A Beast Without a Name, page 21
But I own a talking cat named Murray, so who am I to disagree with anyone’s theory about anything?
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ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
STEVE BREWER writes books about crooks. His most recent crime novel, Cold Cuts, was his 31st published book. His first novel, Lonely Street, was made into a Hollywood movie in 2009, and Bank Job is currently under film option. A former journalist, Brewer teaches part-time in the Honors College at the University of New Mexico. He and his family own Organic Books in Albuquerque’s historic Nob Hill district.
W.H. CAMERON raises chickens in his back yard in Oregon, and coaxes unruly words into mellifluous sentences in his writing room. “Hey Nineteen” marks the first appearance of apprentice mortician Melisende Dulac.
Called “a hardboiled poet” by NPR’s Maureen Corrigan and “the noir poet laureate” in the Huffington Post, REED FARREL COLEMAN is the New York Times bestselling author of twenty-nine novels. Beside his own series novels, stand-alones, poetry, essays, and short stories, he writes the Jesse Stone novels for the estate of the late Robert B. Parker. He is a four-time recipient of the Shamus Award for Best PI Novel of the Year and a four-time Edgar Award nominee. He is currently working on the prequel novel to director Michael Mann’s film Heat. Reed lives with his wife on Long Island.
LIBBY CUDMORE is the author of The Big Rewind (William Morrow) which received a starred review from Kirkus, as well as praise from Booklist, Publishers Weekly and USA Today. Her short stories and essays have been published in The RS-500, Memoir Mixtape, PANK, The Stoneslide Corrective, The Big Click and the Locus-nominated anthology Hanzai Japan, as well as the anthologies Mixed Up and Welcome Home.
As a music journalist, she has written for Paste, Albumism, Vinyl Me Please, Consequence of Sound and the Captain’s Blog at YachtRock.com. At press time, she has seen Steely Dan/Donald Fagen/The Dukes of September a total of 12 times, including 2011 Rarities Night, where they played “The Second Arrangement.” She is the hostess of #RecordSaturday, a weekly album live-tweet on her Twitter: @libbycudmore.
AARON ERICKSON is a former US Army Airborne Ranger who has served multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. “Don’t Take Me Alive” is his first piece of published fiction. He is currently working on a post-military thriller, drawing upon his war-time experiences. He writes quite a bit about American football at 49erswebzone.com.
NAOMI HIRAHARA is the Edgar Award-winning author of two mystery series set in Southern California and one in Hawai’i. Her Mas Arai series, which features a Hiroshima survivor and gardener, ended with the publication of Hiroshima Boy in 2018. The books have been translated into Japanese, Korean and French. The first in her Officer Ellie Rush bicycle cop mystery series received the T. Jefferson Parker Mystery Award. She has also published noir short stories, middle-grade fiction and nonfiction history books. For more information, go to www.naomihirahara.com.
MATTHEW QUINN MARTIN is a competitive bagpiper, former Jeff Goldblum photo double, and occasional writer of books and movies. More at matthewquinnmartin.com.
RICHIE NARVAEZ is the author of the award-winning Roachkiller and Other Stories. His work has appeared in Latin@ Rising: An Anthology of Science Fiction and Fantasy, Plots with Guns, Long Island Noir, and Tiny Crimes: Very Short Tales of Mystery and Murder, among others. His debut novel, Hipster Death Rattle, was released in March 2019.
Bestselling author of the Greywalker paranormal detective novels, KAT RICHARDSON lives in Western Washington, writing and editing crime, mystery, science fiction, and fantasy. She is currently the vice president of the Northwest chapter of the Mystery Writers of America. As a former journalist and editor, she has a wide range of non-fiction publications on topics from technology, software, and security, to history, health, and precious metals. A lifelong fan of crime and mystery fiction, and noir films, she is also the author of the Science Fiction Police Procedural Blood Orbit under the pseudonym K. R. Richardson.
PETER SPIEGELMAN is the Shamus Award-winning author of five novels, including Dr. Knox, Thick as Thieves, and three books—Black Maps, Death’s Little Helpers, and Red Cat—that feature private investigator and Wall Street refugee John March. Peter’s short fiction has appeared in many collections, including Dublin Noir, Hardboiled Brooklyn, The Darker Mask, and Wall Street Noir, a crime fiction anthology that Peter also edited.
Prior to embarking on a career as a writer, Peter spent more than twenty years in the financial services and software industries, and worked with leading banks, brokerages and central banks around the world. He was born in New York City, where he currently resides.
JIM THOMSEN is a writer, manuscript editor and former newspaper journalist who splits his time between Florida and his hometown of Bainbridge Island, Washington. His fiction has been published in West Coast Crime Wave, Shotgun Honey, Pulp Modern and Switchblade.
BRIAN THORNTON is the author of eleven books and a whole bunch of short stories. His collection of three novellas, Suicide Blonde, is due out from Down & Out Books in late 2019. He does all of his own stunts, loves singing in the car with his son and the color blue, and lives in Seattle, where he is currently serving his third term as Northwest Chapter president for the Mystery Writers of America. Find out what he’s up to at brianthorntonwriter.com.
JIM WINTER is the crime-fiction nom de guerre of science fiction writer TS Hottle. As Jim, he wrote the Nick Kepler series and the standalone caper Road Rules. His first novel, Northcoast Shakedown, has been recently re-released. You can find this, as well as his ruminations on writing, rideshare driving, and music at jimwinterbooks.com. For his other-worldly stuff featuring ray guns, explosions, and aliens in space, go to tshottle.com. He lives in Cincinnati with his wife, Candy.
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Here is a preview from Crossing the Chicken, the fifth Jake Diamond mystery by J.L. Abramo.
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Vinnie
My worst habit is bad luck.
—Vinnie “Strings” Stradivarius
SATURDAY
“Vinnie. Vinnie. Vinnie.”
Vinnie Strings would have rather been sitting on a bed of hot coals than sitting face-to-face with William Conway across Big Bill’s oak desk in the back office of the Blarney Stone Saloon.
“I know,” Vinnie said.
“You knowing isn’t doing you much good, and it does me no good at all. And don’t insult me by telling me you are working on it. You have witnessed how I make examples of those who fail to pay what they owe. You know I will have no choice but to make an example of you. I didn’t twist your arm to put down bets with me, but both your arms will be twisted until they snap if you can’t cover your loses. I have a reputation to uphold. You may want to ask your guardian angel to bail you out again. I heard he squared your debt to Sandoval, and I heard Manny’s two gorillas are still on crutches.”
“I didn’t ask him to do that.”
“Whatever you say. In any case, do Jake Diamond a favor and explain to him that I am not Manny Sandoval and I don’t employ morons.”
“Can you give me more time?”
“Of course, Vinnie, that’s why you’re sitting here and not in traction at Saint Francis Memorial Hospital. One week. Go.”
Vinnie Strings sat alone in a booth at The Homestead on 19th Street and Folsom, working on his third gin and tonic.
He was staring at the phonebooth just inside the front door.
Vinnie had come close, a few times, to leaving the table to phone Jake Diamond.
He knew Jake would help him, but not without a lecture. Vinnie decided the lecture from Big Bill had been enough for one day.
He turned his attention back to his drink, found the glass empty, and called to Rachel for another.
Minutes later, Vinnie was about to ask Rachel why she had delivered two drinks when Bobby Lockhart sat at the booth.
“On me,” Lockhart said.
“Thanks.”
Bobby and Vinnie sat in at the same poker game twice a month. They were not exactly bosom buddies, but they got along.
“I hear you’re into Big Bill Conway for three large.”
“Did you read about it in the Chronicle?”
“You know how word gets around among gamblers, we all love hearing about someone less lucky.”
“I’m all right.”
“You don’t look all right.”
“No offense, Bobby, but I would rather talk about the weather.”
“I can help you.”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Because you would be helping me.”
“I’ll listen,” Vinnie said.
“There’s a cat owes me fifteen grand for work I did for him, and he’s late. He said he would have the cash for me tonight—but he’s said it before.”
“And?”
“I told him I would drop by his house to pick it up, but I wouldn’t be alone. You always look more serious when you bring someone along. I will give you twenty percent just for keeping me company. It’s enough to get Big Bill off your back.”
“What time tonight?”
“I can pick you up outside your place at nine.”
Vinnie Stradivarius looked over to the phonebooth, and then back to Lockhart.
“Nine it is,” Vinnie said.
The house was in the Richmond.
Lockhart parked on the next street and they walked.
At the front door, Bobby pushed the doorbell.
It rang the first eight notes of Beethoven’s Fifth.
The man who opened the door looked at both visitors.
“Good evening, Fred,” Bobby said.
“It’s Frederick. What do you want?”
A gun appeared in Bobby’s hand.
“You can invite us in. Fred.”
The man backed away, and Lockhart stepped through the door.
Vinnie stood planted at the threshold. Confused.
“Come on,” Bobby said, “and close it behind you.”
“If you want money, I have around twelve hundred dollars in my wallet,” Frederick Hanover said.
“Impressive,” Bobby said. “Do you have a gun?”
“In my desk drawer.”
“Show me.”
They followed Hanover into an office at the back of the house.
“Top drawer, left side.”
“Sit. Take it out, slowly. Place it on the desk, and put your hands behind your head.”
When Hanover complied, Bobby handed his weapon to Vinnie.
“Keep him covered until I get his gun.”
Bobby walked over to the desk, picked up the weapon, turned, shot Vinnie in the chest, and placed the gun back down on the desk.
“Are you insane,” Hanover said.
“You have no idea.”
Lockhart walked over and picked up his gun where Vinnie had dropped it when he went down. Bobby pointed the gun at Hanover.
“I’ll give you a chance,” Lockhart said. “I’ll let you go for your weapon.”
Hanover grabbed for his gun. Bobby put a bullet in Fred’s head.
Bobby touched the weapon to Vinnie’s hand, and placed it on the floor next to Vinnie’s body.
He started out of the room, but stopped short at the door.
He walked back to the desk and lifted the small statuette.
It was a figure of a winged-woman, made in metal, six inches tall.
She stood on a green stone pedestal.
Bobby slipped it into his jacket pocket. He couldn’t resist.
Lockhart had a thing for angels.
After a dinner of leftover Chinese take-out, another terrible Steven Seagal film on TV, and two chapters of Dicken’s David Copperfield, Jake Diamond was ready to call it a night when his doorbell rang.
Jake found Detective Sergeant Johnson standing on the front porch.
“I’m just going to say it.”
“Okay.”
“Vincent Stradivarius was shot. An hour ago.”
“Is he alive?”
“He’s alive, but he may not make it.”
“Where is he?”
“Saint Francis, but he’ll be in surgery for hours.”
“So, there’s no need to rush down there.”
“None I can think of.”
“Care for a drink?” Diamond asked.
“Sure, I could handle a drink.”
Bobby
Every murderer is probably someone’s old friend.
—Agatha Christie
1
After Sergeant Johnson gave me the news about Vinnie Strings, I invited him in for a drink.
He followed me back to the kitchen, where I poured two glasses of George Dickel Tennessee sour mash over ice.
We sat at the kitchen table.
“Has his mother been told?” I asked.
“I called Ray Boyle down in Los Angeles. He said he would personally go over to see her tonight, and book her a flight for tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks for taking care of that.”
“No problem.”
“So, what happened?”
“I can tell you what it looked like.”
“Okay.”
“Vinnie and Frederick Hanover were both found in Hanover’s study, a house in the Richmond. It appears there was an exchange of gunfire. Both were hit once. Vinnie was found on the floor in front of the desk, Hanover’s body was behind the desk. Hanover was DOA. Guns were found near each body.”
“Who was Hanover?”
“Big time businessman. Real estate developer. Obscenely wealthy. It’s being looked at as a robbery gone south.”
“Not possible. Not Vinnie.”
“Word has it he had worked himself into debt. Nearly three thousand dollars.”
“Vinnie would take a beating before he would point a weapon at anyone. Who does he owe the money to?”
“William Conway.”
“I guess I’ll have to talk with Conway.”
“Big Bill is a nasty piece of work. I’m just saying. Try to be polite.”
“Dealing with Conway will be a walk in the park compared to giving Darlene the news.”
“It’s after midnight. Why don’t you wait until morning to call her?”
“I will, and I’ll need to tell her in person. I’m going to head over to the hospital, find a doctor who knows something. Did Vinnie say anything?”
“Not a thing. And he probably won’t be saying anything for quite a while. But there was this,” Johnson said, pulling a crime scene photograph from his jacket pocket and handing it across the table to me.
“What is it?”
“The floor near Vinnie’s body.”
The photo was a close-up shot of two symbols written in blood.
X X
“Mean anything to you?”
“It does. Vinnie is telling us he was double-crossed.”
2
It was nearly two hours before I was able to talk to a doctor and hear what I didn’t want to hear.
It was after three in the morning when I made it back home.
Another fun-filled Saturday night.
I knew exactly where Darlene would be with Tug McGraw five hours later, so I set my alarm for seven-thirty.
It would have given me four hours sleep, had I been able to sleep.
I sat on a bench in Buena Vista Park, waiting for Darlene and the dog to come to the end of their run.
They were about to pass the bench at full speed when Darlene spotted me. She stopped on a dime.
I was afraid the leash would pull Tug McGraw’s head off.
“I’m not glad to see you,” she said.
“Vinnie was shot last night. He’s alive, but not in the clear.”
“Have you seen him?”
“He went from surgery to recovery to intensive care, no one will be seeing him until noon at the earliest.”
“What happened?”
“The going theory is Vinnie shot a man named Hanover while Vinnie was committing a robbery, but we both know that’s not true.”
“What’s your theory?”
“I think someone else was there, shot them both, and staged the scene to mislead the police.”
“Hanover?”
“Dead.”
“So, on top of everything, Vinnie is a murder suspect.”
“I’m hoping when the crime scene investigators are through they’ll find it couldn’t have gone down that way.”
“What was Vinnie doing there?”
“Before he lost consciousness at the scene, Vinnie left a message. He was telling us he had been betrayed. Someone Vinnie felt he could trust got him there, and back-stabbed him. That someone is who we’re looking for.”
“What can I do to help find that someone?”
“I don’t know enough yet to answer that question, but there is something you can do. Ray Boyle called to tell me he put Vinnie’s mother on a plane, can you pick her up at the airport and take her to the hospital?”
“Of course. What will you be doing?”
“I’ll be paying a polite visit to a nasty Irishman.”
3
The Blarney Stone was one of those neighborhood bars where locals came to drink breakfast.
