The early reception of the second Nick Forte novel, The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of,
has been particularly gratifying, mainly thanks to its sources: people whose
opinions I have respected since before I released any of my own stuff.
Timothy Hallinan (author of the Edgar-nominated Poke
Rafferty series and the Shamus-nominated Junior Bender series) writes in an
Amazon review:
Great characters, wit,
some truly cold weather (that's not a joke -- I could really feel it), and Dana
King's talent and empathy make this a standout read even in a good year, which
this has been.
Ben Sobieck, author of what might be my favorite serial
killer book, Cleansing Eden, and the
upcoming (July of 2015) Writer’s Digest Weapons
for Writers: A Practical Reference for Using Firearms and Knives in Fiction,
had this to say:
Everything you like
about PI novels is in Dana King's second installment of the Nick Forte series,
right on down to a statue of a Maltese falcon.
My favorite comment comes from award-winning blogger Peter
Rozovsky, writing in Detectives
Beyond Borders:
The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of, by Detectives Beyond Borders friend Dana King, is a tribute to The
Maltese Falcon through and through, from its title, to one of its plot strands,
to explicit references to Hammett's novel and the Bogart-Astor movie
version…The tributes themselves are delightful, and delightfully clever, going
beyond obvious plot parallels, famous lines, and explicit mentions and
extending to appropriation of speech patterns, in some cases.
I’m sure the writers among you will get that, while I’m
grateful for Tim’s and Ben’s kind words, Peter’s comment warms the cockles of
my cold, cold heart, because that’s exactly
what I was going for. I became involved in crime fiction through Sherlock
Holmes and Mike Hammer; I got serious about writing when Raymond Chandler
showed me what could be done with language in such a story. PI stories have
always been my first love, and there has never been a better PI novel than The Maltese Falcon. I consciously wrote
this book as homage, right down to giving each chapter a title, as Hammett did
in Falcon. It strikes me as
presumptuous, looking back, and it’s a delight to see someone as well-read as
Peter who gets it as I intended.
The prologue through Chapter Five are available
for free on my web site. Below
CHAPTER
TWO
The
Fat Man
Russell Arbuthnot was well past heavy-set, if
less than morbidly obese. His chest expanded from his shoulders to well below
his waist, creating an impression of a light bulb with legs. His position and
charm must have been considerable for him to be involved in any love triangles.
Arbuthnot
lived in the penthouse of a newly-renovated high rise between Adams and
Jackson, south of the Santa Fe Building. The top few floors had been converted
from offices and given their own entrance and elevators so the swells who lived
there wouldn’t have to brush elbows with the stiffs working in the offices
below. Grant Park spread out through a picture window across from the entry
door, Buckingham Fountain visible to my right, if I stood at the perfect angle.
No crowds or kids playing around it today; even the sculptures seemed to huddle
together. Farther out, Lake Michigan was frozen hard as an auditor’s heart.
Arbuthnot
stood near a fireplace wearing an old-style smoking jacket. He let me see the
pose for a few seconds, then made a production of summoning his consciousness
from whatever Muse held it before he acknowledged me. His patrician smile
showed his comfort with the common folk, and more than a little condescension.
He presented three fingers as a handshake and offered me a brandy. I passed. It
was ten o’clock in the morning.
“Nicholas
Forte, Professional Investigator,” he read from the card with “Nick” printed on
it I handed him. His voice had a legato quality, with enough resonance to reach
the back of any theater. “I can’t say I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting a
professional investigator. Do sit down.”
“There’s
a first time for everything.” I sat in a wing chair upholstered with velvet.
The room looked like an English baron’s study in a movie that would receive
critical acclaim and no audience. “I understand you’re not comfortable with the
idea of a strong-arm man.” I tossed a quick wink in Sheila’s direction on
“strong-arm.”
A
laugh burbled up through his bulk like lava through a volcano. “I hope you
didn’t take that comment too seriously.” He took some time positioning himself
in his chair. A man his size couldn’t just sit in it. Arrangements had to be
made. “I was merely trying to convey to Sheila my—how shall I put
this?—uncertainty about a man in my position being accompanied by someone who
looked like a well-dressed thug. I apologize if that’s blunt, sir, but there it
is.”
I
held my arms away from my sides. “As you can see, ‘well-dressed’ doesn’t apply.
You’ll have to make up your own mind about the rest.”
“Yes,
well, I see you have your own look, yes, you do, sir. Sheila attempted to put
my mind at ease about your thuggishness by telling me you were once a
professional musician. Is that true?”
“Yes.
BA from Northwestern, free-lanced around Chicago. Three years in an Army band.”
“And
that led you to becoming a professional investigator?”
“That
led me to becoming a cop.” That answer never satisfied anyone, Arbuthnot no
exception. “I wasn’t good enough to play at the level I wanted to work at, so I
got into teaching. Two years on the South Side made me sick of being the only
unarmed person in the building, so I became a cop.”
“But
you left.”
“Musicians
don’t deal well with regimentation.”
“I
see. Yes, I really do see your point.” He looked at Sheila, then gave me a
once-over. “You may not have the personality of a strong-arm man, Mr. Forte,
but you certainly have the build for it.”
“Six-foot-one,
two hundred pounds of solid muscle.” I left out the fifteen pounds of other
stuff hitching a ride at the time. “I use silverware when I eat and sometimes
go entire days without assaulting anyone. I know not to split an infinitive and
I can manage not to end a sentence with a preposition if I concentrate. I’ll
spend as much time with you as is humanly possible and I’ll get help if your
demands are greater than my ability to meet them. I can provide references.
What else can I tell you?”
Sheila
O’Donoghue’s face was aghast that anyone would speak like that to Russell
Arbuthnot. Her body language implied she thought such a person might have an
undercarriage that bore investigation. This job was going to be a struggle for
her.
Arbuthnot
looked at me like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. He gave up before
the pause became uncomfortable.
“Yes,
sir, you’ll do splendidly, that you will. I deal with so many actors and flesh
peddlers that it’s rare for me to be able to take a man at his word.” Sheila
flushed lightly at “flesh peddlers.” “I was waiting to see if your façade
cracked at all after your little speech. You understand, of course.”
“Of
course. People lie to me more often than not. It’s an occupational hazard.”
“Then
we understand each other perfectly. Won’t you please come with me so I can show
you the cause of all this turmoil?”
He
raised himself from his chair without block or tackle. He walked with
surprising fluidity, if glacially, on legs that didn’t look substantial enough
to support him.
An
enormous bed, at least king-sized, dominated the room we entered, the mattress
a good three feet off the floor. I wondered how Arbuthnot hefted himself into
the rack at night until I saw the small step stool partially hidden by the
comforter. There was a mirror in the ceiling directly over the bed. Jesus
Christ.
The
bed faced a mantel with a discretely lighted recess eighteen inches high and a
foot wide. Inside the alcove stood a black statuette of a bird about a foot
tall.
Holy
shit.
