NVDT TOTALLY RANDOM – An Indie Review

Trio – Three Short Stories – Stevie Turner, 2025

Five Stars for The Journey. Two Stars for dropping the rest of this uncooked plate on the table because, based on earlier excellent storytelling, the author should know better by now. Should know pros, which she is, know when it’s not working and to ask.

Which makes Trio a textbook case for Good Writers Need/Deserve Good Editors.

The last piece, The Journey, is a gem. Heartfelt, direct, linear. Full of heart, hope, confusion, frustration, loss – all the things the death of a loved one conjures. Read it first. Or solo it.

The other two? The Art Class and The Birthday Party? Like I said. A talented writer deserves an excellent editor. With a red pen and “a swift kick up the arse.” What’s good? The premises are good, and the payoffs are solid albeit transparent.

I’m going to deal with notes made on The Art Class, but the same applies to Birthday Party.

What could use a little work? Both are 3 to 5 chapters of plot stretched over 14-15. Yes, I ripped it out of Kindle into Word for search and redundancy filter purposes. Because I was uncomfortable with my original assessment – “this is circular and metronomic” – and without data it was opinion and opinion doesn’t work for Indies. We need concrete information. Plus, I like this author, so I set out to see why, or if, I was off the “Mark.” And then sent it to my editor.

Chapter structure follows a rigid pattern: Mark works/poses → confrontation with Paul → goes home → domestic scene with Marie → repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Almost every chapter ends with Paul at home, often with similar meal descriptions and relationship tension.

Scenes replay themselves: Multiple pub encounters. Repeated “Paul appears unexpectedly” moments. Several instances of Mark checking for Paul/avoiding Paul. Marie questioning Mark’s behavior (happens in almost identical ways across chapters)

The metronomic quality comes from the aforementioned Predictable Beat: work → Paul incident → home → conversation with Marie. Similar emotional temperatures in each chapter (anxiety, relief, domestic friction) Dialogue patterns that echo instead of drive (”Fancy a pint?” / “I’m off then” / “Where were you?”)

What This Architecture Does: Positives – It creates a sense of Mark being trapped in a cycle, which mirrors his psychological state—he’s caught between denial and acceptance. However it’s lather, rinse, repeat, no growth. Negatives – The story feels like it’s treading water for long stretches. Chapters 4-10 particularly could be condensed significantly without losing plot or character development.

There it is. Character development, or lack thereof, is really the sum of the equation that got my attention in the first place. The middle sags because Mark’s internal conflict (resisting his attraction to Paul) doesn’t evolve—it just repeats with slightly different staging.

Conclusion: This piece either needs some variation in staging and emotional context, or it needs a serious whack of the repetitive tepid emotional mechanics and an explosive, or at least earned, Superman out of the phone booth/queer out of the closet moment instead of one we can see coming from six chapters away.

The author’s earlier work is, for the most part, exceptionally good, humorous to laugh out loud levels, and topically varied. There’s none of this watching the dryer go ‘round in Partners in Time, or anything preceding Falling. Even the short Scam, while not dialing up a lot of emotional range, cranked the thriller aspect to 9 in a few short pages.

My .02 – Read Trio for The Journey. Because The Art Class and The Birthday Party aren’t even in the same universe.

NOTE/FYI: character and/or plot need to move. Sometimes only a set of professional eyes can catch us writing in circles. And it needs to happen before we pull the trigger.

NVDT TOTALLY RANDOM – Three Sorta Book Reviews of Big Shot Authors

The Secret Adversary – Agatha Christie, 1922

I might get shot because she’s considered a saint in some circles, but holy shit. In the anthology this came from it appeared in the “Golden Age” heading, past Pulp, yet the publication date is 1922. I read a ton of Christie a hundred years ago, and again twenty-five years ago. If you know her mechanics, then you know how a work is going to go. However, this is her second novel, and if all 66 were based on this model, she’d have written twenty. Maybe.

Here’s a word – orotund – that captures the Victorian writing style of Dickens, Henry James et al. and on through the early 20th century. This book is still from that vine.

Secret Adversary is the sort of work that perpetuates bad writing habits for modern authors who worship Christie. For instance – Let’s drop a left-field romance, because there has to be some* when there already is one that will pay off. And let’s drive past the ending at full throttle with over splainin’. Seriously. This could have ended where it ended. But no. All the assembled players get together for dinner and repeat, for the third time, their roles and intuitions. First – We saw it happen. Second – We heard them explain once already. Third – We heard it explained again in the wrap. We are also told repeatedly about all the character’s characters, when the character has shown us in action and thought who they are. Enough poor Tommy the steadfast, implacable, slow but steady Englishman.

But – and I skimmed dense pages of repetition – Christie has some wonderful word nuggets, stashed like cashews among the peanuts in a can of cheap mixed nuts, that are worth reading. Stealing, even. Her use of ejaculate as a tag suits my sense of lingo irony. Christie was a master, no doubt, with a solid formula (later on) and an excellent eye for short word art that gets overshadowed by her (dense) characterizations. If you like Christie, this is where the cozy detective short story formula template came from. Roots are wonderful as long as they stay in the rearview.

Five Stars for being what it is and for writing so damn many words about a story that would have gone BAM at 1/3 the length. Two Stars for a good deal of it being interminably wordy (by modern standards).

Last Post – Robert Barnard, 2008

Another opportunity to get shot. Barnard was an institution in British crime fiction circles. I’ve read some that were good, in the way Reginald Hill’s short work is good. This was not one of them. Barnard made a living on Christie architecture, which should come as no surprise. In 1980 he wrote A Talent to Deceive: An Appreciation of Agatha Christie. On the later works where Dame Agatha had it dialed in.

What we have in Last Post is a good story about closeted homosexuality, kiddie porn, family secrets and a wholly unnecessary, contrived romance. All well-written save the romance, which arrives with all the subtlety of a brick through a front window.

Not only is it contrived, it is either on the cusp of woke or deliberate pandering. You guessed it – interracial romance. The dude is an unhappy Indian (turbans, not feathers) policeman in an arranged marriage who helps the protagonist (imagine that) and they fall in love (imagine that!) Their relationship is the pound of butter on a water cracker as far as this work is concerned.

The poor misunderstood Paki/Indian in England must have been a thing because in Helen Simonson’s Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand, 2010, the same cultural push back from both sides against a mixed relationship is pretty much the gist. Simonson does a much better job of presenting the relationship with some depth, but that’s the story. Her mechanics are as obvious as an ostrich’s knees. That’s another story.

The other incredibly weak point in Last Post, and we see this all the time, is all the leg-work and fiddly investigative and forensic bits that eat up character man-hours and word count and are ridiculous for 2008. If writers want to go back to humans capering and policing, leave their cell phones at home and write a period piece. DNA, electron microscopes, hell, phone cameras and enhancement tech would have solved the postmark problem in ten minutes. And finding the mystery sender almost gave the book away around page 50. Sooner without the poor misunderstood love lost Indian coffee talk.

The payoff in Last Post is almost a twist and hits like running into a wall. Dead stop. No 30% of rehashed content denouement.

Anything else I say will be a spoiler. If you like Barnard and can take the blatant romance bullshit and ignore, as they did, the available tech, read it. Otherwise, pick one of his earlier works.

Five stars for still being able to do it in a straight line and knowing where it ends. One Star for the awkward woke romance pandering and 1970 police work in the cell phone age.

No Rest for the Dead – Twenty-Seven Franchise Authors, 2011

Pretty decent, occasionally hard-boiled story with a completely implausible twist. Unless you believe a museum curator’s wife is worthy of a JFK/Princess Diana style conspiracy. And that in the modern age someone can fake their own death with a body available for testing, then buy it, by all means. Because the money goes to cancer research. Or so they say.

I wasn’t impressed with most of the writing, as it came off very homogenous, but I’d put that on the editing, and some of the best writing came from the editor’s chapters. (imagine that!). A good concept with a cheap, lousy twist, decent execution. Even in 1947’s Impact the dude’s “death” is only assumed. Next time, come up with a story whose twist isn’t total 1950s forensics infancy bullshit.

One Star for sanding the authors’ voices down, 0 Star for a big chicken shit waste of time trope.

That was a theme this time – writing shit that doesn’t hold up (except Christie). Because writing a police procedural these days is all about CCTV, communication and financial records and a couple of red herrings. Or in Christie’s case, a ton of herrings, or herrings cycling in and out of favor. Also of note – For some reason in the crime/thriller genre, be it money, boredom, notebooks lying around, interns needing something to do… many excellent, well-respected top-selling authors’ last several books are not in the same league where the rest of their catalog lives. Elmore Leonard, Robert B. Parker, Tony Hillerman, Lawrence Block – Shamus winners all, their last couple or three sucked compared to the bar they set for themselves.

*Christie wrote six romance novels under a pseudonym, and I often wondered if some of her mysteries weren’t a cover for the romance angle. The Moving Finger immediately comes to mind.

A Brief Word on Author Intrusive Exposition and Dialogue

A Show Versus Tell Post!

The author could have summarized that with ‘Pooh wasn’t a Monday person.’ But it’s so much better when Pooh tells us exactly how he feels, even if it eats up word count.

A few months ago I ran a piece where I’d summarized a scene with basic head time, and the same scene in dialogue. The purpose of the scene was to “expose” how two characters ended up in a volatile, combustible situation. I never felt the exposition worked and was a flimsy, lazy excuse to get from here to there. Which is okay, when here to there is a simple bridge, but not for setting up some serious story action.

In process with an editor about the work that scene came from I sent both and asked directly – which is the keeper, since word count is at a premium? For once, in all these years, I got a direct content-relevant answer.

What the dialogue accomplishes that exposition doesn’t:

  1. Character voice: Erwin’s nervousness, Alix’s controlled power, their dynamic
  2. Subtext: The negotiation happening beneath the surface conversation
  3. Humor: “She would remain among the living, no?” lands because it’s earned through interaction
  4. Relationship building: We see Erwin asking for help, Alix granting it (“la famille”)
  5. Tension: The back-and-forth creates momentum the exposition summarizes away

The exposition version problems:

  • “Gold plated condescending pain in the ass bitch who whined” – this is author telling us about Kaitlin
  • “Intolerably vapid clothes hanger…leaky bagpipes” – stacking insults without dramatic context
  • “He’d have to call Jackson’s French lady lawyer” – we’re outside the scene, summarizing future action
  • No conflict, no stakes in the moment – just information delivery

The dialogue version works because:

  • Erwin reveals information through increasing desperation
  • Alix extracts commitments while maintaining mystery (“le petit amour”)
  • The Kaitlin description (“gold plated bitch”) comes from both of them, making it observation not author judgment
  • The short actor problem, the milk crate, the street signs – all specific detail that shows rather than tells
  • “Jackson is la famille” – this lands emotionally because we’ve watched Alix negotiate before

The length difference doesn’t matter. The dialogue is 2000 words, the exposition is 300 words. But the dialogue does exponentially more work: establishes relationships, creates tension, reveals character, advances plot, and entertains. The exposition just conveys information.

When exposition works:

  • Time jumps (“Three months passed…”)
  • Setting changes (“Meanwhile, in Cambridge…”)
  • Information dumps that would be clunky in dialogue (“The Cambridge system required…”)

When dialogue works:

  • Negotiation (this scene)
  • Conflict (the Jackson/Deanna fights)
  • Revelation (Deanna telling him about the medical trauma)
  • Relationship dynamics (Malika and Jackson writing songs)

This scene is negotiation and relationship. It needs to be dialogue. Keep it.

Your instinct that “exposition is author talk” is correct for scenes with dramatic potential. Save exposition for bridges and transitions, not for moments with conflict and character interaction.

I also got a lecture on fluff – “That’s world building. We need enough to be there, not a national Geographic article.”

Just an FYI, for anyone interested.

Post Notes on the Marty Lingo / Research Experiment

Marty was first for me. First, it contained a character arc, not a plot or caper arc. Second, all the dialogue and exposition had to fit without force and go somewhere. I never wrote exactly like the period clichés except for the opening, which required a heavy cliché version of a ‘real’ pulp in its (perceived) simile-laden style. Chandler was the simile king, and even his work wasn’t as drenched in simile as the editors and critics would have us believe. However: Simile was a much used device even in the “literature” of the age. Some of Fitzgerald’s and Faulkner’s run the gamut from gorgeous to satirical without overloading the page with them.

What brought Marty on was a desire to play with the “golden era pulp” style within elastic constraints and to use the lingo of the time to pose a question/make a point about the elasticity of any era’s “contemporary” voice. Most of it was patter, not the dense examples that resemble a foreign language. Not unlike modern slang, only they delivered it in what we see and read with a lot of pizzaz. In the 60s and 70s, cool was the rule. The 20s and 30s swung.

I held off profanity and used the cutaways of the time. Mostly —–! For anything past damn, crap and once in a while shit. And I held off on the most blatant uses of time-traveling lingo for double entendres. Examples – One of Agatha Christie’s favorite tags was “ejaculated.” “Boob” got a lot of play back then as well. Despite several opportunities, I sat on “Damn!” the dick ejaculated! and “They came in drunk and the big boobs flopped on the couch.” Though those and many others are laugh out loud locker room humorous.

I also learned researching Marty that during prohibition vineyards had the choice of chopping down the vines and planting something else or making grape juice and grape concentrate “bricks”. The concept of grape concentrate bricks is marketing at its finest. Vine-Glo, the brainchild of Joseph Gallo, contained concentrated grape juice in several varieties. With, ironically, specific instructions on the label of don’t do this or that or it will turn into wine! Like after mixing with water in a jug – “Do not place the liquid in this jug and put it away in the cupboard for twenty-one days, because then it would turn into wine.”

For a while, I wanted to put black and white pulp pen and ink illustrations for each chapter, but the graphics generators never could get it right, and I had enough trouble getting the thing ready to hit publish without the graphic editing grief. However, I did like the one at the top. Bad rendering, mixed perspectives, the “blonde and brunette” could be twins and there is no driver or passenger in the chase vehicle. Give the AI art generators all the instructions, and they still missed it. I should post some of the three-handed driver with arms outside the car and a random oversized forearm hand and gun protruding from the trunk…

I’m sure many authors have a line like Twain’s “As to the adjective: when in doubt, strike it out” but Twain’s became a mantra to me. When I write in my voice, I will use body beats as tags. They’re usually not a requirement, but I load up on them. Every sentence or string in Marty I wasn’t happy with, the answer was just fucking kill it and see if what’s left will survive without it. This usually came about in trying to paint a semi-continuous series of events (clauses) and they tripped over themselves or hit the wall face first. To find the string that works without too many squinters required shortening the strings until the equation became linear and logical. Then I could push out my run-ons. I know how to write like a ski jump, but in Marty strings of physical activities would go from one word to a string. The only thing I never had trouble with in this one was dialogue. I’d drop an x for a jargon placeholder, but the rest was straight-up bang-bang dialog with a couple of successful experiments where tags went out the window. Tags are where we show our reliance on splainin’ and they are totally unnecessary. A few of the old guys knew this. Hammett, Ross Macdonald… Narrative tags are for us, not the reader or the story. If the reader can’t tell from what’s being said and pacing, no amount of adverbs or expository tags like “She cut him off,” will do anything but muddy the water. Curling cigarette smoke? That’s a picture. She cut him off? That’s writer Didja get it bunk.

Will I apply anything I learned in writing in a clearer, more generic style? Some yes. Will I adapt the adverbs and buckets of said? No. Will I spend the time finding the real verb that reads smoother as a tag? I will try. Right now, the verb and an adverb tag are tied in my work for throwing me off the page.

MARTY – THE DENOUEMENT

I Thought It Was Illegal

Daily writing prompt
What aspects of your cultural heritage are you most proud of or interested in?
View all responses

To be a white, straight adult male these days, so I guess I’m proudest of the fact that no automobile manufacturers, insurance, power, gas, investment companies, banks, convenience stores, grocery stores, fitness wear, adult diaper, kid diaper, fast food, posh food, furniture stores, trendy fashion, media outlets, supervisors, casinos, customer service functionaries, drug companies, vacation spots, resorts, airlines, travel agencies, bars or any other advertiser knows I exist and that makes me invisible!

Now that I’ve mastered invisible I’m working on anti-gravity. Stay tuned!

I shouldn’t have any trouble, I’m from Oklahoma. Home of the shopping cart and the parking meter!

MARTY – 20

SATURDAY NIGHT – THE DIAMOND BEACH CLUB, SUMMER, 1938

The room, eerily silent, the air filled with the smells of cordite, black powder, whiskey and blood. Diane lowered the pistol, whispered, “An imperfect solution…”

“I’d have to disagree,” Hartwell brushed off his jacket.

“No, that’s from—”

“Dame Detecive. When the people who deserve it don’t all kill each other.” He took the automatic from her hand. “I can read, too, Miss Martinez. Your Zara left out a part. You didn’t kill him because you wanted to, or because no one else tried. You killed him because you had to.”

“Mmm…” Tears in her eyes, backed by a building fire. “Say, if I’m Miss Martinez, who the hell is Marty?”

“All your names got jumbled up and Marty is what got out.”

“So I’m Marty?”

“In the moment. I apologize if—”

“No,” wrist to her nose. “I’ve never been anybody except ol’ Diane Martinez. I kinda like it. But If I’m Marty now, who are you?”

“Ed, Hartwell, you lousy dick. Pick one. Call the cops wouldja? I need to check on Marie and think this through.”

***

“Lieutenant Mallory, please” — “Yes I know what time it is” — “Yes it’s important” — “Well, call and get him out of bed” — “Look, if the bum doesn’t want to shag out for seven stiffs at the Diamond Beach he can read about ‘em in tomorrow’s paper. Tell him one of them’s Ethel Jorgamund and another’s Frank Corracelli” — “Who? I didn’t say” — “Tell him Marty, Hartwell investigations” — “Yes, seven. No ambulances, just a meat wagon. A big one. And come quiet, will ya? There’s still people having a good time out here.”

***

“I saw the singer,” Marie, slightly dazed, “But I was too slow getting here… And then,” looking down, “this… Happened.”

“Explain ‘this’,” Hartwell followed her gaze to Bennie the Shiv. “Don’t worry, I’ll talk to the cops. But I need something.”

“I saw him coming, with that, that huge knife. I knew I couldn’t bend down and get the gun… I saw knife fights when I was a kid, in dad’s speak, but…”

“The business end of a weapon always looks huge. What happened next?”

“I grabbed a drink right of a guy’s hand, right here at this table, and threw it… I’m not a lefty, so it kind of slopped—”

“The jake at the table?”

“He laughed and stumbled off to get another drink.”

“Good. Bennie?”

“His gimpy foot hit the juice and… Well, there he is.”

Hartwell toe nudged the still body, building itself a pool of blood. “Slipped in booze on the way to the party, fell on his knife. End of story. Can you still run the wheel? I’d rather keep everything normal till the cops get here.”

“Oh that? Sure. Me and Diane have been playing crooked croupier and dangerous dame take out the crooks since forever.”

“Damn good thing you got good at it.”

***

“Any luck with Mallory?” Hartwell, closing the office door.

“He was in bed. I kinda blew my wig a little…”

“They better get used to it. Here’s the story. Griggs forced Corracelli to open the safe. Charlie shot Jorgamand, LaFollette broke the window, Corracelli shot him. Griggs’ shot Charlie and Corracelli. I shot Joey. Griggs has the phony rocks. It’s an easy sell.”

“That’s not the truth. I shot—”

“You didn’t shoot anyone,” wiping off the silenced automatic and putting it in Griggs’ hand. “There’re only two people in the world who know what happened in here. We tell the story the guns will tell and leave it.”

“You and I know.”

“As it should be. Partners have no secrets. With me?”

MARTY – 19

SATURDAY NIGHT – THE DIAMOND BEACH CLUB, SUMMER, 1938

Griggs, startled, “What’s with the red light?”

“Someone’s at the door. I saw—”

He switched off the desk lamp, grabbed Diane by the arm, pulled them both into the shadows by the door.

***

Corracelli stood, hand on the door handle, looked over his shoulder. “The gang’s all here, eh? Let’s start this party,” he shoved the door inward, stopped. “Joey? You smell that?”

“For the last five minutes I ain’t smelled nothin’ but Ethel’s perfume.”

“Maybe I smell a rat. Kill the dark, I’m not in the mood for more company.”

The lights buzzed to life, flickered twice and caught. Joey moved in, his back to the window behind the desk, left arm looped over a dressed-like-a-champagne-ad Ethel Jorgamund. Corracelli’s eyes flew to his safe.

“What the hell is this?” pulling the Mueller’s door wide. “Nobody gets in here but me!”

Griggs sidestepped further down the wall into the light, body shoving Diane, his arm around her shoulders only tighter than Joey’s casual loop, his hand over her mouth, his other hand on the silenced thirty-eight auto. Joey stiffened. Ethel’s only outward sign of acknowledgement a blink.

“Think again, Frank,” Griggs, gravelly. “Forget it, Joey,” motioning with the gun. “Move that hand you’ll end up ventilated. I got the sparklers, I got Hartwell’s Mex—”

“You got paste, Griggs,” Hartwell closed the door behind him. “Let her go and I’ll forget what you were about to call her.”

“Can the yap, Hartwell. I seen all your games.”

“Yeah? Let’s see who else has one.”

“Yeah,” Corracelli, backing out of his safe. “Whyn’t you tell me about your marker, Ethel.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nice pitch, sister, but nobody here’s buyin’,” Hartwell, level. “Lay it out, or I’ll tell it my—” the bump in his back knocked him a step forward, the door slammed behind him, the source flashed past him in a streak of blue, white and Chanel.

“Ain’t this a picture,” Charlie, all blue satin, curves and fury, locked her eyes on Joey, slid them to Ethel who stood unmoving in her mink and pedigree like whatever might play out was beneath her.

“Somebody oughta wring your neck, you bored old hag. Cantcha buy your own fun?”

“That’s what she thought she was doing,” Hartwell, dry.

“Oh yeah? Well, she can get lost as desert frost,” Charlie wheeled on Joey “And you, you two timin’ louse, how could you,” hammering his chest with the heels of her fists. “How could you, with this, this museum piece in mink?”

“Joey,” Ethel, flat. “Get rid of this floozie, will you?”

“Pipe down, blister, you’ll get yours soon enough!” Charlie blazed, turned back to Joey, upped the hammering, “You told me I was your fever, your girl…Your only fever and everybody but me knows you’re out playing footsie with this antique while I’m singin’ my heart out. I done so much for you… Awww, Joey, why?” planting her face in his chest, leaving runny mascara marks when she pulled back. “You think you can play me this way?”

“Joey. Please,” Ethel sniffed. “All this drama is getting in the way of—”

“Drama, you old bat? You ain’t seen drama!” Charlie’s hand flew from Joey’s lapel to the top of her corset, chrome flashed, followed by three sharp pops and the room hung silent. Ethel Jorgamund, eyebrows up, a look of what? slowly sagged to her knees with three red spots growing on the front of her mink and keeled over on her side.

“Helluva show,” Corracelli stepped out from his safe’s door. “What’s your next act, canary?”

When a room becomes full of tension and guns and none of it is in your control, mi hermosa, there become two choices. The most dangerous? Wait. The wise choice? Make something happen, find the floor, listen to discover who remains standing. Then, and only then, make your move.

Diane brought her purse up, ran the ice pick through Grigg’s forearm. He yelped, squeezed off a shot in surprise, and spun her out of his grip like a top, sending her sprawling on the floor in front of Corracelli’s desk. Grigg’s knee jerk shot hit Charlie between the shoulder blades. She sagged into Joey, who filled his fist with a black Luger. It spit fire twice, Griggs fell to one knee, raised his gun. Joey fired again, Grigg’s head snapped back, his gun clattered to the floor. Hartwell pulled his forty-five, quick but deliberate, and shot Joey twice in the left chest. The big gun’s shots rotated Joey into the curtain that he grabbed with the death grip Charlie still exerted on his coat. Corracelli frantically yanked open a desk drawer, pulled out an old ivory handled Mauser—

The window exploded inward, glass shards and a black hand pulled the curtains to the floor revealing a filthy vagabond figure reeking of booze and covered in soot to the point of vaudevillian blackface.

“Mother of God…” Corracelli, taken aback. “LaFollette?”

“The dick said you ordered me a party,” slurring his words. “Well, here I am you stinkin’ son of a bitch.” He let loose with a black powder revolver, splintering Corracelli’s shiny desk, pinging ricochets off the safe, blasting the desk lamp into the air. Corracelli answered with two shots from the Mauser. LaFollette arched backward before pitching forward off the window seat and landing on Ethel Jorgamund.

“You!” Swinging the Mauser toward Hartwell, “You set this up!” he snapped off a shot, splinters flew from where Hartwell’s head had been. The detective raised his forty-five, squeezed the trigger and it jammed. Corracelli continued to fire, Hartwell rolling from side to side avoiding the shots. Hartwell, mid roll, shouted MARTY! slid Griggs’ automatic across the floor to Diane, and kept rolling.

Corracelli climbed onto his desk, bellowed “I’ll see you in hell, Ed Hartwell—”

“Tell Luca Iola I said hello.”

“Wha—” Corracelli swung the Mauser toward the voice. A single thwap from the silenced thirty-eight and Corracelli grabbed his chest, teetered on tiptoes for a moment, fell face first on the floor at Diane’s feet.

MARTY – 18

SATURDAY EVENING – THE DIAMOND BEACH CLUB, SUMMER, 1938

“I need the rod, dick.”

“Evening, Tommy,” Hartwell set the sign-in pen down, gave the hostess a tight smile. “I told your pal Tank the size of you Joes would make a fine mess. Seen him lately?”

“He run off after a blonde, an I ain’t as dumb as Tank,” bringing a heavy, high right down hard. Hartwell sidestepped, and the hostess podium splintered.

The detective threw a side hand blow to Tank’s throat, followed it with everything he had in a fist to the big man’s solar plexus, grabbed Tank’s shoulder, gave him a quarter turn and let his forehead land on the coat check’s marble countertop with a dropped melon thunk. He grabbed a fistful of jacket between Tank’s shoulder blades, pulled him back, let him fall. The detective shrugged, adjusted his dinner jacket, and set a fin on the counter. “Have a couple of busboys get him out of your way. If he comes to before 10:30, send someone to find me. If he thrashes around and can’t breathe, cut a hole in his throat and stick a straw in it.”

“Or what?” The hostess squatted, collected the sign-in book and pen, moved them to the coat check counter as if nothing happened.

“He’ll get dead.”

“That’d be a shame for the handsy SOB,” lighting a cigarette, looking to the wide-eyed coat check girl. “Don’t you think?”

***

Nine-thirty at the Diamond Beach club and the blonde in a bold geometric blouse and black slacks wove through the crowd like a slow-burning fuse, tapped Amos on the shoulder. He protested but moved aside when she parked on his stool with a proprietary lean, appraising the table with a gaze that could have cut glass as she pulled on black silk gloves. Her left hand went up shoulder height, the crowd around the table hushed. Her right wrist flicked with lethal elegance. The wheel spun. The ball danced, chattered and dropped into black seventeen. A man close by swore. The blonde didn’t flinch.

“Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen,” cool as ice. “Lady Luck’s got a brand-new name and it’s Marie.”

***

It didn’t take long for Joey to let Corracelli know Hartwell was in the house, Amos and Big Tommy were nowhere and there was a blonde dame running the wheel. “The same dame cost me forty-seven large?”

“Can’t say,” with a slight leer. “All this one’s qualifications are under cover.”

“Dames’re gonna be what gets you killed, Joey. Let’s get wise to this one’s game.”

***

Hartwell watched, terrified and amused, while Corracelli leaned into Marie, who smiled, said something to the crowd, spun the wheel. The ball dropped, and a whoop went up. Corracelli turned red, Marie smiled, spun the wheel again, the ball stopped and the crowd’s response a deflated awwww. Another spin, another whoop. Marie put her hands on her hips, said something to Corracelli, who reached out and spun the wheel. Awwww. She patted him on the shoulder, smiled, must’ve said something reassuring, because he smiled and dragged Joey away.

***

Ten-fifteen on the dot, Diane slinked her way past where Hartwell stood nursing a short bourbon across from the roulette wheel. Marie, running the wheel without having to pay attention, watched her pass. Diane got to the rowdy party around a blackjack table, where the detective had made Griggs and lost them both. Hartwell tugged his left cuff.

***

“Keep walkin’, don’t get cute,” Griggs stuck the nose of his silencer in the small of Diane’s back.

“Griggs? What—Where…”

“Outside. I’m not openin’ the door for you, go. That’s it. To the right.”

“You’re gonna have to slow down, this dress and these shoes weren’t made for being in hurry, much less on warped boards.”

“Don’t yap. Keep goin’ past the corner, all the way to the back, turn right. Get to Corracelli’s office window, stop.”

“I have no idea which window that is.”

“Then since you ain’t movin’ much it’ll be easy enough to stop you.” He kept the gun in her back, around the veranda past the smokers and neckers, until they got to a window two thirds down the back side. “Stop.” She stumbled slightly, collected herself. “Unlock the bars.”

“I don’t,” gripping the ice pick, “have any tools.”

“How’re you supposed to crack the safe, unless you were lyin’ last night.”

“I know the combination. It’s only a tool job if you want it to be.”

“Dammit…” Griggs tried the window bars, they swung open. “You know about this?”

“If I had, I’d have gone out this way last night.”

“Not sure I like it. Try the window.”

Coward. Diane put her fingers on the bottom sash rail, bent her knees, pushed. The bottom rail came up an inch. “That’s enough to get your hands under it.”

“Your hands.”

Diane wiggled her hands under, pulled up, wiggled them out. “That’s too much window for me, friend. Your turn.”

Griggs shifted the gun to his left hand, kept it in her back and with considerable effort, raised the window until the top and bottom sash rails met. He pushed with the gun, rasped, “Inside.”

She hiked her dress up past her knees, grabbed the window frame. “This curtain weighs a ton,” batting it left and right, anticipating a gunshot. The curtains parted, her foot landed on the window seat. The smell of stale cigars and what damp air does to old leather whooshed past her. In a series of awkward, bordering on contortionist moves, she got both feet on the floor. No gunshots, only the sound of her dress’s side hem tearing,

Griggs piled in almost on top of her, repeated, “Don’t get cute,” pulled the window down, and the heavy drapes rearranged themselves. Diane switched on Corracelli’s desk lamp, tilted it to illuminate the face of the forest green and gold accent striped Mueller safe.

“Open it,” jabbing her with the gun again.

Diane wheeled on him, her voice grinding in an angry stage whisper. “If you want this safe opened get that thing out of my back. I’m tired of your shtick, the gun, the aftershave, all of it. You can shoot me from the across the room if you want but get the hell off my back.”

“There might be a gun in there,” backing off a foot.

“There’s not.”

“How do you—”

“Who was in here last night, Griggs? You or me?”

He backed up, around the desk, keeping the gun leveled on her. She spun the dial left, right, back again and turned the handle. The door swung open. Griggs returned to his spot, breathing down Diane’s neck, shoved her out of the way. “Holy… You ever seen so much dough?”

“It’s a gambler’s bank, mostly small bills. Jorgamund’s jewels are in the purple satin bag.”

Griggs snatched the bag, pushed the safe partially closed.

“No money?” Diane, arms crossed, hip against the desk.

“It’s dirty.”

“Those aren’t?”

He lifted the bag to elbow height, shook it lightly. “Different kind of dirty. These came from a dame workin’ on her back.” A quick laugh deep in his throat. “On a higher pay scale than most.”

***

Hartwell nursed his bourbon, watching Marie work the roulette crowd through the haze of cigarette smoke. Whatever magic she’d worked for Corracelli had drawn a pack of new admirers, but she kept the wheel spinning clean.

“Dick.” Corracelli appeared at his elbow, agitated. “Every time I look around, more of my help disappears.”

“Occupational hazard, Frank.”

“Don’t wise-guy me. Thursday night, Tank and Eddie whatsis never come back from chasing a blonde, probably the one on my wheel. No calls, no sign of ‘em. Now Big Tommy an Amos have gone AWOL.” Corracelli signaled the waiter for a whiskey. “I’m down to Benny the gimp and Joey, and Joey’s…”

“Joey’s what?”

“Distracted. Got a rich twist on the hook, thinks he’s gonna retire to Miami.”

“That’s his number. He never quite makes the haul he’s after, dumps the marks. Maybe he should just move to Miami and try his luck.”

“If I got this figured, Joey’s luck’s runnin’ out.” Corracelli knocked back his drink. “Where’s your client? The crazy Jorgamund broad?”

Hartwell checked his watch: 10:25. “She’ll be here.”

“Better be. I got questions need answering.” Corracelli’s eyes swept the room. “This whole setup stinks, dick. Joey, her, you, the blonde, the timing… Somethin’s rotten.”

“Usually is in our kind of work.”

A quiet disruption in the house rhythm near the entrance caught their attention. Joey Syracuse escorting an overdone, pale woman in an ankle-length mink coat toward the curtained office area.

“There’s a couple of answers for you,” Hartwell, drained his glass, set it on a passing waiter’s tray, tugged his right cuff. “Ready for the rest?”

MARTY – 17

FRIDAY AFTERNOON – LOS ANGELES, SUMMER, 1938

For anyone interested, the updates to Diane’s character and few lines for the peripherals reside most notably in 5, then 6 and 8.

Diane presented Hartwell’s National Credential Card at the Hertz Drive-Ur-Self counter to a young man in baggy, striped coveralls and perfectly combed hair under a well-worn tweed beret cocked way back on his head. He checked the card, checked her.

“You ain’t no Ed Hartwell.”

“I’m his secretary. You can call him at the number on the card.”

He tapped the card, trying to appear thoughtful. “How long?”

“How long what? Have I been his secretary, or—”

“How long you gonna need the car.”

“How long does it take to fix bullet holes?”

“Bullet holes! That’s some applesauce. Pull the other one why dontcha.”

“No, it’s—”

“Sure. You dames got all kinds a dumb reasons why you crash out iron. Bullet holes is a first.”

“Okay,” Diane, finger drumming the counter. “Today is Friday. I’ll say Wednesday.”

“So,” flipping out one finger at a time to get there, “that’s six days. Five dollars a day,” scribbling on a form. “How many miles?”

“Miles? I hadn’t thought. Sixty each way tomorrow, so a hundred and twenty – make it one fifty for any errands, or—”

“I’ll make it two hundred. Dames can’t tell miles or do math. License?”

Diane opened her wallet, produced her license.

“D-i-a-n-e,” scribbling on the form. “What’s the C for?”

“Claire. After my moth—”

“Mar– ti– nez. Martinez? A dame, a Mexican dame no less, with bent iron tryin’ to rent a car?” A grin filled half his face. “You know why Mexicans re-fry beans, dontcha? Look,” laughing at the joke he didn’t finish, “I better call—”

“No,” Diane, leaning into the counter, “you look, you nitwit Mook. Since this time yesterday I’ve been painted like a Chinese doll, zipped into a dress that’d make a tart’s nightgown blush, cracked a gangster’s safe, been chased at seventy miles an hour, scared damn near to death, shot at, cussed out, called nasty names, thrown out of a jewelry store, fed runny eggs, rubbery bacon and rusty water and told it was some ritzy chef’s idea of breakfast. Now I have to listen to a lunkhead who can’t count to six without his fingers and wouldn’t know good beans from his blowhole rag me for being a dame with a Spanish name? Who you’d better call is Mr. Ed Hartwell at the number on that courtesy card and tell him forget calling the bulls about three dead bodies because there’s about to be a fourth right here in the Hertz Drive-Ur-Self that looks just like you, you dumb onion, only dead. Make that call,” finger stabbing the rental form, “or find me the cleanest, newest, nicest, fastest car you have, on the quick, and I won’t mop the floor with that fifty-cent haircut.”

Counter man, dumfounded, turned to a woman at a desk behind him. She looked over the top of glasses perched on the end of her nose, flipped a page of her paper. “Sounds to me like you’d best run, and I do mean run get her the dark red Buick.”

***

“I guess you’re getting the hang of this dick business,” Marie, trying to keep up. “Tart’s nightgown. That from one of your—”

“Yes.”

“I need to grab a few of those to up my vocabulary. You realize that poor goof’ll never be the same.”

“He’s too dumb to be bothered long. I’d just had enough for one day…”

“I noticed. I also guess you need to eat?”

“Tito’s. We’ll act like we belong in Hollywood and tell the waiter to put the easy burn on a pair of steaks and drown a couple of baked potatoes in butter.”

“Wine?”

“There’d better be.”

***

The Ardmore bell captain, who couldn’t have been much over twenty, wore his tailored brass-buttoned uniform and mirror-shined shoes like a second skin at his position by the potted palms in the Ardmore foyer waiting for the doors to open so he could offer a wink and information for the tips he used to get before the automatic door got installed. The blonde wearing a gray cloche hat with black feathers entered ahead of the hatless brunette he’d seen pull a long-toothed tortoise-shell comb and shake her head when she got out of the car. He gauged his timing, arriving on cue like a dancer.

“Ladies,” tipping his hat enough to show he knew how. “Ed Hartwell it was, same as who got your car towed off, gave me a handwritten message for you. Looks important, smells like soap,” a shallow bow. “It’s at the desk.”

They paused, looked at each other. The brunette said, “Soap is swell news,” and both burst out in unladylike laughter. The feathered hat raised an eyebrow. “Do you always deliver news like it’s a love letter?”

“Only when the recipients look like they deserve one.”

“Off – the – cob, brother,” more laughter. The brunette produced a half dollar, which he palmed.

“Half a buck?” from the blonde.

“I needed a laugh.”

***

With Marie looking over her shoulder, Diane pulled a folded sheet from the envelope, snapped it open with a sharp wave.

Ladies,

The box on the table.

Marie -An ankle holster and Beretta 34. If you need to use it, make the seven count. Wear pants. You’ll look different enough to pass as not “that” blonde. I’ve heard Corracelli is having a sign-in looking for the mystery dame who cost him 47 large. Sign the sheet, walk in like you own the place.

Diane – Wear the same dress as Thursday. There’s no place to hide in it. If Griggs is the worm, he’s smart enough to check. To that end, and unwilling to leave you defenseless, the red purse is an exact copy of the one you carried Thursday with one modification. A new ice pick shaft is sewn into the bottom seam attached to a brass-wrapped solid celluloid lipstick tube. A decent shove with the purse should be sufficient.

Timeline:

Marie – Call for my car at the office garage, the boy will have it clean and gassed. It’s a Deuce and should outrun anything if the need arises. Arrive DB in time to replace Amos by 9:30. Distract the gamblers with show and swap the balls in and out if you need to play magician.

Diane – Enter the DB no earlier than 10:15. If there is a worm they’ll grab you right off. Time won’t be on their side. Stall without overcooking it. The object being keep whoever it is in the office until 10:30.

I will make myself obvious to Marie. When Diane gets snatched, I’ll pull my left cuff. When it’s time for the party at 10:30, I’ll pull my right cuff. Marie will see the parade go through the curtains. Excuse yourself for a break. If Corracelli has anyone on office guard duty, which I doubt because he’s short, I’ll have gotten rid of them and your job will be to interrupt anyone else trying to enter. If anyone comes flying out of Corracelli’s office screaming or shooting and it’s not Diane or me, drop them, call Mallory in homicide, ANgeles 5511.

It is disagreeable that I have placed you both in danger unforeseen up to this point. Whatever you have to do, do it, but don’t get yourselves killed. If that requires you both to stay in town, I will understand. Otherwise, by 10:40 tomorrow night, we’ll have all the answers.

Best,

EH

“Sheeze bajeeze, Marie… I had no idea my daydreaming would get us in this deep.”

“You? If I’m still alive I gotta go back to hawking expensive laundry on Monday morning.” She walked to the phone stand, pulled out a leather-bound services book.

“Whatcha looking for?”

“More wine. Found it, chilled, from room service. Whattaya think the kid downstairs in the drum major suit would charge to run down the street and grab us some Twinkies?”

“Does it matter?”