Noir fiction for the modern reader.

Excerpt from The Take, a novel soon to be published by  L&L Dreamspell…

Eddie Ryan gazed absently out the window from his booth at Denny’s, until a sharp glint flicked across his eye, snapping him out of his misery. It was the sun reflecting off Raymond Cannetta’s shiny blue Lincoln as it pulled into the parking lot.

On first glance, there was nothing scary about Cannetta. His medium size and soft-spoken manner didn’t add up to the beefy loan-shark stereotype. But when he slipped into the quiet booth across from Eddie, icing down the area with his volatile brown eyes, Eddie shivered. This close, he could see the dark streak, the violence lurking right under the surface, as though he’d held Cannetta up to the light.

He tried to still the nervous hand that stirred his coffee. Cannetta poured a cup for himself from the pot on the table.

“What’s up, Eddie?”

“I had a bad week. I’m a little short, you know, and I…I need some cash to pay off my bettors.”

“How much?”

“Nineteen grand.”

Cannetta didn’t reply right away. Rather, he gently sipped at his coffee, letting the figure hang out to dry, so Eddie would understand this was no ordinary loan.

“Where’d they make this shit?” His thin face contracted into a grimace as he set the cup back down. “My stomach’s been telling me for some time now to quit this stuff. I ought to pay attention. But you know, I been drinking it for thirty-five years now. Six, seven cups a day. That’s a long time, Eddie. Hard to break a habit that’s been with you for that long.”

Eddie mumbled something in agreement, still rattling his spoon against the sides of the cup.

“I’ll let you have twenty,” Cannetta finally said, his eyes burning into Eddie’s. “Every Friday at noon you meet me here”–his index finger poked the tabletop–”and you pay me a grand plus another grand worth of vig. In twenty weeks, it’s paid off.” The expression on his face asked Eddie if he agreed.

“Agreed,” Eddie replied.

“Let’s go out to the car.”

Cannetta retrieved a briefcase from the trunk of the Lincoln. They got into the front seat, where he opened it. Eddie saw a flash of stacked currency inside. Cannetta pulled out a few of the banded bundles, then counted out twenty thousand dollars.

He held out the thick handful of hundreds, as Eddie reached for it. But before Cannetta released it, he warned, “Remember, Eddie. One grand every Friday plus another grand in juice. No excuses. No bullshit.”

“Right, Raymond. Two grand. You’ll get it.” Eddie surprised himself at how confident he sounded, as he took the money and stuffed it down his pants.

Excerpt from Block, now available in the 2009 Wizards Of Words Anthology

I take one look around the room before I walk out. It’s just like any one of thousands of identical Holiday Inn rooms, except for the sheets and pillows torn to pieces. And the bloodstains on the wall.

I put the body in the trunk before going back inside to wash up and to clean off my hunting knife. It’s a good thing it gets dark early this time of year. I’d hate to have to do it in broad daylight, even though I wrapped her in the hotel bedspread. I can dump her in the woods on old Highway 10 south of town on the way home. This way the animals can have a feast and I can get home in time for dinner.

The bitch shouldn’t’ve said those things to me.

* * * * *

I notice the leaves in the driveway as I pull in, as well as the trashcans still sitting on the curb. What am I paying Dougie his allowance for, anyway? Karen keeps saying, “Oh, he’s only seven years old. He’ll learn.” Sure, he’ll learn. He’ll learn somebody else’ll do these chores if he doesn’t.

The second I open the door, I’m hit with the irresistible aroma of something garlicky cooking in the kitchen. I just love that smell.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Excerpt from The Ghosts Of Havana, a novel coming soon

The voice on the other end of the phone sounded urgent and out of breath.

“Robbie, it’s me, Blaine.  Listen.  She’s dead.”

It was like a hard fist in the gut.  I had to sit down.  I swept all the papers off the chair and slowly sank into it.

“Dead?  Dead?”  My voice was speaking, but I only heard a pathetic squeak, like someone else’s cartoonish babble coming off the TV.  Like it was all made up.

Blaine gulped.  “We got there at ten of eleven, right on time.  The joint was crowded, just like you said.   We slipped back to her dressing room.”

I could hear him sparking a cigarette through the phone.  I knew he needed it.  Not only that, I was going to need one myself here pretty quick.

“Go on, already.  What happened?”

“Shit, man!  We went back there and she–she–”  He swallowed, then dialed his voice way down.  “Her throat was cut, Robbie.  Damn near took her head off.”

My stomach tightened into a hard knot, while the rest of my body shook in a rapid, violent spasm.  Was I really hearing this?

Perching my cellphone between my ear and my shoulder, I grabbed at the fresh pack of cigarettes on the table.  Made a couple of awkward stabs at opening it, but my trembling hands wouldn’t let me tear off the thin cellophane strip.  After a few fumbling seconds, I just ripped the damn thing wide open.  The little white sticks flew out all over the floor.

I reached down for one by my shoe, made an attempt at dusting it off, then fired it up.

Then I said, “Where’s my money?”