A Miscellaneous Future Note of Interest
The Lucky Supreme paperback edition is out now. This from SUSPENSE MAGAZINE-
‘This is what you’d call a “fun read.” Quick, thrilling, this is a novel filled with many crimes and is just the beginning of what looks to be a very interesting trilogy.
Main character, Darby Holland, is the owner of a tattoo parlor located in the Old Town area of Portland, Oregon: Darby and his cohorts have created their very own “area” during the gentrification of their community.
A phone call to Darby from a friend tells him that Jason Bling, a former employee who quit some months ago, has resurfaced up in Santa Cruz. Jason supposedly has stolen some original tattoo designs by well-known designer, Roland Norton. Darby sets out for Santa Cruz, along with some friends who are all a little strange. Here, he confronts the thief and figures out that Bling’s new boss, who owns a mini-mall in San Francisco, may have been the real one behind the theft.
Darby also has other scores to settle, and will face new ones to save his own reputation. Seems that he is a man full of secrets and the tattoo parlor may have just been a place to hide from all of them. From a war between Darby and a very rich collector who follows him back to Old Town; to crimes and tales that land Darby in a sea of federal agents, this is one plotline that keeps readers excited until the very end.
A thrill ride that never lets up, this reader is definitely looking forward to the next book in this series.’
Look at that cool cover. Lucky Supreme in Italian! Fun times. Thank you to all the cool Italian readers who have contacted me through the platform. Rock on! Thank you for the kind words and invitations! We'll see you soon! Lucky is holding strong in the Top 100!
E se finora Lucky Supreme si è rivelato il luogo ideale per tenerli al sicuro, ... Un noir di pura adrenalina, una corsa contro il tempo dalla prima all'ultima pagina.
Small Facts and odd morsels
The Baby Moon Gow Trilogy
Grand Estuary Grand, Ghostmeat In The Grass, The Stairwell In The Aviary
This pain in the ass trilogy has been so fun to write! My former agent, for inexplicable reasons of his own, never bothered to read it. He sent it out to a handful of editors but their replies were hard to make sense of for him. A little poking around revealed that agent one never read any of my material past the pitch so I had to fire him. Many other writers did the same thing around the same time. I figured hey, the guy just does not like his job. Common enough, right?. Curiously, my current agent is having the exact same problem. It is beginning to seem, astonishingly enough, that I will have scored TWO consecutive agents who couldn’t hold a job at Burger King. An average literary agent is a hybrid secretary/sales person. Good ones are a different story all together. Bad ones just work the sales angle, and if they can’t fake their way through the literary part, well then. Worse than no agent at all. Remember writers, you are your own best advocate. This is just like anything else. Stay true, stay positive, but stay alert. Check your agent’s work at every step if it feels like something isn’t right. Insist on professionalism. As in life, surround yourself with good people.
What is Grand Estuary Grand? What the hell is ghostmeat?
On the eve of the collapse of world trade, five mysterious emissaries meet in secret at an opulent hotel in the Grand Estuary, each with a piece of a puzzle. Carolina Rainbow, representative of The Gearing Witches, knows more than she will ever tell. The soulless reporter John Hannibal Shore is either a spy or an unwitting sales rep for the Hell Factory Ghostmeat Farm. The one eyed manufactured sociopath Sheriff Doctor Rubio Martinez is tangled in the gang war economics of the Make Shift City, in an experiment with no end. Mayhew is an explorer and self-profit for hire. Victory Turnstyle is the thief who stole it all and didn't want any of it, and with them on their journey is the hotel concierge, himself a hapless dramatist with a destiny. Their stories braid together through the heart of the Concrete Magnifico and the floating city Carnival, through the streets of Hume and across the Grass where the Antelope rule, but in a perfect loop, the fate of the world leads back to the fabled hotel Grand Estuary Grand. Their leader by default and the architect of the assembly is Baby Moon Gow, the world's greatest detective, working what is sure to be his final case.
THE GRAND ESTUARY GRAND IS HAUNTED
Carolina Rainbow flung the door wide and all of them took a step back. A small, very fat child stood in the center of the corridor, smiling at them. It was a boy, with a perfect little suit and neatly parted hair. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead his mouth slowly opened wider, then wider still until it stretched into a distended ‘O’ and then beyond into an oval, impossibly wide, until the entirety of his face was a yawning black hole. When his face was no more than a cave rimmed with lips stretched white and quivering, a lone fly spiraled out.
A schizophrenic giant otter named Steppy Sharang is the leading romance writer of the day, quoted by everyone. Some examples-
“It always matters,” Baby Moon Gow replied. “It shapes his momentum as a man. All adventurers begin with the understanding that money comes and goes, it grows on trees and falls like fruit for the snakes and flies and weevils. It is better by far to store your assets in your mind. With that revelation, both money and power become the ambitions of lesser men. Take such a being and give him a broken heart for fuel and he becomes unstoppable, as in he cannot stop if he tried. Mayhew is rather like the Carnival Blue he carries in that respect. Rare, and capable of extreme altitude.”
“Baby Moon, you romantic. You’re a fan of Steppy Sharang.”
‘The fruit of great love is a smiling baby, delighted to be born wise. The product of loneliness and desperation and midnight lust is me and you, dear reader.’
-Steppy SHARaNG, from Notes of The Temple Barber
Before he lost his ghostmeat to an antelope skull in a shoebox, fat man and reporter for the Major News Service's Arts & Leisure section John Hannibal Shore fell in love with an opera singer.
“I’ll never forget her eyes, how they sparkled when she sang those songs of mercy in a place so dark, the wind that blew from inside her, and drove the greatest iron boat of the opera. I was ever a child in the wilds of the common soot of burden until the throat of that pilot light.”
That’s what I wrote of her final performance. Lilly Leone. A natural soprano with extraordinary range, with all the richness of her obese peers; their velvet, but with a disturbing capacity for dynamic nuance, so that like a mockingbird she could escape the edges of her range and soar into the barely controlled vitality of beasts. There was more, a quality, almost a malaise, or even a condition in her throat. The voice can be trained, and training is a privilege. Lilly Leone’s command of wind- there was about it the feel of a giant rotten sail, full as a late pregnancy with grief beyond exhaustion, so her’s was the reflection of no training at all but of something far deeper, an understanding of the lyrics penned by dreamy and maudlin aristocrats but meant in the end to be sung by a voice that could only come from a mouth that had eaten little that was wholesome, and swallowed much in the way of pride and bitterness and loss and bad vodka. She was the voice of the Concrete Magnifico, the most divine prayer of patience and virtue, those unimaginable missing ingredients, and I was her champion in the press.