A PAGE TOO FAR: Andrez Bergen

By ANDREZ BERGEN

Ever pushed yourself a page too far?

I used to laugh at these sporty types, especially the marathon runners, who literally ran themselves into the ground. From the comfort of my couch I could lob popcorn at the silly buggers – you’d never, ever, catch me stretching myself thin like that.

Then there were the paratroopers over-extending themselves in that old ‘70s war flick, A Bridge Too Far, which also cheekily over-extended itself in length.

Anyway, I thought I pushed myself reasonably hard, with a lot of late nights and early mornings, finishing off my first novel Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat (TSMG).

That, I told myself, was bloody hard yakka.

But I have one word to utter here, a simple three-letter beastie that best captures how I currently feel: Hah!

It’s 5:40 a.m. in Tokyo, dark outside, and the temperature is 1ºC – which is not too bad, since winter is finally on its way out.

I have ten days in which to finish off my second novel.

Yep, March 31 is my self-imposed deadline to finish off a rambling, off-the-wall tale that looks like including in the mix the Graf Zeppelin, geisha, yakuza, nuclear weapons, B-29s, death, revenge, and a mystery.

The thing is currently titled One Hundred Years of Vicissitude.

Ye gods. I fret at the idea of tying it all together, which is one of the reasons I’ve conveniently ditched the manuscript this morning, to have more fun here.

Whining.

See, I committed myself to this deadline for the sake of a few things: (1) the affection of my daughter, a six-year-old who’s getting downright annoyed with the amount of time I’m spending on this novel; (2) the grand master challenge of completing a book in six months, whereas my first one took about 20 years; (3) a whole lot of other ideas that’re currently infusing in my woe-begotten headspace.

One of these is an anthology I’m putting together for Another Sky Press (the publishers of TSMG).

Titled The Tobacco-Stained Sky: An Anthology of Post-Apocalyptic Noir, it’s going to bring together a whole wad of current, cool cat noir/hardboiled writers, and their comic artist brethren. Some parts will be regular written words, others black-and-white artwork. The whole caboodle will focus on the near-future Dystopia of last-city-standing Melbourne.

We’ve already started on this project.

Plus there are music commitments (I do stuff under aliases like Little Nobody and Funk Gadget), a string of short stories I’ve promised to do, some articles that won’t write themselves, and my regular day job – the one that actually pays the bills.

My daughter Cocoa will wake up soon, sit on my knee in front of the computer, look at me wisely, and say “Two minutes,” just like she always does. A time limit does wonders for progress.

She’s a league smarter than me – I’ve become one of these silly people on the telly, the ones that push themselves too far.

Where’s the popcorn?


:: Explore Andrez's work, here...

Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat

One Hundred Years of Vicissitude

The Tobacco-Stained Sky: An Anthology of Post-Apocalyptic Noir

Coming soon - events

Got a few events lined up in the coming weeks and months.

Mostly I'll be talking about the new DI Rob Brennan novel, MURDER MILE, but there will also be some chatter - no doubt - on the Ayrshire coast about THE STORM WITHOUT and my new protagonist Doug Michie.


Thursday, April 12, 7pm

Dundee, Steps Theatre

With Alex Gray and Doug Johnston.

This is a free event but booking is essential on 01382 431500.

Tuesday, April 17, 6.30pm

Blackwell's Book Store, North Bridge, Edinburgh

Launch - MURDER MILE

Free entry


Friday, June 1, 12.30

Ayr Town Hall

As part of the Burns an' aw That Festival

Free entry


Wednesday, June 27, (Time to be confirmed)

Carnegie Library,
Ayr

Free entry


Tuesday, August 14, 8.30pm

Edinburgh book Festival

With Gordon Ferris.

Peppers Theatre, Charlotte Square, Edinburgh.

PUSHED FOR ANSWERS: Howard Linskey

Howard Linskey is a happy man.

But not content to have a runaway success story on his hands - in the form of his debut novel The Drop - the Herts author has more to celebrate: his Newcastle gangster story is soon to make its way to the screen, via some very big names.

Producer David Barron (Harry Potter) and JJ Connolly (Layer Cake) are in Linskey's corner - so what's not to smile about.

Pulp Pusher spoke to Linskey about his 'ludicrously long slog' to success and his preference for the Sig Sauer over Walthers, Webleys and Berettas.

TONY BLACK: The Drop was your debut novel, tell us how it feels to know it's making its way to the screen?

HOWARD LINSKEY: It’s a bit of a dream come true if I’m honest. It is very rare for a debut novel from a complete unknown to be snapped up by a top producer like David Barron. I think I’m still in shock.

The TV adaptation is being done by Runaway Fridge Films, who have quite a pedigree.

David has an unbelievable CV, including five moderately successful films that feature a character you may have vaguely heard of called Harry Potter. His first TV production with Runaway Fridge was ‘Page Eight’ and he managed to assemble a cast that included Bill Nighy, Rachel Weisz, Michael Gambon and Ralph Fiennes, which isn’t a bad start. It shows just how much clout he brings to a project.

Are you worried he may want to turn your protagonist, David Blake, into a boy wizard?

Well he did want to replace Blake’s Glock with a wand but I fought him hard on that one and he finally backed down.

Ah, the old Glock, it’s become a bit of a Brit-crime staple these days …

My villains use Makarovs, the cheap eastern European imports and a Sig Sauer was too flashy for David. Walthers, Webleys and Berettas are a bit old fashioned these days, so I wasn’t sure what gun to give a suave man-about-town like David Blake. I probably settled on a Glock because I needed a word other than gun and it was easy to spell.

You have JJ Connolly writing the screenplay, he has a rep for gritty crime drama having written Layer Cake. You must be chuffed with that?

I couldn’t imagine a better choice than JJ Connolly to adapt ‘The Drop’. I loved ‘Layer Cake’ and I was thrilled when he came on board. We share an agent, so I was aware of his possible involvement from an early stage but I kept quiet about it and just hoped it would happen.

For those living under a rock, give us the rundown on The Drop ...

‘The Drop’ is set in Newcastle and it’s the story of a white collar gangster who thinks he has it sussed because he never gets his hands dirty. One day, a large sum of money he is responsible for goes missing, along with a man who works for him called Geordie Cartwright, and nobody has a clue what has happened. Blake’s boss gives him 72 hours to retrieve the money or he’s a dead man

Where did the desire to write 'crime' come from?

I love classic British gangster films like ‘Get Carter’ and ‘The Long Good Friday’ and I wanted to write something like that. My story is about a man who thinks he can enjoy the trappings of a criminal life without any of the consequences. By the time he realises he can’t, he is in way too deep. That was my starting point for The Drop.

Did you have an easy route to print, or the traditional long slog?

A ludicrously long slog. I could paper my walls with the rejection letters. Most of them were pretty complimentary though, which was probably what kept me going. I didn’t realise it at the time, when my early stories were being turned down, but I was paying my dues with a particularly long apprenticeship.

I know the feeling, somehow, it feels beneficial in the end. I’m no doubt it made me a better writer: do you think that’s something which is going to affect the quality of future novelists with so many going straight to Kindle?

I suppose it could. I always think I am my own worst critic but I have learned over the years that a few sets of professional eyes on a manuscript can make a big difference. Both my editor and agent will ask me difficult questions about plot, characters and dialogue and they make me fight my corner. If I can’t convince them, I’ll seriously consider ditching stuff. I took two whole chapters out of my new book ‘The Damage’, which stung a bit but they were slowing down the story. It can be a bruising process sometimes but I am more than compensated by a better book at the end of it. It is better to have no ego about your writing because everyone wants the book to be as good as it can be. Hopefully the reader benefits from all of that brutal editing and I’ll know soon enough as ‘The Damage’ is about to be launched.

With the sudden screen interest, do you see yourself jumping ship or is screenwriting not something that interests you?

In an ideal world I’d like to do both. A book will give you a purer end result, as it is less collaborative. A script might be taken off your hands and a producer or director could make a lot of changes to it but I would quite like to sit in a darkened cinema thinking ‘I wrote that’. I’ll have to practice my false smile though, for when I fail to win an Oscar for Best Screenplay, as it is apparently bad form to mouth ‘but that was shit’ when someone else picks up a golden statue instead of you.

The Drop is published by No Exit Press - another outfit making quite a name for themselves of late.

I reckon I’ve got a very cool publisher. No Exit publish Lawrence Block, Ed Bunker, James Sallis and William Hjortsberg who wrote ‘Fallen Angel’, better known as the movie ‘Angel Heart’, which is still one of my favourite films. I’m honoured to be included on their list.

Angel Heart is without doubt a little-known classic - easily Rourke’s best movie - you’re clearly very influenced by film …

Yeah, I’m more influenced by film than books. I always think in terms of writing scenes, as opposed to chapters, because that is how I visualise the book in my head. I could probably recite every line of ‘Angel Heart’. I agree it was Rourke’s best movie and De Niro was still good then, before he switched to a policy of accepting every film he was offered. He used to read the script in the eighties not the pay cheque.

Back to No Exit - from the outside - it look like an edgy indie, is that the reality?

They couldn’t be nicer people to deal with. I think the edgy reputation comes from their choice of material. No Exit are noted for publishing gritty stuff that more mainstream publishers shy away from, because it doesn’t fit into some target demographic.

There seems to be a race to the bottom among mainstream publishers these days: how do you feel about their output these days?

I know publishers are motivated primarily by sales but I was baffled they would pass on something because it was set in Newcastle not London. My agent received rejections from female editors who said they loved my book but didn’t think that other women would, which I think is strange, bordering on condescending. Most of the women I know are pretty feisty and very far from the shrinking violets implied by that statement. Women of all ages seem to really like ‘The Drop’ thankfully. If we are slaves to demographics or formulas we will never produce anything new.

Your publishers must be quite pleased to see another one of their novels being adapted for the screen after Sallis's Drive.

They are delighted. I think the adaptation vindicates their faith in ‘The Drop’ and it has already boosted the profile of the book. The movie of ‘Drive’ was hugely successful, so I imagine the book has been walking off the shelves lately. The TV deal has helped us drum up more interest in ‘The Damage’ because it has become more newsworthy, which should help us launch the new book in April.

:: For more information on Howard's work - and details of his new release, THE DAMAGE, visit: www.howardlinskey.com

PUSH-UPS: Brett Selmont

So what you pushing?
My debut novel I-35 is now available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble and Smashwords as an ebook for just $2.99, in print for $9.99 at Amazon, etc and $11.95 in book stores in New York and L.A. I’m working on Route 66 now, the follow up to I-35, and that should be out around May.

What’s the hook?
Here’s the synopsis with an added teaser…
I punched in the secret code and waited. There was one saved voicemail. The only decipherable words amongst the static and terrifying screams were my name and the words Children, Devil, Tattoo’s, One, and I–35, followed by a woman’s gut-wrenching scream in the background, “PLEASE GOD NO!” My brother’s voice sounded as if it was coming through a distortion pedal. It barely resembled him at all, but I knew it was…

I-35 is the story of David, a loner in his late 20’s from New York City who suffers from black out migraines and has a penchant for painkillers. He wakes one morning, freezing in the backseat of his car 1,500 miles from home with no idea how he got there. After hearing a horrifying voicemail he embarks on a harrowing journey through America’s heartland searching for his estranged brother, and his brother’s wife, while attempting to piece together his own fractured memory.

Along the road David meets a cast of odd characters who become suspects in his clouded and paranoid mind. And just as the clues begin to add up; a chance encounter at a seedy Oklahoma diner leads him to Shawna--a beautiful girl, shrouded in mystery, who escorts him down a vertiginous path to the end of the I-35 Highway…where a shocking truth is revealed.

Why’s that floating your boat?
Well, it’s my first published novel so I’m very excited and so far the response has been really great. John Lutz, the NY Times best seller, former president of the Mystery Writers Association and Edgar and Shamus winner wrote this about I-35: “Tough, incisive, tough, evocative, tough, adroit, tough. Selmont will take you on a genuinely gripping journey down a highway that will inspire you to lock your car as automatically as you buckle your seat belt. Hard boiled fans, you’ve been waiting for this one. A nifty piece of work by a talented writer.”

And Don Bajema who was with Henry Rollins’ publishing company and now with City Lights wrote this: "Selmont’s I-35 is a car trip with Jim Thompson and the Brothers Grimm down a specific highway through the dark heart of America."

When did you turn to crime?
Probably when I was 13 and I broke into a liquor store…no, my former agent actually got me started after I murdered...kidding. My first novel, which never sold, but got me an agent, was called Lower. It was literary fiction with a little crime in it. He shopped it around and everyone had the same response. “He’s a talented writer but were not gonna make $hit off this.” He suggested I write in a genre so I started a weird road mystery that became I-35.

Hardboiled or Noir, classic or contemporary?
Really it’s all centered on my mood but if I had to choose I’d say classic. The biggest influences on my career would be A Clockwork Orange, Naked Lunch, On The Road and the films of David Lynch. I started reading in grade school doing book reports on Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison, The Outsiders, Rumble Fish, American Psycho, Less Than Zero -- I think I freaked out most of my English teachers. Then I moved to fantasy with Lord of The Rings and this other series I can’t remember the name of but the cover had an evil looking guy with a skull and deer antlers coming out of it as he rode a horse and I was hooked. At 13 I found Anthony Burgess, Burroughs, Kerouac and Bukowski and started writing more when I wasn’t borrowing cars and robbing liquor stores…

And, what’s blown you away lately?
I just moved from New York to Los Angeles and I’ve been working on the follow up to I-35 called Route 66 so I haven’t been reading much lately. I’d say Russell Banks’ Trailer Park was pretty funny and great to check out if you’re a writer because it has great characters to study. Don Bajema’s Boy in the Air is a quick and fantastic read as well. But really, I’ve been so focused on my own writing. It’s been hard to pick up anything else. A friend recommended Kealan Patrick Burke’s Kin, though, so I’ll check that out when I get a minute.

See any books as movies waiting to happen?
I’d love to make I-35 into a movie. I’ve had a lot of feedback from readers saying that it would make for an amazing film. You know how Marilyn Manson did that eerie cover of Sweet Dreams by The Eurythmics? I’d love to do an eerie version of The Sun Also Rises. 1920 Paris with Jake Barnes eating brains along the Siene… It would be awesome!

Mainstream, indie – paper or digital?
I’d go indie since I’m indie but really anything that’s good should be read. And as far as the whole paper vs digital thing goes I don’t care either way. I prefer to hold a book and turn the pages but as long as people are reading and buying books I’m happy, especially if they’re buying mine!

Shout us a website worth visiting…
My friends Jeremy Buhler and Gus Rodriguez made a kickass short fiction film called The Kingdom of Ultimate Power staring Bas Rutten the former fighting champion, UFC Heavyweight Champion. The guy is insane and gives a tremendous performance. You can check it out at pilotlightpictures.com

Finally, tell us any old shit about yourself…
I was born in New Haven, Connecticut. My mom was from The Bronx and my parents met in Manhattan. I started going there when I was four or five to visit my grandparents and fell in love. The lights, the excitement, the graffiti on the subway cars it all grabbed a hold of me and never let go. I moved there as soon as I could and began writing. I never thought about writing as a career though, I went to college for TV and worked at MTV and HBO but I used to skip class at Hunter College in NYC because I’d get so involved in working on a story. One day I began writing articles and got some published in various papers and wrote for the New York Press and the rest is history. I moved to Paris for a year and wrote my first novel Lower and when I got back to NYC I submitted my book to 100s of agents. After a year and a half of rejections I met an agent at a party who actually had rejected my book. We talked and he thought the book had promise and agreed to read it again, then took me on as a client after he finished it. My agent has since retired and I’m trying to decide if I should get another. I’ve worked odd jobs, sold beer for a distributor in the East Village for a while and got drunk a lot. Now I’m pushing I-35 and the follow up Route 66 so I can hopefully write full-time for a living…and get drunk a lot.

EVENT: Dundee, April 12

EVENT: Thursday, April 12th 2012 7.00 pm

Alex Gray, Doug Johnston and Tony Black.

Join three of Scotland's most popular crime writers as they talk about their writing and their latest books.

This is a free event but booking is essential.
Bookings can be made by phoning Central Library on 01382 431500.

Steps Theatre
Central Library
The Wellgate
Dundee
DD1 1DB

FREE BOOKS, People ... FREE BOOKS ..!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Murder Mile

by Tony Black

Giveaway ends March 31, 2012.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Death Buys a Burger by Stephen D. Rogers

"That will be a few minutes Sir."

"I've got six bullets and a trigger finger which say it will be sooner."

The young girl shrugged and looked past me. "Can I help the next person in line?" Either the green dye in her hair affected her hearing or I'd lost my touch while I was in the stir.

I hoped it was the dye.

Standing there like some kind of idiot, I watched the pimply kids behind the counter bump into each other while buzzers buzzed and beepers beeped. Only one guy seemed old enough to drink and he looked like he'd been hitting the bottle since breakfast. He

also had a ring in his nose.

So this was the fast food revolution I'd heard so much about. I wasn't impressed.

There used to be a diner here, THE SILVER ROOM. Steak and eggs for four bits served by a waitress named Mabel who didn't take shit from nobody. I once saw her chase a guy out into the parking lot with a meat cleaver and all he'd done was stiff her on a fifty cent check. She never did like cops.

"Burgers up," cracked a voice out of sight.

I wondered whether Mabel had managed to change with the times or whether she'd been thrown away with yesterday's garbage. I couldn't picture her working in this carnival surrounded by posters of cartoon characters and silly buttons.

"You're all set Sir." Miss Green Hair pushed a tray towards me: burger in paper, fries in cardboard, and soda in plastic. I wouldn't be surprised if that described the taste as well.

"This is my meal?"

"Napkins are over there."

Elbowing my way through the people crowding the counter, I skipped the napkins and grabbed the booth that had the best view of the office building where Terrance worked.

The diner where we planned the robbery was long gone but Terrance had a job right next door. Maybe he felt like he couldn't escape the fallout from that day. He was right.

A kid toddled up to my table, handed me a ketchup packet.

When did they start letting kids into restaurants? "Thanks. Now make like a witness and disappear."

His mother scooped him up, glared at me. I tried to smile but I must have been out of practice because she beat a hasty retreat. Fuck her.

After two bites I stopped eating. The food was as bad as I expected, worse than anything I'd forced down in prison. I'd been a good boy twenty long years and this was my reward. While

I had expected prices to go up while I was inside, I didn't think quality would go down.

Pushing the tray to the other side of the table, I thought again about Mabel. What I wouldn't pay to see her approach with my slab of rare steak, black coffee with a shot of Jack, some wisecrack fresh from the gutter.

Across the aisle, a kid started screaming.

Where did a man go to eat these days? I never thought that prison could start to look good in comparison to the outside but it did. Sure, some guys used the front gate like a revolving door but I never realized it was on purpose.

A plastic toy barely missed my head before crashing against the booth behind me. I kept my hands on the table. If nothing else, prison ground patience into a person. Before I'd gone up, I would never have tolerated this shit.

As it was, I had to remind myself that Terrance was getting off work soon. This was the best place to watch for him. It was always a mistake to change plans midstream.

The bank job had gone smooth as silk until someone tripped an alarm and the cops descended like flies on a corpse. We scattered and opened fire. By the time the newspapers tallied up the score, I was behind bars, Walters was dead, and an unidentified third man was wanted by the FBI.

Through a prison guard, I slipped Terrance a single note: "Save my share." From the rumors I heard inside, he didn't.

It was understandable in a way. The law could have been on his heels, just waiting for the right moment to strike. He might want to live it up while he had the chance.

My note, however, didn't leave much room for confusion. He should have done like I asked. After all, nobody was going to say anything about the share that Walters wouldn't be claiming.

The front doors of the office building opened and a steady stream of suits and dresses came pouring on onto the sidewalk.

Terrance hadn't aged a day.

I was out of the booth and heading for the exit when a family of four stepped in front of me to argue about who was getting what size fries. Tracking Terrance through the windows, I pushed my way past the cattle and crossed the parking lot, quickly closing the distance.

Even if Terrance did manage to slip out of my sight, I knew I wouldn't lose him. Twenty years of long gray days and longer dark nights I'd thought of little else but meeting up with my ex- partner. I had one of those psychic connections.

Terrance stepped around a bum holding up a can, took a left into a parking garage.

I followed, waving at the guy in the glass booth. The stairwell door slammed shut and I pulled the gun from my pocket as I headed that direction.

The stairwell smelled like prison without the bleach.

Terrance's footsteps echoed above me.

Half a flight up, I heard another door open and close.

I caught up with him on the third level.

He had his back to me, was busy unlocking a car door. There was no one else within sight, not that it would have made any difference. "Terrance."

He turned, and then paled as soon as it clicked who I was. "You got out." His eyes dropped to the gun in my hand.

"I thought it was time to take advantage of this internet thing, use my share from the bank job to seed an e-commerce business. America was built on venture capital and who am I to argue with America?"

"Look, I'm going to pay you back. I just need to get all my ducks in a row." Terrance stepped to the side so he'd have the option to bolt.

I countered the move, keeping him trapped between me and the car. "Speaking of water fowl, how does the phrase 'dead duck' grab you?"

"I swear I'll make it up to you."

"And how do you figure to do that?" I could see him scrambling for something that would keep him alive. Panic froze some, inspired others. I hoped for his sake that he belonged to the second group.

"I could deal you in. That would be perfect." He glanced around. We were still alone. "After the bank job, I went straight."

"So did I. Straight to jail."

"I took some classes, learned the business. I might have started at the bottom but I have my own office now." Terrance stopped as if waiting for congratulations.

When none came, he coughed and continued. "I process appraisal forms for a large insurance agency. I know everything there is that's worth stealing in this town. I even know what kind of security the owners have installed on the premises."

I had to admit the situation had potential. "So what?"

He lowered his voice. "I keep a list of the best places to hit, sort of an insurance policy. It's sweet."

"Keep talking."

"The list is in my desk back at the office. I can take you there right now. I've just been waiting to put together a team. We knock them over one at a time. Bang, bang, bang. Then we split. It would be like old times."

"For some of us, old times weren't that good."

Terrance licked his lips. "Look, nothing I could have done would have made any difference, but I'm sorry you were caught."

"I'm sorry you spent my share. I asked you nicely not to."

His eyes were skipping around, looking for a way out. "A lot can happen in twenty years."

"Tell me about it."

"The past is the past." Terrance didn't realize that he was adding salt to the wound. He was talking fast now, trying to sell me. "This is better than a bank job. It's a sweet deal."

"Not as sweet as this." The first bullet flung Terrance back against his car, the second two pinned him there long enough that I was ten feet away before I heard him hit the ground.

I should have asked him first if he knew where I could something decent to eat. I hated to break and enter on an empty stomach.

REWIND<< This short appeared on the original Pulp Pusher site.

PUSH-UPS: Doug Johnstone

So, what you pushing right now?
My fourth novel, Hit & Run, published by Faber & Faber in March 2012

What’s the hook?
‘You hit. You run. But what if you had to go back?’ It’s J.G. Ballard’s Crash meets Shallow Grave.

And why’s that floating your boat?
I’ve been obsessed with car crashes for years. Can’t get them out of my head. This book is the culmination of that obsession. Basically, three young professionals are loaded, driving home, and they hit someone. They decide to flee the scene. But the driver, Billy, has to report on the incident next day in his job as a trainee crime reporter. Turns out the dead guy was Edinburgh’s biggest crime lord. A major headfuck ensues.

When did you turn to crime?
I don’t really understand distinctions between different genres. Most good fiction has conflict at its heart, and conflict more often than not leads to crime. All my novels have been about normal people forced into extraordinary actions by their circumstances, so I guess I’ve been into crime from the start.

Hardboiled or Noir, classic or contemporary?
Noir. I’ve really liked recent stuff such as James Sallis’s Drive, Matthew F Jones’s A Single Shot and anything by Daniel Woodrell or Donald Ray Pollock.

And, what’s blown you away lately?
Frank Bill’s Crimes in Southern Indiana. A visceral collection of interconnected short stories full of noir grit, but with a real downhome lyricism too.

See any books as movies waiting to happen?
Last time I did this I gave Willy Vlautin’s work a shout out – turns out they’re making a movie of one of his! This time, I reckon Ewan Morrison’s Swung, about the swinging scene in Glasgow. Fucked up and psychologically brilliant.

Mainstream or indie - paper or digital?
Digital for news, paper for books still, mostly. I have nothing against ereaders at all, just that I read a lot of books for review, and publishers haven’t quite got up to speed with that yet for proof copies. As for mainstream v indie – in all walks of life indie, indie, indie.

Shout us a website worth visiting …
http://www.thethoughtfox.co.uk/
The Faber blog. Full of clever people writing clever things. Sometimes they let me have a go too.

Finally, tell us any old shit about yourself …
I think I’m the only person in Scotland who thinks Alasdair Gray’s Lanark is pish.

Silence is Deadly by Jochem van der Steen

I’d been following Stuart Milhone around for two days now without any luck. I’d been driving behind him through Hollywood. I’d been in a cafeteria opposite the drycleaner he owned, sipping lukewarm coffee and keeping an eye on him from the window. I’d even followed him into a Triple-X cinema, sitting in the back row, being forced to watch a fake-tit filled debacle called Over the Desk. All that time he apparently didn’t catch me tailing him. Unfortunately, all that time he didn’t lead me to little twelve-year old Kimmy Palecki either. But of course, the shit had to hit the fan at some time.

“Please roll down your window,” the higway patrol officer told me after he’d pulled me down while I was following Milhone on the highway. He had the build of a linebacker, a blond crewcut and mirrored sunglasses. He had that special air of authority most cops on patrol have. I decided to cooperate.

“Hello, officer,” I said through the rolled down window of my Dodge Challenger. I saw Milhone’s car become smaller and smaller at the horizon. “Is there a problem?”

“Driver’s license and registration please. Slowly.”

I handed him what he asked for. He studied the papers, nodding. Then he noticed the Glock on my passenger chair. His gun was in his hand so fast it was like it just materialized there.

“Out of the car... Slowly...”

I opened the cardoor and got out. I raised my hands to make him feel a bit more comfortable. You want someone to feel comfortable when he’s pointing a gun at you. It keeps him from blowing your head off.

“Take it easy. I’ve got a license for the gun. I’m a registered security specialist. My license is in my backpocket.”

“Against the car. Spread your legs and put your hands on the roof.”

I knew the drill. As the son of L.A.’s biggest mobster I’d been pulled over frequently by cops trying to set me up for something. Most of the time the smartest move was to let them get over it. I managed to save the wisecracks for myself better and better every year.

He frisked me and extracted my license from my jeans pocket. It took him a few seconds to read. Meanwhile I told him, “Could you please tell me why you pulled me over?”

“There was a complaint by someone who felt threatened by you. Said you were following him all day, stalking him.”

“In a way I was, officer. But all in an official capacity. Tailing people is a part of my job sometimes. Would you please let me turn around and explain?”

“Your license seems okay. You can turn around.”

I did and was handed back my papers. “Thanks. The guy I was following is a suspect in a child abduction case. I was hired by his mother to follow him and see if he maybe would take me to the kid.”

The officer frowned. “Sounds like a job for the FBI or something, not some rentacop.”

I shrugged. “Since he managed to get away maybe you’re right.”

****

I met Mrs. Palecki at a diner up on Victory. She looked like the epitome of an american housewife. She was a bit on the plump side, had curly brown hair, full lips and a warm smile. The only thing that told you her only child had been abducted a week ago were the bags under her eyes.

Kimmy Palecki was picked up from her school by a man driving a white delivery van. The license plate had been obscured by dirt. She was not heard from after that. The police started searching for her in full force soon after but found nothing until a witness mentioned he’d noticed another delivery van driving by the school unusually often the last couple of days. The delivery van belonged to Stuart Milhone, owner of a local drycleaner’s. The van was not identified as the one belonging to the abductor but Milhone was revealed to have prior arrests. Stuart Milhone was a known pedophile.

Milhone was brought in and questioned several times but he confessed to nothing and no hard evidence could tie him to the abduction. While still under investigation the L.A. Police had to let him go. That was when Mrs. Palecki hired me. I was to follow Milhone and hope he would take me to the place he kept Kimmy. I lacked the courage to tell her Kimmy might not be alive anymore.

I took a sip from my black coffee. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Palecki. But I haven’t found out anything.”

She hadn’t touched her tea. “But you have to... The police’s investigation will just take too long! I just can’t think about Kimmy being all alone, in the hands of that... that... pedophile bastard.”

I put a hand on hers. “I’m really sorry. I’ve been following Milhone for two days but I haven’t caught him doing anything illegal. He hasn’t gone anywhere that is likely to be a place where’s he keeping your daughter prisoner. There doesn’t seem to be anymore I can do that the cops can’t.”

There appeared a fire in her eyes. “The police are bound by their laws and regulations. You aren’t, are you?”

I started to get a feeling why she choose to hire me instead of one of the cheaper or one of the more popular investigators in L.A. I had gotten a reputation of bending the law every now and then. Partly this was because of fact, partly it was because of my status as the only son of well-known mobster Robert Milano. “Not really. But I’m not sure how that would help.”

“If you need more money,--“

I interrupted her by holding up my hand. “That’s not it. It’s just that I try to follow the law as much as possible. It helps me keep my status as a legal security specialist.”

“Please, for Kimmy...” she almost begged me.

I sighed. “I guess I can think of some other thing I can do to try and find your daughter.”

She jumped up and gave me a hug, almost knocking down my coffee. “Thank you, thank you!”

****

Breaking and entering will make you lose your license in a heartbeat. Worse yet, it might get your ass in jail. Unfortunately it was the only thing I could think of that I hadn’t done yet and might lead me to Kimmy. So, the next morning when Milhone left off for work I was picking the lock of his home, a one story bungalow in the Crenshaw District. I used to work with the more authentic Bogota-style lockpicks but it used to take me so much time and precision I decided to invest in a Lock Pick Gun. I was lucky enough to encounter a standard kind of lock to open it with the Pick Gun.

Milhone’s home was not exactly the most luxurious one I’d ever seen. It had a ratty old couch, just two chairs, a kitchen that seemed to be used only for storage of empty pizza-boxes and a TV that belonged in a museum. What he did own however, was a stateoftheart computer.

I started up the PC. When I was prompted to type in a password I inserted an USB Memory Stick that contained a very special piece of software. The software tried all kinds of passwords in just a matter of minutes. While the software was busy I searched the house.

I checked under the bed, the matrass and the couch. I opened cookie jars, kitchen drawers and cupboards. I rifled through his books and his CD’s. After an hour I found out where Milhone’s lost socks went, wasn’t good at doing the dishes, loved the books of one Steve Niles and had a god-awful taste in music. What I didn’t find was any clue to Kimmy’s whereabouts. I prayed the computer would give me the information I needed.

I failed to hack into Milhone’s e-mail but I did manage to open a folder that contained several pictures that made me want to puke. They depicted children with a startling resemblance to Kimmy Palecki that weren’t nude or displaying sexual behaviour but were in poses that made it painfully obvious they were made to fulfill the desires of sick perverted individuals. There was for instance a picture of a young girl sitting in a bathtub with a soaked T-shirt. Or one with a girl wearing an old-fashioned school uniform with a skirt so short no real school would issue it. I’d heard of the recent trend in which pictures were distributed that were worth a lot of money but didn’t fall, according to the letter of the law, in the category of child pornography.

Outside, I heard a car engine. It stopped and was followed by the sound of doors slamming shut. I peeked through the window. Two guys in sharp suits, sunglasses and almost military style haircuts left a grey Ford Taurus and walked over to the front door. They had ‘Fed’ written all over their Brooks Brothers outfits. Definetely my clue to get the hell out of there.

I got out via the backdoor. Behind me I heard the bell ring. They probably had finally managed to get a search warrant for the place. A lot of good it would do them. Sure, they’d get their confirmation Milhone was a grade A sleaze, but what they wouldn’t find is anything solid to arrest him on, let alone any clue to Kimmy’s whereabouts.

And with every minute the chance Kimmy Palecki was still alive was getting smaller and smaller.

****

Mrs. Palecki called me again that evening. I was at my apartment, drinking beer and listening to Kyuss on my stereo, just trying to get rid of the frustration I felt at failing her. Her and her daughter. It felt like shit, having to tell her I still had nothing.

She cried on the phone. I told her the feds were on the case, working full-force on it, that they would get results soon. They were good at their job. But what I knew was that in the end the FBI were cops as well. And cops need to gather evidence, build a case. It’s a process that can take months even years. I know all about it, having been the subject of several investigations myself, not to mention my friend Tony or my dad. Sure, they might get results but they probably would be too late.

I drank myself to sleep. I’d failed clients in the past, I’m only human and probably not the best at my job by far, but never had it bothered me this much. Probably because in failing I’d condemned a young girl to death and probably destroyed the life of her mother. But what more could I do then what I’d done already?

My dreams were filled with nightmares. Stumbling on Kimmy’s lifeless body in closets, cars, woods and once even in my own bed. In every dream she was badly injured and in every dream her clear blue eyes seemed to stare at me accusingly.

Maybe I hadn’t done everything I could. But doing everything I could would mean I’d have to go back to being the man I’d been trying to bury for years now.

****

Tony had joined me in my car. He was spilling a burrito all over his trademark Hawaiian shirt that had earned him the nickname Tony Hawaii. “So, he’ll be closing up in five minutes?”

We were parked in front of Milhone’s dry cleaning business. It was next door to a Chinese take-out place.

“That’s his usual routine, yeah. We grab him just before he comes out the door.” I got two skimasks from under my chair. “Wear this one.”

“The latest fashion,” Tony cracked. He pulled the skimask over his head, almost having trouble fitting it over his bulbous nose.

I pulled the mask over my own head as well. Just like a cheap damn thug. “You ready?” I checked with my partner in crime.

He snapped the cylinder shut of the Taurus Raging Bull he’d been loading a few minutes ago. “As I’ll ever be.”

As if in answer I pulled the slide of my Glock 9mm and got out of the car. “Let’s do it.”

Milhone was just changing the sign on his door from ‘OPEN’ to ‘CLOSED’ when he saw us coming. His mouth went open, forming a big ‘O’. Seeing two masked thugs with guns coming at your door will do that to you.

I kicked the door open. It banged against his face, making his nose bleed.

“Who are you? What are you doing here? If you want money...”

I grabbed him by his shirtfront and stuck the Glock under his nose. “Shut the fuck up. This isn’t about money. This is about the little girl you fucking kidnapped, you asshole. You’re coming with us.”

While Tony scanned the streets for any police cars or potential witnesses I dragged Milhone over to the trunk of the Dodge. Tony joined me there, opening the trunk so I could order Milhone to get inside.

“Are you crazy? I’m not going to step into that!” he protested.

“Don’t fuck with me. Get in the car or I fucking put you down right here right now.” I backed up the words by putting the Glock against his forehead. “Move it!”

I was convincing enough for him to obey. When he was climbing into the trunk for a brief moment I was wondering if maybe I’d even convinced myself I would’ve shot him in cold blood if he hadn’t done what I’d told him to. I closed off those thoughts at the same time I closed the trunk.

“Let’s go for a ride.”

****

Manny Gores never really made it as a musician. That’s no surprise for a guy who has the vocal talents of a hyena and has trouble getting more than one chord right. Not that it stops him from trying however. That’s why he’s got his own sound-proofed room / studio in Venice. Since he hasn’t made any dime from his musical carreer he also rents out his studio every now and then to his cousins, who take care of most of the collecting work for one of the chapters of the L.A. mob. If they need to break a guy’s knees, cut off a finger or two and don’t want to alarm the entire neighborhood they go to Manny. The reason I parked in front of his house didn’t have anything to do with my aspirations of becoming a guitar hero.

Tony stayed in the car while I rang the doorbell. Manny opened up, dressed in a Megadeth T-shirt and knee-length shorts. Stuck to his face was someting that was probably meant to be goatee but lacked almost as much hair as his skull.

“Hi Manny. Could I use the room for half an hour or something?”

Manny looked at me with suspicion. “I thought you were out of the business for years now.”

“I want to record a song for my dad. To tell him how much I love him, you know. I was thinking something from Sinatra. What do you think?”

Manny shook his head and chuckled. “Yeah, right. Whatever. You pay the bill you get the room. Clean up the blood yourself, the rest you do there is all up to you. You know the deal.”

I thanked Manny and waved at Tony. He stepped out of the car and went over to the trunk. He drew his Taurus and opened the trunk. He didn’t even bother with the mask anymore. I’d left mine in the car as well. There went caution. He grabbed Milhone by the neck and rolled him out of the car, on the pavement. He helped him up and walked him over to me. Something he whispered in his ear seemed to be sufficient to keep him from screaming for help.

Manny let us in with a gratuitous wave like he was a real estate agent showing a potential client around. Of course Manny wasn’t that big a piece of scum.

Stairs behind a lead door led us to the soundproof basement. Some posters of rocklegends like Jimi Hendrix and Iggy Pop adorned the walls. There were some speakers as well as an electric guitar and a set of drums. I wondered how many people’s heads had been banged against the drums and how much bloodspatters were hidden behind the posters. I felt like a ghoul but didn’t have the time to dwell on it. I was there to save Kimmy Palecki’s life, whatever the cost.

“On your knees,” I ordered Milhone. He obeyed without any protests. It didn’t make me feel any better about myself.

Tony smiled an ugly smile. “Not so tough now you’re up against two guys your own size, are you?” Milhone was silent.

I knelt down next to him. “We don’t want to hurt you, Milhone. The only thing we want is the location of Kimmy Palecki. You tell us, we let you go. It’s as simple as that.”

There was no emotion as he told us, “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

I put a hand on the back of his skull, moved my mouth close to his ear. “Come on, I know all about your rapsheet. I went through those ugly little pictures you got on your harddrive. I know what kind of sick bastard you are. I know your car was seen near Kimmy’s school just before she disappeared.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said again, like it was his own personal mantra. For a moment I wondered if he was really innocent. What if we’d nabbed the wrong guy. Then my mind flashed back to the pictures on his drive. What he did to those kids the first time he got caught. And I thought, what the hell. This sick bastard hadn’t been innocent in a very long time.

I slapped him in the face with the back of my hand. “Cut the crap, asshole! We both know you did it. Now do one good thing in your dispiccable life for once and tell us where Kimmy is.”

There was trickle of blood in the corner of his mouth. “No!” he yelled.

“Goddammit! I’m running out of patience.” Tony rolled up his sleeves. He walked over to Milhone and grabbed him by the wrist. Milhone struggled a bit but Tony was way stronger than him.

Tony put Milhone’s hand on top of one of the speakers. He put the barrel of the Taurus Raging Bull against Milhone’s open palm.

“You’d better tell us where Kimmy is or I shoot a hole in your hand the size of fucking Kansas!”

“No... No... Don’t...” Milhone pleaded. Tony started to squeeze the trigger.

“Stop!” the freak screamed. “I’ll take you to her! Just don’t shoot!”

Tony smiled and took his gun away. “You’re lucky I’ve gotten more patient with age.” He rammed the butt of the revolver against Milhone’s palm. I thought I heard something snap. Milhone started to cry. I felt no sympathy for him. I felt like this case was making me slip further and further into the darkness.

****

Milhone took us into the desert. He was telling me how to drive, sitting next to me in the passenger seat. Tony had his gun trained at the back of his neck. The Taurus was powerful enought to blast right through the seat and splatter the freak’s brains all over my windshield were he to try anything funny. I was hoping he wouldn’t. After all, I just bought the car.

“Here... Here’s where it is,” Milhone said.

I stopped the car and looked around. We were in the middle of the desert. Just a long road, sand and more sand. “There’s nothing here.”

Milhone pointed. “You see that small hill? That’s where she is.”

I saw it. The hill was about as high as my car. “Underneath that? Did you bury her there or something?”

“No, no! I’ll show you. I’ll show you.”

“Fine, get out of the car.” I held open the door for him.

When he was out of the Dodge he ran for the hill. Tony told him to slow down a bit before he shot him. My pal go even a bit more edgy when Milhone reached the hill and started to wipe away the sand. The freak would be dead before he could even think about getting a weapon from under there.

What Milhone unearthed wasn’t a weapon however. It was a steel trapdoor.

“What the hell?” Tony said. I agreed.

“It used to be an old bomb shelter,” Milhone explained. “It was probably built in the sixties, during the Cold War when everyone was afraid the Russians would drop the big bomb.”

“And you’re keeping Kimmy in there?” I was disgusted. “Open the fucking door and get us inside.”

He opened the door. It squeaked like a chihuaua. He went inside. We followed him.

A steel ladder led down. Milhone switched on the lights. All comforts of home.

Downstairs we ended up in a room about the size of a living room. There was a bunkbed, an oven and a radio. A shelf held non-perishable food in cans. But where was Kimmy? I asked the freak.

“She’s probably hiding under the bed again.” He kneeled down next to the bed. “Princess?”

Tony gave me an incredulous look. I shrugged.

“Princess?” Milhone repeated. This time his voice sounded different. Worried, confused. He yelled.

“What’s wrong?” I asked and kneeled next to him. There was blood under the bed.

Kimmy was naked and spread-eagled under the bed, bleeding from her backside and her mouth.

“Did I play too rough with you, princess?” The freak really sounded worried and sorry. That damned freak!

I pulled him by the hair. He fell. I dragged Kimmy’s body from under the bed. I checked her pulse but knew she was dead before I did it.

“Motherfucker!” Tony yelled and aimed his Taurus at the freak’s head. I grabbed his wrist.

“Don’t. Our pal here’s going to call the cops and give himself in.” I handed Milhone my cell phone.

He was shaking like a leaf. “C-call the police? Turn my-myself in?”

“Yeah. Or Tony here shoots you through the head. Who’s going to find out over here?”

Tony’s face was beetred. He was sweating like a pig. “It’d be my pleasure to kill the bastard.”

“We went far enough already. He’s going to jail.”

Tony smiled. “That might even be better. Just think about what his fellow cons will do to him when they find out he raped a little girl to death.”

Milhone went as white as a corpse. Apparently he had a pretty vivid imagination. He gritted his teeth and stormed towards Tony. He seemed to be intent on strangling him.

The loud boom of Tony’s Taurus was deafening in the small space. The freak’s brains ended up all over the cans on the shelf.

“I had to shoot,” Tony said. “He was going to kill me.”

I stared at my friend. I have to confess I’d often seen Tony as a dim-witted thug, a henchman. But now I was thinking he drove Milhone to attack him on purpose. That he was looking for an excuse to kill him of. I wasn’t so sure I was sorry about that.

“Yeah. I guess he was.”

“What do we do now?”

I held the little girl. “There’s no way I can tell her mom what happened to her.”

I put the girl on the bed. Closed her eyes, cleaned up the blood. Tucked her in. Gave her a kiss on the forehead.

“Let’s go,” I told Tony.

We left the shelter, locked the door and covered it with sand again. We got in the Dodge and drove off.

In the car I called Mrs. Palecki to tell her I failed. I guess in a way I did.

REWIND<< This short featured on the original Pulp Pusher site.

MURDER MILE: coming soon

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