My Literary Crimes

My fictional crimes aren’t too elaborate. Your basic murders, assaults, extortion, theft, and drugs. The usual. I’ve only written one serial killer—in a book yet to see the light of day. My other killers do it for a reason. It may not be a reason you or I would agree with, but it was sufficient to motivate them.

I don’t care for serial killer stories. Like most writers, I write the kinds of stories I like to read, and I like to read stories that are, you know, believable? Not that serial killers don’t exist; they’re not criminal masterminds, taunting the police with increasingly revealing clues. No Hannibal Lectors out there. Just sick, disgusting men who prey on the weak and unsuspecting.

Laura Lippman said something at Bouchercon about serial killer stories as the cozies of the 21^st Century. Her reasoning was—and I’m paraphrasing—serial killer stories are like roller coasters: they titillate and scare, but we know nothing like this is going to happen to us. (Not in a realistic, actuary-measurable sense.) What scares her is what takes place not too far from her home in Baltimore. That shit actually happens.

Raymond Chandler wrote: “[Dashiell] Hammett gave murder back to the kind of people that commit it for reasons, not just to provide a corpse; and with the means at hand, not with hand-wrought duelling pistols, curare, and tropical fish.” Chandler referred to Hammett’s breaking away from the traditional British mystery; the parallels to today’s serial killers are clear. They kill for no other reason than they want to; driven to, perhaps, but that’s an extreme level of the same thing. Fictional serial killers also have intricate methods and rituals that serve mostly to help the cops catch them. True, real serial killers have their own signatures; have you ever heard of one with the elaborateness of Kevin Spacey in Seven?

Killing is a dirty, venial business, overwhelmingly performed by dirty, venial people, the act born of greed, lust, or anger. Killers get caught because of things they didn’t think of, or didn’t do right, or because they got tricked. Often as not, they get caught because they’re fuck-ups. They’ve done something extraordinary—killed another human being—and they have to tell someone. Or they did it for money and can’t resist flashing it around. Or—my favorite—they do their woman wrong, either by treating her like shit, or trading up to a younger, flashier model. Note to crooks: women hate that. A lot of guys are in jail because an ex or soon to be ex ratted them out.

Not many get caught with space age CSI stuff, either. They may get convicted with it, but first the cops need someone to match the DNA to. This may change if DNA databases become as detailed and broad-based as fingerprints—or not, if turnaround times don’t improve; it’s not like that now. Security cameras on every corner? Maybe in Washington DC; not in Penns River, Pennsylvania. That shit costs.

Murders are committed by people; people solve them. It’s the people—good and bad—who need to be interesting, far more than the crimes. Otherwise the type of crime escalates until no one is willing to suspend disbelief. After a while the constant one-upmanship drives even devoted fans looking for something with a little rationality. (This may be happening now in the serial killer field.)

It’s not a random person who might want to kill me I worry about; it’s the people who are willing to kill me to get what they want. That’s who I write about.

Is Crime Fiction Socially Aware?

Last week’s major topic in several blogs I read had to do with whether crime fiction was socially aware, at least as much as, say, science fiction or fantasy. (Jay Stringer looked at it on Do Some Damage here, after Steve Weddle got the ball rolling in response to multiple posts across the blogosphere; Steve provides the links.) I tend to be a few days late with my responses to the affairs of the day, so it won’t kill me to wait a few minutes while you read what Steve and Jay had to say, even though my two cents’ will probably then be a disappointment.

To me, this breaks down into two questions: Is crime fiction socially aware, and are science fiction and fantasy more so? Based on my reading, crime fiction is well aware of social issues, and discusses them well. I don’t read as broadly in the genre as some, so my perspective may be a result of a skewed perspective, as the writers I tend to come back to definitely have social perspectives they consistently work into their books: Dennis Lehane, George Pelecanos, Richard Price, Adrian McKinty, Tim Hallinan, John McFetridge, and Leighton Gage (among others) all take the time to point out social inequities.

Crime fiction lends itself well to this, as so much crime comes about, directly or indirectly, from unfortunate social circumstances. I’m not apologizing for anyone here. Two guys grow up in almost identical situations. One goes to work every day, pays his taxes, and never ask for anything from anybody; the other robs liquor stores or sells drugs. Choices were made. Good crime fiction can provide insight into how difficult those choices may have been, and what other options may have been available.

The trick is to keep the story satisfying and suspenseful, not slip into melodrama. In one of his Derek Strange books—I forget the title—Pelecanos communicated his views on gun control so plainly I was repeatedly distracted from the story—“enough, already”—even though I agreed with everything he wrote. Moonlight Mile is Lehane’s weakest book, in large part because his politics are so overtly displayed. Both have served their views far better in other books—Pelecanos in the Turnaround and The Night Gardener; Lehane in The Given Day. The points are better made in the latter examples, in large part because the reader was not beaten about the head and shoulders with them.

As I said above, my perception may be skewed because this is the kind of crime fiction I like to read. Still, it’s not like these books aren’t readily available.

Let’s turn now to science fiction and fantasy, and how much better they supposedly deal with social issues. I will begin by stating I can provide no examples. The closest thing I’ve read to science fiction in twenty-five years is Slaughterhouse-Five. Still, having read a reasonable amount of it as a younger man—both good and bad—there is one comment I feel comfortable making: sci-fi and fantasy writers have an easier go if it, because they get to create their own worlds.

If a sci-fi writer wants to talk about child labor, he can create a world where the conditions exist to make exactly the points he wants to make. The rules of this world must still be evenhanded enough to keep from straining the readers’ willingness to suspend disbelief too hard, but it’s a big advantage. Crime fiction writers—to paraphrase Chandler—have a not very fragrant world, but it is the world in which they live, and they must do what they can with it. It won’t do to set a novel in the current day that has draconian penalties for gun ownership. To address the other side of the spectrum, legal heroin is also not an option for the crime writer. True, crime fiction can be written in a dystopian (to the author) future, or in an alternate reality, but then the story becomes borderline sci-fi/fantasy, if it does not cross the line altogether.

There’s nothing wrong with that. Philip K. Dick blended noir and science fiction brilliantly in Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. (Made into the film Blade Runner, screenplay by Hamilton Fancher and David peoples, directed by Ridley Scott.) Dan O’Bannon, Ronald Shussett, and director Scott mix sci-fi and horror in Alien. The list is lengthy, and distinguished.

I guess what I’m getting at—you knew there had to be a point sooner or later—is comparing the social awareness of crime and sci-fi/fantasy is like comparing the amount of scoring in baseball and hockey. The contexts are different enough to make meaningful comparison virtually impossible. Add in the added complication of what can get published and read in a certain genre, and it’s safe to say any genre is as socially aware as its readers allow it to be.

Bouchercon 2008

I'm back from Bouchercon and finally getting caught up on the rest of my life. I got some books to review, two interviews set up with authors, and a TBR pile exponentially larger than before the conference. A rousing success for someone who doesn't meet people easily and had only spoken to one person there before last week.

Much of the credit for that has to go to the crime fiction writing and reading community. I was told I would meet a nicer bunch of people, and I was still pleasantly surprised. The whole atmosphere was conducive to renewing acquaintances and starting new ones. My personal highlights:

Being recognized by John McFetridge, Peter Rozovsky, Sandra Ruttan, Brian Lindemuth, Angie Johnson-Schmit, and Zoe Sharp, based primarily on my comments to their blogs and Crimespace comments.

Meeting Declan Hughes while standing at a urinal. We each made a great show of washing up before shaking hands. A woman saw us coming out on her way to the ladies' room and said she never met anyone cool in the bathroom. I told her she was going to the wrong bathroom.

A enjoyable and wide-ranging chat with Austin Camacho between panels.

Learning not only that crime fiction writers are convincing liars (I was shocked! Shocked!) but that Laura Lippman can crank out fifty pushups on demand, Mark Billingham wore size 9 shoes and once played cricket with a frog, and that John Connolly found unexpected entertainment from the movie The Last of the Mohicans.

Sean Chercover, Bill Cameron, Libby Hellman, Harry Hunsicker, and Duane Swierczynski watched way too much television in their formative years. (And that the evil presence of John Boy Walton lurks behind everything Bill Cameron writes.)

Be very careful what you post online, because you should assume everyone reads everything you ever wrote.

It would be nice to allow Jack Reacher to deal with some of the nut jobs who sent Lee Child “reviews” of his latest book.

That listening to Declan Hughes talk about PI fiction can make a PI writer feel as though he’s answering a higher calling.

And, last but not least, it’s hard to imagine better company for a pleasant Saturday evening than (in alphabetical order) Declan Burke, Angie Johnson-Schmit, John McFetridge, Peter Rozovsky, and Gerald So, ably assisted at times by Donna Allen, Brian Lindemuth, Jeremy Trylch, and Greg from Philly, whose last name I would have caught had I know what a nice guy he was going to be.

You had to be there to get most—if any—of these references; you should have been there, anyway.

Next year: Indianapolis!

Food Noir

Restaurants aren’t just snow white tablecloths and smiling hostesses. While you’re out trying to have a good time, eat a nice meal, the owner is treading a thin line between giving you what you paid for and making a profit. Sometimes they cross that line. That’s where I come in. My name’s Sundae. I’m a health inspector.

It was hot the way only the Strip District can be hot. The seams in the pavement were as tacky as freshly chewed gum on the soles of my shoes. The smells of Restaurant Row were everywhere, Italian and Chinese, Indian and Mexican, burgers, ribs, and one joint advertising Cambodian hot dogs. No one ate there.

It was a little after two when I rolled up on Manella’s Ristorante at the corner of Grant and Warburton. Complaints had been made about the lettuce in the Caesar salad being old enough to have heard Antony’s speech. It was the kind of call I handle every day.

The place brought back memories. Guido and Sal Manella opened it almost thirty years ago and built it into the capo di tutti capi of Italian restaurants on the Strip. Sal went away a while ago to study large group catering for seven to fifteen years at state expense on a sauce dilution rap. Guido had his fingers in too many other pies to run the place himself, so he had to get a manager.

I pushed through the door and paused inside to let my eyes adjust to the light. It was always dim in Manella’s, but today it was two shades past romantic. Not even the dining room’s murk could disguise the dish standing at the hostess’ station.
She was tall enough without the three-inch pumps that were probably red. Her hair was black and lustrous, hanging past her shoulders and trailing behind her head whenever she moved it. Her almond-shaped eyes made every glance a seduction, even if you could ignore the dress that showed every contour of her body without revealing anything. She was hotter than the plates in a Mexican restaurant.

“Yes? How many in your party?” She had one of those Italian accents that are learned through years in the restaurant business. She’d never been closer to Italy than the bottomless salad bowl at Olive Garden.

“Just me, but I bring my party with me.” I flipped her my tin. “Sundae. Board of Health.” Her smile disappeared quicker than the “all you can eat” buffet at a Weight Watchers convention.

“I get the manager.” The accent was heavier now. She made sure I got a good look at the melon patch when she turned. It had been tried before, by women with more talent for it. Not many, though, and not for a long time.

“That’s all right, I know where to go. I’ll just follow the flies.” I pushed past her and walked toward the kitchen like I had a purpose in life. She was one step behind me all the way.

The kitchen wasn’t any brighter than the dining room and a lot less romantic. The lunch rush had been over for an hour, but any signs of clean-up were as miniscule as the nutrition in a wad of cotton candy. The stainless steel countertops were fighting a lonely battle to remain that way.

“You really should speak with the manager,” she said loud enough for everyone in the kitchen to hear. The accent was slipping. Jersey, maybe. Big surprise.

A busboy moved for a door across the room as soon as he heard her. “You! In the apron!” I called. He stopped with one hand on the swinging door. I crooked a finger for him to come to me. “Over here.”

“Me? Who are you to boss me around?” He had an accent, too, but it was as Italian as a jalapeno.

I got in his face and gave him the look the farmer gives the turkey on the fourth Thursday in November. “Just show me what I want to see, or your butt is lettuce and I’m the Cuisinart. Where’s the olive oil?”

He didn’t want to show me. It was as obvious as a piece of spinach stuck to a tooth at a formal dinner. He was straining himself to think of something to say when another voice cut through the murk like a Ginsu knife through rotisserie lamb.

“Show him the oil, Tino. We got nothing to hide.”

Eugene Coli had started out as a busboy in a hash joint on Newberry and moved up quickly. He earned a reputation as someone who wasn’t fussy about what went in the trash and what got recycled. We pulled him in a few times for sending garnishes out for a second or third go-round, but he always had enough juice to beat the rap. Contact with him was considered bad for your health. Everyone called him E.

The hostess drew in her breath and went from cantaloupes to watermelons. Tino looked at E. Coli, then at me, and smiled his smug little minion smile. “Right here,” he said. “Extra virgin, just like the sign says.”

I had lost interest in Tino as soon as Coli entered the room. “Hello, E. You still trying to pass off crayfish as petit lobster?”

“I heard you were checking the sneeze guards at Denny’s, Sundae.”

I’d heard them all before. “I got a promotion. Now I’m in charge of seeing that the fish aren’t rotting from the head down. That’s how I drew you.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that, I was the one with the cheap star in my pocket. The hostess was watching me now, her tongue running over her lips like she had a bowl of spumoni no one else could see.

I looked at the bottle of oil Tino was holding out for me. “No. Not this one. Back there.” I jerked my head toward a barred door in the back.

That woke up Coli. “Just a minute, Sundae. I’ve been a good host so far, but you can’t have the run of my place without a warrant.”

“A warrant?” My laugh was genuine. “Sure, I got one here somewhere. Betty Crocker signed it.” I turned on him directly. “I’m not looking for criminal activity, just health violations. I don’t need a warrant.” I turned back to Tino. “Open the door.”

He didn’t want to open that door any more than Emeril Legasse wants the Number Four combo at Popeye’s. I didn’t have any friends in the room and a standoff was as imminent as flatulence at a chili contest.

The tension was thick as a Guinness draft when the hostess walked past me and opened the door. Coli gave her a look as hard as a year-old jawbreaker. “What are you doing, Cinnamon?” he asked.

“There’s no need for anyone to get hurt over this,” she said to him, but she was looking at me the way a gourmet eyes the menu at Spago.

I pushed past her before Coli could recover and scooped the first bottle of oil I found. I had my field testing kit with me, but I knew I wouldn’t need it as soon as I opened the bottle. I stuck a finger in and tasted the Pomace used to dilute the oil.

“This stuff’s as virgin as Madonna,” I said to no one in particular, staring straight at Coli. “Lock the doors. Everyone gets the rest of the day off.”

He was still staring at the hostess as the others filed out. “How could you do this to me, Cinnamon?”

I answered for her. “Some restaurateur you are. Everyone knows that cinnamon, when properly prepared, is an effective weapon against E. Coli.”

She and I walked out together. We stopped at the corner where I was parked. The sun gave her cheeks the glow of early-ripening apples. We waited a bit to see who would speak first. Our eyes were exchanging enough heat to broil a porterhouse. I looked at my watch. “I’m through here, and you have the rest of the day off. What say we get something to eat?”

“I’d like that. I seem to have developed quite a craving for dessert. A nice, big sundae, maybe. I just hope it won’t go soft on me if things get hot.”
Her heels made her almost as tall as I was, and I could feel my appetite rising as our gazes met. “Don’t worry, Sugar. I’ll bring the banana, you bring the split.”


(Food Noir was originally published in New Mystery Reader.)