Tag Archives: Crime Fiction

Contents Vol. 4 No. 4

Crime Fiction, Crimefighter, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, Western Fiction, , , , , , , , , , , ,

Welcome to Volume Four, Number Four of Dime Pulp,
A Serial Pulp Fiction Magazine. 

Die Like A Man, Thierry La Noque’s debut serial novel,  is a story of a man who gives a friend a ride only to be pulled in deeper and deeper into the events surrounding the brutal murder of the daughter of a prominent businessman featuring  hunky young wannabe private eye, Ray Philips.  
Lydia Cheése (pronounced “Chase”) continues her mission to fly an unauthorized dirigible to Djibouti in Phyllis Huldarsdottir’s round-the-world steampunk adventure,  Cheése Stands Alone.  
Wayne Bruce survives his ordeal in the Southern Sahara and emerges as a new man with a new mission in Pierre Anton Taylor’s crimefighter drama, Just Coincidence.

chase blurbFIPhyllis Huldarsdottir’s Cheése Stands Alone, the continuing adventures of Airship Commander Lydia Cheése (pronounced “Chase”) in the search for her anti-Clockwork Commonwealth renegade father, Commodore Jack, with the help Doctor Professor Jean-Pierre Serre-Pain, proprietor the Madame Ophelia’s Ophidiarium, a traveling snake show, and his associates, former circus strongman, Vlady, and Serpina, the snake girl. On the run from IOTA (the Investigative Office of The Admiralty), she has narrowly escapes capture by her nemesis, Chief Inspector Karla Kola, in Oldest Orleans, and now with the help of a young wannabe airship pilot, Pyare, must traverse the Central Massif to rendezvous with Serre-Pain and the dirigible that will take them on a mercy mission to HOAR (the Horn Of Africa Republics), base for the anti-Commonwealth ICERS. Read more of Cheése Stands Alone in Episode XV.

JCblurb1fiPierre Anton Taylor’s dark crimefighting serial, Just Coincidence is about a privileged young man with the unremarkable name of Wayne Bruce who returns to the site where his father once had his business, a battery manufacturing plant, and where he often spent his childhood days hanging around the factory and the neighborhood. His return is haunted by the mysterious circumstances surrounding his father’s death and the vague feeling that his uncle is somehow involved. Appalled by the poverty and crime of the place he remembers fondly, he is moved to resolve the injustice of the socially marginalized and to wreak vengeance on those he believes are responsible for the death of his father.  The backstory to his emergence as a crimefighter is revealed in Just Coincidence, Act Three, Scene I, Part 2

DLAM5

Die Like A Man, a brand new serial novel by Thierry La Noque, is a meta noir of a man who gives a friend a ride only to be pulled in deeper and deeper into the events surrounding the brutal murder of the daughter of a prominent businessman and the attempts to cover it up and place the blame on someone else. Ray Philips, a martial arts instructor, sometime event security, and bouncer working toward getting his private investigator’s license in a world where the private eye is quickly becoming an anachronism, is hired to find a missing husband, the famous crime novelist and infamous drunk, Stan Giordino by his petite pierced drug addicted wife, Stella. A stolen cache of drugs and money only complicates and implicates the wannabe detective, and puts him over his head and his life in danger. Not to mention that his girlfriend, Cissy, is dying of cancer.  Die Like A Man III & Die Like A Man IV

FYI: Available for readers of Dime Pulp who may have missed a few issues or lost the thread of a serial,  Dime Pulp Yearbook 21, featuring the novels (The Last Resort and Better Than Dead) and the short fiction (Hard Boiled Myth and Gone Missing) of Volume One’s 12 issues, is joined by Dime Pulp Yearbook 22, featuring the complete pulp Western, On The Road To Las Cruces, continuing episodes of  a detective story, Better Than Dead, the opening chapters of new serial novels, Just Coincidence and Cheése Stands Alone, the short fiction of Hard Boiled Myth and Polka Dot Dress, as well as Dropping A Dime’s pithy pulp observations.  Volume Two’s 10 issues are available for perusal in their entirety simply by clicking on the links in this paragraph or on the menu bar above. Dime Pulp Yearbook 23 is now available featuring a full year’s worth of Just Coincidence and Cheése Stands Alone, and the complete Better Than Dead novel, as well as the early chapters of Mark Ducharme’s gothic serial, Carriers.

If you’ve made it this far, click  on the links above to read the entertaining  serial contents of Volume 4, Number4!

 —Perry O’Dickle, chief scribe
and word accountant

 

 

 

Die Like A Man IV

Crime Fiction, Crimefighter, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, , , , , , , , , , , , ,

by Thierry La Noque

CHAPTER 7

They don’t teach it to you at the Academy, but the old timers will tell you, nine out of ten, if the perp falls asleep when left by himself in interrogation, he’s guilty. Ray struggled to keep his eyes open. If only. Fucking useless mewling hairball puking three and a half legged piece of fur shedding bad tempered finicky retired rat catcher has to have special. Man, he could be sleeping now. Like a stupid ass, he had to go. Why did he even bother? At least she didn’t flip out into one of her “what I’ve done for you and what do I have to show for it” rants. “When we met you didn’t know the difference between a Picasso and a Pepsi!” Like he even cared that there was a difference. Besides, he knew who Picasso was. The guy who drew the moustache on the Mona Lisa. Like that hadn’t been done before. The throbbing from the swelling on his forehead was more annoying now than merely painful. Fucking Colin, wrapped up in one of his jams. Again. He owed. Well, he didn’t have to go there.

Kovacs had come close to losing his cool. “Ok, Ray let’s cut the crap. Sign the damn form!”  He’d leaned on the table with his knuckles and glowered down. “I asked around. Word is you’re a wannabe cop. Couldn’t cut it the right way and now you’re going wrong. If law enforcement flags your file with an arrest for accessory after the fact, do you think the State review board is going to issue you a license? I could add a note that you’re an Academy drop-out who flunked the psych evaluation.”

The door was pushed open and a voice spoke low to Carson. Carson repeated the message. “Briefing’s about to start. Leave this asshole to stew.”

Ray thought about it. If he asked for a lawyer, they’d arrest him and chain him to half a dozen spurious charges. That kind of paper he didn’t need. Sign the form. The wording above the signature line didn’t leave much wiggle room. I understand that by signing this document I acknowledge having been advised of my rights under the Miranda Act of 1966, and that a lawyer will be provided should the need arise. There was no guarantee that he wouldn’t be arrested anyway. There had to be an angle. But he wasn’t thinking angles. He could barely stay awake to think straight.

The next cop to come through the door walked like a man with a chapped asshole. He was wide in the hip, sleeves still buttoned to the wrists, freshly shaved judging by the neon nicks on one side of the jaw line, and he was left handed. The belt was cinched too tight on the high waist slacks begging for a pair of suspenders.

Ray recognized the face, but the name escaped him. Where? Pushing the mandatory retirement age, that was for sure. And he held the interrogator’s magic top hat, the manila file folder, which could be empty of anything but a blank sheet of paper or it could be full of incriminating rabbits. Lowering himself to the seat with great care, he set the folder at his elbow and gave Ray a slight pained smile when he finally settled.

Ray caught a pause, a freeze in the old cop’s demeanor. It was momentary, barely perceptible. Or maybe he imagined it, drifting a moment into micro-sleep.

“You’re Raymond Philips?” and without waiting for confirmation, “Can I call you Ray?”

The voice triggered the name just as he introduced himself. Bob Orthall.

“Ray, my name’s Bob Orthall, and I’m going to ask you some questions.”

Orthall, right, retired deputy chief of a department down on the peninsula, not San Jose, but somewhere down there. He’d given a talk on interrogation technique at the Academy. Top homicide cop once. Noted for getting confessions without breaking a sweat or using a glove. It had been a while. And the id tag clipped to the shirt pocket had Ray looked closely said he wasn’t one of the regular staff. Picking up a little on the side working as a retired annuitant on big operations.

“That’s a nasty bump on your forehead.”

“Yeah, thanks to Junior.”

The old cop’s eyes scanned him with expert appraisal. “One of our officers is responsible for that?”

Ray considered his response. Fuck it. “Junior. Carson. Ask the other guy, the city cop. He’ll tell you.”

The old man pursed his lips and nodded. “Well, that’s certainly bound to change your disposition. Do you want to file a formal complaint with the Sheriff’s Department? I can get you the forms to sign.”

Ray would have laughed if the situation weren’t so fucked up. Instead he gave a splayed you gotta be kidding stare and a twist of lip smirk.

“Sheriff Departments have a tendency to hire cowboys. That’s just the way it is. I’m not making excuses but there’s a major incident in progress and we have to develop as many leads as we can in a very short time. Bad attitudes get bad reactions, Ray. A major crime has been committed and you might have information that could help us piece the events together. All I’m looking for is a little cooperation.”

Ray stared at the mottled receding hairline, the predominance of gray or white, the sagging eye corners and the accompanying baggage beneath piercing steady blues that banished all nonsense. “Sure, I’ll cooperate. Tell me what’s going on.”

“The detectives didn’t inform you?”  Orthall shifted the folder on the table in front of him.

“I could have told the other cops what they wanted to know if they’d told me what was going on, but that punk deputy prematurely ejaculated.”  Orthall couldn’t restrain the small chuckle and Ray added. “Tell me what’s going on. I’ll help you anyway I can.”

“I’m happy to hear that, Ray. And I will tell you exactly what is going on. But first I’d like you to answer a few questions. For instance, tell me what you did, where and when, on Friday the 23rd. Yesterday. “

“You want me to tell you what I did yesterday?”

“That’s shouldn’t be too hard. What was the first thing you did yesterday? How many hours ago would you say?”

Ray blinked in recognition. It was the old math trick. Orthall wasn’t wasting any time. He wanted to see whether his eyes would move to the right or the left considering the answer. At least that class at the Academy wasn’t a total waste of time. He stared straight ahead not even focusing. “I dunno, twenty four?”

“Cooperate, Ray. The sooner you answer my questions, the sooner you can get up and walk out of here. It’s as simple as that. I’m just an old cop they brought in to help with the work load. The hotshots are working the real bad guys. My job is to gather ancillary information to fill out the big picture. Right now the picture is far from complete. Something you tell me might seem meaningless to you but it could help the investigators gain some insight. It’s a long shot, I know, but we wouldn’t be doing our job if we overlooked anything.”  Orthall had rested his wrists on the edge of the table and looked down at the folder before bringing his head up to fix Ray with the unwavering blue stare. “What was the first thing you did yesterday morning? And skip the petty details like wiping your ass and what kind of syrup you put on your pancakes.”

What the fuck. Why not. The sooner, the sooner. “Ok. First thing. On Friday mornings I teach a martial arts class at the Runway Club.”

“Martial arts? Really? You must be pretty good. Just Fridays? What time does the class start?”

Ray shrugged. “Three times a week. Mondays and Wednesdays, too. Seven to eleven.”

“Are you an employee of the Runway Club? I’ll need the name of someone I can contact. . . ?”

“I contract with the manager, Karen. I’m offering a change from the usual pump and run aerobics. Uh, the number’s on my phone. But you guys have my phone.”

“Ok, what next.”

“I usually work out for about an hour. Till about noon.”

“Knock off for lunch? Where’d you go eat?”

If I tell you what I ate I’ll have to tell you what I shit. Ray held back. “At the Goll y Geez taco truck over by the airport. They make a mean chicken burrito.” Ray caught a pause, a freeze in the old cop’s demeanor. It was momentary, barely perceptible. Or maybe he imagined it, drifting a moment into micro-sleep.

“After lunch?”

“I stopped by the office where I intern to pick up my check.”

“Where do you intern, Ray?”

“Morgan Josephson.” He could tell by the absence of reaction it was information Orthall already knew.

“Paul Morgan was my sergeant when I first started out. He was a good cop. And I have a lot of respect for Ted Josephson. Are you pursuing a career as a private investigator?”  He knew that answer as well.

“Why don’t we just cut to the chase? Tell me what’s going on and I’ll tell you what I know!”

“Ray, you know as well as I do we have to play it by the rules. About what time was it you dropped by the office to pick up your check? And that’s the office over on College, right? He’s still in the same old place?”  More questions that didn’t require an answer.

“About one thirty or so.”

“You take a long lunch.”

“Uh, I went home for quick shower.”

“So noon lunch standing up or sitting in your car. Home for a shower? I get the feeling you’re leaving something out here, Ray.”

“I dunno, I was back at my place around twelve thirty.”

“And when you say my place, where is that?”

Ray was suddenly very tired, the sugar had worn off. Tired meant irritable. “Look it up in the fucking folder in front of you. You think I’m gonna lie to you about where I fucking live?”

“I’ll give Ted Josephson a call to confirm what you’re saying. He’ll be disappointed to hear how uncooperative you’re being. What did you do after you picked up your check?”

Ray kept from scoffing. He obviously didn’t know Ted very well. “I went by County animal control.”

“Do you work there, too?”

“Uh, no. I check there occasionally to see what strays have been picked up.”

“Looking for a canine companion?”

Ray shrugged. He knew the response he’d get. “When strays are picked up, the animal control officer has to log the location. I have a friend who works at the shelter. I get access to the information and drive out to those locations and look for lost pet posters. Sometimes rewards are offered. Sometimes I get a match. You’d be surprised how grateful people are to get their pet back.”

“Why don’t they just call the pound?”

“You’d be surprised how many people don’t think of that. They’re more likely to believe that someone kidnapped their dog.”

Orthall seemed amused. “That’s very enterprising. Do you do cats?”

“Naw, not cats, once they’re gone, they’re gone, and if they come back, they’ll come back on their own.”

“So you’re a pet detective.”

CHAPTER 8

Kovacs had called Orthall to the door of the interrogation room and they’d stepped into the hallway. The old cop’s wobbly step returning to the table indicated that he was in some degree of pain. “Ok, where were we? You spend the rest of the day looking for lost owners?”

Ray shook his head. It hurt to do that. His gut spasmed. What to say now. “There weren’t any new strays so I went back to Mojo and hit the books, public safety codes, criminal law. Like that. Ted has a good library. I have to bone up for the State exam.”

“And Ted will vouch for your being there, how long, all afternoon?”

“Uh, no, Ted usually takes Friday afternoons off for his golf date.”

Orthall smiled. “The Nineteenth Hole?”

Ray nodded. Ted liked to get stewed while talking up his golf game. And even if he’d been there he wouldn’t have noticed that around three Ray left unannounced. He had to tread carefully. He’d gone to the house on Ripley that Charlene shared with her roommate, another cocktail waitress from La Bête Noir. Afterwards they’d gone to a hip little Korean restaurant in a strip mall over on Yulupa. And then back to her place.

“Ok, Ray, we’ve established you taught martial arts until eleven, worked out, had lunch, picked up your check after you went home to shower, drove to the county shelter and then drove back to Josephson’s office on College. Till what time?”

“Four thirty, five.”

“I see, hitting the books pretty hard, that’s commendable. What then?”

Ray dropped his gaze to the table. The books were the gadget and gear catalogs Ted kept around the office. Gadget porn, Ted called it. Civil and criminal codes put him to sleep. “I went back to my place and got ready for my gig at La Bête Noir.”

“Your gig.”

“Yeah, I handle the door, check IDs, that kind of thing.”

“Well, so far nothing you’ve said has been useful except that I am getting a better picture of you, Ray. Martial arts intern pet detective bouncer. What time did you go to work at the night club?”

At least he knew what it was. “I start at nine. I sometimes go in a little earlier. I’m friends with some of the staff.”

“So from four thirty, five? How long is that?”  The eye thing again and when Ray didn’t react, “That’s almost four hours. A critical amount of time. What did you do?”

“Usual stuff. Had something to eat. Went for a run. Took another shower”

“A run? Where?”

“In the neighborhood. I try to get one in every evening. Even at this time of year.”  Cissy had come back late from an estate sale in Mill Valley just as he was getting ready for work. She was exhausted and in a mood so he didn’t say much except that he’d grabbed a bite out.

“Can you verify where you were during that time? Girlfriend, domestic partner, mom?”

Ray grimaced more at the mention of his mother. Since when did she care where he’d been? “Girlfriend. She was on business down in Marin and didn’t get back till I was about to leave.”

Ray was pissed. Pissed at himself and pissed at Colin and pissed at the old cop. He’d been backed into a corner by circumstances beyond his control. He hated that.

“Ray, I have a problem here. There’s no one to verify you were where you say you were for that period of time. That happens to be the time frame investigators are focusing on.”

Ray shook his head without moving his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re going to have to take my word that I was where I said I was.”

“That’s not good enough, Ray.”  Orthall had leaned forward to emphasize the unacceptability of his answer. “But we’ll come back to that. I’m going to assume that if someone asked the staff at the night club they would confirm that you worked the door till about when? Closing time? What time is that?”

“I’m usually out of there a little after two. Depends if I socialize after hours.”

“Did you socialize after hours this morning?”

Ray was reminded. Was it still morning? “No.”

“Alright, went home to the girlfriend. Was she waiting up? You wake her getting in bed? These are things I’m going to ask her. What’s her name, by the way?”

“Cissy. Celia Marleau.”

“How do you spell that?”

“Common spelling.”

“Ok, so M-a-r-l-o-w. With an e?” Orthall scrawled the name on the outside of the folder. “And which was it, waiting or waking?”

“She usually waits up for me.”

The old cop shook his head. “No, Ray, straight answers. Clear cut. Yes or no.”

Ray looked up at the ceiling and stretched pressing against the back of the chair. He brought his hand to his mouth to cover the yawn. “I can’t remember.”

“Cut the crap, Ray.” Orthall had opened the file and found what he was looking for. “At 2:39 AM Sebastopol Police dispatch ran a ten twenty eight on California plate GMTI00. That came back on a tan ‘94 Honda hatchback registered to a Raymond Allen Phillips. That request came in from a patrolman conducting a traffic stop on Bodega Highway just inside the Sebastopol city limits. The officer confirmed that he did make a tail light stop and that the driver was identified as Ray Phillips, someone he knew from the Academy.”  Orthall looked up from the page. “Stop me if any of this is inaccurate, Ray.”

“Yeah, so I went for a drive. What of it?”

“The officer also states that there was a second occupant in the vehicle who appeared to be sleeping or passed out. Not something unusual for early Saturday morning. Incidentally, according to the officer, Warren Kroener, you appeared sober. Who was in the car with you, Ray?”

Ok, this is where silence is golden or at least not incriminating. He stared at a spot on the table between them.

“Let me fill in the blanks for you, Ray. A resident in one of the trailers at Bottle Point Marina reported a suspicious vehicle parked near the slip when she was awakened early this morning by one of the boats starting out into the bay. There was a car with misted windows parked by the empty slip like someone was inside sleeping. There’d been break-ins at the marina so she jotted down the license. Guess what she copied down, Ray? GMTIOO! Whatever the fuck that means?”  He shot Ray a look like that might have been the worst offense. And waited. “Well, what’s it stand for? Some kind of secret society?”

“Gumshoe. It stands for gumshoe.”

Orthall stared down at the page. And then back up at Ray. “Ok, I get it. Like that weird way you can spell fish.”  He managed a taut smile. “Cute. Perfect for a pet detective.”  He closed the folder after removing a sheet and holding it up showing only the blank backside. “I’m gonna show you something, Ray, but first let me fill in more of the blanks. That party boat leaving while you were taking your nap was The Black Manta owned by Seagoing Sports Fishing. Know who is a partner in that venture, Ray? Colin Knox. Name ring a bell, Ray?”

“Yeah. So?”  This had to be a drug thing. But why a retired homicide cop?

“Just so we make sure we’re talking about the same guy. Colin Knox, the war hero. Kicked ass in Iraq, saved his patrol from ambush. Killed a bunch of people. That Colin Knox. Killer Colin, they called him.”

“I never heard him called that.”

“So you know the guy. Son of former city councilman Howard Knox. Decorated war vet.”

“Yeah, I was friends with him in school.”

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say that Colin Knox was the passenger in the car when Sebastopol PD made that traffic stop. Am I right?”

Ray was pissed. Pissed at himself and pissed at Colin and pissed at the old cop. He’d been backed into a corner by circumstances beyond his control. He hated that.

“I’m gonna assume by your unresponsiveness that I’m right. You went to Bottle Point Marina in the early hours of the morning with Colin Knox as a passenger. I want to know what you talked about. Everything you talked about.”

“Listen, I don’t have anything to do with his drug stuff. That’s why I don’t hang with him anymore. And since he’s been back from Iraq he’s had this swelled head. All that hero bullshit. Hard to take.”

“This isn’t about drugs, Ray.” Orthall placed the sheet on the table between them. It was a color photo enlargement.

Ray stared at it and in recognition pulled his head up sharply.

“That’s not pizza.” Orthall poked an arthritic finger at the picture

Ray returned his gaze to the photo. In the middle of the tomato sauce was an eyeball.

“It’s Mandy Goll. Or what’s left of her face.”

Die Like A Man III

Crime Fiction, Crimefighter, Gothic, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, , , , , , , , , , , ,

by Thierry La Noque

CHAPTER 5

Ray spotted them as he walked across the parking lot fishing his car keys out of his coat pocket with one hand, the other holding a white plastic bag weighted with half a dozen cans of specialty cat food from Co-Op Groceries. They might as well have been wearing neon signs that said police, the bulk of the Kevlar under their dress shirts was just so obvious. There were two of them. They walked briskly toward him, the young one with a hand close to his right hip and the bulge under his sport jacket. The older, dark complexioned cop, wide in the shoulders to begin with and a demeanor that left no doubt of his intent, was attired in a jacket that matched his pants, a cut long out of style, and like the comet Kohoutek, as Cissy liked to say, not due back in their lifetime.

Ray addressed the young cop as he circled behind. “What’s the deal?”

“Raymond Phillips? You Raymond Phillips?”  Now it was the dark cop talking. “Raymond, I’m Detective Sergeant Kovacs, Santa Rosa PD, and this is Detective Carson, County Sheriff. We’re with the Major Crimes Task Force.”

Ray hated being called Raymond. He was only referred to with that kind of formality when he was in trouble, like “go stand at the front of the class room with your nose to the chalk board, Raymond,” and listen while Sister Margaret Anne tells the entire class behind your back as if you weren’t even there, “Raymond is an example of how not to behave.”  It had scarred him.

“I gave at the office.”  He fit the key into the door of his Civic.

“Ray, you just flunked the attitude test.”  It was the young cop. He crowded Ray’s back. Ray held his ground. He knew the tactic.

“Raymond, we’d appreciate your cooperation.”  The detective sergeant’s eyes darted in assessment, making eye contact. “You might have information that would greatly help us in our investigation.” He spoke with a trace of an unfamiliar accent.

The young detective was breathing down his neck and Ray turned to catch the leering sadistic grin. It was a familiar face, topped by a blond crewcut and bracketed by pink ears. The blue eyes were cruel and the nostrils of the sharp narrow nose flared with a kind of sensual pleasure.

He felt the displacement of air and the force of the hand on the back of his head as his forehead was smashed against the edge of the Civic’s roof.

“You know what, Sarg, I know this fucking guy. Ray Philips, yeah, he was in the class ahead of me at the academy. Isn’t that right, Ray?”

Ray said nothing and turned his attention back to the dark detective. Now he remembered, Jack Carson’s kid, Junior, from a long line of cops and pricks.

“Raymond, we were hoping you could help us locate a friend of yours, Colin Knox.” The dark cop’s eyes focused on his reaction.

Ray shrugged. “Sorry, can’t help you there.” The young cop was close enough to climb into his back pocket and he caught a whiff of the sour curdled breath which reminded him that he had not eaten in almost twelve hours. His stomach gurgled. He took a step backward to get more personal space. He addressed the sergeant. “Get this fucking clown off my back. You got cause, arrest me. Otherwise, I got business to take care of.”  His bluff was accompanied by the sudden urge to take a crap.

The corners of Kovacs’s eyes drooped in disappointment. A wry smile formed on the thick lips under the sliver of dark moustache. “Raymond, if you attended Police Academy then you must realize that we are only doing our job. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”

“Ok, now it’s all coming back to me. He got booted for putting Hoffmeyer down on the mat.”

Kovacs tried to repress a grin. “Lieutenant Hoffmeyer? Hulk Hoffmeyer? The head of the County Drug Interdiction Task Force?”

“Yeah, when he was still a sergeant, Hoffmeyer taught the combat module at the Academy. This wannabe Bruce Lee caught him with some off the wall kung fu move. Broke Hoffmeyer’s arm or wrist or something. How about it, Ray? I heard you were on the way out anyway. Blew the psych evaluation and thought you’d get your last dig in, isn’t that right?”

Ray kept quiet. Hoffmeyer was a fucking sadist who took great pleasure in beating up on the cadets, especially the women. He was of the opinion that the force was no place for pussies or faggots. He got what he deserved as far as Ray was concerned. And he hadn’t failed his psychological evaluation.

“Assault on a police officer, Raymond, that’s a pretty serious charge.”  Kovacs cloaked his face in an expressionless veneer. “Maybe I should assume from what Detective Carson is telling me that you are not, how should we say, police friendly? A problem with authority, perhaps?”

Now they were just fucking with him. He addressed Kovacs. “Hey, get this straight. I just came here to get some cat food for my girlfriend’s cat. I had a late night, not a lot of sleep, and I haven’t had breakfast yet. So maybe I’m not exactly mister personality. What of it? No, I don’t know where Colin Knox is. We’re not exactly running buddies.”

“But of course, Raymond,” Kovacs gave a weary smile. “Unfortunately we have conflicting information. I’m certain we can straighten it all out once we go over the details on Sonoma Ave.”

“Am I under arrest?”  He heard the metallic click of cuffs in Carson’s hands.”

“Let’s not dwell on technicalities, shall we, Raymond. We would like to ask you a few more questions in a less distracting atmosphere.”

“Oh yeah? What’s the charge?”  He could sense the razor edge of tension. Carson’s breathing had accelerated. In an ordinary situation he could probably have taken both of them down. But it wasn’t an ordinary situation.

“If you would like to be charged, fine. How about domestic violence?”  Now the dark cop’s looks turned sinister.

“Domestic violence? What the fuck you talking about?”

“Raymond, you have the welt of a handprint on your cheek and a serious scratch on your chin. Have a fight with your girlfriend? I don’t imagine she got the better of it with a bruiser like you. Martial artist?”

Fucking Sherlock Holmes. “This is bullshit!” Ray saw that he’d lost the battle. They were going to take him in no matter what. “Alright, lemme just put the cat food in the car.”

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”  Carson had moved back a step with his hand on his Glock.

Ray swung the door open and bent to drop the bag in the space behind the driver’s seat. “Hey, my back’s to you, Junior, isn’t that the County Sheriff’s preferred target?”

He felt the displacement of air and the force of the hand on the back of his head as his forehead was smashed against the edge of the Civic’s roof.

“Jack, Jack, enough, enough.” Kovacs stepped between them and turned Ray around, still a little dazed, to examine the damage. “Ok, the skin didn’t break but you’re going have a nice goose egg.”  He produced his own set of cuffs and put them on Ray’s wrists. “This is for your own safety.”

“Hey, he was resisting arrest. I saw him reaching for something.”

“Not now, Jack, we’ll talk about it when we get to interrogation.”  He picked up the keys that had fallen from Ray’s hand. “You’ll want this locked up right?”  And turned the key in the door, then dropped them in Ray’s pocket and walked him to their sedan and settled him, carefully, in the back seat.

Ray looked out the window, the pain on his forehead throbbing like a flashing light, and noticed that a small crowd had gathered as they pulled away.

CHAPTER 6

Ray was hustled through a squad room unusually active for a Saturday morning. Not normal weekend shift staffing. Something big was going down. It didn’t take a rocket scientist. He was part of it the way he was eye glommed by the crew of detectives, shirt sleeves rolled up to their elbows, pausing in the chatter, phones to ears.

Kovacs opened the gray metal door with the small square of wire reinforced glass peep hole at eye level and steered him into the tiny room, sat him in the metal chair and cuffed him to the metal table, again casting a concerned eye on the welt rising from Ray’s forehead.

Carson had entered the room with him. “Give me your fucking cell phone.”

Ray glowered at him and didn’t move. “Get a search warrant.”

“The fucking cell, asshole.”

Kovacs intervened. “Surrender your cell phone, Raymond. You know as well as I do COMM Act allows law enforcement access to the data on your phone. Make it easy on yourself.”

Ray didn’t know any such thing but reached into his coat pocket then slid the flip phone across the table, his eyes boring large caliber bullet holes into Carson’s head.

“What the fuck is this?” Carson smirked picking up the phone and turning it over in his hand. “It’s a fucking paper weight.”  He laughed.

“Just dump it.” Kovacs ordered, “and get a printout.” Then turning to Ray. “Are you hungry, Raymond? Get you something to drink?”

Ray nodded. “Yeah to both.”

“Ok, let me see what I can come up with.”

The lock made a loud metallic click as it closed behind the detectives.

Ray dropped his head to his chest. He cleared the mucous built up in his throat, coughing “fuck!”  Spit on the floor where so many others had or swallow, the wide two-way mirror a reminder that someone was most likely watching. He raised his head and tilted it so that he was staring at the shadow of the light above the top of the door. Fucking Cissy just couldn’t let it be, had to drama queen freak. If she hadn’t he wouldn’t. He pictured himself wrapped in the bedcovers and sinking into weary sleep. He drifted, confused for a succession of moments, grasping to regain a grip on the thread. They wanted to know where Colin. Fucking Colin, handing out shit and ducking out when it hits the fan. It had to be a drug thing. That much for sure. But why? He hadn’t seen or talked to Colin in months and then only random run-ins. They moved in different circles. Especially since he’d moved in with Cissy. Why was last night different?

Ray raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Shit, Junior, what do you know, you’re a soccer mom, too.”

Kovacs backed through the door, a coffee cup and manila envelope in one hand and a pink pastry box with a soda balanced on top in the other. He set the box on the table in front of Ray. “Power rings.”  He indicated the two and a half deep fried cake donuts. “Nobody eats them, they’re too dry.” He set the soda can on the table. “Cola. Everybody drinks artificial or decaf. This is all they had left.” He set the large envelope on the table and sipped from a squat white porcelain diner cup that had ‘Commie Pinko Spy’ in red letters written on it. “Or you can have coffee, if you want. Fresh pot.”

Ray shook his head, popped the can and glugged it down. “Naw, this’ll do the trick,” pausing for a breath and broke a donut in half, tearing at it, bite by bite. He did the same with the other half.

“Now Raymond I’m going to inform you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney, if. . . .”

Ray felt the subtle surge as the sugar kicked in. He focused on Kovacs. “I know the drill. What the fuck do you want from me? I don’t know where the fuck Colin Knox is! What you’re doing here is bullshit. It’s intimidation. Put your fucking cards on the table. What is all this about? The sooner we get it straightened out, the sooner I can go home and get some sleep and you can go out and do your multi-agency drug sweep, arrest a bunch of guys to deport who’ll be back in less than thirty days.”

“Whoa, whoa, this isn’t a drug thing!”  Kovacs grinned wide enough to split his face like a Halloween squash. “You think this is about drugs?”

“Yeah, what the fuck else would it be?”

Kovacs stared across the table, dark, intense. “Mandy Goll.”

“Mandy, what? Wait, Colin, Mandy?”  Ray didn’t like the implications. “What about Mandy, she in trouble?”

“You mean you don’t know?

“Know what? About Mandy? No!”

“It’s been on the news since six o’clock this morning.”

“I haven’t seen TV. I didn’t turn on the news. I had a disk in.” The brain thumper Colin had selected.

“They found her shortly after midnight.”

“Found her? I don’t like the sound of that.”

Kovacs slid a form across the table to him and placed a pen on it. “Sign your name at the bottom that says you’ve been advised of your rights.”  He returned Ray’s stare. “Then we can talk more.”

Carson leaned into the room, grinning wide. “Ernie, you’re gonna love this. Check it out.”

Kovacs grimaced. Getting up, he pointed at the table. “Sign,” he commanded. “I’ll be right back.”

Ray finished off the remaining donuts and washed them down with the last of the cola. The carbonation made him belch and he didn’t hold back, pulling it from deep gut. The effort reminded him of what he had felt in the parking lot, the need to take a dump. The urge compounded by the pressure from the internalized gas pushed on his lower intestine and made him crimp his sphincter. He let the gas pass.

Carson stepped in with a digital evidence camera in his hand. “Oh, man! What did you do in here? Shit your pants?”

Ray gave a wry gotcha grin. “You guys put laxative on those donuts you fed me. I didn’t think you were that desperate to have me spill my guts.”

The detective advanced with a camera. “Ok, move your head a little to the right so I can get a good shot of the handprint. And the scratch.”

Ray ignored him, his stomach rumbling.

“Turn your head to the right, asshole. Don’t make me contaminate the evidence.”

Ray complied, squeaking out another, now worried that the pressure might not be contained.

“Ok, one more and. . .oh jeez, is that you? Fuck! Something crawled up inside and died!”  Carson pulled open the door and spoke to someone in the hallway. “Send a uniform over here. I got a perp needs to make a head call.”

Ray’s ears perked. Perp? Hell, he hadn’t even been charged.

“Why does it take two uniforms to go down and pick up the lunch order?”  Carson flicked the switch on the wall by the door to engage the ventilation fan. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it myself.”

“Ok, stand up, shit bag.”  The detective removed the cuff and led Ray out. “First door down the hall on your left. And keep the fan on when you leave.”

Ray’s gut collapsed in on itself like a cheap plastic water bottle. He groaned, at the effort and the relief. He passed a hand over his face and stared down at the pants around his ankles. The sugar had helped, but it wasn’t going to last long. He could feel a big weary nod coming on. He was going to hit the wall, that was a given.

What he couldn’t figure was all that about Mandy. So Colin and Mandy had had another one of their knockdown drag-outs. Mandy was a major drama queen. And she liked to get physical. He’d seen her crazed and combative at a house party. Around the time he’d left the Academy. Certain that Colin got a kick out of it, their slapping wrestling battles, crying mixed with shrieks of, if not pain, pleasure. Did it get out of hand? Colin had blown it off. Scratches on his face undoubtedly from Mandy but that proved nothing other than she got her claws into him. Nothing more about it on the ride out to the marina. This had potential to be a little more serious than just drugs. Considering that Mandy was Hector Goll’s daughter, the Goll of Goll y Geeze Mexican Restaurant chain and ubiquitous food trucks. Colin was in deep shit. He flushed.

Ray grinned at Carson out in the hallway. “What’s for lunch?”

“How about a knuckle sandwich?”  He pushed open the door. “Get in there!”

Kovacs stood by the table frowning and watched Ray be seated.

Ray pulled his hand away from the cuff and growled at Carson. “You don’t need them. I’m not gonna make a run for it until after lunch.”

“It’s procedure, asshole. You wanna play the game, you gotta follow the rules. And so far you got a dozen red cards for attitude.”

Ray raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Shit, Junior, what do you know, you’re a soccer mom, too.”

“Alright, motherfucker, you’re. . . .”

Kovacs intervened. “Ok, Jack, enough of that. We can settle those scores after we put this case down.”  And then to Ray. “You didn’t sign.”

Ray shrugged. “I’m still thinking about it.”

Act Three, Scene I, Part 2

Crime Fiction, Crimefighter, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, , , , , , , ,

by Pierre Anton Taylor

Even with the correct code the reinforced storm door at the back of the old candy store adjacent to the Battery Works resisted Wayne’s efforts at first. Snow drifting up across the back step swirled in the wind. Once opened he hurried back to the dark shape against the brick wall and bundled it over his shoulder. The old woman was still conscious, but without knowing how long she had been in the snow drift he couldn’t tell how much danger she was in. He laid her out on the cot in what had once been old Rick’s bedroom office and storage area. Most everything had been emptied out, either after the first rash of break-ins or when repossessed by the distributors. What remained were an assortment of odds and ends, party supplies, and the dust that accompanied their life on the shelves. As well, a metal frame kiosk, it’s plastic gewgaws hanging from the hooks displaying soap bubble pipes, kazoos, ball and jacks, joy buzzers, itch powder, skunk oil, whistles, and yo-yos.

He found the light switch and flicked it. The room stayed dark. He retrieved a flashlight from a sleeve pocket of his leathers and shined the light at her face. Laverne Early moved her head away instinctively and mumbled something that sounded like “I’m cold.” True, the back room of the candy store was meat locker frosty but not the windblown minus chill of outside. He felt her bare hands. Icy. He slapped the backs, massaging them to get the blood circulating, and then set about removing her boots. The sock were wet and cold, the feet shriveled almost blue. He turned his head as she muttered, “Cat.” Eyes closed, she flinched in a kind of delirium and then seemed to gag before coughing and expelling a less than fragrant breath.

“Miz Early, can you hear me? Are you alright?” He felt hopeless for a moment when she didn’t reply. “Can you open your eyes and look at me? Look at the flashlight?”

Her eyes opened with a snap. At the same exact time the ceiling light burst bright with restored power. He was just as startled as the old woman was, but she was the one who screamed. He realized then that he had not removed his helmet. The cat lady’s fright turned to anger when he did. “What have you done with my Cat?” She tried to sit up and fell back struggling to remain seated. “You! Stay away from my daughter! Where is she?”

Wayne sat back on his haunches and contemplated the old woman, her disheveled appearance, head wrapped with a scarf in a ragged winter hat, the smears and stains of living in the same clothing for months, unwashed, stale, acrid. “What happened? Where is your daughter?”

Now her face contorted in pain and tears ran down the wizened cheeks. “Where you took her, you rotten bastard!” She bared her teeth. “You’re all the same. You just want one thing. Leave her alone.” And she tried sitting up again, successfully. “I gotta get out of here. Go find her.”

“Where, Miz Early, where are you going to look? I’ll help you.”

The old woman stared at him, puzzled. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“My name is Wayne Bruce. You’re in the back of old Rick’s candy store. I found you in the snow against the back wall of the battery factory. You could have died if I hadn’t found you. We have to get you some place warm.”

She shook her head violently, “No! Gotta find Cat, my daughter. Gotta go.”

“Where, Laverne, where are you going to go?”

“There,” she said, pointing toward the curtained doorway into the candy store.

“The store?” But at the shake of her head he understood that she meant somewhere beyond the store and he knew where. Penn Quinn’s Tavern.

He stood abruptly and flicked the light off at the faint sound coming from the front of the store. Maybe it was just the wind rattling the eaves of the old building. He let his eyes adjust to the dark, taking a deep breath and concentrating. It wasn’t the wind. Someone or something was at the front door. He stepped into the empty store and crouched low before the bare glass candy display, his eyes fixed on the doorway.

A shaft of gray light fell across the floor and with it a swirl of wind and snow as the door opened briefly to admit a shadowy hooded figure.

Wayne turned the flashlight at it and it held up an arm to block the light in its eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Ripley lowered his arm as Wayne directed the beam away. “I could ask you the same question.”

Wayne gestured him to follow him into the back room. He switched on the light and pointed to the old woman. “I found her in a snow bank behind the store. We have to get her some place warm, maybe a hospital. She could have frostbite. And she sounds delirious. Something about her daughter missing.”

Ripley knelt before the cat lady, held one of her hands in his and looked into her sorrowful eyes. “Laverne, it’s me, Bion, are you alright? What’s this about Cat? Where is she?”

Laverne shook her shoulders and sobbed. “I don’t know. They took her?”

“Who took her?” Wayne insisted.

Laverne stared at him with thinly veiled disdain.

Ripley stood up. “First things first. We gotta see if you are all right. So let’s get something warm into you.” He rummaged in a stack of boxes and held up an electric kettle. He grinned. “You’d think I’d packed this place up myself.” He filled the kettle from the sink in the next room and then set it on the little table by the cot and the electrical outlet. “Now I know there’s some tea and maybe some soup packages in one of the boxes.”

“You never answered my question, Bion. What were you doing here?”

Ripley held up a box of tea bags. “I thought so!” And then pointed it in the direction of door. “I got a page. It’s automatic. A trouble alarm from the Battery Works. I figured that it was the storm. Knocked the power out and thought I’d come and check it out. I live just a couple blocks over. And it is kind of my job. I saw the light in the candy store. Which brings me to my question of why are you here?”

“Wait a minute, you got a page?”

“Yeah, that’s the way it’s set up. If the power goes out at the plant or there’s some kind of electrical hiccup, the phone system sends out a page to the designated duty person and plant supervisor which most of the time is me. Don’t tell me that you got a page, too, and you came to check it out?”

“What does your readout say?”

“It’s just the phone number of the Battery Works.”

Wayne retrieved his pager from his jacket pocket and showed the display to Ripley. “Is this the number?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

The kettle whistled shrilly. But Wayne paid no notice. The number on his pager, his murdered father’s number, was the same as the one Ripley had received on his pager. How was that possible? Unless. . . .

Bion poured the hot water over the teabag in the cup he handed her. “Ok, Laverne, tell me what’s going on.” He sat on the cot next to her. “Where’s your daughter?”

The old woman blinked at the warmth in her hands. “We had to leave the shelter because them boys come in and started trouble. You know, J-van and them. They followed us and said they would buy us something to eat and drink at Quinn’s. Cat didn’t want to, but they took us in anyway, and it was warm and it was a while since I’d eaten. And then, I don’t know, I had a couple of drinks. They kept asking her questions. They were just pestering her because she’s a girl. And they are boys, stupid men.” She looked up at Wayne when she said that.

Ripley read his look and place a hand on her arm. “Ok, then what happened? Did Cat leave?”

“I don’t know, I must have fallen asleep. It was so nice and warm in there.” She looked up startled at a sudden realization. “I had to find Cat! They said she left. I have to find Cat. I didn’t believe them. She wouldn’t leave without me.”

Wayne nodded to Bion, he was thinking the same thing. Cat might still be at Penn Quinn’s Tavern, held against her will.

“They tricked me!” the old woman blurted, sobbing.

Wayne picked up his helmet. “She might still be there.”

Ripley shook his head. “They might be packing. And if Penn Quinn is involved in this, you know he’s got a gun.” He stood up. “I found this stuffed in the gate when I came to work last Friday.” He unfolded the square of paper he pulled from his coat pocket. “Thought you might want to see it.”

It was a handbill with a notice requesting information regarding the vigilante and offering a reward. It was made to look like an official flyer that might be distributed by the police. A framed shadowy figure stood out at the center below the bold letters demanding “Have You Seen This Man?” The contact number was for an entity he wasn’t familiar with, The East Central Merchants Association. A five hundred dollar reward was offered.

“Who are the East Central Merchants Association? And why are they so concerned about the vigilante? Isn’t he some kind of crimefighter?”

“Bion shook his head. “Word is that it’s a front for Joe Kerr and his band of crooks. Quinn is one of them. And the thugs at the appliance store that got busted for fencing stolen goods. All of them rotten apples. And like Kerr, dangerous.”

Wayne smiled at the handbill and folded it to put in his pocket. “I’ll keep this in case I run into him. If it is a him. Right now I’m going to find Cat.”

“All I’m saying is be careful.”

Lavern Early, revived by the hot tea, glared at Wayne. “Stay away from my daughter!”

Ripley turned to the old woman. “Now hush, Laverne. We’re trying to help you. No need to talk like that.”

Wayne strode to the corner after donning his helmet and examined the wire frame kiosk with the assortment of toys. He lifted a couple packages of yoyos from their hooks. At Ripley’s questioning look, he shrugged. “Never know, they might come in handy.”

In disbelief, Bion shook his head. “Yo-yos?” he questioned the shadowy figure of Wayne Bruce exiting the candy store.

Laverne Early leaned forward holding the steaming cup to her lips and followed Ripley’s gaze. “Who does he think he is?”

Contents Vol. 4 No. 3

Crime Fiction, Crimefighter, Gothic, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, Western Fiction, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Welcome to Volume Four, Number Three of Dime Pulp,
A Serial Pulp Fiction Magazine. 

Die Like A Man, Thierry LaNoque’s debut serial novel,  is a meta noir of a man who gives a friend a ride only to be pulled in deeper and deeper into the events surrounding a brutal murder, the daughter of a prominent businessman, and attempts to cover it up and place the blame on someone else. Drugs and money are involved in this second installment featuring La Noque’s young hunky wannabe private eye, Ray Philips. As well, Mark DuCharme ties up all the loose ends to bring his dark, sometimes humorous, gothic serial, Carriers, to its finale. Lydia Cheése (pronounced “Chase”) continues her mission to fly an unauthorized dirigible to Djibouti in Phyllis Huldarsdottir’s round-the-world steampunk adventure,  Cheése Stands Alone.  Wayne Bruce survives his ordeal in the Southern Sahara and emerges as a new man with a new mission in Pierre Anton Taylor’s crimefighter drama, Just Coincidence.

carriers vanMark DuCharme’s Carriers and it’s gothic air of  shadowy creatures who might just be the living dead is a vampire novella with touches of black comedy and satirical bite, told from the perspective of its unreliable narrator and protagonist. Taking place during a “plague” that has been going on for two years in an unnamed city, dead bodies litter the streets, hallways, and homes. A corpse disposal company hires people to transport them to a facility at the edge of town with the very important stipulation that the bodies be delivered there before sundown. No one ever says why. Read the final installment of  Carriers, Episodes XIII .

chase blurbFIPhyllis Huldarsdottir’s Cheése Stands Alone, the continuing adventures of Airship Commander Lydia Cheése (pronounced “Chase”) in the search for her anti-Clockwork Commonwealth renegade father, Commodore Jack, with the help Doctor Professor Jean-Pierre Serre-Pain, proprietor the Madame Ophelia’s Ophidiarium, a traveling snake show, and his associates, former circus strongman, Vlady, and Serpina, the snake girl. On the run from IOTA (the Investigative Office of The Admiralty), she has narrowly escapes capture by her nemesis, Chief Inspector Karla Kola, in Oldest Orleans, and now with the help of a young wannabe airship pilot, Pyare, must traverse the Central Massif to rendezvous with Serre-Pain and the dirigible that will take them on a mercy mission to HOAR (the Horn Of Africa Republics), base for the anti-Commonwealth ICERS. Read more of Cheése Stands Alone in Episode XIV.

JCblurb1fiPierre Anton Taylor’s dark crimefighting serial, Just Coincidence is about a privileged young man with the unremarkable name of Wayne Bruce who returns to the site where his father once had his business, a battery manufacturing plant, and where he often spent his childhood days hanging around the factory and the neighborhood. His return is haunted by the mysterious circumstances surrounding his father’s death and the vague feeling that his uncle is somehow involved. Appalled by the poverty and crime of the place he remembers fondly, he is moved to resolve the injustice of the socially marginalized and to wreak vengeance on those he believes are responsible for the death of his father.  The backstory to his emergence as a crimefighter is revealed in Just Coincidence, Act Three, Scene I, Part 1

DLAM5

Die Like A Man, a brand new serial novel by Thierry La Noque, is a meta noir of a man who gives a friend a ride only to be pulled in deeper and deeper into the events surrounding the brutal murder of the daughter of a prominent businessman and the attempts to cover it up and place the blame on someone else. Ray Philips, a martial arts instructor, sometime event security, and bouncer working toward getting his private investigator’s license in a world where the private eye is quickly becoming an anachronism, is hired to find a missing husband, the famous crime novelist and infamous drunk, Stan Giordino by his petite pierced drug addicted wife, Stella. A stolen cache of drugs and money only complicates and implicates the wannabe detective, and puts him over his head and his life in danger. Not to mention that his girlfriend, Cissy, is dying of cancer.  Die Like A Man 3&4

FYI: Available for readers of Dime Pulp who may have missed a few issues or lost the thread of a serial,  Dime Pulp Yearbook 21, featuring the novels (The Last Resort and Better Than Dead) and the short fiction (Hard Boiled Myth and Gone Missing) of Volume One’s 12 issues, is joined by Dime Pulp Yearbook 22, featuring the complete pulp Western, On The Road To Las Cruces, continuing episodes of  a detective story, Better Than Dead, the opening chapters of new serial novels, Just Coincidence and Cheése Stands Alone, the short fiction of Hard Boiled Myth and Polka Dot Dress, as well as Dropping A Dime’s pithy pulp observations.  Volume Two’s 10 issues are available for perusal in their entirety simply by clicking on the links in this paragraph or on the menu bar above. Dime Pulp Yearbook 23 is now available featuring a full year’s worth of Just Coincidence and Cheése Stands Alone, and the complete Better Than Dead novel, as well as the early chapters of Mark Ducharme’s gothic serial, Carriers.

If you’ve made it this far, click  on the links above to read the entertaining  serial contents of Volume 4, Number3!

 —Perry O’Dickle, chief scribe
and word accountant

 

 

 

DIE Like A MAN II

Crime Fiction, Pulp Fiction, , , , , , ,

by Thierry La Noque

CHAPTER 3

Ray woke in a fog, chilled, to the keening of gulls. He led a large dog by the collar along a yellow chain-link fence. Wet streaked the windshield inside and out. He had been stepping up huge granite blocks. He drew his legs back towards the driver’s seat with a start. A woman posed at the top. He took a deep breath. He couldn’t get a fix on the woman’s face. The interior of the Civic smelled like bong water. He blinked again, the dream now a mere speck on the event horizon.

The passenger seat was empty. He flung open the driver’s door to let the outside rush in. It was a cold gray wet slap in the face. Supporting himself on the seat and the door, he straightened his legs and stood, fixing his gaze on the forest of masts and antennas.

Bottle Point Marina. Colin had jammed his truck and he’d needed a ride to Bodega Bay where his 38 foot converted tuna rig, The Black Manta, was moored.

Cissy was going to be pissed. Frightened, worried. But above all, pissed. Ray flipped open his phone. The screen had just enough juice to let him know the battery was dead before it went blank. Cissy didn’t like Colin. She’d told Ray that he should know enough to stay away from trouble. He never had. Might never.

He surveyed the tangle of mooring lines, rigging, radio antennas, and orange extension cords looped and stretched throughout the private marina. One of the empty slips was where The Black Manta had been tied up the night before. He sat back in his seat and glanced at the tequila bottle in the passenger footwell. It reminded him of the pain behind his eyes.

Colin operated a small sports fishing enterprise. A couple of friends he had made in Iraq had gone in on the boat with him, a money-making scheme that generated more debt than income. That Colin had taken off without so much as a ‘thank you’ or ‘see you later’ did not surprise him. It had always been ‘what can you do for me’ especially now that he had returned a combat hero. Why they were sitting out in the cold uncomfortable car smoking dope and telling lies instead of on board the Manta was because Mr. Blood-and-Guts-in-Iraq couldn’t stand the smell of dead fish. The tequila wasn’t exactly the kind of anti-freeze Ray had in mind but it was all Colin had.

Drunker, Colin got nostalgic first. The old days, carefree summer vacations spent at the coast. Spying on the teenage girls showering in the cabin next door. Shooting off fireworks left over from the Fourth. The time they started a fire in the dune grass and the park ranger had chewed Ray out while Colin hid in the men’s bathroom. Yeah, Pirates of Penny Island, that too.

The tequila had helped Ray appreciate it more than he might normally. He remembered that at the end of those two weeks each year, sun scarred and wind burned, he was lean brown leather. That Colin’s mother buried little trinkets and toys all over the overgrown sandbar they called an island. And that she made treasure maps to them. They were all pretty easy to find except for that one they had spent all day searching for, flashlights nicking the long shadows of the dunes, with no luck. They never did find it. Bridgette would tease them about it, saying it was the best treasure ever.

One thing that stayed with Ray about those days was Colin’s mother, sitting on the couch to one side of her while she read to them from children’s classics late into the evening. The smell of her perfume, the soft warmth of her closeness, that may have been the best treasure ever.

There was a little catch-all diner that served espresso on Bay Flat Road by the highway. He caught a look at himself in the glass door. Rumpled, tossed, and fricasseed, Cissy would say. Public phones had all but disappeared. He ordered a double shot in a large cup. But a phone call now would be beside the point. He would face the music without preview.

Into the murk at the bottom of the cup he emptied five packs of sugar and topped it off with mostly half and half. He took a chair at a table by the window overlooking the parking lot and the highway beyond and counted his fingers. The square plastic clock on the wall put the time pushing eight. Not enough sleep. Good thing it was Saturday. Cissy worked the garage sales on weekends. He could pull the blinds and bury himself under the covers.

A Sherriff’s unit hove into view in his lane just as he entered the downhill hairpin curve a little further on, passing too close for the comfort of his wearied reflexes.

The coffee trade was brisk, and the young girl in the green apron at the coffee bar wore a frown. A gaggle of campers from the nearby campground were crowding in the door. “Cruz! I’m gonna need a hand!” she yelled without looking up from the steamed milk she ladled into a paper cup.

Ever drunker, Colin got paranoid. It hadn’t stopped him from doing a line, and then a backup. Ray wasn’t interested. A little weed and the last of the tequila was all he needed to mellow. And once mellow, sleep would soon be along. Colin’s rant was one he’d heard before. How once you’ve killed, what’s to stop you from doing it again. Like jumping off the high board at the pool, once you’ve done it, it’s nothing the second time. Ray beginning to fade had nodded in agreement though not quite sure why. The Army trains you to do that. To kill and kill again. Which is why when soldiers come back home from the action some don’t exactly make the adjustment to not killing. And some are not very nice people, criminals even.

The black Escalade slid into the parking lot just as Ray got up to leave. Compared to the assortment of low mileage hybrids and outdoorsy station wagons sporting hard shells and bike racks, the SUV looked like a pit bull in a Jack Russel kennel. It parked parallel to the rear of several cars, one of them Ray’s, blocking him in. A short brown man in a hairnet and wife beater dropped to the pavement from the front passenger’s seat. He was taking last minute orders from the others behind the tinted glass. There was raucous laughter as someone said something in Spanish.

Ray walked around the front of the SUV and made eye contact with the driver,  gave him a cursory nod. He passed behind the Civic to reach his driver’s side.

“Are we blocking your way?”  It was said with a pleasant mocking tone. The window behind the driver had come down just enough to reveal the eyes, gorgeous shimmering long lashed ebony eyes. “We’ll only be a minute.”

Ray shook his head, “De nada. I’m not in a hurry.”  He opened his door and dropped into the seat, leaving his legs to hang out. He was beat, and if he looked anything like he felt, he wasn’t a pretty picture. And in no hurry to face hurricane Cissy.

He caught the movement in his side view mirror, the Escalade slowly inching forward and leaving him room to back out.

Ray waved a hand, not sure if the gesture would even be seen, and pulled out onto the highway. A Sherriff’s unit hove into view in his lane just as he entered the downhill hairpin curve a little further on, passing too close for the comfort of his wearied reflexes. Not far behind, a white Crown Vic powered up the grade, and Ray, from habit, checked the plate. Exempt. That alone would not have merited more than a passing thought. It was the second Crown Vic followed by a canine unit that gave him pause. With the county dicks out in force like that, something had to be fishy.

CHAPTER 4

Cissy Marleau stood five seven, almost five nine on her tip toes. She put her arms around his neck and brought her lips up to his. “Oh Ray, I was so worried.”  She kissed him hard. Ray brought his arm around to support her but she dropped back on her heels and, flatfooted, cracked a slap on the side of his face. “Don’t you ever do that to me again!”

Cissy was a blonde often a redhead very rarely a brunette. She beat on his chest crying “Damn you, damn you” until he held her wrists and she stopped. She hadn’t slept. Face puffy, mascara smeared making her big blue eyes appear bigger than they were. She had a fierce little way of holding her mouth when she was angry or distressed so that it was slightly askew to the trembling sharp chin struggling to hold its composure. Ray released the wrists and she attacked him again, this time catching him on the arm just below the shoulder.

“Ok, cut it out, that hurt!”  Ray grabbed her wrist and held it firmly.

Cissy summoned all her intensity into a taut angry glare. “Now you know how I feel, Ray. How could you? After all we’ve been through. Out all night with. . .” She stepped closer with a sniff as Ray pulled back defensively. “. . .some tequila swilling whore!”

“Cissy, I wasn’t out with another woman.”

“I smell fish.”

Ray smelled at his clothes and then his hands. There was a very slight odor. “Musta been on the tequila bottle,” he said half to himself.

“I hope I’m not hearing what you just said. How did it get on the bottle?”

“Uh, Colin. . . . “

“. . .because I was not born yesterday. Was it that bitch, Charlene? Don’t. . . .”

“It was Colin, Colin had it on his boat. He’s a fisherman. Fishermen smell like fish. It was on his hands. We passed the bottle around. Some of it got on my hands.”

“Don’t, Ray.”  Now she was disgusted. “Don’t lie to me.”  She pulled the rose satin kimono tighter around her slender frame, shivering with nervous energy. “I can accept that it might be Charlene. She’s sniffing after you whenever you work the door at The Beast. She’d drop her panties for you at the snap of your fingers. It would be pathetic if you weren’t so good-looking.”  Cissy regained her ironic composure and placed the flat of her hand on his chest. “What am I supposed to believe, Ray? This has happened before.”

“Believe me, baby, it’s not what you think.”  It was the wrong thing to say. Ray looked down into her eyes and watched her go quietly crazy, an instantaneous insanity that would tolerate no excuse, no explanation, nothing but complete and absolute admission of guilt.

“Don’t you dare tell me what I think! I know what I think! I think you’re seeing some sleazy man-stealing bitch! I don’t believe this Colin story one bit. When was the last time you even saw that loser? A year or more, right? At that dive bar, the Double 40? He pulled a gun on you!”  She had stepped back and fixed him with the look of someone whose mind was made up. “No, I’m not going accept that.”

“I told you, Colin. . .we go way back. I owe him.”

“Owe him for what, Ray? You never say what it is you owe him for. Every story you tell about him and you being buds in grammar school, you always end up holding the shitty end of the stick. I told you before, the guy is a waste of space.”

“He’s my friend.”

“Am I your friend, Ray?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Simple question. Yes or no.”

“Yeah, of course! Why do we even have to go there?”

“I find it hard to believe that I’m your friend and that he is also your friend because I could never be his friend or be a friend to any of his friends.”

Ray shrugged, weary, fed up. He had done nothing wrong. He had nothing to admit, nothing to confess. “You are way over the top, Cissy. You need to step off.”

“Step off, Ray? You think I need to step off!”  Cissy’s hands shaped themselves into claws.

“Listen, baby, you don’t have to push me to the wall. I’m not thinking all that straight. I apologize for not calling but my phone is a piece of shit. I’m sorry you worried. I don’t like it when you worry. I’m beat and I need to crash. It’s not too late for you to hit the yard sales. We can talk about it when you get back and after I’ve had some sleep.”

Little Sister twisted her body in the way only an animal with a rotating backbone can, yet Cissy held her firm. “Tell me you didn’t forget the fucking cat food!” 

Cissy inclined her head as if to appraise him from another angle. “You know I like to use the Civic when I go out to buy other people’s junk. If I drive up in my Mercedes the prices triple.” Then with a slightly bemused smile, “You really don’t like it when I worry?”

“Yeah, baby.” Ray pulled her toward him. “You know how I feel about you.”

Little Sister, Cissy’s ancient Black Persian, had been pacing back and forth in front of an empty food bowl during the little melodrama adding comments of her own, pitiful strangled yowls that worked as entreaties as well as demands for attention. Cissy scooped up the scraggly ball of fur and held her close to her face saying girlishly, “Is Little Sissy hungry? Yes? Is she hungry?”  The cat turned its head and seemed to be staring at Ray accusingly. “Do you have the cat food?” Cissy asked, “Little Sister’s hungry.”

Ray looked at her blankly, “Cat food?”

“Don’t play dumb, Ray, I asked you to pick up some cat food. Before you left. Yesterday. I specifically said, don’t forget to get some cat food. And you said ‘yeah, the special expensive kind.’  And I said, ‘nothing’s too good for my baby.’  And you said, ‘I don’t like cat food’ because you think you’re funny.”

“I don’t remember any of that.”

“You didn’t get the cat food.”  The intensity of Cissy’s body language was transmitted to the cat. Little Sister twisted her body in the way only an animal with a rotating backbone can, yet Cissy held her firm. “Tell me you didn’t forget the fucking cat food!”  Cissy’s eyes bugged like they were going to jump off her face. “You forgot the fucking cat food? You motherfucker!”

Little Sister, front paws flailing and hind legs quivering finally broke loose from Cissy’s hold and, with what looked like some help from her, landed just above Ray’s chest, catching a claw down the side of his unshaven jaw before dropping to the floor. Ray stepped back, pulled his hand from his face and stared at the blood on his fingertips. “What the fuck was that all about, Cissy? Shit! You are whack. I’m fuckin’ outta here!”

Cissy, her eyes the size of saucers, put a hand over her mouth to hold back the gigantic oops. “Oh, Ray, I’m sorry. . .I’m so. . .I didn’t. . .I mean. . . .”

Ray push back out the kitchen door. “Fuck you,” he intoned in a dismissive monotone. He strode past the Mercedes parked in the driveway alongside the house and punched the rear panel with the side of his fist. It was an older model C class, undaunted and undented by the ineffectual blow.

Next Time: The Pick Up

Act Three, Scene I, Part 1

Crime Fiction, Crimefighter, Pulp Fiction, , , , , ,

by Pierre Anton Taylor

From the wide window of his penthouse in the Legacy Arms, Wayne Bruce considered the whirling tempest. The wind whipped the flurry of flakes against the skyscrapers, obscuring them at times and then just as quickly revealing the ranks of tall buildings impervious to the onslaught. It was not a time to try out his aerial antics in search of crime in the inner city. He still felt the weight of guilt from his last foray, the deaths that had resulted in his breaching of the abandoned building where the drug lab had been housed.

Shock headlines had claimed that the inferno was the work of a vigilante, one who had been rumored operating in the East Central part of the city. Talking heads decried the lawlessness. The District Attorney was quoted as saying that taking the law into one’s hands only leads to tragedy. And that no matter how well meaning, the fight against crime was best left to professionals. She also vowed to apprehend the perpetrator of these attacks.

At the city paper news desk, a reporter with the byline of Valerie Vicks had written a feature article on the mysterious crimefighter who had so recently set out to battle rampant crime and corruption in one of the city’s poorest neighborhoods. Relying on witness testimony and rumors, the reporter had pieced together an ineffectual campaign against crime. She had pointed out a very significant flaw in the “pseudo crusader” plan. The unspoken truth was that it wasn’t a problem one man could solve. Even if he were the wealthiest man in the world.

But this late afternoon, with the snow storm shutting down the city, that wasn’t the only thing weighing on Wayne’s mind. Robin, with assistance from the engineers at BATS Lab, had been able to bypass the encryption allowing access to the laser disks from the old man’s surveillance system. The data load, they’d ascertained, was light, signifying that the system was relatively new or had been used only occasionally. There was a remote control wired to the recorder at the old man’s desk that would allow him to record meetings in his office at will. The time stamp on the recovered video displayed the dates they were recorded, going back a little over eighteen months and argued for its relatively recent installation.

When he’d viewed the material, what he’d seen was his father, Wallace Bruce, in meetings with his staff. And his brother, Harold, of course. Usually one of his secretaries would be visible taking notes. And when she wasn’t, it was an occasion for cigars and scotch, and as old Dad had once remarked, “when the real business gets done.” Linus Pall was present in many of the recordings. As his father’s lawyer and physician, it was to be expected. Then there were men he didn’t know or recognize, businessmen, corporate leaders, like old Bruce, and from the cut of their suits, they afforded luxury and privilege. Even meeting their ilk in person as his father’s protege, he’d felt the prickle of irritation at their mannered superiority. Whoever they were, they were serious in their disposition, severe in some respects, which had immediately aroused his suspicions. And there were no secretaries taking notes. The audio track had been corrupted in the process of extracting the visual data resulting in garble and white noise. Robin had assured him that the lab techs were working on reconstructing the data but it would take some time.

Seeing himself had been startling at first. He rarely went to corporate headquarters and to the old man’s eagle’s nest, or belfry, as he’d sometimes thought of it. He was too busy with his extracurricular activities. And the times he was present were generally social or ceremonial affairs judging by the cocktail glasses. Charlotte was in a few of those, as was Trish.

There was one instance Wayne remembered specifically discussing the trip to Mali. Dr. Fledermann was present as well, sour faced, wanting to object to what old Dad was saying, and recalled it as the moment that Wallace Bruce had appointed him as the director of the BATS Lab. He had not been aware of it at the time, but Feldermann was staring daggers at him when his father made the announcement.

For the most recent footage, it appeared that the recorder had been run continuously, activated by a motion detector, time stamped over a period just before and shortly after Wallace Bruce’s death. It appeared that the old man had been in his office late the day prior, and following there had been a flurry of activity by staff, frequent visitations from Harold issuing orders and looking over papers handed to him by old Dad’s confidential secretary. Dr. Pall made a few appearances, often accompanied by Harold. It didn’t seem unusual. His uncle was taking charge of the reorganization. Pall had been his father’s close advisor. They had reason to consult. In one instance their body language indicated a disagreement, a dispute in which Pall had placed a finger in front of Harold’s face, agitated and emphatic in what he was mouthing. Wayne read what Pall was saying. It looked like he was saying “Charlotte.”

Wayne had replayed the footage to make certain he was hearing what he was seeing. There was no doubt, Pall was distinctly mouthing Charlotte’s name but anything else was lost in guess work. Harold’s reaction had been just as vehement in the denial of what the  doctor was insisting. He replayed the footage in his memory. What were they arguing about? The time stamp indicated that it had occurred on the day of the old man’s funeral. Pall and the acting head of Bruce Enterprise were meeting in his father’s office later that day. He could understand that they might want to conduct some post mortem business, strategize, but how did Charlotte figure into the picture? He had broken up with her, true. It was a decision he’d made upon his return from Mali. He wanted to reconsider their engagement. Although he enjoyed her company, her wit to his darker proclivities, their pairing was taking on an air of inevitability, as if it were following a script. And he had other ideas. Questions.

Who was he, and who did he want to be? Shouldn’t he be satisfied with the benefits of the wealth he was heir to? Or should he pursue the mission of justice for the sufferers of misfortune at whose root was the corruption and wealth of the privileged few? It left him sleepless, an insomnia that only death could cure. Sleep would only come with the resolution to the mystery of his father’s death. As for the end to the injustice in the world, nothing but a dream, a fitful ache that begins in the gut, the ancient seat of knowledge, and ends up between the ears as a throbbing obsession. It would be easy enough to continue as a prince of industry, and never question the path of his career, as a leader, as an innovator, perhaps? He had such ambition, his father’s spirit lived in him, only quieter and maybe more disaffected of the vanity that comes with privilege. Yet now at the prow of his future, he was being pulled into an undiscovered country, one that coupled compassion with a thirst for a specific vengeance against the oppression of capital. He could be a champion of those proud people who suffered at the whims and scorn of insolent corporate greed. That the disadvantaged should be returned their birthright, a freedom to live or die, to sleep, to endure untroubled dream’s advantage. It would be easy enough to let that inclination toward justice die on the vine. Was it really his to regret? He had made a commitment to Charlotte, and although he had broken their engagement, he understood that it could be easily repaired, attributed to the shock of his father’s sudden death. It would please his mother, certainly, and Pall would be placated, undoubtedly poised to insert himself at the beginning of a commercial dynasty. And Harold would be satisfied to helm Bruce Enterprise as president and CEO without any immediate threat from Wayne. But he couldn’t let a guilty conscience make him a coward, let his better instincts be overshadowed by overthinking. His short stay in the refugee camp had upended his world and he had resolved to make a difference,  a momentous decision that could not be ignored as merely wishful altruism of a new money aristocrat. And there was his father’s ghost and the suspicious circumstances of his death.

Wayne had uncovered in the process of moving his wardrobe into the penthouse, the metal traveling case that had belonged to old Fledermann. It was sitting in the middle of the desk in the study. So much had transpired since his return from Africa. The metal case with its field notes had lost in importance. He had snapped the locks and opened the case that emitted a sharp acrid odor, one that he immediately recognized as that of the arid lands of the Sahel. A metal clipboard still gripped a sheaf of stained dogeared notes and lab reports. Vials of sand were secured in a row in the lid of the case. File folders wedged into the bottom along with a few prescription pill bottles that had nothing to do with the research. The old scientist had been having heart palpitation and other health problems, one of the reasons why Wayne was replacing him as head of the Lab.

Wayne flipped through the papers attached to the clipboard. Nothing caught his eye, the letterheads suggested that they were all interdepartmental memos. The clip board had a compartment on its back, and he undid the clasp. A manila envelope fell out and onto the desk. There was no addressee or return address. As he picked it up he saw the note that Harold had sent him via messenger on the desk. It was about the family meeting he had scheduled the next day before the reading of the will. As a postscript his uncle had added “Charlotte will be in attendance.”

That had left him conflicted. He didn’t understand why she would be present at the family meeting. And he thought he had been quite clear that his decision was firm, they would not be wed. It occurred to him that Trish and Harold might be trying to affect a reconciliation. He wouldn’t put it past Trish. And there was Linus Pall. He had a vested interest in their union.

Wayne turned his attention again to the sealed manila envelope. It was bulky, too bulky for documents. As he picked up the ornate letter opener from the blotter, his pager pinged. He knew what number was on the display without looking at it. It was the ghost of old Dad’s, calling him to the Battery Works. Someone was in trouble.

He dialed a number and punched in a code. It was something he had worked out with Robin. He changed into his bike leathers, checking the watch on his wrist. If he didn’t receive an answering page, he could assume that she would be in the parking garage in fifteen minutes. He accessed the service entrance to the penthouse and rode down to the basement in the freight elevator. He waited in the shadows of a pillar in the underground parking garage, a blind spot to the security cameras. Before too long, the distinct sound of a motorbike echoed in the cavernous space. Robin steered the bike to a dark corner and dismounted, leaving the keys in the ignition. She unfolded a large shopping bag when she reached Wayne and handed him the helmet, depositing her bundled riding gear into the bag. Undoing the ponytail, she let her long red hair fall to her shoulders.

“You know there’s a blizzard out there, right? And it’s freezing,” she said with a shiver. 

“I’ll wait till you board the elevator before I leave. Take a cab back to your place and I’ll meet you there when I’m done.”

“You sure you don’t want me to ride with you? That seat holds two.”

“No, not this time.” Wayne watched in silence as a party of couples exited their parked car and strolled casually to the parking garage elevator. “Ok, here’s your chance.”

“I know I don’t have to say this but, watch your back,” Robin cautioned over her shoulder.

Once the elevator doors closed, Wayne rode the bike out into the traffic of the blustering snowstorm whipping between the concrete and steel canyons. If there were watchers tonight, they most certainly were seeking refuge from the storm, and their surveillance likely impaired. He dodged the cabs, and few limousines, lumbering commercial carriers and delivery vans until he reached the outskirts of the downtown area, and sped east toward the bleak snowbound fringes of urban decay. He knew that city would not deploy the snowplows until after midnight. He would have to make his own way through the drifts and snow banks. The wind was howling like a banshee, effectively muting the sound of the motorcycle’s engine. He wiped the accumulation of snow and ice off his visor. His approach would not be noticed. The streets were deserted, and he wondered who would even be out in such weather intent on inflicting thoughtless misery on others. Penn Quinn’s Tavern appeared deserted although a red knot of neon glowed in the small oval side window.

Wayne meant to access the Battery Works from the alley behind the shuttered candy store as he had done on his stealth missions several times before. The narrow rutted path was blocked by a drift. He dismounted and muscled the wheels through the snow. On the lee side, he made out an overturned shopping cart, tufts of snow caught on the metal ribs and covering the piled boxes and clothing in disarray. Someone homeless had abandoned their cart to seek shelter he assumed. Then he noticed the boots, and the legs attached to the boots, and the body stretched out against the wall. He recognized Laverne Early, the woman they called the cat lady. When he reached her she was still breathing. He sat her up and spoke her name. She cautiously open her eyes and belched a sour wine breath at him. And then, eyes wide with fright, she screamed, “What have you done with my Cat?”

Next Time: The Honey Of His Music

Contents Vol. 4 No. 2

Crime Fiction, Gothic, Pulp Fiction, Steampunk Fiction, Western Fiction, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Welcome to Volume Four, Number Two of Dime Pulp,
A Serial Pulp Fiction Magazine. 

Dime Pulp debuts a new serial novel, Die Like A Man, by Thierry La Noque, in Volume 4, Number 2. It is a meta noir story of a man who gives a friend a ride only to be pulled in deeper and deeper into the events surrounding a brutal murder of the daughter of a prominent businessman and the attempts to cover it up and place the blame on someone else. Drugs and money are involved in this initial outing of La Noque’s wannabe private eye, Ray Philips. As well, Mark DuCharme’s gothic Carriers is quickly approaching its denouement. Lydia Cheése (pronounced “Chase”) continues her mission to fly an unauthorized dirigible to Djibouti in Phyllis round the world steampunk adventure,  Cheése Stands Alone. And in Just Coincidence, Wayne Bruce survives his ordeal in the Southern Sahara and emerges as a new man in Pierre Anton Taylor’s crimefighter drama. 

carriers vanMark DuCharme’s Carriers and it’s gothic air of  shadowy creatures who might just be the living dead is a vampire novella with touches of black comedy and satirical bite,  told from the perspective of its unreliable narrator and protagonist. Taking place during a “plague” that has been going on for two years in an unnamed city, dead bodies litter the streets, hallways, and homes. A corpse disposal company hires people to transport them to a facility at the edge of town with the very important stipulation that the bodies be delivered there before sundown. No one ever says why. Read more in the latest installment of  Carriers, Episodes X-XII .

chase blurbFIPhyllis Huldarsdottir’s Cheése Stands Alone, the continuing adventures of Airship Commander Lydia Cheése (pronounced “Chase”) in the search for her anti-Clockwork Commonwealth renegade father, Commodore Jack, with the help Doctor Professor Jean-Pierre Serre-Pain, proprietor the Madame Ophelia’s Ophidiarium, a traveling snake show, and his associates, former circus strongman, Vlady, and Serpina, the snake girl. On the run from IOTA (the Investigative Office of The Admiralty), she has narrowly escapes capture by her nemesis, Chief Inspector Karla Kola, in Oldest Orleans, and now with the help of a young wannabe airship pilot, Pyare, must traverse the Central Massif to rendezvous with Serre-Pain and the dirigible that will take them on a mercy mission to HOAR (the Horn Of Africa Republics), base for the anti-Commonwealth ICERS. Read more of Cheése Stands Alone in Episode XIII.

JCblurb1fiPierre Anton Taylor’s dark crimefighting serial, Just Coincidence is about a privileged young man with the unremarkable name of Wayne Bruce who returns to the site where his father once had his business, a battery manufacturing plant, and where he often spent his childhood days hanging around the factory and the neighborhood. His return is haunted by the mysterious circumstances surrounding his father’s death and the vague feeling that his uncle is somehow involved. Appalled by the poverty and crime of the place he remembers fondly, he is moved to resolve the injustice of the socially marginalized and to wreak vengeance on those he believes are responsible for the death of his father.  The backstory to his emergence as a crimefighter is revealed in Just Coincidence, Interlude II

dlamfi1

Die Like A Man, a brand new serial novel by Thierry La Noque, is a meta noir story of a man who gives a friend a ride only to be pulled in deeper and deeper into the events surrounding the brutal murder of the daughter of a prominent businessman and the attempts to cover it up and place the blame on someone else. Ray Philips, a martial arts instructor, sometime event security, and bouncer working toward getting his private investigator’s license in a world where the private eye is quickly becoming an anachronism, is hired to find a missing husband, the famous crime novelist and infamous drunk, Stan Giordino by his petite pierced drug addicted wife, Stella. A stolen cache of drugs and money only complicates and implicates the wannabe detectives, and puts him over his head and his life in danger. Not to mention that his girlfriend, Cissy, is dying of cancer. The beginning to this meta noir begins here: Die Like A Man 1&2

FYI: Available for readers of Dime Pulp who may have missed a few issues or lost the thread of a serial,  Dime Pulp Yearbook 21, featuring the novels (The Last Resort and Better Than Dead) and the short fiction (Hard Boiled Myth and Gone Missing) of Volume One’s 12 issues,  is joined by Dime Pulp Yearbook 22, featuring the complete pulp Western, On The Road To Las Cruces, continuing episodes of  a detective story, Better Than Dead, the opening chapters of new serial novels, Just Coincidence and Cheése Stands Alone, the short fiction of Hard Boiled Myth and Polka Dot Dress, as well as Dropping A Dime’s pithy pulp observations.  Volume Two’s 10 issues are available for perusal in their entirety by simply clicking on the links in this paragraph or on the menu bar above. Dime Pulp Yearbook 23 will be available in early February ’24 as part of the annual archival review.

If you’ve made it this far, click  on the links above to read the entertaining  serial contents of Volume 4, Number 2!

 —Perry O’Dickle, chief scribe
and word accountant

 

 

 

Just Coincidence: Interlude II

Crime Fiction, Pulp Fiction, , , ,

by Paul Anton Taylor

Wayne had awakened in a smoky miasma to the drone of voices and a rhythmic rattling, tapping. He was not surprised, as if he were revisiting a dream, a welcoming inevitability. He’d been calm, not overcome by the strangeness of his surroundings, yet clammy skinned and weak. A heavy breathing had accompanied exhalations and inhalations close to his cheek. Glazed, acknowledging the dim light, his eyes had focused on the dark visage hovering in his periphery. Lined and creased above a short gray beard, the dark eyes of the old man had seemed to look right through him as if he were not there.

The face that had floated above his belonged to an elder in the group of refugees who had fled the fighting further north. Women out foraging had found Wayne and brought him to their camp site. Yet the man’s expressions, the look about him, had been intimately familiar. It had not dawned on him immediately, occupied as he had been in piecing together the tatters of memory of the previous span of days, but when it did, he’d felt a genuine astonishment of cosmic interconnection. The face belonged to that of a childhood friend, someone he had met as a youngster in old Rick’s candy store adjacent to the Bruce Battery Works. He’d remembered the name as if it had always been on the tip of his tongue. Michael. He was the son of Mr. Rick’s cousin’s granddaughter and about the same age as Wayne had been back when superhero comic books were a preadolescent preoccupation.

That memory nagged him even after everything had been resolved. How the face of the old African healer had been that of his friend, a friend with whom he’d felt instant rapport, but a friendship that had lasted no more than one summer vacation yet had felt like it was the best he could remember. Most of his friends were chosen by Trish, his mother, and there were few, if any, of African ancestry. When Wayne had returned to the Battery Works during the Fall holiday break, Michael had moved to another state, never to be seen or heard from again. Mr. Rick had answered his inquiries with something about people making bad choices, born to lose.

He’d made a bad choice. Leaving Dr. Fledermann behind in a desperate attempt to find help. Once the sun had set, he’d helped Alfred into the cooling protection of the stranded Land Rover. He had hoped that they would be reported missing once they failed to return from the expedition. Brebeuf or Yousoff returning with help had been the slim prospect he’d held on to. Fledermann improved a little once the heat of the day subsided. Stretched out in the rear of the vehicle, the old man had groaned and murmured and complained. Intent on the growing dark and the steep drop in temperature, Wayne only half listened to the random spouting, the insistence that their predicament was not the way it was supposed to happen. But eventually, if only to break the monotony, he’d advanced the question, what wasn’t supposed to happen?

Fledermann had lapsed into silence after that, offering no answer. His breathing unperturbed although shallow, Wayne had assumed that the old man had fallen asleep. So he’d been startled by Alfred’s clear assertion, “I refused to agree to that!” He’d repeated it again and then with a moan, “I am such a fool! I’ve been betrayed!” And again the mantra that what had happened wasn’t supposed to happen. That it was not something he’d agreed to. Yet bit by bit Wayne had pieced together that perhaps the mission had had a dual purpose. Not only the search for diatomite but another more sinister objective, something that had to do with the future of Bruce Enterprise.

He’d slept fitfully that night and the following day had not been an improvement on the previous one. He’d kept his eyes fixed to the horizon in the direction from which they’d come, willing the rescuers to materialize, but to no avail. And the day had heated up quickly, the abandoned vehicle no longer a shelter, he had carried a semiconscious Fledermann to the shade of the anemic acacia. By then he’d felt the full impact of their dire predicament. The water would not last and the old man would not survive much longer. And another realization had crept into his consideration. He had to save himself and if in doing so he could save the old man, then it was the choice he had to make.

Not long after his vision of Michael, perhaps that evening, he’d had another visitor, a young French Moroccan woman. Her name was Mina, an itinerant nurse with the local UN refugee effort who spoke little English. Thanks to that one year in a Swiss boarding school, Wayne knew enough French to communicate with her. She had just arrived on her regular rounds and had been taken to him. Before that the elder and a few of the women in the camp had ministered to him, offering a little food and water, shelter in a primitive lean-to of twigs. She was the one who had related to him how he had been found, semi-conscious with nothing but an empty canteen and an aluminum field case. She hadn’t known anything about Dr. Fledermann, nor had anyone from the camp. Mina had only sporadic contact with the UN Mission in Timbuktu with the antiquated radio in her Peugeot cargo van that served as a clinic. She had tried to contact the base camp but couldn’t be certain her transmission had been picked up. In the meantime, she had to continue with her duties attending to the refugees. She had pronounced that he was out of danger, but that he needed to rest. She had also told him that he owed his life to the old man he thought of as Michael.

Wayne had pieced together what he could remember, setting off in the direction of the road that had brought them here. He’d made a bad choice, but anxiety had turned into panic and he had to act. He was no match for the searing heat, yet he’d known he couldn’t stop. He hadn’t been able to make anything sensible in those ripples of memory only the intensity of the brazen wash of light. The sensation of being carried had stayed with him. As did the blur of voices and the chanting between the chasms of catalepsy.

In his reorientation, his model had been nothing he could compare with. The smells, the smoke, the oppressive heat wrinkled air, and the languid dark bodies conserving energy in anticipation of a cooler part of the day. Gaunt black faces came to peer at him and murmur a few words or grunts of acknowledgement. He had managed to lift himself on his elbows, shakily, taking in the stirring in the camp as Mina set up her clinic around which people were beginning to gather, some so sick they had to be carried. He had awakened in a different world, one so different that it defied comprehension. What he’d witnessed was not poverty, but a suspension of time, a place that had always been there but always kept out of sight, denied. That was what had changed. His privileged view had been put into stark perspective and so many of his assumptions became untenable and he could not unsee the suffering and misery.

The helicopter had arrived the next day with all the roaring intensity of an angry god. It was a military ship and on board were a Bruce Enterprise representative and a UN doctor. He’d been flown to the main hospital in Bamako and given a physical. He had then learned that Dr Alfred Fledermann had been found a day earlier when Brebeuf returned with help, and that he was in critical condition in the isolation ward. He’d been advised to recuperate for a few days himself before flying back to the States and he hadn’t refused. There’d been too many things crowding his mind and he’d felt he needed the time to process his confusion before returning to the other world, a world that masked cruelty in the guise of prosperity and whose humanity was a sham. Besides he’d wanted to get a chance to talk with the old doctor, get him to elaborate on what he’d been babbling about, what was it that had gone wrong and what did it have to do with him and the future of the Bruce business empire? He’d never got the chance. The BATS lab director had been flown to a more advanced care facility in Italy, the Bamako hospital overcrowded and understaffed as it was. It had been on the tarmac at the airport boarding the company jet that he’d been informed that Fledermann’s plane never reached its destination. He’d thought he’d left it all behind, but it stayed with him: a mystery to resolve, injustice to be righted, and revenge to be exacted.

Next Time: Act 3, Scene 1

DIE Like A MAN

Crime Fiction, , , ,

by Thierry Le Noque

CHAPTER ONE

The sun is in my eyes and I’m going to die.

Ray Philips tried to care. It was only one weepy eye, anyway. The other had swollen shut. He was watching the sun set, face pressed against the hard scrabble at the side of a narrow road on the dry yellow flank of the Mayacamas range.

Soon the amorphous orange orb would be obscured by the rear wheel of the Escalade parked almost on top of his head. The oily stench of highway heated steel-belted tread was repelling yet strangely familiar, like the odor of asphalt, revved engines, and burning rubber on hot August nights.

They were waiting for somebody, two pairs of high-heeled western boots and the one pair of expensive loafers. One pair of boots belonged to the young Mexican male with a shaved head and sparse goatee. He was seated, his back to the wheel above Ray, holding the side of his face with one hand and punching Ray in the ribs with the other.

The somebody they were waiting for was preceded by the crackling crunch of the wheels of an approaching vehicle on gravel. It came to a stop behind the SUV. One car door and another closed with the solid thunk of a luxury sedan. And footsteps approached. “What the fuck happened to you cholas?”

“This guy’s some kind of kung fu martial arts motherfucker.” Boots got to his feet and leaned a hand on the side of the SUV. “But we took him down, fucking stomped him good. Son of a bitch,” and let drop a gob of blood speckled spit.

“I want to get a look at the guy who could kick all your asses. He better be one bad fucking hombre or I’m going to kill all you fucking pussies.”

Hands grabbed Ray’s ankles, dragging him out from under the SUV. The toe of a boot wedged itself under his right side and flipped him onto his back. His legs didn’t want to follow and twisted under him shooting a bolt up his spine. He reopened his eye to focus on a dark face close to his, teeth bared, eyes bugging.

“So this is the motherfucker who’s been stealing from me? You think you can get away with that shit, motherfucker? You think so, huh? Nobody steals from me! You understand! Now you’re going to fucking tell me where you’ve got my product, and my fucking money!”  Narrowed lips drawn across the bared gold-capped teeth flecked with spittle.

Sultry, feminine, a voice said, “I know this guy.”

“You know this motherfucker?”

Ray turned his head, focusing on a slender oval framed by long dark hair. “This is the guy I told you about, at the county jail.”

“This guy?”

“Yeah. That’s him, I’m sure.”

Mean face withdrew to become an oblong blur on top of a shadowy narrow frame. “Alright, he gets a bye. This one time. I’m not done with him.” Feet scuffled off. Car doors slammed shut, one after another. Wheels crackled, crushing clumps of dirt to dust in their leaving.

Ray watched the Escalade make a wide turn further up the road and head back toward him. He could have said a prayer but he didn’t remember any. The SUV slowed as it passed and the driver spat red out the window at him. They were going to have to do better than that.

CHAPTER 2

Ten days earlier, Ray Philips pocketed his pay as a bouncer checking IDs at the door of La Bête Noir, also known as ‘The Beast,’ the college bar on Mendocino Avenue. He swung his suitcoat over his shoulder and walked out into the cool early morning in his shirt sleeves. A tall man in his late twenties, broad shoulders of an athlete, square jawed, sleepy amber green eyes beneath thick eyebrows and curly black hair just short of shaggy, he had concluded that a suit was a kind of uniform. Bar patrons, especially the young and callow, paid deference to the authority of the uniform which made his job matching faces and ages with what was represented on little plastic cards much easier. Of course there were times when it had the opposite effect. Then it got ugly.

He fit the key in the door of his battered Civic hatchback in the parking lot behind the bar, giving a thought to Cissy, probably waiting up for him with a bottle of white wine and a see-thru something from a specialty boutique. She’d said she had something important to tell him as he was heading out the door for work the previous evening. Sex was at the top of his list of important things.

He was surprised by the man in the faded red hooded sweatshirt standing on the other side of the car. The man had stepped out of the shadows. “Hey, Ray.”

“Colin, what are you doing here?”

“I need a favor.”

“What happened to your face?”

Colin’s hand went up to the purple swelling on his forehead. “Uh, bumped a guard rail coming down Calistoga. Kinda totaled the front end of my truck. That’s why I’m here. I got a fishing party to take out in the morning. I need a lift out to the marina.”

“Those scratches look pretty bad. Get them bumping the rail, too?”

“Me and Mandy. . . you know. She got some claws.”

“The makeup sex must be great. You two are always fighting.”

“That’s history man. She can go fuck herself for all I care.”

“I’ve heard that song before. You should set it to music.”

“How about it? This gig is gonna help pay the groceries, and get the mortgage company off my ass.”

Ray knew bullshit when he heard it. He shrugged, “Yeah, ok, get in.”

Ray saw it coming from far off, closing fast. It powered past them in the opposite direction, unmarked, strobes flashing in the grill, gang unit eating up the pavement, heading for the 101. After it passed, Highway 12 was empty, as deserted as on the day after the apocalypse, practically all the way to Sebastopol.

“I called your phone. You didn’t pick-up.”

“I keep it turned off. Battery’s not holding a charge.”

“You’re still packing that old flip thing? That is so yesterday. Man, get a real phone.”  Colin held up his, luminescent oblong screen blue. “What you got is a paper weight.”

“Takes money, money I don’t have.”

“Say the word, Ray, I can cut you some action. You wouldn’t have to do much.”

“Colin, I don’t want to hear about your fucking action. I told you that.”

Colin shrugged and turned his head to stare at the vague silhouettes passing backlit by orange streetlight glow.

The first time Ray met Colin Knox was in first grade on the playground at St Rose first week of school. Colin was bumping chests with an older kid, second or third grader. The bigger kid had his hands balled into fists and his face looked ready to explode. Colin was oblivious, jaw working, mouth spitting out words. The ruckus had attracted a few others, mainly friends of the bigger kid. Ray didn’t like the odds his fellow first grader was facing. He stepped between them just as the big kid was about to give Colin a shove. Ray got the shove instead. He shoved back.

As if she had suddenly emerged out of the blacktop, Sister Constance Marie caught him by the tiny hairs at the back of his neck and marched him straight to Mother Superior. Ray got detention for the rest of the week. Colin and Ray were inseparable from then on, and Ray was adopted into the Knox clan.

Colin’s dad was a bantam. His name was Howard but the way he said it, it sounded like ‘hard.’ He wore a big gold ring on his right pinky and had a gold cap on his left eye tooth. He was the service manager at Zumwalt, the dealership on Santa Rosa Avenue. There was always a brand new Chrysler in their driveway.

Bridgette was Colin’s mother though everyone called her Gidget and she didn’t seem to mind. She was the most beautiful woman Ray had ever seen off the TV or movie screen. She loved to laugh and act up, joke, have a drink. She used to say that they were distant relatives of the people who owned the Fort. And she’d add, “Very distant.” It was years before Ray actually got the joke. She was fond of Ray, a second mother to him considering the amount of time he spent at Colin’s, and the amount of time his own mother, Kay, spent avoiding him to be with her latest boyfriend.

The Knox’s had a timeshare on the coast overlooking the Russian River, and every summer for two weeks in July, Colin’s mother invited him along. To think back to that time, for Ray, those were idyllic days. Colin and he were blood brothers, pirates of the cove, and the tiny island that hugged the south shore of the estuary where they’d built a makeshift bulwark was their lair, their treasured isle.

“This is crap, I might as well be listening to static.”

“Don’t fuck with the presets.”

“Got any real tunes?”  Colin opened the glove box to wads of oily paper towel and jumper cables.

“Look in the back. Cissy picked some up at a garage sale. I don’t know what they are.”

Colin unbuckled and lifted himself from the seat to grapple with the half-crate and bring it forward to his lap.

“Put your seatbelt back on.”

“Jesus, what’s this, a fucking school bus?”

“I can’t afford a ticket.”

“You think you’re gonna get pulled over?”

“Always a possibility. Cops, this time of the morning, are bored and need something to keep them awake. A traffic stop gets the adrenaline pumping.”

“You know this for a fact? Why, because you went to cop school?”  Colin switched on the dome light to pick through the CD’s.

“Shit, turn that off! I can’t see. . .shit!”  Ray yanked the steering wheel hard right. The left rear bumped over something big.

Colin glanced over his shoulder as Ray switched off the dome light. “What the fuck was that?”

Ray peered into the rearview. “I dunno, debris, lumber of some kind. Shit!”

Colin laughed. “Chill, man, you drove over a piece of wood, big fucking deal. Tell you what.”  He reached into his sweatshirt and produced a fatty. “We’ll fire this puppy up and everything gonna be fine.”

Ray nodded. “Yeah, but wait till we get through Sebastopol. The cops there are real pricks. If we get stopped I don’t want my car smelling like Bong Central Station.”

“You are one paranoid motherfucker, you know that?”  Colin turned his attention back to the box on his lap. “There better be some head banging brain damaging obliteration in this collection of garbage.”

The second time Ray came to Colin’s rescue was at Los Guilicos Youth Detention Center. Colin was in a showdown with a trio of very large thugs and was about to have his ass handed to him, or worse. By then Ray was well on to being large himself, nearly six foot, tall for a ninth grader. Colin was still a runt, a runt who tried to make up for his size with his big mouth.

They’d lost touch around sixth grade. By the start of high school, they barely saw each other. Colin attending elite Newman and Ray struggling to keep from being booted out of Montgomery.

And Ray was running with a bad crew. In particular, Jaime Jimenez who went by the name of Jimmy Jim and an Asian kid known only as Huk. Ray had a rep, too. Tough white punk prone to murderous rage.

One Friday night while they were goofing around on their way to hang out in Courthouse Square, they ran into a gang of older boys near Fremont Park. Hand signs were flashed, challenges made. The older teens weren’t going to let them pass until they claimed. No one saw it coming. Huk stabbed the one talking trash in the neck. By the spurt of blood, he’d hit an artery. The cops picked them up beating feet down Talbot. That same night Colin had been picked up in a drug sweep. It was a short reunion. Ray had taken two of the thugs down before the staff broke it up.

Ray was labeled an at-risk juvenile and released on the condition that he attend counseling. Kay was at the end of her rope with him. Things needed to change or Ray would end up in a group home.

His counselor, a young guy with a big red beard and bad breath, was the one who suggested the way out. There was a martial arts studio a couple of blocks from Ray’s apartment. Maybe he should give it a shot, channel his aggressions. Ray had passed by the place dozens of times. It was decidedly uncool. A bunch of little kids in white pajamas thinking they were Bruce Lee. Ray reluctantly accompanied Barry, the counselor, to a tournament at the dojo. That was all it took.

“Bandit at six o’clock.”

Ray glanced at the flashing lights in his rearview mirror. They were just about to leave the city limits.

“Ok, stay calm, they don’t have PC,” Colin blurted.

“Probably cause? Since when do cops need probable cause?”

Colin pulled the hoodie over his head and leaned against the window. “I’ve been drinking and you’re taking me home.”

Ray navigated to the shoulder of the road, turned the engine off and placed his hands at the top of the steering wheel. He watched the officer exit his vehicle and walk cautiously toward them. “And where do you live?”

“Uh, I dunno, you’ll think of something. I’m sleeping. Don’t wake me.”  Colin feigned the deep breathing of sleep.

The cop stood at the window and waited for Ray to roll it down. His flashlight scanned the interior. “License and registration, please.”

Ray lifted the registration from the visor and handed it over with his license. “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

The cop had his citation book out. “Left rear taillight.”

“Really? The taillight’s not working? Mind if I see for myself? It was just in for a service. They should have caught that.”

The officer stepped back from the door and to the rear of the Civic, citation book in his left, his right hand to his hip. “Please stay in the car, sir,” glancing down at the license .

Ray made sure his were in plain sight. “Well, you are right.”  He thumped the rear panel and the light blinked on. “Loose wire. But thanks for catching that, Warren.”

Ray took the hard look. “Oh, fuck. Philips! Why didn’t you say something?”  The policeman double-checked the driver’s license in his hand. “I ain’t seen you since. . . .”

“The academy?”

“Yeah, right. It’s been a while. What you been doing with yourself?”

Ray shrugged. “This and that. Teaching martial arts at the Runway Club.”

“You’re still doing that, huh? What’re you now, a black belt?”

“Something like that. Doing some part-time at Morgan Josephson. Gonna test for my State investigator’s license.”

“No shit, you’re working for MoJo? My old man did some work for them, insurance stuff, you know, after he retired.”

“So I heard. Your dad was a good cop. How’s he doing these days?”

Warren shook his head. “Aw, we got him in a nursing home. He don’t even know who he is.”

“Sorry to hear that. How about you, how do you like working for Sebastopol?”

“It’s alright. If you don’t mind being a security guard for a bunch of over-the-hill hippies.”

Ray laughed. “That’s a good one, Warren. Mind if I use it?”

“Sure, I don’t care. One of our dispatchers came up with it.”

On cue the radio rasped. “Edward Boy 5, ready to copy your 10-28?”

Warren answered on his portable. “Disregard 10-28. Code 4 on the 11-95.”  Then to Ray, handing back his papers, “I gotta ask you about your vanity plate. What the hell does that mean, GMTIOO?

“Gumshoe. My girlfriend got it for me.”

“No shit, that says gumshoe?” Warren stared at the plate, grinning. “I get it, gumshoe, PI, private investigator.” And turning to leave, “Get that light fixed, ok?”

Ray waited until the patrol car made the U-turn before he got back behind the wheel.

“Who the fuck was that?”

“Warren Kroner.”

“Herb Kroner’s kid? Shit, they let anybody have a gun and a badge. My old man said Herb was one of the dirtiest cops in the whole county.”

“Yeah, and now he’s blowing spit bubbles and pissing in diapers. Some kind of justice.”

“Fucking cops. You heard how they shot that kid, didn’t you? Just fucking shot him. What’d he do, looked at them cross-eyed?”

“You don’t have to tell me. I blame the cowboys who teach the Lethal Force module. It’s shoot first, ask questions later. The way they see it, you shoot somebody on duty, nobody can touch you.”

“Fucking trigger happy cocksuckers.”

Ray steered back onto the roadway. Pungent smoke filled the interior and he cracked a window to let the night air blow through. He took a deep toke and then coughed his lungs out all over the speedometer. His eyes watered, his nose tickled, and the dome of his skull detached itself and floated above his head.

Colin laughed, hacking up a billow, and slapped the dash to the beat of a head-banging anthem. “Just like old times, homes!”

Next Time: Fish & Tequila