretty darned good book, but let’s face it – StoneHouse Ink and I caught a wave at just the right time. If that hadn’t happened, the book would probably never have made a ripple.

 


6.      Tell us about yourself. What was the trip-wire that was stepped on which compelled you to become a writer? What are you writing on now? What does the future hold for you?

 

From the time I first started reading I was in awe of the people who could write books and stories that held me in thrall. It seemed almost magical. Hell, it still kind of does. When I went to college, it was with the intention of majoring in journalism – I wanted to be a sportswriter. I changed majors after my freshman year, and that was the end of writing for me, for about the next three decades.

 


Paskagankee

In January of 2006 I got back into it, with a sports blog at Foxsports.com, and over the next nine or ten months, started to build up a bit of a following, and was really enjoying myself. Then I had an epiphany. Blogging about sports was fun, but what I really wanted to do was write fiction. So one day I just started.

 

Now I can’t stop. The feeling of creating worlds and populating them with all these characters, good and bad, who get into seemingly unresolvable situations, only to pull themselves out (sometimes) is like no other. Maybe I have a God complex, I don’t know, but I do know this: I will write until I die. A good day of writing is better than any drug.

 

Right now, I’m putting the finishing touches on a thriller titled PARALLAX VIEW. It takes place in 1987, at the tail end of the Cold War, and tells the story of CIA clandestine ops specialist Tracie Tanner, who is tasked with a fairly straightforward job: deliver a secret communique from Communist Party General Secretary Mikhail Gorbachev to U.S. President Ronald Reagan. Needless to say, things aren’t as they seem, and before long Tracie Tanner is knee deep in plane crashes, KGB spies, assassinations and double-crosses. It’s been a lot of fun to write and I hope it will be well-received.

 

After that, I’ll probably begin work on the third entry in my series of supernatural suspense novels that take place in a fictional little town in Maine called Paskagankee. Oh yeah, and I want to write a novella to submit to DarkFuse for their collectible hardcover horror novella series. Maybe write a couple of short stories.

 

Gonna be busy, I guess…

 

Thanks so much for having me. As writers of separate installments in the DRUNK ON THE MOON series featuring werewolf/PI Roman Dalton, I feel like we share a bond that’s even a little deeper than our mutual love for dark fiction. I appreciate the opportunity to bore introduce myself to your readers!

 

Saturday, November 10, 2012

And now, for an Encore . . .

Meet Les Edgerton.

Sure, he's been blogged before in here.  But you know it's like a bad penny . . . he keeps popping up over and over and over.

Besides, I like the guy!  And he's one hell of a writer.  He truly is gifted when he starts slinging words around.  Every writer has their own unique style.  As a reader you become acquainted with that style and then you accept it.  Accept it to the point you could recognize it anywhere.

Les' writing is like that.  Instantly recognizable.  Sometimes harsh (when he's writing crime novels), always vividly clear, an instant creator for some visceral emotional reaction erupting in your gut.

In other words . . . a damn fine writer.

So I asked him the other day, knowing he's publishing more 'stuff,' to come over and share a few words with us about what's cooking on the stove for him.  He was kind enough to agree.  Listen to what he has to say. 

The Master is in the house.


You asked me to talk about my newest book, which is a YA thriller out from StoneGate Ink titled Mirror, Mirror. It just came out in ebook format and in a couple of weeks will also be available as a paperback. Good timing—just before Christmas! So, if you have any teenaged girls you need a stocking stuffer for…


Here’s the synopsis:


You will never again pass a mirror without a slight chill... once you have read Mirror, Mirror. Elizabeth Mary Downing is a typical American teenager...almost. When she peers into a mirror, she sees someone else staring back--an image identical to herself in every detail save one--the mirror image has blue eyes. Elizabeth's eyes are brown! She is told by her mirror counterpart, "Liz", that she can enter any mirror she wants through "transtarence” and when curiosity prevails over fear and she enters the mirror, trading places with Liz, the horror begins as Liz wreaks havoc with what was a normal life. Elizabeth's attempts to trick Liz into going back into the mirror reflect both suspense and humor and just when all hope seems lost, she succeeds... only to discover she has to return to the mirror to reverse events and get her life back to where it was. She succeeds… only she leaves part of herself forever in the mirror.


This is a book I didn’t write for publication. Here’s how that came about:


Mirror, Mirror in Amazon
I wrote this book many years ago and not to publish it but just as a labor of love for my oldest daughter Britney. She was a voracious reader and I simply wanted to write something just for her that she could look at and say, “My dad wrote this for me.” In other words, I wanted her to be proud of me.


When she read it, she turned to me with luminous eyes and told me it was the scariest thing she’d ever read. Keep in mind she was about nine years old at the time so it wasn’t as if she’d read thousands of books. But, it made me feel great.


When her little sister Sienna came along, both Britney and I urged her to read it. She did and she had much the same reaction as her sister had. Scared the pants off of her! I thought for the first time that maybe it might be publishable, but it wasn’t until a few years ago when Britney and I were talking about everyday things, when Britney suddenly said, “You know, Dad, after I read MIRROR, MIRROR, for about four years, I couldn’t look into a mirror at myself for more than a few seconds at a time before I had to look away. It just scared the crap out of me!”


And that’s when I realized it was publishable. I showed it to Aaron Patterson, the publisher of StoneGate Ink and he agreed and so here it is.


Not sure if it will capture today’s teens. The reason I say that is that there’s no cursing, no sex scenes, no vampires or zombies, nor any violence. It’s just a clean story that works on the reader’s imagination more than anything—kind of a throwback novel. We’ll see, I guess. The one thing that’s been nice is that I don’t have to warn parents to vet it before they let their kids read it.


The other book I’m very excited about is my forthcoming nihilistic noir novella, titled THE RAPIST, forthcoming from New Pulp Press both in paperback and as an ebook. It’s scheduled for March, 2013, but it may be released earlier. I rank this alongside my noir thriller, THE BITCH, as the best work I’ve ever done. It’s garnered absolute rave advance reviews, all along the lines of Allan Guthrie’s blurb, which says: “THE RAPIST ranks right up there with Camus’ THE STRANGER and Simenon’s DIRTY SNOW. An instant modern classic.”


Here’s just a few of the comments, all from the top crime and noir writers in the world:


1. …and the breathlessness, nausea, anger and confusion increase all the way to the end, at which point all I know is that the book is genius. Helen FitzGerald, author of The Donor, Dead Lovely and others.


2. Take a Nabokovian narrator trying to convince the reader of his innocence and filter it through An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge and you've got The Rapist, a raw and frightening journey through the inner psyche of a damaged man.

Brian Lindenmuth, Publisher, Spinetingler Magazine and Snubnose Press


3. Les Edgerton proves once again why he is one of the most exciting writers of this generation. The structure of this just astounded me. I've never read anything like it before. I've never been so engrossed in a novel as I was with this one. I had no idea Edgerton had this literary part of his writing. I don't know of any other writers that can go from crime fiction to literary so seamlessly. Edgerton should be very proud of this novel. Luca Veste, author of the story collections Liverpool 5, and More Liverpool Five.


4. The Rapist blends Camus and Jim Thompson in an existential crime novel that is as dark and intoxicating as strong Irish coffee. Les Edgerton pulls us into the corkscrew mind of Truman Ferris Pinter, a twisted man with skewed perception of the world, as his life spirals toward oblivion, like dirty dishwater down a plughole. It reminded me of Jim Thompson's Savage Night in its delirium. Paul D Brazill, Author, 13 Shots Of Noir and others.


5. William Faulkner on steroids or Hannibal Lecter on meth; neither as literate or frightening as Les Edgerton in his ground-breaking novel, The Rapist. Bob Stewart, author of The Blackness of Darkness, No Remorse and others.


6. A deathdream swan dive from the existential stratosphere plummeting into the personal hell of a tormented, broken psyche, The Rapist introduces us to a gentle and philosophical misanthrope named Truman Pinter, at once reminiscent of Albert Camus and Patricia Highsmith, even John Gardner’s Grendel and the journal of Carl Panzram. Thomas Pluck, editor of the anthology The Protectors.

7. The Rapist is a disturbing look into the twisted mind of a narcissistic psychopath on death row. A vulgar odyssey reminiscent of Nabokov’s Lolita, although far more depraved, Les Edgerton has crafted a dark and brilliant story that leaves you as equally unsettled as it does in complete awe. Julia Madeleine, author of No One To Hear You Scream and The Truth About Scarlet Rose



Thanks for having me on, B.R.!
 
 
The man has his own blog, a very good one, called Les Edgerton On Writing.  You should check it out.


Monday, November 5, 2012

Drunk On The Moon Lives, Baby!

Roman Dalton.

Werewolf.  Ex-cop.  A really nice guy!

A few months back an English bloke I know by the name of Paul Brazill asked me if I'd be one of the original writers who would like to take a crack at writing a story about the good Mister Dalton.  His (Paul's) idea was to create and partially flesh out an interesting character (Roman) and then allow other writers to color in the rest of the man's personality.

As Spock would say on Star Trek; "Fascinating."

So I did.  Wrote a story called, 'Insatiable.'

A gruesome little story about one werewolf meeting another, and not so likable, werewolf.  Apparently a few people  actually liked it.

Roman Dalton still lives.  Paul has gone on to ask more authors to participate in this experiment.  I mean some really, truly, awesome writers who know their craft forwards and backwards.  It has become something of an international success.  American and European writers have pitched in their versions of R. Dalton--and every damn story has been, as the British say, 'spot on.' 

A new collection of stories is out.  So I thought I'd ask him to Paul make a serious pitch about the new anthology.

And by the way, if you don't know Paul Brazill the writer, you should really make an effort to discover him.  A good man and a very good writer.  A writer who doesn't write the usual generic blend of tiresome dregs found in genre writing.  It's dark, surprising, mean sometimes (in a good way), and fresh.  And the endings are never what you expect them to be.  Just the kind of stuff I like.

So here he is.  Talking about his creation, Roman Dalton.  Enjoy.


Guest Blog: Roman Dalton Howls Again by Paul D. Brazill.



Roman Dalton is a full time private eye and part time werewolf who prowls The City’s blood and neon soaked streets when the moon is full.



A few years ago, there was a buzz across the internet about Dark Valentine magazine, a cool and beautifully designed pulp mag that would feature horror, noir, fantasy — stories of all genres — as well as cross-genre stories. I knew of some of the people involved and thought that this would be a pretty classy joint indeed.



And I wanted in.



And this is where the confluence comes in.



For a while, I’d been thinking that the Tom Waits’ song “Drunk on the Moon” would make a great title for a werewolf story — Tom Waits was in the film Wolfen, and his gravelly voice could easily be that of a werewolf. Made sense to me …



And then I thought that, maybe I could raise the stakes even higher and write a werewolf noir…



Hmmmm.



And then, somewhere along the way, I wondered if some of my favourite dark fiction writers would like to dip a toe into Roman Dalton’s world.. Crime writers. Horror writers. Thriller writers.



B R Stateham, Richard Godwin, K A Laity, Katherine Tomlinson, Allan Leverone, Julia Madeleine, Frank Duffy, Jason Michel, John Donald Carlucci.



And the result was Drunk On The Moon – A Roman Dalton Anthology, published as an eBook and in paperback by Dark Valentine Press.






Here’s the book trailer, with music by Peter Ord.









So what has Roman Dalton been up to lately?



Well, he has a Facebook fan page.









A blog.









A Twitter account.









And a Roman Dalton story- The Brain Salad Murders- recently appeared online at Jeanette Cheezum’s Cavalcade Of Stars.






And more.



K A Laity’s Weird Noir anthology has just been published and it includes a story called Black Moon Rising, which gives us a bit more of Roman’s cronies Duffy and Ivan Walker’s back story.






And up next?



Well, the first Drunk On The Moon short story has been translated into Polish and will be published soooon! And more translations are waiting in the wings.



And there’s a second anthology on the cards , too, with stories from Matt Hilton, Vincent Zandri, J J Toner and more…



So, Roman Dalton is still howling! Why not join The Pack?



Paul D. Brazill





Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Social Media Translating into Writing Success

Rough Draft for new Turner Hahn/Frank Morales book cover.
Hmmmm . . . .

Been thinking about this lately.  Ever since this blog hit the 1,000 pages-per-month mark recently.

Been thinking about blogging/social media participation and its translation over in contributing any form of success to a writer's sales/familiarity to the reading public.

To be honest, I don't think there is any.  At least, not for me.

The reason I think this goes something like this;  for months now this blog has been in the 800-900 page views per month level.  About a month go it leapt up to the 1,200 per view mark.  Additionally, on various other social network sites I'm hitting the 1,000 mark in 'friends' categories.  Sure, I know; not really large numbers compared to a lot of other writers.  Not even close.  But . . .

In a way it IS a set of large numbers.  There's something like a ripple-effect when contemplating this concept.  Who you know ripples across those who have 'friended' with you.  Say you have accumulated 500 friends/fans on the various social network sites.  And each one of those know at least 500 hardy souls.  The original 500 you know keep an active interest in your comments and on the 'stuff' you write  They make comments on THEIR pages which is seen by THEIR FRIENDS (all 500 of them).  In turn . . . well, you get the picture.

I'm not a mathematician. And you sure as hell don't want to hire me as your tax preparer! 
But I'm thinking that, theoretically, the math should go 500 x 500 x 500 . . . . all the way to the 500th name!

Krikies!  That's a number with a bazillion, gazillion zeros behind it!

You would think . . . and I know that is a dangerous proposition for a lot of us, including me . . . that out of that large number maybe 1% would find your writing interesting.  Just 1%.  That's STILL is a huge number!  And if that 1% purchased  some of your works you'd be considered a very successful writer.

It doesn't work that way,  Don Corleone.  Why it doesn't I can only conjecture.

Now . . . for the doppelganger effect.  And there is one (I think).

Somehow, someway, you become a successful writer through the traditional channels.  You sell books and a lot of them.  Suddenly this social media network you've built up begins to pay off.  Your active on your social media networks.  Instantly people recognize your name and what you write.   MORE books are bought because you're ALREADY well know and you are OUT THERE in the social media!  Fans can actually TALK  to you!  Yowser!

 . . . admittedly this doppelganger effect is a theory of mine.  I have no tangible proof, amigo.  Just a working theory.  If you've got some other ideas . . . or evidence to prove or disprove my theory . . . I would be very eager to hear it.

For now, however,  I've got to figure out how to sell my damn stuff to a large enough audience.  That little pickle is also open for discussion.  Got any ideas?

Thursday, October 25, 2012

A 'Bonus' Smitty today

Thought I'd share one more Smitty story today.  Maybe the last one to come for a while.  Hell!  I need to write some first!

If you're familiar with Smitty who know he wasn't always a killer.  So what got him started?  Wouldn't it be curious to read about his very first professional 'hit?'

I thought so.  So I wrote and entitled it, 'First Kill.'

And remember me talking, in the last post, about surprise endings?  Uh huh . . . well . . .

The story (you'll have to go over to the right and get both collections of Smitty stories to fill in the gaps) begins only hours after the incident which made a guy once called Johnny turn into a creature called Smitty.  You'll find that story--about Johnny turning into Smitty--in a story called, "There is No Johnny.  Just call me Smitty." (you can find it in  Volume One of the series here)

So here's 'First Kill.'  Hope you like it.



First Kill

 

            He was the only customer in the bar.

            Just him and a kid for a bar tender.

            Sitting in a both in the far corner, back against the wall, a cold glass of beer sitting on the table in front of him.  As he sat staring at the glass huge beads of condensation slowly slid down the dirty glass in some kind of hypnotic trance.  Just him and the kid.  No jukebox playing.  No radio blaring.  The silence of this man-made tomb broken gently by the soft hiss of  city traffic moving back and fourth on the city street outside.

            The kid was humped over the bar resting his head on a propped elbow, working today's crossword puzzle in the New York Times.  He looked bored.  He looked too young to be working in a bar.  Especially this kind of bar.

            Reaching for his beer a thin snarl of a smile played across the lips of the dark eyed man.  The place was exactly the same as it was the first time he saw it.  Nothing had changed.  Even the three-tiered rack of booze behind the kid looked exactly the same.  To the right of the bar was a dark, urine stained hallway leading back to the restrooms.  From his booth he could see the same smashed in indention in the far wall where some drunk, ten years ago, got angry and threw a punch at him in a drunken stupor.

            Nothing had changed.

            Nothing.

            Except . . . maybe.  Him.

            Ten years ago today he began his current career. Contracted out his first kill.   Sitting in this very booth.  Ten years ago today . . .

****

            He was sitting in a bar. Some bar he stumbled into after dumping his wife off at the railroad tracks.  After . . . after.

            Grabbing the glass of beer sitting on the table in front of him he tossed the liquid down with one gulp and glanced at the black man standing behind the bar.  The man nodded and turned to reach for another glass.

            His guts rolled.  His hands shook.  He could hardly breathe.  He had almost done it.  Almost slapped a fresh clip into his .45.  Almost blew her brains out.  The bitch.  The whore.  All these years.  All these years!

            Playing him like a patsy.  Yet really in love with his twin brother.  The two of them.  Screwing behind his back.  Taking money out of their joint back account.    Laughing at him all this time.

            Just by chance he discovered their little game.  On the spur of the moment standing in front of bank teller and asking her to write down how much money was in the bank account.  When the girl slid the paper with the amount written on it with a clean, feminine hand, he almost blacked out.  Almost retched.

            Thirty thousand dollars!  Gone.

            Gone!

            Driving home in filled with a furious, black anger, he found them.  Found them on the living room divan.  Screwing each other.  Like rats.  Like hyenas.

Something happened to him.  Something died.  Snapped like a twig.  Disconnected.  He wasn't furious any more.  He wasn't angry.  Well . . . not the type of anger he was used to.  He was cold.  His mind was sharp.  Clear.  Like a  frigid, cloudless Artic morning.  Colors were bright.  Almost glowing in their brilliance.  His hearing somehow became more acute.  Standing on the lawn, watching the two rut like feral pigs on the living room divan, he could actually hear them.  Hear them giggling.  Hear them whispering to each other.  Hear the lovemaking.

            It was if he was standing on the lawn watching his brother and wife . . . yet . . . somehow . . . he was watching himself standing on the lawn watching the two making love. Feeling the sun on the back of his neck.  Idly aware that behind him his neighbor was standing on the drive with a lawn hose in his hand, puffing on a cigarette as he watered the green grass.

            But he it was him watching himself.  Yet . . . strangely . . . it was not him.  It was someone else.  Someone different.

            Someone who wanted to be called Smitty for the rest of his life.

He almost killed them.  Came within a fraction of an inch of killing his brother with a tire iron.  Dragged his wife into the car and drove out to some desolate, abandoned railroad track and put a gun to her head.  Pulled the trigger twice on the  .45 caliber Colt.

            Both time the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

            For some reason . . . some reason he couldn't fathom . . . he didn't slap in an ammo clip into the handle of the gun.  Made sure he didn't jack a round into the firing chamber.

            Why?  Why?

****

            Glancing up his eyes fell on the plate glass door of the bar's entrance.  She came in through the door like a sudden gust of wind.  Came in dressed in a blue summer dress with a red leather belt around her narrow waist.  Sandy blond hair wind blown.  A tanned goddess of stunning beauty.  Looking remarkably like his wife.

            Yet a woman with fear clearly written all over her.

            Yes.  He remembered.  His first contract.  His first kill.

            She hurried into the bar, glanced at him sitting in the very same booth he was sitting now, and then turned her attention toward the bar tender.  His was an older man back then.  Bald man.  Black as coal with startling white teeth.  Named Val.  Val Arthur.  Knew everyone in this town.  Or, at least, knew everyone who worked on the other side of the tracks.  Worked their trade in the night and hidden from the prying eyes of the cops.

            That's why she was here.  To talk to Val.  She wanted to hire someone.  Someone only Val would know.  Someone with a specialty.

            She hurried to the bar and leapt onto a barstool with one knee and leaned over close to Val's ear.  Val hadn't even looked up when she came hurrying into the place.  Standing at the bar drying shot glasses, towel in hand, he leaned an ear closer to the beautiful woman's lips but kept drying the shot glass in his hands.

            "Did you find him?  Did you find out how much he wants?"

            "I found'em," the bar tender nodded, his voice a soft Jamaican accent. "He not in'trested."

            "But . . . but he has to be!  I mean . . . I mean, if he doesn't help me who will?"

            "No can help you, missy.   He says he don't know you from Adam.  Won't touch your money."

            She looked devastated.  Crushed.  Her eyes tearing up and threatening to spill over.  Pale as a fresh wrappings of a newly entombed mummy.  She slumped down on the barstool and stared off into the distance.  Val, the bartender, glanced up once at her and then down at the towel he was using to dry the shot glasses.  And then glanced toward the small figure sitting alone in the booth.

            "Maybe he help you," he said the woman nodding his head toward the dark eyed man. "He got the look.   Bad man, missy.  Bad man."

            "You know him?" she whispered, leaning toward Val but unwilling to glance toward the man in the booth.

            "Nope.  Don't know'em.  But know his type.   He either a cop or a killer.  Can't say which.  But maybe he's your only chance.  Won't hurt to talk to'em.”

            She looked at Val for a moment, frowning, then turned to stare at the man sitting in the booth.  Not a large man.  Not a small man.  With high cheek bones.  A thin, straight nose.  Dark brown hair.  His hands were almost delicate looking.  But he didn't look delicate.  The way he sat in the booth . . . the way both hands wrapped around the tall glass of beer . . . and those black, black eyes.

            Biting her lower lips, worry written all over her face, she glanced at Val again and then slid off the barstool.  Hesitantly she took a step toward the silent man.  What was she going to say to him?  How was she going to say it?  Should she tell me her real name?         What if . . .

            That's when cold black eyes came off the table and looked straight at her.  Like the eyes of a King Cobra staring directly at his next meal.

            "Good evening, Mrs. Sloan.  Care to join me?"

            The man's voice . . . a faint, soft whisper . . . like Death itself . . . physically made her jump back.  Color drained from her face.  She felt faint.  Her heart seemed to be beating so fast she was afraid it was going to explode.

            "You . . . you know me?"

            A faint, cruel smile played across gray lips.  And the eyes . . . the eyes so black.   So bright.  So intent.

            "A famous actress marries the richest man in the city.   A man many believe owns most of everything in the state.  I doubt anyone in the city doesn't know you by now.  Please.  Come sit down.  Let me buy a drink.  Tell me what is bothering you."

            She hesitated.  Something in her told her to turn and run.  Run as far away from this strange man as she could.  Yet those eyes . . . those eyes . . . pulled her to the booth and compelled her to slide into the seat directly opposite of him.  Hands worked furiously on the table in front of her.  She found it difficult to breathe.  To speak.

            "You . . . you see, I . . . I think my husband is in trouble.  Terrible danger.  I . . . I think there is someone trying to kill him!"

            The dark eyed man remained silent.  Black eyes played across the woman's face in front of him.  Played across her soft, white hands.  She was nervous.  She was terrified.  Terrified at whatever it was which made her believe her husband was in danger.              Terrified at sitting in this booth with him.

            Terrified.

            "Take a deep breath, Mrs. Sloan.  Start from the beginning.  Tell me everything," the dark eyed man whispered softly.

            And she did.

            Told him an intricate, deadly story.

            Everything.

            Someone was blackmailing her husband.  Was threatening to harm her husband's two young daughters from his first marriage if he didn't pay the three hundred thousand promised to him.  Two years ago his first wife died of cancer.  Or so what was said in the papers.  For two years he was the only parent of two beautiful young daughters, ages eight and six.  Devoted to them.

            As the current Mrs. Sloan said she was.  Devoted to them.  To her husband.  To the children.  That's why she was so terrified.  The man blackmailing her husband was dangerous looking.  She overheard her husband and this man one night in her husband's study.  Heard his accusations.  Heard what he would do the children if the money wasn't paid.

            In the end, when she fell silent and stared down at her hands like a young, frightened gazelle, fear gripping her soul, he knew what to do.

            "I'll take care of it.  I promise.  Go home now.  Go back to your husband.  To the children.  Nothing is going to happen to them, Mrs. Sloan.  Nothing."

            His first kill.  His first hit.

            Turned out to be quite simple.  One night, sitting in an old pick up truck he had politely 'borrowed' from a kid, he sat underneath a large oak tree on the street leading down to the palatial estate of Barnabas Sloan.  A few questions.  A few inquiries and he found out who the blackmailer was.

            Mrs. Sloan was quite correct.  The man was a very bad man.  A killer in fact who killed both for the money and for the pleasure of it.  A man who didn't deserve to live.  So he planned the hit.  Waited patiently for the right moment.  Knew from the beginning it would be successful.  Even felt a growing sense of excitement as the time approached.

One night the killer visited Barnabas Sloan's home.  In the early morning hours when the neighbors and servants would be asleep.  It was payday for him.  Sloan had given into his demands.  Given in yet knowing in doing so he was trapped.  The man would be back.  Again and again.  Demanding money.

            When the dark eyed man saw the lights of the killer's automobile pull out of the gates of the Sloan estates he turned on the lights to the pickup and pulled out into the middle of the street and stopped.  Getting out of the truck, leaving the door open,  he walked to the front of the truck and lifted the hood just as the killer's big Ford SUV rolled to a halt behind the truck.

            "Hey, get that piece of shit out of the way! I'm in a hurry!"

            "Fuck you, old man!  I've got troubles of my own!" Smitty yelled back from underneath the hood of the truck and sounding exactly like a teenager who had been drinking too much.

            What happened next was precisely what Smitty anticipated.  The killer, whom his contacts informed him had a blazing hot temper, came out of his Ford SUV in a flash.  Slamming the door closed the big man strode toward the kid underneath the hood of the pickup, rolling hands into fists in the process.  He was going to teach the fucking loud mouth kid a lesson!  He was . . . . !

            The 'kid' stepped away from the grill of the pickup.  In the darkness of the early morning hour the killer thought he saw something big and bulky in the kid's hand.  He heard a 'Puffft!'  Felt a sharp stinging sensation in the thigh of his left leg.  Looking down he saw the bulky looking syringe of a tranquilizer jutting out of his leg as he took one more step.

            "Why you sonofa . . . . . "

            That was it.  That was the man's last words.

            With a hard thump the man fell first into the pavement of the street.  Dead before his face hit the asphalt.  Lowering the dart gun Smitty eyed the form lying on the street between the SUV and the pickup for a moment before removing the syringe from the dead man's leg.  Gently closing the hood of the old pickup, Smitty threw the dart gun into the front seat of the truck and then quietly walked back to the dead man's SUV.

            In the passenger side's wide bucket seat was a plain looking athletic canvas bag.  A heavy one.  Three hundred thousand dollars heavy.  Not touching anything in the SUV Smitty reached over and retrieved the bag and walked back to the pickup truck.  Climbing in he started the old engine up and drove away.

            The next day the papers had a huge headline proclaiming the death of a known criminal who apparently died of a massive coronary in the early hours of the morning.  Died in the street only a few hundred yards away from the gated estate of Barnabas Sloan.

            His first kill . . . .

****

            Years had come and gone since then.  Years and death.  How many bodies?  How many hits?  Too many.  Too many.  Reaching for the beer in front of him paused when the kid behind the bar shook his head, grunted, and stood up.

            "It's hard to believe, ain't it?  I mean . . . Barnabas Sloan dead.  First his wife dies.  Then he remarries that bitch of a new wife.  And then his two daughters die in that fire.  Now he's dead.  He's dead and that bitch inherits all those millions.  She fooled us all, fella.  Fooled us all. There ain't no justice in the world.  No justice!"

            The dark eyed man slid out of the booth, turned, rolled two twenty dollar bills onto the table, turned again, and started walking.  Moving past the young bartender he said nothing as he walked out and into the bright light of a late afternoon.  Glancing to his left and then to his right, black eyes surveying the street casually, he moves to the rear of his black CTS Cadillac.  Unlocking the rear lid of the car he lifts it up and looks down.

She stares up at him with terror filled eyes.  Gray duct tape covering her lips.  Her arms and feet secured tightly with layers of gray tape.  Her beautiful sandy blond hair in a rumpled mess.  For a moment or two he stares down at her silently.  And then, with a finality he should have done ten years ago,  he lowers the lid and closes it tightly.

            Yes, Mrs. Sloane.  You fooled us all.

            If he had been better at it, if he had taken the time to do a little more research,  the children of Barnabas Sloan and Sloan himself would still be alive today.  Too late to save them now, pilgrim.  Too late. 

            But Justice could be served today.  Belatedly . . .