Pulp Ink is here!

The anthology Pulp Ink has arrived. I'm very excited to be included in this collection of short stories inspired by the names of music tracks off the soundtrack from the film Pulp Fiction. Everyone has such a unique take on their inspiration title. And who are those everyones? Just look at this lineup:
Allan Guthrie
Reed Farrel Coleman
Gary Phillips
Hilary Davidson
Matthew C. Funk
Paul D. Brazill
AJ Hayes
Michael J. Solender
Richard Godwin
Naomi Johnson
Jimmy Callaway
Sandra Seamans
Patti Abbott
Jodi MacArthur
David Cranmer
Chris F. Holm
Jason Duke
Eric Beetner
Ian Ayris
Kate Horsley
Matt Lavin
Jim Harrington
Nigel Bird
Chris Rhatigan



Yeah, that's my name in there with so many great writers. Everyone is at the top of their game too. Anthology masterminds Nigel Bird and Chris Rhatigan have really collected one of the strongest lineups I've ever seen. Hope you like my story, but really I had an unfair advantage. Of all the titles on the soundtrack, I was handed "Zed's Dead Baby" How could I not be inspired?

This starts the late sumer of anthologies for me. Soon will see the release of D*cked and then Grimm Tales drops in Sept. All three of these are collections I am so proud and flattered to be a part of.

In other news I should have written about sooner but acts as excuse for why I didn't: I'm blogging now for Criminal Element. I've had a few pieces up already and I'm working on more.  It's great to be a part of that community and a really great site for all things crime and mystery fiction. I'll do better to post links like HERE , HERE and HERE .

Sublime

When you're a small time author, like me, you take what you can get. Usually what you can get is a bent nose from all the doors slamming in your face, but once in a while you get reminded why you do this. Sure, each night you write something you actually like is a thrill and really is the gas on which the engine runs, but the jolt of Nitro we all need every now and then is knowing that someone is actually reading the stuff.

Enter Nigel Bird – writer, teacher, British person. He and I have exchanged pleasantries over each others short stores for a while now. He even beat me out in a contest and still I like the chap, in a cyber never-met-him way.

He likes our book. He read it on vacation (marking our first official entry into the summer vacation reads category) and he wrote about how he liked it. Reading an unsolicited opinion, where he has nothing to gain at all from writing about our work, is a real thrill. Of course any time someone uses the words "Masterpiece" and "Sublime" in talking about your writing, you're bound to think it's the best book review you've ever read.

Anyway, thanks Nigel. You've given me a real boost.

Noir at the Bar in the books

And it was a success! We had a great turnout for the inaugural Noir at the Bar L.A. and many requests to do it again so it looks like we're a hit. It was a ton of fun with some great readings including a brand new piece of Noir from our headliner Duane Swierczynski.

Check out the pictures below.

The story I read was a sneak peek of Safety which was published today over at Shotgun Honey. Proud to have another one up there. People seemed to dig it. They laughed in the right spots and were horrified at the other right spots. Check it out.

I also need to shout out to my pal Greg Bardsley for the sale of his book CASH OUT. He's a hell of a writer and has been slugging it out in the trenches for plenty of time. You'll be hearing more about him, mark my words.

My favorite shot I got of Duane. Love the Crime Wave title in the BG. I brought my DVD of old Film Noir trailers and we let that run on the projector all night. It made a great backdrop for the readings.

 I introduce the night's events.

Holly O'Neil West graced us with a reading from her unpublished manuscript. 

So cool to have a mix of styles. 

Josh Stallings gave us a taste of Moses McGuire from his newly published Out There Bad.

Josh read some seriously dark noir. The crowd loved it.

Full house!

Duane reads from Breakneck, an all new in-the-works project.

My co-conspirator Stephen Blackmoore reads his short story from Uncage Me 

against a hell of a backdrop.

We are so NOT badasses. (Me, Blackmoore and the Mystery Dawg!)

Holly gets a little help from Ida Lupino.

It was a great night. Onward to the next!

Packing heat

My goal all along in this writing thing is to have a body of work. More than just one novelty item in the bargain bins. (something I barely escaped in my music career.) And while I have said body lurking in files on my computer, the whole point is to get it out there.
I had plans to let loose a novella that I wrote a while back by doing it myself to Kindle like all the cool kids are doing these days. Then a new imprint popped up called Snubnose Press . It was started by the fine folks at Spinetingler , so immediately I knew it would be quality and I knew the style would suit my own. They called for submissions so I threw this 24,000 word piece at 'em and guess what? They liked it.

So I am proud to announce that Snubnose Press will publish the ebook of Dig Two Graves, a nasty revenge tale with a main character some people will hate, some will love and some with love to hate. I'm really proud to be in the rookie season of Snubnose along with some of my favorite writers and cyber pals like Keith Rawson and Patti Abbott who both have short story collections coming out.

More to come as the sumer progresses. Right now I need to get to work on revisions and add all the spit and polish to make this thing as good as it can be. But dang I'm proud and happy to be part of the Snubnose family.

Solstice update

Well, 2011 is half over. Is that pessimistic? Does it work with anything beyond glasses of water? Either way there is both nothing new under the sun and lots of tiny things to report.

First off I am proud to be co-hosting the launch of Noir at the Bar in Los Angeles. It's high time we brought this gathering of crime writers and readers to our fair city. We scrambled and snagged a bar that was willing to host us on Sunday the 17th of July so we could get everyone's favorite writer of pulse pounding thrills and off-the-wall speedball-laced prose, Duane Swierczynski to be our featured guest. Whether through guilt or just a lack of anything else to do in L.A. over the pending Carpocolypse weekend, Duane agreed to grace us with his holiness.

Also reading short bits of fiction will be my co-host Stephen Blackmoore, the up-and-comer Josh Stallings (who Elizabeth White is about to anoint with oils) and the as-yet-unpublished-but-give-it-time Holly O'Neill West and your truly.

So come on out and bring a friend. It's free!

I got a pair of rejections over the recent holiday weekend. I really don't mind them. I don't get depressed. It bothers me much more when things are out there and pending.

Of course it did help that mixed in with those No thank you's was an acceptance letter I am really psyched about. It's too early to talk about yet but contracts have been sent and revisions are underway based on the editor/publisher's notes. Watch this space for more.

My reading is keeping up for a record year of books under the old belt. I'm on Fun & Games right now and loving it, as I knew I would. I recently set aside a book I plan to come back to but it just wasn't holding me, surprisingly for this author. And with Duane's latest calling me from the top of the TBR pile I had to put that other book on pause.

Getting close to the big dump of all my anthologies this summer. More on that too as it comes in. All good stuff. 

I've long complained that the pace of publishing is glacial. Those big ass ice shelves might move slowly, but they move constantly. As long as I keep up a slow push seaward, I'm happy. Meanwhile, I tap tap tap away at night building the body of work. The next thing is always the best. And I always wish the days were longer. Words - words - more words!!!

We're number 2! We're number 2!

I am honored, humbled and shocked to have taken 2nd place in The Drowning Machine blog's third annual Watery Grave Invitational with my story Fingerprints.

Naomi Johnson holds this annual event with an eye to giving writers just enough fence to keep it interesting but still allow us to run free. This year's challenge was to use a horse somewhere in the story. How and in what form was up to us. Some people were literal, others more obtuse. The first thing that came to my mind was the phrase, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on." Sorry, just how my brain works I guess.

From that nugget I imagined two guys after a bad job, one with a missing (or very nearly missing) finger. It spiraled out of control from there. I quite like the way this one turned out. I'm sure I'd rewrite certain sections again but I'm proud of it regardless.

Taking first place was the excellent Chris La Tray and in third was the always fantastic Chad Eagleton. Fourth was the wonderful British writer Ian Ayris and in a tie for fifth was Nigel Bird and Patti Abbott. Can you beat that group? Like I said - honored, humbled and shocked.

Hope you like the story and do take time to read all the winning entries.

Summer is here - challenge time

Steve Weddle, one of my favorite short fiction writers and online raconteurs, has thrown out a challenge on the fantastic Do Some Damage blog. A Noir-ish story about summer. Well, how could I resist?
I threw this down, no doubt inspired by the hours of time I've spent reading interview transcripts for work.
Steve requested to keep it short, but I can't seem to do that too well these days so mine clock in a little longer - 2,900 words. Sorry. I think it's a quick read regardless, about one Dad's very, very bad day at the beach.
Enjoy and visit Do Some Damage on the 20th for links to all the stories in this challenge. There are sure to be some greats.
QUICK NOTE: the .99 Kindle sale of both of our books - One Too Many Blows To The Head and Borrowed Trouble continues until the 21st so if you're reading this on the 20th for the challenge day you still have time to grab two great crime novels for dirt cheap on the Kindle. Check out what people had to say about them on the column to the right.

MELTDOWN

by Eric Beetner

Homicide detective D’Amica handed Max a styrofoam cup of ice water and sat across from him at the interrogation table.

“Thanks,” Max said, lifting the cup to his lips and slurping at the drink, hunched over since the restraints pinning him to the chair gave very little slack. The handcuffs and chains argued noisily every time he moved his arms.

D’Amica set a pen on top of a yellow legal pad on the table between them and then ignored it. The recorders would get it all and someone else would transcribe it later. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and go from there. That’s usually how this works.”

“Okay. Well, it was so damn hot today.” Max tried tilting the cup for another drop of water, but the angle wasn’t right.

“Yeah, funny things happen when the heat rises.”

“You ever see anything like this, detective?”

“Can’t say I have. But I’d still like to have you tell it.”

“Okay. From the start, huh?”

TRANSCRIPT: INTERVIEW WITH MAX ELLSWORTH (Suspect)

INTERVIEWING OFFICER: MIKE D’AMICA

Aug. 16 – 5:06 p.m.

Det. D’Amica:

Okay, we’re on record here. Mr. Ellsworth, please tell us what happened today in your own words.

Mr. Ellsworth:

Well, we were at the beach.

Det. D’Amica:

Who’s we?

Mr. Ellsworth:

Me and my son, Izzy. He loves the beach. He’s autistic so it’s hard to find good places to take him, but he loves the ocean. I think the sound soothes him. And when he’s swimming the motion really helps calm him down.

Anyway, He wanted an ice cream. It’s so damn hot out there today. It’s gotta be over a hundred. Is it over a hundred, do you know?

Det. D’Amica:

I believe it is.

Mr. Ellsworth:

Right, so I go to buy Izzy an ice cream from a guy with a cart. The guy is rolling around on the bike path ringing his bell and there’s a few people gathered around. I order a rocket pop, the red, white and blue kind, y’know? I guess that’s more of an icee, not an ice cream, but you get the idea.

The guy with the cart is Mexican or Guatemalan or something so when he says, “One fifty” I can’t understand him at first. I ask him to say it like three times and there’s this other guy, this big douche bag guy who’s getting all impatient. Then Izzy starts in because he wants his rocket pop. He doesn’t even know the meaning of the word patience. The ice cream guy won’t give it up until he gets paid, which I totally understand, so I start digging in my pocket for two quarters to go with the dollar bill already in my hand.

Well, the douche bag guy says something like, “I wanted one of those too. Here you go. Keep the change.” And he gives the guy two bucks and takes the rocket pop and starts walking away.

Izzy starts freaking out. Now, mind you, these freak outs can last up to an hour, which I don’t really want at the end of a long day when it’s a hundred degrees out, right?

Normally I would have just let it go.

Det. D’Amica:

Uh-huh. Instead you chased him down.

Mr. Ellsworth:

Well, I yelled after him, “Hey, dickhead, that was my kid’s ice cream.” The guy with the cart got out another one right away, but to Izzy that’s not the point, okay? In terms of his freak outs we’re at, like, Defcon two. I really didn’t want it to get any worse.

Initially I was going to go give the guy my dollar fifty and take the ice cream back and give it to Izzy. I mean, the guy could see the kid was starting to lose it. I mean, a few people around were starting to stare. An older couple on the sand started packing up their umbrella and chairs and giving me these looks like I’m disturbing them. I guess I was being kinda loud.

But the dude, the guy gives me the finger over his shoulder as he walks away! All I’m trying to do is get my kid the ice cream I promised him and this guy’s got to go and get all dickish about it.

Maybe it was the heat, I don’t know. I went after him. He was all of maybe ten paces away, not even. I didn’t even say anything, I was too pissed off. All I have is Izzy in my ears starting that high pitched noise he makes.

So I get to the guy and I try grabbing him to spin him around, y’know, face me like a man. Only he’s got no shirt on and when I grab his shoulder, right on top of that stupid tribal tattoo, my hand slipped off because of all the sunscreen so I end up more like punching him forward. But anyone there will tell you I didn’t hit him. I was trying to grab him and spin him around.

Det. D’Amica:

We’ve spoken to witnesses.

Mr. Ellsworth:

And they told you, right?

Det. D’Amica:

Please continue.

Mr. Ellsworth:

Well . . . that’s when he . . . I mean, I kinda pushed him forward – by accident! – and he fell. I think he must have tripped up in some of the old couple’s junk. A beach towel or something. Anyway he fell and . . . and then . . . 

Det. D’Amica:

Please Mr. Ellsworth. Tell us in your own words.

Mr. Ellsworth:

That old bastard, pardon my language, but that old guy had that umbrella out in front of him like a spike, y’know? And this guy, the jerk guy who should have just . . . should have let my kid have an ice cream . . .  (Suspect begins crying) He fell forward and the tip of the umbrella went, y’know . . . into his eye I guess.

(Suspect breaks down. Cries.)

And then the old guy, the fat old guy he kinda falls forward because now his umbrella is stuck in the eye socket of some stranger, and he falls forward and he’s so damn big that when he comes down . . . Jesus, I’ll never get it out of my mind . . . that umbrella comes poking out the other side of the guy’s head.

(Suspect crying)

I mean, all I wanted . . . all I wanted was [UNINTELLIGIBLE]

[NON-INTERVIEW]

Det. D’Amica:

Better now? Let’s continue.

Mr. Ellsworth:

So people start screaming and running all around. I mean, I don’t blame them. I didn’t know what the fuck, excuse me, what the hell to do.

First thing is I look back at Izzy. He’s gone silent. In a lot of ways that’s worse than the fits. His silent phases can last days. He just shuts down like he’s in a trance or something. I forget what the doctor’s clinical name for it is. 

I guess I kinda blanked out too. I knew how it looked. Everyone was pointing at me and yelling like I’d spiked the guy’s head with the umbrella myself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not blaming the old guy. It was an accident. A freak accident.

What can I say? I panicked. I saw the number eighteen bus and I just had that impulse to get the hell out of there. To get my son to safety. I honest to God thought there was going to be an angry mob any second and they would have torn me apart. Really, I did.

So I grabbed Izzy’s hand and we ran.

Det. D’Amica:

That’s when the incident at the bus happened?

Mr. Ellsworth:

Yeah. Do you think I could get another one of those ice waters? It’s just so friggin’ hot.

Det. D’Amica:

We can do that. Keep going, please.

Mr. Ellsworth:

Well, we made it to the bus, but like I said people were starting to get pissed and think I did it on purpose. So I guess this guy, this surfer dude, thought I’d just murdered someone or something. He didn’t even see what happened. All he saw was people screaming and me running away with my kid. Oh, man, I wonder if he thought I was kidnapping Izzy? Do you think that’s what he thought?

Det. D’Amica:

I wouldn’t know.

Mr. Ellsworth:

Anyway, so Izzy is catatonic, the bus is about to leave, this guy is coming up fast behind me. I didn’t know what the hell to do. I got Izzy inside the back door just in time. The bus driver must have been clueless, like they all are. 

The doors close and this guy has got his hands around my waist trying to tackle me. I’m thinking, great, the damn bus is gonna leave without me, but this guy is posing a more immediate problem, right?

So I shake him off. I kinda flip him over my hip. I just wanted to get to Izzy and think of something to do. I didn’t have time for some vigilante surfer, y’know?

So he flips over and lands with his butt on the curb and his head in the gutter. And the bus takes off. I mean, this driver ought to be held responsible because he was obviously not paying attention at all. I mean, how could that possibly be my fault?

Det. D’Amica:

Just tell us what happened, please.

Mr. Ellsworth:

The damn bus rolled right over his head, that’s what happened. God, I’ll never get that out of my mind either.

[Suspect is brought water. NON-INTERVIEW]

Det. D’Amica:

And we’re back on record. Mr. Ellsworth, you’ve told us there are now two bodies and you didn’t think to stop and wait for the police?

Mr. Ellsworth:

Look, I know there were two bodies but you gotta understand, now my kid is on a bus that’s driving away from me. Izzy isn’t the kind of kid who can fend for himself. Especially when he’s in shutdown mode like he was. Or if he broke out of that and started a tantrum on the bus – people would have called the cops on him and he could have hurt himself.

I know you probably don’t believe any of this, but I was doing this for my son. I’m all he’s got, detective. I’m supposed to be the one who takes care of him, keeps him safe. 

(Suspect crying)

God, I fucked up, didn’t I?

Det. D’Amica:

Tell me about the cab driver.

Mr. Ellsworth:

So I gotta catch the bus, right? I hop in a cab that’s right there. I mean, he’s right friggin’ there. I say, “Follow that bus.”

This guy, he won’t budge. He sees the crowd outside, the people screaming and looking down at the guy who just lost his head under a bus wheel. He says he won’t take me anywhere and I should get out of his cab.

I could have said a lot of things, y’know? I mean they were on the tip of my tongue. The guy was an Arab. Second guy in a row with an accent I couldn’t understand. And he’s telling me what to do?

My autistic son is speeding away to who knows where and this guy won’t give me a ride to follow him?

So I start yelling. I wasn’t thinking straight right then. I told him, forcefully I guess, that I needed to follow that bus. I didn’t say anything racial or stereotyping or anything, even though I could have. I honest to God did my level best to be respectful but forceful, y’know?

So what does he do? Pulls a gun on me.

Fine, he needs a gun for robbers and stuff. All I am is a Dad who’s freaked the fuck out and needs to find my son. Sorry about that. I’ll try to watch the language.

But, okay he wants me out of his cab that bad, I get out. Only then I let slip one of the racial things in my head. I shouldn’t have said it, I know. I don’t even remember what it was, but it was stupid and I shouldn’t have said it.

I guess he was pissed at me or maybe he thought he had a citizen’s arrest on his hands or something, but he follows me out and that’s when I hear the cop cars.

Surely you guys got a hundred calls about what’s going on and so this cruiser pulls up and I think, “Great, I’m fucked.” Excuse my language again.

I put my hands up. Ask anyone, I did. And then these cops start shooting like crazy. Only not at me, at the cab driver. It was insane. I felt like I was in Baghdad or something.

Det. D’Amica:

I think the officers on the scene were thinking terrorist situation at the moment.

Mr. Ellsworth:

I’m sure they were. And I don’t blame them. A guy with a beard and that accent waving a gun and then all those people screaming and a headless body in the gutter and another one on the beach with an umbrella through his skull? I don’t blame them one bit. But you can see how I don’t think I should be blamed either, right?

Det. D’Amica:

Let’s just stick to the facts of the story, Mr. Ellsworth. Is that when you took the cab?

Mr. Ellsworth:

Yeah. All that shooting, people were ducking and diving everywhere. The closest place for me to go was inside the cab. I saw an opportunity to get to Izzy before the bus got too far away, and I took it.

I’m telling you, that’s all I was thinking about.

Det. D’Amica:

So you stole the taxi?

Mr. Ellsworth:

I got away from a shootout in the street, although I sure as hell don’t think that driver got off any shots. I mean, I’m sure those cops thought they were foiling a major terrorist plot or something.

 But, yeah, I took the cab and went after the bus.

I knew where the number eighteen was going so I went east away from the beach. Like, three blocks later I saw the bus. Every other time I’m behind a bus while I’m driving I’m cursing them like crazy for being so slow. This time, I was really glad about it.

So that’s when this guy, I don’t even know what his deal was, this guy tries to hail me down thinking I’m a cab driver.

Det. D’Amica:

Wonder why he’d think that?

Mr. Ellsworth:

I know, but . . . sorry. Anyway. He tries to flag me down, steps half way into the street like I don’t see him. He starts cursing me out when he can tell I’m not stopping. I don’t know what was up this guy’s ass. Must be the heat again.

Anyway, I zip past him and he steps out and slaps the back of the cab. I heard it bang on there, loud. He’s calling me names and saying he’s gonna write down my license. I looked in the rearview just because the guy was making such a fuss, y’know? Otherwise I wouldn’t have seen it.

Det. D’Amica:

And?

Mr. Ellsworth:

He stepped out fully into the lane to bitch me out and I guess the guy behind me wasn’t paying attention or got distracted by all the commotion. What I saw was the guy get creamed. He flew up and over the hood and was all flopping arms and legs. I have no idea what happened to him but–

Det. D’Amica:

He’s dead.

Mr. Ellsworth:

Well, again, not really something that could be considered my fault, is it?

Det. D’Amica:

That’s for a jury to decide. Continue.

Mr. Ellsworth:

Oh, Jesus.

[Suspect goes silent for several minutes]

Det. D’Amica:

Mr. Ellsworth, are you ready to continue?

Mr. Ellsworth:

That’s all there is. I caught up to the bus, got out at a stop light and went inside and found Izzy. He was just sitting there like he was watching TV or something. The bus driver started yelling at me about not paying. Guess he finally started paying attention.

I just sat there and held onto my son. I didn’t know what the hell was going to happen. 

Then you guys arrested me on the bus. And now I’m here.

Det. D’Amica:

Okay, Mr. Ellsworth. I want to thank you for being honest with me today. And we’re going off record.

[END TRANSCRIPT]

D’Amica glanced at his watch, noting the time. No dinner with the wife tonight. The paperwork on this thing would take all night. He waved in an officer through the two-way mirror.

Max rattled his chains as he drained the last from his cup of ice water. A patrolman in blue unshackled Max from the chair and pulled him to standing.

“We’ll get you back to holding now, Mr. Ellsworth,” Detective D’Amica said.

“And Izzy?”

D’Amica held the door open as Ellsworth shuffled into the hall rattling like Marley’s ghost.

D’Amica nodded a head to a bench where Izzy sat next to his Mom. She held a worried look on her face that deepened when she saw Max in handcuffs. Izzy held a double scooped ice cream cone that consumed all of his focus.

Max smiled, turned to D’Amica with wet eyes. “Thanks for that.”

“No problem.” D’Amica held Max by the arm and walked him down the hall without stopping. 

Izzy didn’t notice his father going by.