Harry Shannon here. The first three Mick Callahan hard cover novels are now in one Kindle bundle on Daily Cheap Reads for $4.99
http://dailycheapreads.com/2011/04/30/savings-by-the-bundle-three-nick-callahan-novels-for-4-99/
And now back to your regular programming :D
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE now 99 cents thru May
The price of my latest thriller, which goes back, in part, to the late Sixties in Chicago, has just come down to 99 cents on Kindle. Here's what they're saying about it:
"A tremendous thriller, sweeping but intimate, elegiac but urgent, suble but intense... this story really does set the night on fire.." Lee Child
"Superior .. Passion, pain, and protests emerge in vivid detail.." Chicago Tribune
"A jazzy fusion of past and present, Hellmann's insightful, politically charged whodunit explores a fascinating period in American history..." Publishers Weekly
You can find it here. The price will go up again in June, so I hope you'll give it a look now.
Thanks.... Libby
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Blood Crimes reduced to $0.99
The price of Blood Crimes is being reduced to $0.99 until the end of May!
Here's what people having been saying about Blood Crimes:
"I've just read the manuscript of Dave Zeltserman's new novel, Blood Crimes. This is one of the few fresh takes on vampirism I've read in years. It's as if Charles Bukowski sat down and said, OK, Bram Stoker, how about this?" -- Ed Gorman, author of Cage of Night and The Poker Club.
"I'd call it the anti-Twilight, and in my book that's a good thing." Bill Crider
"BLOOD CRIMES is a fast-moving, masterfully written, first-rate vampire tale for the intellectual set." David Cramner, Education of a Pulp Writer
"Dave, has managed to meld the two genres of crime and horror into one one hell of a ride, PI's, crime lords, drug gangs, sultry babes and more low life scum than you can count all collide with explosive results in this genre bending master piece. If you like crime buy this book, if you like horror buy this book, if you like well written books, buy this book." Jim Mcleod, Ginger Nuts of Horror
"Mix in an angry biker gang, lots of guns, and samurai sword fights, and you’ll start to understand what makes Blood Crimes such a great opener to what I hope will be a great series. Zeltserman holds nothing back with this book. Full throttle all the way. Very bloody. Very noir. I can’t wait for the sequel to drop. Highly recommended." Spinetingler Magazine
"From here on in Zeltserman's vamp/crime thriller takes off at a breakneck speed. The action that follows is intense and blood drenched. There are also unexpected twists that will take you by surprise and leave you gaping at your Kindle in shock."
Peter Leonard, Man Eating Bookworm
"Zeltserman, a noir author from deep in his bones, has always flirted with horror--his Caretaker of Lorne Field ranks as one of the best novels in that category back in 2010. Blood Crimes goes over the retaining wall and into the dark woods, throwing in delightful twists on reliable tropes... These aren't your sister's romantic vampires, to say the least." Harry Shannon
"Okay. Let's see if I can explain this. Take today's typical vampire fiction, shove it into Bedlam House and whip it with a cat-o'-ninetails to force it to breed with your grittiest crime thriller. That's what you'll get when you open up this book. Blood Crimes is fast. It's visceral. It's definitely not your fourteen-year-old sister's dreamy vampire fantasy. This book grabs you by the guttiwuts, wrenches hard, and doesn't let go. But don't get me wrong, this isn't your run-of-the-mill shock literature. Zeltserman weaves a disturbing noir with a passionate craftsman's hand over his characters." Mindy Mackay, Protect Your Sensibilities
Now's your chance to try Blood Crimes Book One for $0.99 as either a Kindle or Nook download. The price will be set back to $2.99 June 1st.
Two Sixties Stories
By Libby Hellmann
As some of you know, my most recent novel, SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE, is a thriller that goes back, in part, to the late Sixties in Chicago. Fortunately or unfortunately, I remember those years and would like to share with you two stories from that time. An abbreviated version of one – a love story -- is in the book, but the other has an ending I just discovered a few months ago.
I lived in Georgetown during what I now call “The Summer of My Discontent.” I shared an apartment with four other people above a movie theater at 28th and M. (Both are gone now). I was working at an underground newspaper, selling them on the streets, and generally trying to make sense of the world. Next door to the movie theater was a head shop run by a weird – but sweet -- guy named Bobby. He wore black all the time, before there were Goths. The scent of Patchouli oil hung in the air.
I used to drop in every once in a while. Often two of his friends, Donna and Linda, would be there. They were a couple: Linda had long brown hair and appeared to be kind of spacey. Donna had short blond hair and wore a leather jacket, even during July. They were cool, though, in the way that everyone was cool back then, and we’d smoke a joint, laugh a lot, and discuss what a shitty place the world was becoming. Then, around August, they disappeared. After not seeing them for a week or so, I asked Bobby where they went. He hemmed and hawed and wouldn’t tell me. Finally, he did.
Donna used to be Don, he said. And was going through the process of becoming a woman, but hadn’t completed it when she met Linda. They fell in love, and because of that, they jointly (no pun intended) agreed that Donna should turn back into Don. So they hustled some money from someone and were off to California to reverse Donna’s transformation.
That’s what I call a love story. Btw, I never saw them again, but I still think about them.
The other story is more political. As I said, I worked at an underground newspaper in DC for a summer. I was just a flunkie, not even considered staff. But there was a photographer, Sal, who was in and out all the time. He took photos at every demonstration, interview, and event that could be considered “alternative.” I actually had a crush on him at one point. (Yes, I know. Very bourgeois).
At any rate, the editor of the newspaper was very cautious about trusting people, almost to the point of paranoia. He always thought the paper was being infiltrated by CIA or FBI types (these were the days before COINTELPRO proved the FBI was indeed infiltrating radical groups) At the time, I thought his paranoia was exaggerated. Triggered perhaps by an inflated sense of self-importance.
I left at the end of the summer to hitchhike across country (That’s a different story), but I heard a few months later that Sal had left too, and was off to Paris. He stayed there for a while, then disappeared. I never knew what happened to him.
Then, about a month ago, well after I finished SET THE NIGHT ON FIRE, I Googled some of the people from the newspaper. Suddenly a photo of Sal popped up. It turns out he had been featured in Secrets: The CIA's War at Home by Angus MacKenzie.
You guessed it. Sal had been a CIA agent, recruited when he was in college in Chicago. The entire time he was taking photos for the paper, he was reporting to his CIA handler. Eventually, I think the editor suspected him. Maybe he even confronted him, which precipitated his abrupt departure.
It doesn’t end there. According to MacKenzie’s book, Sal went to Paris, befriended Philip Agee, himself a former CIA agent turned whistleblower, and fiddled around with the typewriter on which Agee was writing his story. Agee discovered it, and Sal fled. From what I understand he changed his name and now lives in Southern California.
True stories. Really. I mean, who could make this stuff up?
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Mick Callahan invades the UK
Harry Shannon here. Happy to note that my series character Mick Callahan gets a bit of respect from across the pond.
http://thegingernutcase.blogspot.com/2011/04/question-how-do-make-harry-shannon.html#links
http://thegingernutcase.blogspot.com/2011/04/question-how-do-make-harry-shannon.html#links
My New Kindle Book
A YA mystery novel about a girl who thinks she's related to Sherlock Holmes. Get it here. Help me become Kindle millionaire like Lee Goldberg!
Ed Gorman interviews John D. MacDonald!
Harry Shannon here. Ran across this interview Ed Gorman did with John D. MacDonald a ways back. Found it via Google. Fascinating stuff.
http://www.mysteryfile.com/JDM/Interview.html
By the way, our esteemed colleague Ed's classic dark mystery novel "Black River Falls" is now on Kindle for just $2.99! Check it out here:
http://www.amazon.com/Black-River-Falls-ebook/dp/B004D4ZQMQ/ref=pd_sim_kinc_6?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2
http://www.mysteryfile.com/JDM/Interview.html
By the way, our esteemed colleague Ed's classic dark mystery novel "Black River Falls" is now on Kindle for just $2.99! Check it out here:
http://www.amazon.com/Black-River-Falls-ebook/dp/B004D4ZQMQ/ref=pd_sim_kinc_6?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Coming June 1st --Julius Katz and Archie
Coming June 1st, the first full-length Julius Katz novel will be published as an original e-book, and will be available for $2.99. Here's some advanced praise for Julius Katz and Archie:
“Julius Katz and Archie is a charming and sophisticated drawing room mystery from the pen of the multifaceted Dave Zeltserman. Although the book harks back to the classic whodunits of the Nero Wolfe era, eccentric detective Julius Katz’s sidekick, Archie, is a character straight out of tomorrow: the brilliantly conceived spawn of our digital world. The clever plotting will satisfy mystery aficionados, while long time Zeltserman fans will be pleased to hear that there is a fist of steel lurking under the elegantly tailored velvet glove.” Roger Smith, author of Wake Up Dead and Mixed Blood
"Julius Katz is not only one of the most popular and award-winning creations in modern mystery fiction, the sheer wit and cunning of Dave Zeltserman's writing takes you into a world as amusing and surprising as the Rex Stout novels that Dave honors with this character." Ed Gorman
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Lauren's run--giving readers a chance to catch up
Parts 8-12 will run Monday-Friday of next week. For now we'd like to give readers a chance to catch up what's been posted so far for Lauren's Run.
Parts 1 - 7
____________
Lauren Blaine rolled down the window as she cruised up Lake Shore Drive in the stolen Camry. No one ever told her the Windy City was so pretty, even at two in the morning. On one side a silver moon spilled a veil of sparks on the lake; on the other a few insomniacs’ lights twinkled in the high-rises. Chicago might be nicer than LA. She smiled, looking forward to a fresh start. Why not? She had the money and the talent. And the Glock.
She turned off the Drive, looking for a twenty-four-hour restaurant. Danger always gave her an appetite, and there’d been plenty of that back in Kansas. She’d spent the last twelve hours racing north to Nebraska in Marlboro Man’s pickup, leaving the carnage – and the bodies -- behind. Then east into Iowa where she ditched the truck at a rest stop and hot-wired the Camry. She mentally thanked Hank for teaching her the necessary survival skills.
Now, she spotted the yellow sign above a Golden Nugget on a corner. She parked, slipped the Glock into her waistband, and stashed most of the cash in the trunk. Ducking her head to avoid the video camera tilting down on the sidewalk, she pushed through the door to the restaurant.
Inside, the staff outnumbered the customers. A waitress chatted up the short order cook behind the counter, and the sole customer, a man, crouched over a plate of what might have been meat loaf.
She slid into a booth in the back and picked up a greasy, laminated menu. She was ravenous. The waitress sauntered over and gave her the once-over.
“What ‘ll it be, honey?”
Lauren was about to answer when the door of the restaurant swung open.
A woman came in wearing tight, black leather pants and a faded bomber jacket over a Roots hoody. Her short-cropped hair was jet-black and so was her skin. She looked directly at Lauren with an intensity, and a smile of recognition, that made her stomach seize up.
She knows me.
But that wasn’t possible. There were thousands of miles, and several dead bodies, between her and any place she’d ever been before and anyone who’d ever known her.
It had to be a mistake.
“She’ll have a rare, double-cheese burger with mayonnaise, catsup, mustard, and raw onions, no tomato, crispy fries and a Coke, no ice,” the woman said as she strode over and slid into the booth across the table from Lauren.
Oh yes, she knows me.
It was exactly what Lauren was about to order, her favorite midnight snack.
But Lauren wasn’t hungry any more. She was scared and tired and pissed off.
The waitress scratched out the order on her pad then looked up at the black woman. “What’ll you have?”
“A slice of chocolate cake,” she said. “Black and sweet, like me.”
“I’m sure you are,” the waitress said and lumbered off.
Lauren stared into the woman’s eyes. Her Glock was already aimed at the woman’s crotch under the table.
“Who are you?”
The woman smiled. “That depends, Lauren. If you give me the money you took, I’m the seductive Nubian goddess you had an erotically-charged, late-night meal with one dark night on the road and always regretted not fucking. If you don’t give me the money, then I’m the bad-ass black bitch who killed you with that Glock you’re holding and then burned this hell-hole to the ground.”
Lauren kept her gaze level and her face expressionless.
Never let them see your fear.
“So you work for that low-life Jimmy?” she said.
“More like he works for me, angel.”
“And the money...”
“Mine. Just like your white ass.”
“Bullshit. Jimmy runs all the crank between St. Louis and–”
The woman’s laugh could have scared a Doberman Pinscher. “He told me you liked double cheeseburgers and were smart as hell. As least he got it half right.”
Under the table, Lauren’s hand was beginning to cramp. A Glock with a full clip is a helluva lot heavier than a man’s cock, even Jimmy’s. “What’s there to keep me from shooting you and hitting the road before you bleed out?”
“Think about it. Jimmy works for me. I work for The Man. You fuck with Jimmy, I’m on your ass. You fuck with me, The Man unleashes a shit storm you cannot imagine.”
The waitress delivered the cheeseburger and fries, but Lauren had lost her appetite. The woman grabbed the burger, French kissed a glob of mayo oozing out of the bun, and took a bite. Grease coated her lower lip, and she flicked at it with her tongue.
After a moment, Lauren said, “I don’t have your money.”
“No shit.”
“I stashed it in a farmhouse in Kansas.”
“You stashed it in the trunk of that dumb-ass Camry.” Another laugh like a barking dog.
Shit. She followed me. Maybe all the way from Kansas.
“So you’ve got the money back...”
“Except for what’s stuffed in your bra. Or did you suddenly become a D-cup?"”
“I don't get it. What do you want with me?”
The woman picked up a fry. Her long nails were perfectly manicured and painted blood red. “You gotta pay for what you did.” She sucked the fry into her mouth, took one bite, and swallowed. “You gotta do a job for The Man.”
One quick fluid motion, and Lauren slid out of the booth and pointed the Glock at the woman’s chest. “Tell the bastard to make an appointment.”
The woman’s fist shot out so quickly Lauren didn’t realize she’d been hit until she heard the Glock hit the tile floor and felt the stinger deep in her shoulder joint. A split second later, the woman was on her feet, a strong hand clamped around Lauren’s neck.
“This is the one who killed all those guys in Kansas?”
It was a man’s voice coming from behind Lauren. Filled with disbelief.
“She’s better than this,” the black woman said.
“I hope so, for your sake.”
Lauren strained to turn her head but the woman’s grip was too tight. She knew it was The Man behind her. What she didn’t know was what the hell he wanted with her.
“Hey! Leave her alone!” It was the guy at the counter. He gave up on his meatloaf and slid off the stool, hands on his hips. “I said let her go or I’ll call the cops!”
The Man laughed and nodded at the black woman. Still squeezing Lauren’s neck, she reached inside her bomber jacket with her other hand, whipped out a six-inch carbon steel throwing knife and let it fly, catching the guy in the throat. His carotid artery erupted in a bloody geyser as he melted to the floor.
Bug-eyed, Lauren looked around the diner. There was no sign of the cook or the waitress. For their sakes, she hoped they’d hit the street running and weren’t looking back. The Man had the same question.
“The cook and the waitress – where the hell are they?”
The black woman shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”
“Well find out, you stupid bitch! Now! We can’t afford any witnesses.”
“What about her?”
The Man grabbed Lauren’s arm, twisting it behind her back until Lauren was certain he’d rip it out of her shoulder. “Her? I can handle her. Now lock the door, turn off the lights and find those two!”
The black woman picked up Lauren’s Glock, did as she was told and disappeared in the back of the diner.
The Man tightened his grip on Lauren’s arm until she grunted in pain.
“You really bite that farm boy’s cock off?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in close, cupping her breast and rubbing his cock against her, whispering in her ear. “Guess I’ll just have to play it safe and give it to you up the ass.”
A woman’s scream echoed from the back of the diner. The Man grinned until the lights came on and he saw the waitress, holding the black woman’s head in one hand, blood dripping from her severed neck, and aiming Lauren’s Glock at him. She put a round in the center of his face before he could make a sound.
“I swear to God,” the waitress said, “one more ball-sack-for-brains man comes in here and there’s going to be some serious shit go down. Now what’s all this talk about money?”
She dropped the severed head onto the linoleum floor. A bloody cleaver hung from her apron pocket, soaking the cheap fabric red. The waitress was as good with the knife as with the gun. Lauren knew that she was in trouble.
Still gripping the Glock, the waitress made her way closer to Lauren. Her hair was the color of twine with just about the same frizz. Lauren noticed for the first time that her face was completely dotted like her mother’s—you couldn’t tell when the freckles stopped and the age spots started. The skin underneath her chin sagged. The waitress was too old to accept any bullshit, especially from a younger woman. Lauren would have to play this straight.
“They have it now. Or at least had it.” Lauren gestured back towards the Man’s lifeless body and the smear of brain left on the wall.
“Get his keys.”
Lauren complied, stuffing her hand into the man’s jeans pocket, one at a time. Her suspicions were confirmed: the Man didn’t have much to offer.
“Somethin’ funny?”
Lauren remained silent, and fished a circle of keys—including a Ford’s—in the left pocket. She also felt something round and hard which she kept hidden in her palm.
She dangled the keys for the waitress to see. The nose of the Glock directed her out the door to the parking lot.
Police sirens wailed in the distance and Lauren estimated that they had a good five minutes before the black-and-whites arrived.
“Let’s get on with it.”
Lauren didn’t have any arguments with that. But she discovered that she didn’t need any keys because the truck door was already open. The cab was empty, aside from a couple Circle K coffee cups on the passenger side floor.
Underneath a dim street light, yards away, they saw a slight man in an apron carrying a duffel bag make a run for an old Impala. The door slammed and the engine revved before the car tore out of the gravel lot onto the street.
“Fuckin’ Felipe,” the waitress said.
Around the corner on the other side three police cars came speeding in, their sirens and lights blazing.
Before Lauren could react, the waitress had grabbed her by the good arm and hustled her around behind the truck. Five minutes? There were still sirens in the distance but these boys couldn't have been more than a block or two away. As the cruisers slammed to a halt before the restaurant, the waitress put a hand on Lauren's head to push her down and out of sight. The muzzle of the automatic pressed hard against her temple. The waitress peered through the cab and didn't let her up until the cops were safely inside the building.
"Okay, Barbie," the waitress said. "Let's see how well you drive."
"I got punched in the arm," Lauren said. "I can't feel my fingers."
"Sunnuvabitch," the waitress said. "Just get in."
The cops were still inside the diner as the truck pulled away. If any of them heard the squeal of the tires, no one made it out in time to witness their departure.
Two skipped red lights later the waitress said, "I guess it's fair to say that's me well and truly fucked insofar as Cook County's concerned." The woman glanced at Lauren across the cab of the Ford truck, her expression hard in the passing streetlights. "You got a lot to answer for."
"Sorry," Lauren said, squeezing her shoulder and wincing as sensation returned.
"Where are we going?"
"Got to take care of some business," the woman said. "Lucky for us Felipe drives like somebody's Grandma."
The Impala was about half a block ahead of them on an empty street of parked cars, and the distance was narrowing fast. The waitress sped up to get alongside and then, with one deft tweak of the wheel, cut across Felipe and drove him into the side of the road where he hit first a Volkswagen and then a Toyota, which rammed the empty Chevy van in front of it.
About a dozen car alarms were making a screamers' orchestra as the waitress climbed out of the truck and walked toward the Impala. Felipe was kicking at the driver's door to get it open. He scrambled out just as she got there, and tried to run. She tripped him easily, put a foot on his back to stop him rising, and a shot in the back of his head to stop him for good.
Then she got back behind the wheel.
"Poor guy was heading for home," she said. "Got a wife and two babies waiting for him there. It's a damned shame."
They made a U-turn, and headed back toward the diner.
“The fuck are you doing?” Lauren shouted. “The money’s back in the Impala!”
“Yeah, but I got to get rid of you, first, Barbie.” The waitress laughed. “The cops ‘ll wanna give me a fucking medal when I deliver their prime suspect -- all tied up with a neat pink bow.”
Lauren stiffened. She felt her eyes narrow. No fucking way was this bitch gonna get her stash. It belonged to her. No one else. She’d decide who to share it with. Maybe Hank. Maybe she’d even give Jimmy a cut. If she was feeling generous. She whipped her head around. The Impala was receding in the rear view. They were just about back at the diner. She had to act fast.
Three cruisers were double-parked in the street, their engines running. She lunged across the front seat of the truck. Before the waitress could react, Lauren wrenched the wheel hard to the left. The truck slammed into one of the cruisers. The impact threw her back, and Lauren felt her shoulder tear. A wave of pain washed over her. But the Glock, which had been in the waitress’s lap, slipped to the floor. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Lauren bent down and grabbed it. Opening the door with her good arm, she rolled out of the truck and onto the street. She had about two seconds to take off before the cops came outside. She staggered to her feet and took one last look at the waitress. The bitch hadn’t moved, and blood was trickling down her cheek.
Parts 1 - 7
____________
Lauren Blaine rolled down the window as she cruised up Lake Shore Drive in the stolen Camry. No one ever told her the Windy City was so pretty, even at two in the morning. On one side a silver moon spilled a veil of sparks on the lake; on the other a few insomniacs’ lights twinkled in the high-rises. Chicago might be nicer than LA. She smiled, looking forward to a fresh start. Why not? She had the money and the talent. And the Glock.
She turned off the Drive, looking for a twenty-four-hour restaurant. Danger always gave her an appetite, and there’d been plenty of that back in Kansas. She’d spent the last twelve hours racing north to Nebraska in Marlboro Man’s pickup, leaving the carnage – and the bodies -- behind. Then east into Iowa where she ditched the truck at a rest stop and hot-wired the Camry. She mentally thanked Hank for teaching her the necessary survival skills.
Now, she spotted the yellow sign above a Golden Nugget on a corner. She parked, slipped the Glock into her waistband, and stashed most of the cash in the trunk. Ducking her head to avoid the video camera tilting down on the sidewalk, she pushed through the door to the restaurant.
Inside, the staff outnumbered the customers. A waitress chatted up the short order cook behind the counter, and the sole customer, a man, crouched over a plate of what might have been meat loaf.
She slid into a booth in the back and picked up a greasy, laminated menu. She was ravenous. The waitress sauntered over and gave her the once-over.
“What ‘ll it be, honey?”
Lauren was about to answer when the door of the restaurant swung open.
A woman came in wearing tight, black leather pants and a faded bomber jacket over a Roots hoody. Her short-cropped hair was jet-black and so was her skin. She looked directly at Lauren with an intensity, and a smile of recognition, that made her stomach seize up.
She knows me.
But that wasn’t possible. There were thousands of miles, and several dead bodies, between her and any place she’d ever been before and anyone who’d ever known her.
It had to be a mistake.
“She’ll have a rare, double-cheese burger with mayonnaise, catsup, mustard, and raw onions, no tomato, crispy fries and a Coke, no ice,” the woman said as she strode over and slid into the booth across the table from Lauren.
Oh yes, she knows me.
It was exactly what Lauren was about to order, her favorite midnight snack.
But Lauren wasn’t hungry any more. She was scared and tired and pissed off.
The waitress scratched out the order on her pad then looked up at the black woman. “What’ll you have?”
“A slice of chocolate cake,” she said. “Black and sweet, like me.”
“I’m sure you are,” the waitress said and lumbered off.
Lauren stared into the woman’s eyes. Her Glock was already aimed at the woman’s crotch under the table.
“Who are you?”
The woman smiled. “That depends, Lauren. If you give me the money you took, I’m the seductive Nubian goddess you had an erotically-charged, late-night meal with one dark night on the road and always regretted not fucking. If you don’t give me the money, then I’m the bad-ass black bitch who killed you with that Glock you’re holding and then burned this hell-hole to the ground.”
Lauren kept her gaze level and her face expressionless.
Never let them see your fear.
“So you work for that low-life Jimmy?” she said.
“More like he works for me, angel.”
“And the money...”
“Mine. Just like your white ass.”
“Bullshit. Jimmy runs all the crank between St. Louis and–”
The woman’s laugh could have scared a Doberman Pinscher. “He told me you liked double cheeseburgers and were smart as hell. As least he got it half right.”
Under the table, Lauren’s hand was beginning to cramp. A Glock with a full clip is a helluva lot heavier than a man’s cock, even Jimmy’s. “What’s there to keep me from shooting you and hitting the road before you bleed out?”
“Think about it. Jimmy works for me. I work for The Man. You fuck with Jimmy, I’m on your ass. You fuck with me, The Man unleashes a shit storm you cannot imagine.”
The waitress delivered the cheeseburger and fries, but Lauren had lost her appetite. The woman grabbed the burger, French kissed a glob of mayo oozing out of the bun, and took a bite. Grease coated her lower lip, and she flicked at it with her tongue.
After a moment, Lauren said, “I don’t have your money.”
“No shit.”
“I stashed it in a farmhouse in Kansas.”
“You stashed it in the trunk of that dumb-ass Camry.” Another laugh like a barking dog.
Shit. She followed me. Maybe all the way from Kansas.
“So you’ve got the money back...”
“Except for what’s stuffed in your bra. Or did you suddenly become a D-cup?"”
“I don't get it. What do you want with me?”
The woman picked up a fry. Her long nails were perfectly manicured and painted blood red. “You gotta pay for what you did.” She sucked the fry into her mouth, took one bite, and swallowed. “You gotta do a job for The Man.”
One quick fluid motion, and Lauren slid out of the booth and pointed the Glock at the woman’s chest. “Tell the bastard to make an appointment.”
The woman’s fist shot out so quickly Lauren didn’t realize she’d been hit until she heard the Glock hit the tile floor and felt the stinger deep in her shoulder joint. A split second later, the woman was on her feet, a strong hand clamped around Lauren’s neck.
“This is the one who killed all those guys in Kansas?”
It was a man’s voice coming from behind Lauren. Filled with disbelief.
“She’s better than this,” the black woman said.
“I hope so, for your sake.”
Lauren strained to turn her head but the woman’s grip was too tight. She knew it was The Man behind her. What she didn’t know was what the hell he wanted with her.
“Hey! Leave her alone!” It was the guy at the counter. He gave up on his meatloaf and slid off the stool, hands on his hips. “I said let her go or I’ll call the cops!”
The Man laughed and nodded at the black woman. Still squeezing Lauren’s neck, she reached inside her bomber jacket with her other hand, whipped out a six-inch carbon steel throwing knife and let it fly, catching the guy in the throat. His carotid artery erupted in a bloody geyser as he melted to the floor.
Bug-eyed, Lauren looked around the diner. There was no sign of the cook or the waitress. For their sakes, she hoped they’d hit the street running and weren’t looking back. The Man had the same question.
“The cook and the waitress – where the hell are they?”
The black woman shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”
“Well find out, you stupid bitch! Now! We can’t afford any witnesses.”
“What about her?”
The Man grabbed Lauren’s arm, twisting it behind her back until Lauren was certain he’d rip it out of her shoulder. “Her? I can handle her. Now lock the door, turn off the lights and find those two!”
The black woman picked up Lauren’s Glock, did as she was told and disappeared in the back of the diner.
The Man tightened his grip on Lauren’s arm until she grunted in pain.
“You really bite that farm boy’s cock off?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in close, cupping her breast and rubbing his cock against her, whispering in her ear. “Guess I’ll just have to play it safe and give it to you up the ass.”
A woman’s scream echoed from the back of the diner. The Man grinned until the lights came on and he saw the waitress, holding the black woman’s head in one hand, blood dripping from her severed neck, and aiming Lauren’s Glock at him. She put a round in the center of his face before he could make a sound.
“I swear to God,” the waitress said, “one more ball-sack-for-brains man comes in here and there’s going to be some serious shit go down. Now what’s all this talk about money?”
She dropped the severed head onto the linoleum floor. A bloody cleaver hung from her apron pocket, soaking the cheap fabric red. The waitress was as good with the knife as with the gun. Lauren knew that she was in trouble.
Still gripping the Glock, the waitress made her way closer to Lauren. Her hair was the color of twine with just about the same frizz. Lauren noticed for the first time that her face was completely dotted like her mother’s—you couldn’t tell when the freckles stopped and the age spots started. The skin underneath her chin sagged. The waitress was too old to accept any bullshit, especially from a younger woman. Lauren would have to play this straight.
“They have it now. Or at least had it.” Lauren gestured back towards the Man’s lifeless body and the smear of brain left on the wall.
“Get his keys.”
Lauren complied, stuffing her hand into the man’s jeans pocket, one at a time. Her suspicions were confirmed: the Man didn’t have much to offer.
“Somethin’ funny?”
Lauren remained silent, and fished a circle of keys—including a Ford’s—in the left pocket. She also felt something round and hard which she kept hidden in her palm.
She dangled the keys for the waitress to see. The nose of the Glock directed her out the door to the parking lot.
Police sirens wailed in the distance and Lauren estimated that they had a good five minutes before the black-and-whites arrived.
“Let’s get on with it.”
Lauren didn’t have any arguments with that. But she discovered that she didn’t need any keys because the truck door was already open. The cab was empty, aside from a couple Circle K coffee cups on the passenger side floor.
Underneath a dim street light, yards away, they saw a slight man in an apron carrying a duffel bag make a run for an old Impala. The door slammed and the engine revved before the car tore out of the gravel lot onto the street.
“Fuckin’ Felipe,” the waitress said.
Around the corner on the other side three police cars came speeding in, their sirens and lights blazing.
Before Lauren could react, the waitress had grabbed her by the good arm and hustled her around behind the truck. Five minutes? There were still sirens in the distance but these boys couldn't have been more than a block or two away. As the cruisers slammed to a halt before the restaurant, the waitress put a hand on Lauren's head to push her down and out of sight. The muzzle of the automatic pressed hard against her temple. The waitress peered through the cab and didn't let her up until the cops were safely inside the building.
"Okay, Barbie," the waitress said. "Let's see how well you drive."
"I got punched in the arm," Lauren said. "I can't feel my fingers."
"Sunnuvabitch," the waitress said. "Just get in."
The cops were still inside the diner as the truck pulled away. If any of them heard the squeal of the tires, no one made it out in time to witness their departure.
Two skipped red lights later the waitress said, "I guess it's fair to say that's me well and truly fucked insofar as Cook County's concerned." The woman glanced at Lauren across the cab of the Ford truck, her expression hard in the passing streetlights. "You got a lot to answer for."
"Sorry," Lauren said, squeezing her shoulder and wincing as sensation returned.
"Where are we going?"
"Got to take care of some business," the woman said. "Lucky for us Felipe drives like somebody's Grandma."
The Impala was about half a block ahead of them on an empty street of parked cars, and the distance was narrowing fast. The waitress sped up to get alongside and then, with one deft tweak of the wheel, cut across Felipe and drove him into the side of the road where he hit first a Volkswagen and then a Toyota, which rammed the empty Chevy van in front of it.
About a dozen car alarms were making a screamers' orchestra as the waitress climbed out of the truck and walked toward the Impala. Felipe was kicking at the driver's door to get it open. He scrambled out just as she got there, and tried to run. She tripped him easily, put a foot on his back to stop him rising, and a shot in the back of his head to stop him for good.
Then she got back behind the wheel.
"Poor guy was heading for home," she said. "Got a wife and two babies waiting for him there. It's a damned shame."
They made a U-turn, and headed back toward the diner.
“The fuck are you doing?” Lauren shouted. “The money’s back in the Impala!”
“Yeah, but I got to get rid of you, first, Barbie.” The waitress laughed. “The cops ‘ll wanna give me a fucking medal when I deliver their prime suspect -- all tied up with a neat pink bow.”
Lauren stiffened. She felt her eyes narrow. No fucking way was this bitch gonna get her stash. It belonged to her. No one else. She’d decide who to share it with. Maybe Hank. Maybe she’d even give Jimmy a cut. If she was feeling generous. She whipped her head around. The Impala was receding in the rear view. They were just about back at the diner. She had to act fast.
Three cruisers were double-parked in the street, their engines running. She lunged across the front seat of the truck. Before the waitress could react, Lauren wrenched the wheel hard to the left. The truck slammed into one of the cruisers. The impact threw her back, and Lauren felt her shoulder tear. A wave of pain washed over her. But the Glock, which had been in the waitress’s lap, slipped to the floor. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Lauren bent down and grabbed it. Opening the door with her good arm, she rolled out of the truck and onto the street. She had about two seconds to take off before the cops came outside. She staggered to her feet and took one last look at the waitress. The bitch hadn’t moved, and blood was trickling down her cheek.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Lauren's Run -- Part 7
“The fuck are you doing?” Lauren shouted. “The money’s back in the Impala!”
“Yeah, but I got to get rid of you, first, Barbie.” The waitress laughed. “The cops ‘ll wanna give me a fucking medal when I deliver their prime suspect -- all tied up with a neat pink bow.”
Lauren stiffened. She felt her eyes narrow. No fucking way was this bitch gonna get her stash. It belonged to her. No one else. She’d decide who to share it with. Maybe Hank. Maybe she’d even give Jimmy a cut. If she was feeling generous. She whipped her head around. The Impala was receding in the rear view. They were just about back at the diner. She had to act fast.
Three cruisers were double-parked in the street, their engines running. She lunged across the front seat of the truck. Before the waitress could react, Lauren wrenched the wheel hard to the left. The truck slammed into one of the cruisers. The impact threw her back, and Lauren felt her shoulder tear. A wave of pain washed over her. But the Glock, which had been in the waitress’s lap, slipped to the floor. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Lauren bent down and grabbed it. Opening the door with her good arm, she rolled out of the truck and onto the street. She had about two seconds to take off before the cops came outside. She staggered to her feet and took one last look at the waitress. The bitch hadn’t moved, and blood was trickling down her cheek.
“Yeah, but I got to get rid of you, first, Barbie.” The waitress laughed. “The cops ‘ll wanna give me a fucking medal when I deliver their prime suspect -- all tied up with a neat pink bow.”
Lauren stiffened. She felt her eyes narrow. No fucking way was this bitch gonna get her stash. It belonged to her. No one else. She’d decide who to share it with. Maybe Hank. Maybe she’d even give Jimmy a cut. If she was feeling generous. She whipped her head around. The Impala was receding in the rear view. They were just about back at the diner. She had to act fast.
Three cruisers were double-parked in the street, their engines running. She lunged across the front seat of the truck. Before the waitress could react, Lauren wrenched the wheel hard to the left. The truck slammed into one of the cruisers. The impact threw her back, and Lauren felt her shoulder tear. A wave of pain washed over her. But the Glock, which had been in the waitress’s lap, slipped to the floor. Gritting her teeth against the pain, Lauren bent down and grabbed it. Opening the door with her good arm, she rolled out of the truck and onto the street. She had about two seconds to take off before the cops came outside. She staggered to her feet and took one last look at the waitress. The bitch hadn’t moved, and blood was trickling down her cheek.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Lauren's Run -- Part 6
Before Lauren could react, the waitress had grabbed her by the good arm and hustled her around behind the truck. Five minutes? There were still sirens in the distance but these boys couldn't have been more than a block or two away. As the cruisers slammed to a halt before the restaurant, the waitress put a hand on Lauren's head to push her down and out of sight. The muzzle of the automatic pressed hard against her temple. The waitress peered through the cab and didn't let her up until the cops were safely inside the building.
"Okay, Barbie," the waitress said. "Let's see how well you drive."
"I got punched in the arm," Lauren said. "I can't feel my fingers."
"Sunnuvabitch," the waitress said. "Just get in."
The cops were still inside the diner as the truck pulled away. If any of them heard the squeal of the tires, no one made it out in time to witness their departure.
Two skipped red lights later the waitress said, "I guess it's fair to say that's me well and truly fucked insofar as Cook County's concerned." The woman glanced at Lauren across the cab of the Ford truck, her expression hard in the passing streetlights. "You got a lot to answer for."
"Sorry," Lauren said, squeezing her shoulder and wincing as sensation returned.
"Where are we going?"
"Got to take care of some business," the woman said. "Lucky for us Felipe drives like somebody's Grandma."
The Impala was about half a block ahead of them on an empty street of parked cars, and the distance was narrowing fast. The waitress sped up to get alongside and then, with one deft tweak of the wheel, cut across Felipe and drove him into the side of the road where he hit first a Volkswagen and then a Toyota, which rammed the empty Chevy van in front of it.
About a dozen car alarms were making a screamers' orchestra as the waitress climbed out of the truck and walked toward the Impala. Felipe was kicking at the driver's door to get it open. He scrambled out just as she got there, and tried to run. She tripped him easily, put a foot on his back to stop him rising, and a shot in the back of his head to stop him for good.
Then she got back behind the wheel.
"Poor guy was heading for home," she said. "Got a wife and two babies waiting for him there. It's a damned shame."
They made a U-turn, and headed back toward the diner.
"Okay, Barbie," the waitress said. "Let's see how well you drive."
"I got punched in the arm," Lauren said. "I can't feel my fingers."
"Sunnuvabitch," the waitress said. "Just get in."
The cops were still inside the diner as the truck pulled away. If any of them heard the squeal of the tires, no one made it out in time to witness their departure.
Two skipped red lights later the waitress said, "I guess it's fair to say that's me well and truly fucked insofar as Cook County's concerned." The woman glanced at Lauren across the cab of the Ford truck, her expression hard in the passing streetlights. "You got a lot to answer for."
"Sorry," Lauren said, squeezing her shoulder and wincing as sensation returned.
"Where are we going?"
"Got to take care of some business," the woman said. "Lucky for us Felipe drives like somebody's Grandma."
The Impala was about half a block ahead of them on an empty street of parked cars, and the distance was narrowing fast. The waitress sped up to get alongside and then, with one deft tweak of the wheel, cut across Felipe and drove him into the side of the road where he hit first a Volkswagen and then a Toyota, which rammed the empty Chevy van in front of it.
About a dozen car alarms were making a screamers' orchestra as the waitress climbed out of the truck and walked toward the Impala. Felipe was kicking at the driver's door to get it open. He scrambled out just as she got there, and tried to run. She tripped him easily, put a foot on his back to stop him rising, and a shot in the back of his head to stop him for good.
Then she got back behind the wheel.
"Poor guy was heading for home," she said. "Got a wife and two babies waiting for him there. It's a damned shame."
They made a U-turn, and headed back toward the diner.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Lauren's Run -- Part 5
She dropped the severed head onto the linoleum floor. A bloody cleaver hung from her apron pocket, soaking the cheap fabric red. The waitress was as good with the knife as with the gun. Lauren knew that she was in trouble.
Still gripping the Glock, the waitress made her way closer to Lauren. Her hair was the color of twine with just about the same frizz. Lauren noticed for the first time that her face was completely dotted like her mother’s—you couldn’t tell when the freckles stopped and the age spots started. The skin underneath her chin sagged. The waitress was too old to accept any bullshit, especially from a younger woman. Lauren would have to play this straight.
“They have it now. Or at least had it.” Lauren gestured back towards the Man’s lifeless body and the smear of brain left on the wall.
“Get his keys.”
Lauren complied, stuffing her hand into the man’s jeans pocket, one at a time. Her suspicions were confirmed: the Man didn’t have much to offer.
“Somethin’ funny?”
Lauren remained silent, and fished a circle of keys—including a Ford’s—in the left pocket. She also felt something round and hard which she kept hidden in her palm.
She dangled the keys for the waitress to see. The nose of the Glock directed her out the door to the parking lot.
Police sirens wailed in the distance and Lauren estimated that they had a good five minutes before the black-and-whites arrived.
“Let’s get on with it.”
Lauren didn’t have any arguments with that. But she discovered that she didn’t need any keys because the truck door was already open. The cab was empty, aside from a couple Circle K coffee cups on the passenger side floor.
Underneath a dim street light, yards away, they saw a slight man in an apron carrying a duffel bag make a run for an old Impala. The door slammed and the engine revved before the car tore out of the gravel lot onto the street.
“Fuckin’ Felipe,” the waitress said.
Around the corner on the other side three police cars came speeding in, their sirens and lights blazing.
Still gripping the Glock, the waitress made her way closer to Lauren. Her hair was the color of twine with just about the same frizz. Lauren noticed for the first time that her face was completely dotted like her mother’s—you couldn’t tell when the freckles stopped and the age spots started. The skin underneath her chin sagged. The waitress was too old to accept any bullshit, especially from a younger woman. Lauren would have to play this straight.
“They have it now. Or at least had it.” Lauren gestured back towards the Man’s lifeless body and the smear of brain left on the wall.
“Get his keys.”
Lauren complied, stuffing her hand into the man’s jeans pocket, one at a time. Her suspicions were confirmed: the Man didn’t have much to offer.
“Somethin’ funny?”
Lauren remained silent, and fished a circle of keys—including a Ford’s—in the left pocket. She also felt something round and hard which she kept hidden in her palm.
She dangled the keys for the waitress to see. The nose of the Glock directed her out the door to the parking lot.
Police sirens wailed in the distance and Lauren estimated that they had a good five minutes before the black-and-whites arrived.
“Let’s get on with it.”
Lauren didn’t have any arguments with that. But she discovered that she didn’t need any keys because the truck door was already open. The cab was empty, aside from a couple Circle K coffee cups on the passenger side floor.
Underneath a dim street light, yards away, they saw a slight man in an apron carrying a duffel bag make a run for an old Impala. The door slammed and the engine revved before the car tore out of the gravel lot onto the street.
“Fuckin’ Felipe,” the waitress said.
Around the corner on the other side three police cars came speeding in, their sirens and lights blazing.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Lauren's Run -- Part 4
“Hey! Leave her alone!” It was the guy at the counter. He gave up on his meatloaf and slid off the stool, hands on his hips. “I said let her go or I’ll call the cops!”
The Man laughed and nodded at the black woman. Still squeezing Lauren’s neck, she reached inside her bomber jacket with her other hand, whipped out a six-inch carbon steel throwing knife and let it fly, catching the guy in the throat. His carotid artery erupted in a bloody geyser as he melted to the floor.
Bug-eyed, Lauren looked around the diner. There was no sign of the cook or the waitress. For their sakes, she hoped they’d hit the street running and weren’t looking back. The Man had the same question.
“The cook and the waitress – where the hell are they?”
The black woman shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”
“Well find out, you stupid bitch! Now! We can’t afford any witnesses.”
“What about her?”
The Man grabbed Lauren’s arm, twisting it behind her back until Lauren was certain he’d rip it out of her shoulder. “Her? I can handle her. Now lock the door, turn off the lights and find those two!”
The black woman picked up Lauren’s Glock, did as she was told and disappeared in the back of the diner.
The Man tightened his grip on Lauren’s arm until she grunted in pain.
“You really bite that farm boy’s cock off?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in close, cupping her breast and rubbing his cock against her, whispering in her ear. “Guess I’ll just have to play it safe and give it to you up the ass.”
A woman’s scream echoed from the back of the diner. The Man grinned until the lights came on and he saw the waitress, holding the black woman’s head in one hand, blood dripping from her severed neck, and aiming Lauren’s Glock at him. She put a round in the center of his face before he could make a sound.
“I swear to God,” the waitress said, “one more ball-sack-for-brains man comes in here and there’s going to be some serious shit go down. Now what’s all this talk about money?”
The Man laughed and nodded at the black woman. Still squeezing Lauren’s neck, she reached inside her bomber jacket with her other hand, whipped out a six-inch carbon steel throwing knife and let it fly, catching the guy in the throat. His carotid artery erupted in a bloody geyser as he melted to the floor.
Bug-eyed, Lauren looked around the diner. There was no sign of the cook or the waitress. For their sakes, she hoped they’d hit the street running and weren’t looking back. The Man had the same question.
“The cook and the waitress – where the hell are they?”
The black woman shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”
“Well find out, you stupid bitch! Now! We can’t afford any witnesses.”
“What about her?”
The Man grabbed Lauren’s arm, twisting it behind her back until Lauren was certain he’d rip it out of her shoulder. “Her? I can handle her. Now lock the door, turn off the lights and find those two!”
The black woman picked up Lauren’s Glock, did as she was told and disappeared in the back of the diner.
The Man tightened his grip on Lauren’s arm until she grunted in pain.
“You really bite that farm boy’s cock off?”
“Yeah.”
He leaned in close, cupping her breast and rubbing his cock against her, whispering in her ear. “Guess I’ll just have to play it safe and give it to you up the ass.”
A woman’s scream echoed from the back of the diner. The Man grinned until the lights came on and he saw the waitress, holding the black woman’s head in one hand, blood dripping from her severed neck, and aiming Lauren’s Glock at him. She put a round in the center of his face before he could make a sound.
“I swear to God,” the waitress said, “one more ball-sack-for-brains man comes in here and there’s going to be some serious shit go down. Now what’s all this talk about money?”
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Lauren's Run -- Part 3
Lauren kept her gaze level and her face expressionless.
Never let them see your fear.
“So you work for that low-life Jimmy?” she said.
“More like he works for me, angel.”
“And the money...”
“Mine. Just like your white ass.”
“Bullshit. Jimmy runs all the crank between St. Louis and–”
The woman’s laugh could have scared a Doberman Pinscher. “He told me you liked double cheeseburgers and were smart as hell. As least he got it half right.”
Under the table, Lauren’s hand was beginning to cramp. A Glock with a full clip is a helluva lot heavier than a man’s cock, even Jimmy’s. “What’s there to keep me from shooting you and hitting the road before you bleed out?”
“Think about it. Jimmy works for me. I work for The Man. You fuck with Jimmy, I’m on your ass. You fuck with me, The Man unleashes a shit storm you cannot imagine.”
The waitress delivered the cheeseburger and fries, but Lauren had lost her appetite. The woman grabbed the burger, French kissed a glob of mayo oozing out of the bun, and took a bite. Grease coated her lower lip, and she flicked at it with her tongue.
After a moment, Lauren said, “I don’t have your money.”
“No shit.”
“I stashed it in a farmhouse in Kansas.”
“You stashed it in the trunk of that dumb-ass Camry.” Another laugh like a barking dog.
Shit. She followed me. Maybe all the way from Kansas.
“So you’ve got the money back...”
“Except for what’s stuffed in your bra. Or did you suddenly become a D-cup?"”
“I don't get it. What do you want with me?”
The woman picked up a fry. Her long nails were perfectly manicured and painted blood red. “You gotta pay for what you did.” She sucked the fry into her mouth, took one bite, and swallowed. “You gotta do a job for The Man.”
One quick fluid motion, and Lauren slid out of the booth and pointed the Glock at the woman’s chest. “Tell the bastard to make an appointment.”
The woman’s fist shot out so quickly Lauren didn’t realize she’d been hit until she heard the Glock hit the tile floor and felt the stinger deep in her shoulder joint. A split second later, the woman was on her feet, a strong hand clamped around Lauren’s neck.
“This is the one who killed all those guys in Kansas?”
It was a man’s voice coming from behind Lauren. Filled with disbelief.
“She’s better than this,” the black woman said.
“I hope so, for your sake.”
Lauren strained to turn her head but the woman’s grip was too tight. She knew it was The Man behind her. What she didn’t know was what the hell he wanted with her.
Never let them see your fear.
“So you work for that low-life Jimmy?” she said.
“More like he works for me, angel.”
“And the money...”
“Mine. Just like your white ass.”
“Bullshit. Jimmy runs all the crank between St. Louis and–”
The woman’s laugh could have scared a Doberman Pinscher. “He told me you liked double cheeseburgers and were smart as hell. As least he got it half right.”
Under the table, Lauren’s hand was beginning to cramp. A Glock with a full clip is a helluva lot heavier than a man’s cock, even Jimmy’s. “What’s there to keep me from shooting you and hitting the road before you bleed out?”
“Think about it. Jimmy works for me. I work for The Man. You fuck with Jimmy, I’m on your ass. You fuck with me, The Man unleashes a shit storm you cannot imagine.”
The waitress delivered the cheeseburger and fries, but Lauren had lost her appetite. The woman grabbed the burger, French kissed a glob of mayo oozing out of the bun, and took a bite. Grease coated her lower lip, and she flicked at it with her tongue.
After a moment, Lauren said, “I don’t have your money.”
“No shit.”
“I stashed it in a farmhouse in Kansas.”
“You stashed it in the trunk of that dumb-ass Camry.” Another laugh like a barking dog.
Shit. She followed me. Maybe all the way from Kansas.
“So you’ve got the money back...”
“Except for what’s stuffed in your bra. Or did you suddenly become a D-cup?"”
“I don't get it. What do you want with me?”
The woman picked up a fry. Her long nails were perfectly manicured and painted blood red. “You gotta pay for what you did.” She sucked the fry into her mouth, took one bite, and swallowed. “You gotta do a job for The Man.”
One quick fluid motion, and Lauren slid out of the booth and pointed the Glock at the woman’s chest. “Tell the bastard to make an appointment.”
The woman’s fist shot out so quickly Lauren didn’t realize she’d been hit until she heard the Glock hit the tile floor and felt the stinger deep in her shoulder joint. A split second later, the woman was on her feet, a strong hand clamped around Lauren’s neck.
“This is the one who killed all those guys in Kansas?”
It was a man’s voice coming from behind Lauren. Filled with disbelief.
“She’s better than this,” the black woman said.
“I hope so, for your sake.”
Lauren strained to turn her head but the woman’s grip was too tight. She knew it was The Man behind her. What she didn’t know was what the hell he wanted with her.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Lauren's Run -- Part 2
A woman came in wearing tight, black leather pants and a faded bomber jacket over a Roots hoody. Her short-cropped hair was jet-black and so was her skin. She looked directly at Lauren with an intensity, and a smile of recognition, that made her stomach seize up.
She knows me.
But that wasn’t possible. There were thousands of miles, and several dead bodies, between her and any place she’d ever been before and anyone who’d ever known her.
It had to be a mistake.
“She’ll have a rare, double-cheese burger with mayonnaise, catsup, mustard, and raw onions, no tomato, crispy fries and a Coke, no ice,” the woman said as she strode over and slid into the booth across the table from Lauren.
Oh yes, she knows me.
It was exactly what Lauren was about to order, her favorite midnight snack.
But Lauren wasn’t hungry any more. She was scared and tired and pissed off.
The waitress scratched out the order on her pad then looked up at the black woman. “What’ll you have?”
“A slice of chocolate cake,” she said. “Black and sweet, like me.”
“I’m sure you are,” the waitress said and lumbered off.
Lauren stared into the woman’s eyes. Her Glock was already aimed at the woman’s crotch under the table.
“Who are you?”
The woman smiled. “That depends, Lauren. If you give me the money you took, I’m the seductive Nubian goddess you had an erotically-charged, late-night meal with one dark night on the road and always regretted not fucking. If you don’t give me the money, then I’m the bad-ass black bitch who killed you with that Glock you’re holding and then burned this hell-hole to the ground.”
She knows me.
But that wasn’t possible. There were thousands of miles, and several dead bodies, between her and any place she’d ever been before and anyone who’d ever known her.
It had to be a mistake.
“She’ll have a rare, double-cheese burger with mayonnaise, catsup, mustard, and raw onions, no tomato, crispy fries and a Coke, no ice,” the woman said as she strode over and slid into the booth across the table from Lauren.
Oh yes, she knows me.
It was exactly what Lauren was about to order, her favorite midnight snack.
But Lauren wasn’t hungry any more. She was scared and tired and pissed off.
The waitress scratched out the order on her pad then looked up at the black woman. “What’ll you have?”
“A slice of chocolate cake,” she said. “Black and sweet, like me.”
“I’m sure you are,” the waitress said and lumbered off.
Lauren stared into the woman’s eyes. Her Glock was already aimed at the woman’s crotch under the table.
“Who are you?”
The woman smiled. “That depends, Lauren. If you give me the money you took, I’m the seductive Nubian goddess you had an erotically-charged, late-night meal with one dark night on the road and always regretted not fucking. If you don’t give me the money, then I’m the bad-ass black bitch who killed you with that Glock you’re holding and then burned this hell-hole to the ground.”
Dead Man's Revenge (Rancho Diablo #3)
Bill Crider, writing as Colby Jackson. Book #3 in the Rancho Diablo series. Western action as you like it! Kindle only for the moment. Nook to come later. Check it out!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Lauren's Run -- A New Round Robin Story from TSG
As a way to celebrate the official release date of our Top Suspense Anthology (and wouldn't today be a perfect day to pick up our anthology for $2.99 for either the Kindle or Nook??), here's the first part of the sequel to The Chase, Lauren's Run. The same rules have been in effect for Lauren's Run--no planning, no safety nets, the only difference is we have a new set of players. While the original six members of Top Suspense (Max Allan Collins, Bill Crider, Ed Gorman, Vicki Hendricks, Harry Shannon and myself) wrote The Chase, the new six (Stephen Gallagher, Lee Goldberg, Joel Goldman, Libby Hellmann, Naomi Hirahara and Paul Levine) decided to strut their stuff and write the sequel. Over the next 12 days, I'll be posting a new part of the story with the author's name removed, so you can have fun trying to guess who wrote what (hint. buy our anthology! if you read it you'll be able to figure it out). And anyone who guesses all 12 story parts correctly will win free e-books from each of these six!
Lauren's Run (Part 1)
Lauren Blaine rolled down the window as she cruised up Lake Shore Drive in the stolen Camry. No one ever told her the Windy City was so pretty, even at two in the morning. On one side a silver moon spilled a veil of sparks on the lake; on the other a few insomniacs’ lights twinkled in the high-rises. Chicago might be nicer than LA. She smiled, looking forward to a fresh start. Why not? She had the money and the talent. And the Glock.
She turned off the Drive, looking for a twenty-four-hour restaurant. Danger always gave her an appetite, and there’d been plenty of that back in Kansas. She’d spent the last twelve hours racing north to Nebraska in Marlboro Man’s pickup, leaving the carnage – and the bodies -- behind. Then east into Iowa where she ditched the truck at a rest stop and hot-wired the Camry. She mentally thanked Hank for teaching her the necessary survival skills.
Now, she spotted the yellow sign above a Golden Nugget on a corner. She parked, slipped the Glock into her waistband, and stashed most of the cash in the trunk. Ducking her head to avoid the video camera tilting down on the sidewalk, she pushed through the door to the restaurant.
Inside, the staff outnumbered the customers. A waitress chatted up the short order cook behind the counter, and the sole customer, a man, crouched over a plate of what might have been meat loaf.
She slid into a booth in the back and picked up a greasy, laminated menu. She was ravenous. The waitress sauntered over and gave her the once-over.
“What ‘ll it be, honey?”
Lauren was about to answer when the door of the restaurant swung open.
Lauren's Run (Part 1)
Lauren Blaine rolled down the window as she cruised up Lake Shore Drive in the stolen Camry. No one ever told her the Windy City was so pretty, even at two in the morning. On one side a silver moon spilled a veil of sparks on the lake; on the other a few insomniacs’ lights twinkled in the high-rises. Chicago might be nicer than LA. She smiled, looking forward to a fresh start. Why not? She had the money and the talent. And the Glock.
She turned off the Drive, looking for a twenty-four-hour restaurant. Danger always gave her an appetite, and there’d been plenty of that back in Kansas. She’d spent the last twelve hours racing north to Nebraska in Marlboro Man’s pickup, leaving the carnage – and the bodies -- behind. Then east into Iowa where she ditched the truck at a rest stop and hot-wired the Camry. She mentally thanked Hank for teaching her the necessary survival skills.
Now, she spotted the yellow sign above a Golden Nugget on a corner. She parked, slipped the Glock into her waistband, and stashed most of the cash in the trunk. Ducking her head to avoid the video camera tilting down on the sidewalk, she pushed through the door to the restaurant.
Inside, the staff outnumbered the customers. A waitress chatted up the short order cook behind the counter, and the sole customer, a man, crouched over a plate of what might have been meat loaf.
She slid into a booth in the back and picked up a greasy, laminated menu. She was ravenous. The waitress sauntered over and gave her the once-over.
“What ‘ll it be, honey?”
Lauren was about to answer when the door of the restaurant swung open.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Bill Crider Interview on Criminal-E
Bill Crider interview: Dead On The Island
TOP SUSPENSE on Kindle and in paperback!
Don't forget the blistering anthology TOP SUSPENSE is now available for $2.99 on Kindle and a mere $11.99 in trade paperback. Our authors at the peak of their powers in thirteen unforgettable tales. This pulse-pounding anthology – packed full of cold-blooded killers, erotic tension, shady private eyes, craven drug dealers, vicious betrayals, crafty thieves, and shocking twists – is only a taste of the thrills you will find in the breathtakingly original ebooks by these authors at www.topsuspensegroup.com.
So sit back, bite down on a piece of strong leather, and prepare to get hit by some gale-force suspense and writing so sharp it will draw blood.
So sit back, bite down on a piece of strong leather, and prepare to get hit by some gale-force suspense and writing so sharp it will draw blood.
CLICK TO BUY YOUR COPY NOW!
http://www.amazon.com/Top-Suspense-Classic-Stories-ebook/dp/B004S7ACY0/ref=pd_cp_kinc_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2
http://www.amazon.com/Top-Suspense-Classic-Stories-ebook/dp/B004S7ACY0/ref=pd_cp_kinc_1?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2
Top Suspense includes:
Unreasonable Doubt by Max Allan Collins
Death’s Brother by Bill Crider
Poisoned by Stephen Gallagher
Remaindered by Lee Goldberg
Fire in the Sky by Joel Goldman
The Baby Store by Ed Gorman
The Jade Elephant by Libby Fischer Hellmann
The Big O by Vicki Hendricks
The Chirashi Covenant by Naomi Hirahara
El Valiente en el Infierno by Paul Levine
A Handful of Dust by Harry Shannon
The Canary by Dave Zeltserman
The Chase by Top Suspense Group
Unreasonable Doubt by Max Allan Collins
Death’s Brother by Bill Crider
Poisoned by Stephen Gallagher
Remaindered by Lee Goldberg
Fire in the Sky by Joel Goldman
The Baby Store by Ed Gorman
The Jade Elephant by Libby Fischer Hellmann
The Big O by Vicki Hendricks
The Chirashi Covenant by Naomi Hirahara
El Valiente en el Infierno by Paul Levine
A Handful of Dust by Harry Shannon
The Canary by Dave Zeltserman
The Chase by Top Suspense Group
Writers on writing
What makes a great suspense story work? Several members of Top Suspense paused to answer that question for Book Life Now.
http://booklifenow.com/2011/04/in-the-hands-of-a-master-the-top-suspense-group-on-creating-sustaining-suspense/
http://booklifenow.com/2011/04/in-the-hands-of-a-master-the-top-suspense-group-on-creating-sustaining-suspense/
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Bad Karma and evil yoga studios: another excerpt
The cover of Bad Karma proclaims Evil Yoga Studios. Really? Evil yoga studios in a hardboiled PI novel, even one that takes place in Boulder, Colorado? I must be joking, right? Nope. Here's another excerpt.
____________________________________________________________
The signs in front of the yoga studio were innocuous enough in the way they advertised new approaches to achieving well-being and stress relief. Several blown-up photos showed classes filled with young women, all seemingly in a state of bliss as they stretched in the same manner and direction.
Shannon walked down half a dozen steps, opened the front door and entered a small vestibule where he was assaulted by a pungent overly-sweet odor. The smell seemed like a mix of musk and marijuana. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was more powerful than any incense he had ever encountered and the air was thick with it.
From behind a set of curtains he heard people chanting in a low monotone. Something about Vishna being the one and true source. A woman stepped quickly through the curtains to meet Shannon. She was dark-haired, short, petite, in her early twenties and wearing yellow leotards. Her eyes were wide open and expressionless as she stared at Shannon in the same manner a morgue worker might look over an incoming body that needs to be catalogued. Then, nodding to herself as if she had finished sizing him up, she told him Vishna Yoga would not be for him.
“What?”
“What we do here would not be right for you. I am sorry, but it would be a waste of your money.”
“Why wouldn’t it be right for me?”
“Your energy is all wrong. Please leave.”
“Wait a minute.”
Shannon was taken aback by the woman’s reaction to him. To bide time, he picked up a brochure from the counter and started to thumb through it. Inside was a picture of their founder, Vishna the One True Source. He was a few years older than Shannon, maybe forty, with a shaved head, brownish skin and sharp features that were made even sharper by his piercing black eyes.
Shannon tried to act oblivious to the way the woman was staring at him and read aloud the marketing hype from the brochure. “Stress relief, improving my self-image, better sense of well-being.” Smiling, he added, “This sounds like what I’m looking for.”
“I am telling you this would be a waste of your money. There is nothing we can do for you.”
“It’s my money to waste.”
“No.”
Shannon gave her a hard look. “What if I stay to observe a class,” he said.
“Leave now or I will call the police.”
“I think I can stay for one class.”
“I said leave!”
An Asian woman, also very young, poked her head through the curtains and stared at Shannon with the same empty look in her eyes. With reinforcements now in place, the woman in the yellow leotard bent her knees, tensing, as if she were going to spring at him. A vein had started beating along her neck.
Shannon took a step back. “You know,” he said, “this isn’t doing much to help my stress. Or my well-being, for that matter.”
Saturday, April 2, 2011
A Bad Karma excerpt
When Bad Karma was released in hardcover in 2009, Booklist had this to say about it:
Detective Bill Shannon, introduced in Bad Thoughts (2007), is back, and a welcome return it is. Relocated from Boston to Boulder, Shannon has fled the Boston PD for a low-stress lifestyle, picking up a little work on the side as a private eye. But despite his efforts to find psychic and psychological peace of mind after his horrific encounter with Herbert Winters, the demonic serial killer from the earlier novel, Shannon discovers that putting distance between himself and the old evils doesn’t help him escape the new evils. Zeltserman weaves together elements of both mystery and horror genres, as Shannon again finds himself confronting the darkness that roams the boundary beyond one’s physical senses. It’s as though Zeltserman has aimed a 12-gauge sawed-off at smarmy New Age sensitivities and fired off both barrels. Irony abounds, as Shannon unmasks deviant gurus, evil yoga studios, Russian gangsters, and guys who use their baseball implements in socially unacceptable ways. If you liked the first novel in this series, you’ll love this one. — Elliott Swanson
Now Bad Karma is back in e-book form, and from time to time I'll be posting short excerpt's from my Boulder-based hardboiled PI novel.
________________________________________________________________
The house was barely a shack, probably no more than four rooms. A chain link fence surrounded the property, the yard mostly dirt mixed with a few weeds. Tires, a stove from the fifties, and a worn-out looking sofa were sitting in the front yard. As Shannon made his way up the walk to the door, a yellow and white pitbull mix charged out from under the sofa. When the dog got close to Shannon, it threw itself at him, but a chain around the neck snapped it back. The dog let out a yelp, then was back on its feet, frothing at the mouth and nearly airborne as it tried to get at Shannon’s throat.
Shannon eyed the dog cautiously and edged away from it. The front door opened and a kid, maybe eighteen, wearing a stained sleeveless muscle shirt and shorts that fell past his knees stepped out. He was thin and had a squirrelly look about him, with long greasy blond hair, bad skin and eyes that were too small and set too close together. His sleeveless shirt showed off greenish-colored tattoos on his pale and nearly skeleton-thin arms. Even though he had none of Taylor Carver’s good looks, Shannon could tell that they were brothers.
Randall Carver gave Shannon a quick look, then focused on the dog, yelling at it to shut up. “Buttercup, shut the fuck up!” he warned a second time. To Shannon’s surprise, especially given the frenzy the dog had worked herself into, she listened to him, cocking her head to one side as she paid full attention to the kid. Randall looked back at Shannon. “Who are you?” he asked.
“My name’s Bill Shannon. I’d like to talk to Eunice Carver. Is she home?”
“What do you want to talk to my ma about?”
Shannon walked towards the front door, stopping when he got a few feet from Randall. Up close, the younger Carver smelled like a mix of sweat and bad cheese. The kid’s eyes darted from left to right as if he were trying to make up his mind whether to stand his ground or flee.
“I’m investigating Taylor’s murder,” Shannon said. From behind he could hear Buttercup growl.
“Are you a cop?”
“I’m a private detective. You’re his brother, Randall, aren’t you?” Almost as if his head were attached to some invisible string, the kid nodded. “I’d like to talk to you also,” Shannon said. “Is your mom home?”
“Let me see.” Randall stuck his head into the house and yelled, “Ma, there’s a guy here wants to talk to you!”
A woman’s voice yelled back, “What about?”
“Taylor. He’s some sort of private eye.”
There was a silence within the house. Then, “Tell him I’m busy!”
Randall turned to Shannon and smiled, revealing teeth that were the color of chewing tobacco. “My ma’s too busy to talk with you,” he said. “And so am I.”
“That’s too bad. I would’ve thought the two of you would want to help find the person who murdered your brother. This won’t look good when your lawsuit goes to court.”
“How do you know about ma’s lawsuit?”
“I’d like to tell you, but you’re too busy to talk now.” Shannon turned and started towards his car, making sure to give Buttercup a wide berth. Randall stuck his head back in the door, yelled, “He says you not talking won’t look good with the lawsuit!”
“How does he know about that?”
“He won’t say!”
“Goddamn it!” There was a long silence that was broken only by Buttercup’s growling, then, “Tell him I’ll talk.”
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