An Interview With Dana King, Author of the Nick Forte Novels

 One Bite at a Time: Criminal Econ 101 is your seventh Nick Forte novel. How long do you think you’ll continue to write this character?

Dana King: I have another in progress now. After that he’ll appear in at least one of the upcoming Penns River novels. Beyond that, we’ll see. A few years ago I didn’t know I’d write as many Fortes as I have already. It all depends on what ideas I get that are best suited for him and how long I continue to write. I am seventy years old, you know.

 

OBAAT: Forte is a throwback, tough guy private investigator. Why not make him more in line with the recent zeitgeist of more woke, less violent detectives?

DK: Because the PIs I read that made me want to write these stories were in the classic mold. Sam Spade, Philip Marlowe, The Continental Op, Spenser, Patrick Kenzie, Elvis Cole. They all have unique personalities and handle many things differently from each other, but they’re all guys who will talk a problem out for only so long. It should also be pointed out that Forte is not insensitive. He’s just willing to tune up those who need it.

 

OBAAT: You didn’t mention Mike Hammer.

DK: Mickey Spillane had a lot to do with me starting into writing, but as I developed novels I found Hammer’s approach and Spillane’s style had become stereotypical and hard to write around without sounding derivative. I haven’t read a Hammer novel in a long time. The last one I read seemed stylistically dated, but that’s the fault of all the imitators since. I also tried to watch Hill Street Blues and Moonlighting a few years ago and couldn’t get into them. Other shows have taken what they did and refined it to the point where some things in the originals seem almost primitive. That doesn’t mean I love and respect those shows any less. Same with Spillane and Hammer.

 

OBAAT: You said Mickey Spillane had a lot to do with you starting to write. Where did the idea for Nick Forte come from and how did Mickey Spillane influence that?

DK: I used to be a professional musician. Trumpet player. My career, such as it was, ended and I was looking for a creative outlet when a good friend complained about an audition being rigged. Understand, that doesn’t mean anything underhanded went on. Mostly it meant some people thought the orchestra already knew who they wanted and went through the motions of holding auditions, which meant a hundred fifty trumpet players had to pay to fly in from wherever to audition for a job they had no chance of getting.

 

Looking at such things from the outside as I was after quitting, I thought of an idea for a private eye who was knowledgeable about the ins and outs of the instrumental music business, called in to investigate a shady audition; my closest friends got thinly disguised characters based on them.

 

For the detective’s name, ‘Forte’ was an obvious choice. It means ‘loud’ in music, but is literally ‘strong’ in Italian. I chose ‘Nick’ because I needed a name that worked with an Italian surname and had the punch to it a hard consonant provides.

 

I spent a weekend binging the first three Mike Hammer novels and wrote the story in a week as both an homage and a satire. It was so well received by my friends I wrote another for the job I was working at the time, then another for the job I went to from there. A few people encouraged me to try my hand at a novel. As almost all writers do, I wrote a couple that will never see the light of day, though one was able to garner me an agent. The third was A Small Sacrifice, which earned a Shamus nomination, so I figured I knew what I was doing.

 

OBAAT: Readers tend to give Forte a pass for some of his more egregious transgressions thanks to the relationship he has with his daughter, Caroline. Was that something you deliberately set out to do?

DK: It’s a funny thing, how writing works sometimes. I didn’t set out to do that, but as I revised the book I saw how a close relationship with his daughter leavened Forte’s character. I’, a divorced father myself and used that to add some depth and occasional lessening of tension. Almost everything Nick and Caroline do in the books is drawn from things I’ve done with my own daughter, Rachel. I chose the name ‘Caroline’ for Nick’s daughter because it was first runner-up for a middle name for Rachel.

 

OBAAT: I asked Nick Forte in a recent interview how he “reconciled the loving father [Caroline] knows with the violent man others may see and she’s learning about through the Internet?” He told me I should ask you. Okay, I will. How does he do it?

DK: Forte doesn’t need to reconcile a thing. He is who and what he is. Like anyone else, he conducts himself differently in different situations and he takes those situations, and the people in them, as he finds them. When he’s with Caroline, he’s a loving father. When he’s with someone who needs sorted out, he’s more than capable. We all have multiple sides to our personalities.

 

OBAAT: Forte ‘guest stars’ in a couple of your Penns River novels. (Grind Joint and The Spread.) How did that come about and what makes it work, in your opinion?

DK: In Grind Joint I needed a character to color outside the lines a little so that the lead detective in Penns River, Ben ‘Doc’ Dougherty, could remain true to himself and still get the book to come out right. I’d written four Forte novels by that time, and Nick was perfect, so I made him Doc’s first cousin to make the relationship closer and explain how this Chicago PI comes to a little town in Western Pennsylvania precisely when they need him most..

 

OBAAT: You’ve twice been nominated for Shamus Awards by the Private Eye Writers of America, and this year you’re on one of the awards committees. What does PWA mean to you?

DK: Private eye fiction may be the most uniquely American literary genre. The Irish author Declan Hughes – creator of the Ed Loy books – gave an impassioned speech at Bouchercon in 2008 about how, when done right, the PI novel is the highest form of crime fiction. Declan made me proud to write PI stories.

 

What Bob Randisi began with the intent of keeping the genre vital is, to me, a noble thing. The annual banquets were special, and I miss them since they were discontinued after COVID. They were opportunities for the True Believers to get together and celebrate what their peers were doing to keep the genre alive. I hope someday they’ll start up again.

 

As for the awards, Bob was open to self- and independently published writers submitting when no one else was. MWA wouldn’t consider me for membership and I had two Shamus nominations.

 

The Shamuses are also among the few awards that are not popularity contests, as they are decided by an author’s peers. It’s an honor to have been asked to serve on an awards committee. It allows me an opportunity to give back to the genrewhile acknowledging I have been a worthy contributor to it. That’s something sales alone cannot deliver.

An Interview With Private Investigator Nick Forte

One Bite at a Time: Let’s get the elephant in the room out of the way right off the bat: you’ve killed several men. How do you feel about that?

Nick Forte: I don’t feel good about it, but I’m not losing sleep, either. Remember, I wouldn’t be here to answer that question if I hadn’t taken care of those guys.

 

OBAAT: You’re a throwback to an earlier age of detectives; some might call you a dinosaur. How do you justify your methods?

NF: I don’t need to justify myself to anyone except as the law may require. I do what I feel has to be done at the time. If there are repercussions, I’ll deal with them as they come up.

 

OBAAT: Your daughter Caroline figures prominently in these novels. How has your relationship with her evolved as she grows, and how do you reconcile the loving father she knows with the violent man others may see and she’s learning about through the Internet?

NF: What’s between Caroline and me is between Caroline and me. Next question.

 

OBAAT: But she’s a key element of your books.

NF: I don’t write the books. King does. You want to know why he writes them the way he does, ask him.

 

OBAAT: Are you a violent man?

NF: Do you mean do I go out looking for opportunities to be violent? No. I will say I have the potential for violence and people would do well not to provoke me beyond a certain point. A friend once said I am the poster child for ‘fuck around and find out.’ I can’t argue with that.

 

OBAAT: It’s safe to say your closest friend and confidant is Timothy “Goose” Satterwhite, a collector and enforcer for various crime entities on the South Side of Chicago. You were a police officer and consider yourself to be working on the side of the angels. How do you reconcile the close association with such a known violent criminal?

NF: Tim Satterwhite has pulled me out of more scrapes than I have fingers to count. I know there are people who wonder how we can be friends, but the kind of work I do doesn’t bring me into contact with a lot of priests or schoolteachers or caregivers. I take my friends where I find them.

 

OBAAT: You seem to be more inclined to take the law into your own hands as the series goes on. How do you justify that?

NF: The law tells what’s legal, not what’s just. Among the things that frustrated me as a cop was that I was constrained to work on what followed the law and not what the end result would be. As a private operator I can do a little more to see to it that people who need a better deal get one. And, sometimes, that those who were planning to escape justice have it applied to them.

From (Criminal) Econ 101, Chapter 3

 The aspect of the Nick Forte novels I am most often complimented on is the relationship between Nick and his daughter, Caroline. Caroline is growing up – she’s in high school now, playing in the marching band – but Nick isn’t any less protective. He struggles with it, knowing she has to learn how to take care of herself, but the Cone of Protection still exists.

 

From Chapter 3:

 

I met up with Caroline and her buds outside the band room. The plan was for me to drive Tyler and Joanna home before Caroline and I made the 45-minute trek to Bolingbrook.

Caroline had a better idea. Even I thought so.

“Can we get ice cream?”

We’d made this improvisation before. “You girls know the drill,” I said to her friends. “Send your mom or dad a text to ask, then show me they said it was okay.”

Apparently they had me pegged as a soft touch; the requests were already approved. Both girls nearly broke my nose shoving cell phones in my face

Sundae School was busy, not packed. I bought sundaes for all three girls – typical, and a primary reason I’m so popular when it comes to giving rides – and a milkshake for myself. I always got milkshakes when playing chauffeur, on the off chance we’d have to leave before I was ready. It’s hell to eat a sundae and drive at the same time.

I took my shake far enough away for them to be sure no eavesdropping took place. Tyler’s father got himself busted six months earlier and had yet to redeem his reputation. I maintained a line of sight so they wouldn’t have to find me when it was time to go.

Twenty minutes later two boys/young men I’d noticed sitting in a far corner made a detour on their way out to pass near my charges. No big deal. The boys looked like high school seniors or college freshmen. For all I knew they were friends or relatives of one of the girls.

A couple of minutes later Tyler’s and Joanna’s body language stiffened. Caroline was still cool, but she knew I was close and would handle anything too uncomfortable. The other girls had no such assurance.

These were always awkward situations. My first impulse was to go over and sort these boys out, but the girls needed to learn how to deal with social dilemmas; my best role was safety net. I finished my shake and was watching the situation play out when Caroline peeked over her shoulder in my direction.

I moved with an unhurried stride. Tossed my empty cup in a trash bin on the way over. Took each boy by an elbow to steer them past the girls’ table and toward the door.

This produced the expected reaction.

“Hey! What the fuck, man?”

“Who the hell are you?”

I didn’t speak until we cleared the door. Kept my voice in the register Caroline calls menacing. “I’m conducting a survey and want to ask you a couple of questions.”

These were Arlington Heights toughs, which meant South Side ten-year-olds would steal their lunch money before pantsing them. The taller one said, “You’re not going to like the answers if you don’t turn us loose, asshole.”

“First question: do either of you know what it’s like to eat soup through a straw for…I don’t know. Six to eight weeks? However long it takes a broken jaw to heal.”?”

Not the question they’d expected. “Uh…no.”

“Second and last question: would you like to find out?”

For sure not what they expected. All I got were head shakes.

“Then fuck off.”

            And off they fucked.

Criminal Econ 101, Chapter 1

 The new Nick Forte novel, Criminal Econ 101, hits closer to home than previous books in the series: Forte’s ex-wife – and, by extension, his beloved daughter Caroline – may be in danger. Readers of the series can well imagine how well that goes over with Nick.

 Below is the first chapter, to give you a taste for what’s in store.

 

1

 

Diane was scared.

Ten years of marriage, acquainted twice that long, this was new to me. I’d experienced impatience. I’d seen irritation. I had intimate familiarity with exasperation, most often directed at me shortly before and well after she requested I seek other living arrangements. I could count on one hand the times I saw her worried, even when we were married. Worrying was my job.

Having no experience with a frightened Diane didn’t make me special. She negotiated partnerships for one of the ten most prestigious consulting firms in the country. I’d spoken to her co-workers at social events who marveled at her implacable nature. One man who described himself to me as an alpha male told me once he’d been told to let her take lead in negotiations because, “the other guys might as well try to bargain with Mount Rushmore.”

I’d learned through years of experience to let her bring concerns to me instead of asking what was on her mind, after which I’d spend three days wondering when I’d learn not to do that.

Our daughter Caroline went to her room to get what she needed for the weekend at my place. Fourteen going on bankruptcy – mine – she’d inherited her mother’s taste in many things. Too bad for me. Diane made probably twice as much as I did when I did well, which I currently was not. I wasn’t broke – the house and child support payments were always on time – but my funding sources had become more unorthodox since my detective agency downsized to being only me.

Diane waited until we heard Caroline rummaging upstairs. Moved to within three feet before saying anything. Her voice wouldn’t have carried another six inches. “Can we talk?”

No human being since the creation of spoken language has ever wanted to have a conversation that begins with the other person saying Can we talk? The first answer that came to mind – Do we have to? – was superseded by the realization whatever Diane wanted to talk about probably concerned Caroline. Accepting the situation, I followed Diane into her home office, where she reached across me to shut the door. Another bad sign. No way was this a conversation I wanted to have if she felt the need to exclude Caroline.

Diane said, “This is probably nothing.”

Which meant whatever she was going to say was definitely not nothing. She left the comment hang in the air hoping I’d say something – anything – to move the conversation. I passed. The best way to get people to talk about what they’re not comfortable talking about is to leave a silence for them to fill.

This one passed through awkward and was coming up on excruciating before she caved. “I think someone is following me.”

I long ago got over any hard feelings from our divorce. It still took effort not to react. A friend told me Diane and I resembled siblings who had a major falling out and came to understand they could get along by avoiding certain topics.

Even if I weren’t so enlightened, someone following Diane was following Caroline, if only by association.

That was unacceptable.

If true.

I kept my voice neutral. Creating the perception of doubting her judgment could send the conversation into the swamp in a hurry. “What makes you think so?”

“I keep seeing the same car. Sometimes in traffic. Sometimes in the parking lot at work.”

The bridge across the swamp was shaky, but holding. “What kind of car?”

“A black Hyundai.”

“Same driver every time?”

“I think so. It’s hard to say. I only get glimpses as I go by, or he does.”

“Always a man, though.”

“I think so.”

“White? Black? Hispanic? Other?”

“Definitely white.”

So probably white. No offense to Diane, but eyewitness statements are reliable as a junkie’s promise, especially for witnesses under duress.

“He ever try to approach you?”

Diane shook her head.

“Anything else going on?”

“Like what?”

“Phone calls? Hang ups? Prowlers?”

Wrong thing to say. “Do you think he’d come to the house?”

“I have no reason to think he’d do anything. I don’t know for a fact he’s even following you. All I’m doing is asking.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Oops. Time to regain my footing. “I believe you think someone is following you. Who and why I can’t say. I need more information.” Paused. “Does Caroline suspect anything?”

“No! I would never say anything that might scare her.”

“That’s not what I asked. She’s smart and she’s sensitive to what’s going on around her. You wouldn’t have to say anything for her to wonder if something was up.”

Diane took a few seconds for a breath. “I don’t think so. At least I haven’t noticed anything.”

My daughter’s mother’s superpowers did not include picking up on non-verbal cues. She sounded as definite as I could expect given her current state of mind.

I said, “Call me if you see him again and I’ll come running. That’ll tell us right quick if it’s your imagination or if someone really is following you. Or if someone who lives near here works in your building.”

The idea she might be wrong appealed to her. Something else I’d never seen before. “But what if I’m right and someone is following me?”

“Then we’ll see how much he likes being followed.”

 

It's a Festivus Miracle!

 The seventh Nick Forte novel, Criminal Econ 101, drops today, an honest to Seinfeld Festivus miracle.

 Here’s the description from the web site:

 Chicago private eye Nick Forte’s ex-wife isn’t often scared. Never, in his experience. So when Diane takes him aside to say she’s being followed, Nick takes it seriously, especially since anyone following Diane is following their daughter Caroline as well. When the tail shows up across the street from Diane’s house one morning, Nick tags along to see what’s what, leading him into a web that includes a department store mogul, organized crime, loan sharks, money launderers, high school jerks, a woman he thought he’d seen the last of, and a man he wished he’d seen the last of. All are in play as Nick and his friend Goose Satterwhite work to keep Diane and Caroline safe while resolving the matter that placed them in danger.

 The book is available in both electronic and print formats.

 A few things have changed from my recent releases.

1.    This book is not free. Friends whose opinions I trust convinced me not to give away my work. Books already posted to my web site for free download will remain so, with the possible exception of Dead Shot, which is under evaluation. (So if you want a freebie, go for it.)

2.    Just because I’m charging again doesn’t mean I’m gouging my dozen(s?) of loyal readers. The e-book retails for $2.99; the print version is $9.99, the lowest price I can charge and still get paid. I said for years my publisher asked too much for my books. You can help prove I was right by increasing sales.

 Little (read: no) advance promotion was done, and for good reason. I didn’t know for sure when I’d get the book out until I uploaded it last week. There will be a few promotional posts here in the coming weeks including

·       Brief excerpts

·       An interview with Nick Forte

·       An interview with me

·       Whatever else I come up with

 Rest assured, all expense will be spared in promoting this addition to my oeuvre.

 (Full disclosure: This book went through more titles than Donald Trump has lawsuits. I thought of Criminal Economics early on but understood it came to mind only because my friend Eric Beetner wrote an excellent book with that title a few years ago. Several others were considered and discarded until I realized a line from a piece of dialog was the best title I could come up with. Consider the fact that I probably only thought of that line because or Eric’s book to be homage, not theft.)

 

 

Underworld Available in October

 The seventh Nick Forte novel, Underworld, drops on or about October 1. In this story, Forte’s ex-wife believe she’s being followed by persons unknown, including when their daughter, Caroline, is in the car. This is unacceptable.

 

Below is an excerpt:

 

We ate an early supper to leave time for a drive to Arlington Heights for the high school football game. Caroline would change into her marching band uniform at school and we’d meet up after the game.

She didn’t say much on the drive north. I got a glimpse of why when she asked if I had a girlfriend.

“Nope.”

“How come? You’re smart and funny.”

Apparently I wasn’t all that good-looking. I guess two out of three ain’t bad. “You have to go out to find a girlfriend.”

“So?”

“I don’t go out much.”

“Why not?”

“You go out, you come across a lot of people you don’t know.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Yeah, but I hate people I don’t know.”

So ended a conversation I didn’t want to have.

We were early to the game, as usual. Diane sometimes referred to me as  “pathologically punctual,” and not as a compliment. Caroline never complained. Fourteen years in and never tired of seeing how parts of me combined with parts of Diane to create a young woman who fascinated me every day. When people asked what my favorite age was for Caroline, I always said, “Now,” and meant it.

I said hello to her friends Tyler and Joanna, reminded Caroline where I’d be after the game, and went to find a good seat. Arlington Heights – Hersey High School, actually – won 26 – 13 in a game that was closer than the score indicated, thanks to the dumbest coaching decision I have ever seen in a sporting event at any level.

Hersey was up 20 – 13 with 56 seconds to play. The visitor – I think it was Schaumberg, but the scoreboard said only VISITOR and I couldn’t hear the PA worth a damn – had the ball on its own 19-yard line. A run and two passes later brought them to fourth down and three yards to go.

They punted. With eleven seconds left in the game. Down seven points.

I have no idea what the coach was thinking, unless he had some secret play to force a fumble on the return. If he did, the play needed work, as Hersey ran the kick back for a touchdown as time expired.

I met up with Caroline and her buds outside the band room. The plan was for me to drive her friends home before Caroline and I made the 45-minute trek to Bolingbrook.

Caroline had a better idea. Even I thought so.

“Can we get ice cream?”

We’d made this improvisation before. “You girls know the drill,” I said to her friends. “Send your mom or dad a text to ask, then show me they said it was okay.”

Apparently they have me pegged as a soft touch; the requests were already approved. Both girls nearly broke my nose shoving cell phones in my face

Sundae School was busy, not packed. I bought sundaes for all three girls – typical, and a primary reason I’m so popular when it comes to giving rides – and a milkshake for myself. I always got milkshakes when I drove, on the off chance we’d have to leave before I was ready. It’s hell to eat a sundae and drive at the same time.

I took my shake far enough away for them to be sure no eavesdropping took place. Tyler’s father got himself busted six months earlier and had yet to redeem his reputation. I maintained a line of sight so they wouldn’t have to find me when it was time to go.

Twenty minutes later two boys/young men I’d noticed sitting in a far corner made a detour on their way out to pass near my charges. No big deal. The boys looked like high school seniors or college freshmen. For all I knew they were friends or relatives of one of the girls.

A couple of minutes later Tyler’s and Joanna’s body language stiffened. Caroline was still cool, but she knew I was close and would handle anything too uncomfortable. The other girls had no such assurance.

These were always awkward situations. My first impulse was to go over and sort these boys out, but the girls needed to learn how to deal with social dilemmas; my best role was safety net. I finished my shake and was watching the situation play out when Caroline peeked over her shoulder in my direction.

I moved with an unhurried stride. Tossed my empty cup in a trash bin on the way over. Took each boy by an elbow to steer them past the girls’ table and toward the door.

This produced the expected reaction.

“Hey! What the fuck, man?”

“Who the hell are you?”

I didn’t speak until we cleared the door. Kept my voice in the register Caroline calls menacing. “I’m conducting a survey and want to ask you a couple of questions.”

These were Arlington Heights toughs, which meant South Side ten-year-olds would steal their lunch money before pantsing them. The taller one said, “You’re not going to like the answers if you don’t turn us loose, asshole.”

“First question: do either of you know what it’s like to eat soup through a straw for…I don’t know. Six to eight weeks? However long it takes a broken jaw to heal.”?”

Not the question they’d expected. “Uh…no.”

“Second and last question: would you like to find out?”

For sure not what they expected. All I got were head shakes.

“Then fuck off.”

And off they fucked.

 

Chapter 44

 The seventh Nick Forte novel, Underworld, is all but complete. The only thing left to do is the proofread, which can wait until after Bouchercon and C3 next month.

 

Except for Chapter 44, which is breaking my balls like a bastard.

 

Here’s the deal: Chapter 44 takes place right after a major plot development. Forte needs a break, and readers probably won’t mind taking a breath while they absorb what just happened. Forte stops by his favorite sports bar to unwind a little with the barmaid. It’s a light, entertaining scene that lays the groundwork for a relationship that unfolds in the next book. There’s no plot development; the book will make sense without it.

 

And it’s too long. It was half again as long as it is now, and it’s still too long. Lots of writers I respect would say to cut the chapter. Nothing truly important happens and it will streamline the entire book. This option is still on the table.

 

The thing is, the book is already just shy of 48,000 words. It’s already as streamlined a book as I have written.

 

And it’s a good chapter. It’s funny, and the dynamic between Nick and Wendy is exactly what I wanted. I’ve already killed about 33% of the darlings in this chapter. How many more can die before the chapters no longer worth keeping is a reasonable question.

 

I finished the other 63 chapters four days ago. Chapter 44 won’t let me go. I’ll take a look today to see what else I can cut without damaging the context of the parts I want to keep. Among the legion of benefits of not having to deal with publishers is I can take as long as I feel I need to fix this.

 

I have for years believed that if a sentence refuses to be edited into something better, the problem may well be it’s a shitty sentence; cut the whole thing and see if I miss it. I may apply that principle to Chapter 44 if it’s still vexing me in a few days.

 

Just when I think I have a book under control, I get Roseannadanna’d.

 

It’s always something.

Off the Books Available Today

Today is the “official” release date for the sixth Nick Forte novel, Off the Books. I say “official” because I could have made the book available anytime I wanted, it being self-published and all. I picked a date not quite at random, as I’ve been rebranding the previous Forte novels at a rate of one per month, generally on the third Friday, and saw no reason to change.

 

It's been six years since Bad Samaritan and Forte has not mellowed. The things he’s seen, the things he’s had to do—and let’s be honest, some of the things he’s chosen to do—have worn on him. The hardness at his core has become harder and he’s quicker to go to it, with daughter Caroline serving as the sole leavening influence in his life.

 

His detective agency has fallen apart in the aftermath of the events in Bad Samaritan and Forte keeps the lights on and the mortgage paid doing background checks out of his home office. He pays for the finer things in life by taking cash gigs for which there are no contracts and nothing to tie him to the job. These activities aren’t necessarily illegal—he’s not breaking legs or accepting contracts—but he spends much more time in the gray areas than he did before.

 

What bothers him most in his new arrangement are the people he works for. Respectable businesses require contracts and don’t want him to do anything that might sully their reputations. People less accountable with their money have their own motives for hiring Forte and may prefer not to have anything linking them to whatever needs to be done.

 

Allan Worthington wants his missing daughter found, but on the down low because the girl might be an embarrassment to his business associates. Donald Bower’s wife witnessed a fender bender in a small town that ended with a drunk driver brandishing a handgun; Bower wonders why the local police seem uninterested.

 

Forte travels to Lundy, Illinois to look into Bower’s case and stumbles onto something he didn’t expect and can’t ignore. (I’d tell you what it is but that’s kind of the key plot point in the story and it would be a spoiler. Even though I am not a financially motivated person, I would like to sell some of these books.)

 

He finds himself on the horns of a dilemma, torn between wanting to fix this situation and making those responsible pay for what they’re doing. Forte being Forte, he sometimes has trouble prioritizing. Mayhem ensues.

 

How much mayhem? More than Forte bargained for, and he doesn’t always come out on top. Witness this excerpt:

 

This time it was five guys in civilian clothes waiting for me in my room. One in each chair, one in the hallway that led to the bathroom, one leaning against the wall nearest the door, and one stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head like he was watching a ball game Sunday afternoon.

The one on the bed took charge. “Shut the door.”

Running wasn’t an option. I closed the door and positioned myself with my back to the corner.

Jefe sat up on the edge of the bed. A big man with a round, hard belly. His hair had receded back even with his ears to leave his forehead with a pronounced hat line. His hands were rough and callused. He wore a denim shirt outside his jeans over a gray tee. “You were told to stay out of Lundy.”

We wouldn’t be talking if they’d come to kill me. I was about to catch a beating sure as the sun was coming up over Indianapolis about now. The trick was not to provoke them and still hide the fact my sphincter was up around my Adam’s apple. “I’m not in Lundy.”

Jefe laughed. Said, “Pete” and the one nearest the door hit me under the floating ribs like he wanted to see his fist come out the other side.

No point pretending it didn’t hurt. Best I could hope for was to let on I’d seen worse and wasn’t about to roll up in a ball and cry for mommy.

They gave me all the time I needed to be able to speak. I put as much resonance into my voice as I could. “We’re all working men. I know you’re just doing your job here. So was I, and I’m about finished. Came back to get my stuff and go home. How about you rough me up a little so you can tell your boss you did and we’ll call it even?”

Jefe smiled again. I appreciate a good-natured heavy. “The only part about that you got right was when you said you were finished.”

“I said about finished.”

Jefe shook his head. “Trust me. You’re altogether finished.”

A gnawing doubt grew in the back of my mind. Maybe in Lundy they did bullshit with people they were about to kill. I’d been wrong before. “You won’t respect me if I roll over too easy.”

Someone had to say it. “We don’t respect you now, asshole.”

Jefe stood. “Let’s go outside.”

Deal breaker. Whatever was going to happen had to happen here, where there was a chance someone might notice. “Uh-uh. Say your piece, do what you’re gonna do, and we’ll go our separate ways. I’m not leaving with you.”

Jefe nodded. His colleagues each took a step my direction. I drew the .45 from its holster at the small of my back. “Here’s my counteroffer: you five go outside and hit the fucking road. I see you’re gone, I’ll load up the car and drive home.”

Jefe shook his head maybe half an inch in each direction. Said, “Boys” and the other four had guns in their hands faster than a teenage girl can whip out a cell phone.

This had to become personal for someone other than myself. I thumbed the .45 to full cock. Took a step toward the boss. Leveled the old Army Colt square between his eyes. “I can’t take everybody, but I can take you. How sure are you I won’t kill you with a reflex even if they get me with a head shot?”

He must have been pretty sure. I only had time to hear the sap swish through the air on its way to the back of my head before it dropped me through a hole in the floor I hadn’t seen before.

 

Off the Books is available on Amazon. Paperbacks are $8.99 and the e-book is $2.99. That’s not a typo. An honest-to-Bantam paperback original, six inches by nine, for only $8.99. I’ll still make a few bucks and you don’t have to take out a mortgage to read a story.

 

Who loves you, baby?

 

 

Off the Books Available for Pre-Order

 

Next Friday, March 15, marks the publication date of the sixth Nick Forte private eye novel, Off the Books. Here’s the short and sweet:

 Nick Forte has lost his detective agency and makes ends meet doing background checks and other paperwork. He pays for everything else through jobs he takes for cash and without any written contract. What starts out as a simple investigation into a traffic accident exposes Forte to people who have truly lost everything and have no viable hope of reclaiming their lives. That doesn’t sit well with Forte, leading him and his friend Goose Satterwhite to take action that ends more violently than anyone expected.

 Some luminaries weighed in with their opinions:

 “The return of Chicago private detective Nick Forte, the tough protagonist of two Shamus Award nominated novels, is well worth the wait. Nick’s latest escapade Off The Books—the first in nearly six years—will surely earn additional praise for the acclaimed series.”

-J.L .Abramo, Shamus Award-winning author of Chasing Charlie Chan.

 "Nick Forte reminds me of Robert B. Parker's Spenser: a PI with a finely tuned sense of justice who doesn't take anyone's s***. Any fan of hardboiled detective fiction is in for a helluva ride."

--Chris Rhatigan, former publisher of All Due Respect Books

 "Six years since his last appearance, the return of Dana King's no-nonsense Nick Forte is cause to celebrate for fans of Robert B. Parker's Spenser and Loren Estleman's Amos Walker. As tough and unsentimental as Forte himself, Off the Books delivers all the action, acute observations, and wise-cracks required to satisfy that old-school PI itch. Now we just need King to not make us wait so long for the next one!"

--James D.F. Hannah, Shamus-winning author of Because the Night and Behind the Wall Of Sleep

 That’s right, Jimmy, it’s been six years since Forte had his own book, though he did make a cameo in last year’s Penns River novel. I had so much fun writing his scenes in The Spread I started thinking about getting into his POV again; Off the Books  is the result, and I’m happy with how it turned out.

 Off the Books is available for $8.99 in paperback, $2.99 for Kindle, and is free for Kindle Unlimited subscribers. The Kindle version is available for pre-order. The paperback drops March 15.

 Six years away has not softened Forte any, as this excerpt shows:

 The diner didn’t serve alcohol and a couple of beers would help me sleep. I didn’t keep beer around the house anymore and wouldn’t buy any for the motel room because people who drink alone are alcoholics and I had enough problems as it was. Rusty’s Lounge was only a small detour on my way to bed.

The inside would be right at home in a relatively decent local hotel. The bartender wore a white dress shirt, no tie, with striped garters. The tables were two- and four-seaters with candles, the ambient light forgiving without creating a trip and fall hazard. Several couples shared tables. The bar was about half full, with a two-to-one ratio of men to women.

No seats where I’d have room on both sides, so I slid in between a man on my left and a woman on my right, both already engaged in conversation with members of the opposite sex. I ordered a Leinenkugel’s draft and looked for a television set. The Cubs were on, but I watched it, anyway.

I’d sucked the foam off my second beer when the man talking to the woman on my right excused himself to go to the john. She moved away to make room for him just as I shifted forward to dislodge a knot in my boxers. We bumped. Her fresh drink spilled, but my shirt and pants kept most of it from ending up on the floor.

We went through the standard ritual of mutual apologies. I volunteered to make things right. “My drink is intact. Let me replace yours. It’s only fair.” Continued before she got the wrong idea. “You’re here with someone, and I’m only going to finish this before heading out.”

Her shields came down. I waved to the bartender, a guy who looked like he’d been here a while and still hadn’t got used to the idea of having to wear shirt garters. He brought her drink and I paid about half what I would expect to in Chicago.

The woman nodded in my direction. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

“My pleasure. I’m clumsy enough to make sure people don’t mind too much if it happens again, but not so clumsy it’ll bankrupt me.”

She gave as much of a laugh as that deserved. Middle thirties was my guess. Average build with dark hair pulled away from her face and down to her shoulders. She had a quick and happy smile, but the fatigue in her eyes implied she’d seen enough of nights and bars like this.

Her companion returned, passing behind me to get to his seat. She said, “And now it’s my turn” and adjusted her stool to stand. I made a show of giving her as much room as space allowed. She smiled and nodded in appreciation and went on her way.

I resumed my seat in time to see the man she was with jerk away from her glass. I pinned his other hand to the bar. “What did you put in her drink?”

His face gave him away. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I waved for the bartender. “Do me a favor. Keep this glass safe behind the bar and call the police.”

Took him only a couple of seconds to put it together. Eyed the other man with disgust and reached for the glass. Romeo darted his free hand to spill everything across the bar.

“Oops.” He half smiled.

I let go of his hand. Grabbed a handful of hair and slammed his face into the bar.

He turned toward me. Said, “Asshole.” Not the response I had in mind, so I did it again. Harder. Liquid sloshed from both our glasses. He put a hand to his face and stayed down. Blood dribbled from his nose to the bar.

The bartender engaged. “Enough of that or I’ll call the police.”

I raised my hands shoulder height, palms out. “Call them, anyway. It might be nice to have this jagov on file in case something like this comes up again.” The barman hesitated until I told him I would if he didn’t.

It happened so quickly no one else noticed until a woman three seats down looked over and saw Bleeding Man’s face. That prompted the inevitable gasp and pointing but no general tumult.

The bartender handed Bleeding Man a towel as the woman returned. She ran the last few steps. “What happened?”

I kept my voice low and even. “He put something in your drink.”

“Like hell I did. He wants to take you home himself.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So I…what? Broke your nose and called the police? How’s that supposed to work?”

The woman looked from me to him as if trying to decide which of us had evolved a spinal column. Started to speak, pulled it back. Glared at a spot between the bartender and me. “Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just have the damn thing sewn shut.” People made room on her way out.

Then I made another mistake. I waited for the cops. Again.

 

Bad Samaritan Re-Release

 

Today is the re-issue date for the fifth Nick Forte novel, Bad Samaritan, originally published in January of 2018. This is currently the most recent novel in which Forte is the protagonist, though he does make an appearance in the Penns River novel, The Spread.

Bad Sam was my examination of men’s activist groups and the damage they cause to society at large through their refusal to accept women as equals. The inciting incident is a series of letters received by soccer mom Becky Tuttle, who writes a series of bodice-ripping potboilers under an assumed name. Becky is so concerned for her family’s privacy she hired an actor to handle all her in-person appearances and interviews; a true Remington Steele scenario. Not even her editor knows who Desiree d’Arnaud really is.

Someone figures it out, though, and is sending Becky letters addressed to her pen name at the Tuttle residence. The police stand back, as there is nothing overtly threatening in any of the letters. Still, Becky and her husband are creeped out.

While investigating Becky’s situation, Forte encounters Lily O’Donoghue, the beautiful and expensive prostitute who appeared in Forte 2, The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of. She’s being blackmailed and Forte volunteers to help out of a sense of obligation to Lily’s dead mother. The blackmailer turns up dead later the same night Forte confronts him.

I spent more time researching Bad Sam than any other Forte novel, as I wanted to be sure I was fair to all sides in the men’s rights argument. That research was the most distressing and disgusting work of my writing life to that point, as what we see in mainstream media barely scratches the surface of how vile these people are, including the women who support them.

Bad Sam was a problematic book from the beginning. As regular readers know, Forte is a tough guy in the Continental Op/Mike Hammer model, though informed with 21^st Century sensibilities. While he empathizes with Becky’s and Lily’s plights, he still comes in as if he’s on a white horse, which in its way disempowers them even more. As might be expected in a story where a man feels as though he has to set things right for women regardless of what resolution they want, nothing works out the way Forte planned.

This is my most difficult book for me to write about. If you’d like more insight into Bad Sam, take a look at Benoit Lelieve’s review in Dead End Follies. It’s honest and fair and the best analysis of my work that has ever been done. I’ll let the book rise and fall on what Ben has to say about it.

Bad Samaritan is available on Amazon. Prices are $2.99 for Kindle and $9.99 for a paperback. It’s the last re-release in the Forte series. Next month will see the arrival of the sixth novel, and the first in six years, when Off the Books drops. Don’t worry that you’ll forget about it. I’m sure to remind you.

Triple Forte Now Available for Kindle

 

The Nick Forte Rebranding Tour continues with a bow toward last-minute shoppers and those who will have holiday cash burning holes in their pockets. Today marks the availability of the first three-volume “boxed” set of Forte novels, titled Triple Forte. Included are:

A Small Sacrifice, the first Forte, nominated for a Shamus Award by the Private Eye Writers of America as Best Indie Original.

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of. Blogger extraordinaire Peter Rozovsky wrote in “Detectives Beyond Borders,” “It's a kind of authorial magic that The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of works as a tribute and as a story, and that neither aspect interferes in the least with the other… I can imagine this book finding its way into a class on writing crime fiction as an example of how to pay tribute to one's predecessors while at the same time writing a story that can stand on its own. It's an impressive accomplishment.”

And last but not least, The Man in the Window, Shamus-nominated as Best Paperback Original.

Triple Forte is available for Kindle only for $3.99. (See the Amazon web site for prices outside the U.S.)

The next few months will see more rebranding as a lead up to the first new Forte novel in six years:

January – A Dangerous Lesson, in which Forte’s dark side come more into the open as he matches wits with a serial killer.

February – Bad Samaritan pits Forte against men’s rights activists in a story that shows best intentions, inexpertly applied, can go terribly wrong.

March – Off the Books, the first Forte since 2018. What appears to be a trivial case in a small town unearths a heinous criminal enterprise Forte does not trust the authorities to deal with.

The Forte character means a lot to me, as do his associates Goose, Sonny Ng, Jan Rusiewicz, Sharon Summers, and especially, his daughter Caroline. PI fiction was what attracted me to reading crime, and Forte was the first character I created as an adult writer. There is more of me in him than in any other character (even Ben “Doc Dougherty), so writing Forte always seems like a bit of a homecoming.

That’s why it has been so good to hear from folks who are looking forward to his return. This will not be a one-off. I have two more Forte novels on the back burner after Off the Books, and he will make at least one more appearance in Penns River.

Merry Christmas, all.

The Man in the Window

 

Today is the new cover reveal for the third Nick Forte novel, The Man in the Window.

 

This is the most personal Forte book for me in several ways. First, it draws on my experience as a musician; a couple of the characters are inspired by friends from my musical life. It also allows me to reflect a little, through Forte, how I felt about abandoning that life. (Though, thankfully, not the friends.)

 

It’s also largely based on the first Nick Forte story I wrote, “Auditioning Can be Murder.” In the story, Forte is a former musician asked to investigate what a current musician claims was a rigged audition. The story was written as a farewell to my musical life, and a tribute to my friends, several of whom were easily identifiable to those who knew them. It’s an ironic satire sent only to those involved, but was well enough received that I was inspired to continue along that path.

 

The book takes an entirely different look at the core story, though a pivotal scene is lifted almost word-for-word. (Edited, of course. I learned a few things in the intervening years.) From the back cover copy:

 

A simple adultery case turns deadly when the client is shot down on his way to receive Nick Forte’s report. Forte has no choice but to write it off as a bed debt until a mysterious man hires him to make sure the police aren’t sweeping things under the carpet. Forte and Goose soon find themselves involved with an old friend, a major symphony orchestra, and international terrorists with a range of backgrounds.

 

The reviews I cited on the cover are also gratifying:

 

Dana King's private eye uses a steady string of wise-ass remarks and clever asides to keep you laughing and caring, reminding me every chapter of the greatest P.I. writer of all time, Raymond Chandler. I put down Lee Child when I picked this up. Entertaining as all heck.

 

Good story and written with a great sense of humor. King's insights into the lives of professional musicians made the book even more enjoyable.

 

Oh, and the fact The Man in the Window received a Shamus nomination for Best Paperback original in no way diminishes my affection for the book.

 

Those of you who have read the book already, take note: there is nothing new here except for the cover and a few changes in the Amazon metadata. This “re-release” is intended to bring TMITW in line with the branding changes in preparation for the release of the sixth Forte novel, Off the Books, next March.

 

If you have not read the book, or have read it and think it would make a good gift – the holidays being right around the bend and all – here is the link to the Amazon listing.

 

 

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

 Today is the official re-branding re-launch of the second Nick Forte novel, The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of. (The most astute of you may have noticed the new cover a day or so ago. I’m a one-man operation focused more on writing than production. This is how things work in my world.) The book began as a critical look at the memorabilia industry and ended up as homage to Dashiell Hammett’s classic The Maltese Falcon.

 

Russell Arbuthnot isn’t just a ham, he’s the whole pig. Forte – along with everyone else -  figures the bodyguard assignment Arbuthnot hired him for is a publicity stunt to perk up flagging ticket sales for a one-man show about to go under. When the actor actually does turn up dead, Forte faces the kind of publicity he can do without and decides, when a bodyguard’s client is killed, he's supposed to do something about it. It doesn't make any difference what he thought of him. He was your client and you're supposed to do something about it.

 

Sonny Ng, Jan Rusiewicz, Tony and Joey are all back from A Small Sacrifice, as are, of course, Goose and Nick’s daughter, Caroline. Forte also encounters Arbuthnot’s beautiful but damaged manager, a high-priced escort, and the IRA.

 

I probably enjoyed writing this book as much or more than any of them. Trying to tread the line between paying homage to Hammett’s masterpiece and ripping him off was a challenge, and few comments have ever pleased me more than Peter Rozovsky’s in his late, lamented blog “Detectives Beyond Borders:”

 

“It's a kind of authorial magic that The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of works as a tribute and as a story, and that neither aspect interferes in the least with the other… I can imagine this book finding its way into a class on writing crime fiction as an example of how to pay tribute to one's predecessors while at the same time writing a story that can stand on its own. It's an impressive accomplishment.”

 

That’s the kind of validation anyone can appreciate.

 

The only thing new about this “re-issue” is the cover and a little of the accompanying material in the Amazon listing; the book itself is unchanged. This might not seem like something that requires an announcement, but it is part of the lead-up to the March release of Volume 6, Off the Books. The changes are small, but they will give all the Forte novels the same look as well as bringing them a little closer to the Penns River branding, which I wanted to do because both series occupy their own corners of the same universe.

 

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made of is available in both paperback and for Kindle through Amazon, and only Amazon. With all due respect to other platforms, their business models leave little room for me, which leaves little room in  my model for them. I hope that will change someday, but I’m not holding my breath.