Read the first couple of chapters of HARD-BOILED...

So I wrote this crime novel -- kinda inspired by the Raymond Chandler and Elmore Leonard genre -- and it's getting good reviews on Amazon (5-star ranking overall). If you're into that sort of thing, here are the first couple of chapters:

Chapter One

I got picked up like a butterfly facing a leaf-blower and thrown into the black sedan so fast I almost didn't see it. I skidded short of the inside car door. I tasted blood in my mouth and smelled leather. The car doors slammed shut and the driver floored the gas pedal. The car took off like a Saturn booster.

I'd been walking to the bookmaker's joint, a pool hall, ready to lay five large on the Cowboys. The same trip I’d made 100 times before, though this time it was different. It seemed Victor Dante had found me. I'm a real winner that way, always looking to make a quick buck but seldom finding a buck in my pocket. I'll admit it to you. I have a problem. I just need a couple more winners to make things right.

"Gimme your money," the giant said, glaring at me from the front passenger seat. He was about six feet seven and weighed just a little less than a Coke machine. He didn't ask again. He didn't have to. I forked over the money in my wallet, all hundreds. I never used small bills, not when I had bets to place. I needed to get even. Because I was down and down big.

Among my various bookies, I owed Victor Dante the most. Seventy-five. Grand. It wasn't a real long time 'til we pulled up to the auto-body repair place on Hudson. It felt like thirty seconds, though I knew it had to be closer to a quarter hour. That's what a queasy stomach does to a man, pumping all kinds of acid into his system. The muscle-bound freak pulled me out of the car by my collar and frog-marched me into the backroom. Dante's office.

The only light was coming from Dante's desk. A tiny bulb, a yellow light shining like an electric torch, sat a foot off his desk. Given the angle, Dante's eyes were hooded, dark and inscrutable. His cigarette glowed red for a second as he pulled hard on it, then faded. His voice erupted and it wasn't pleasant to hear. It sounded like an eighteen-wheeler on gravel, only not as musical.

"Do I need any more frickin' trouble in my life?," he asked no one in particular. "It's not like things are going swimmingly for me." Unexpectedly, he blurted out a question. "Do you know A.J. Cohen?"

Surprised, I nodded. I knew the slimebag. He was a little less truthful than Pinnochio, if the puppet had both a drinking and a gambling problem. You'd be hard-pressed to find a better liar if you went to a lawyers' convention and paid thousand-dollar bonuses for tall tales.

"AJ owes me five hundred. Grand. And now you of all people have to come up dry. The one guy who always makes his nut."

I didn't say a word. Just surveyed the scene. Victor's office was decorated in my favorite style. Early American Gauche. There was a glossy insurance calendar on the wall featuring a dowdy farm family. A black-and-white picture of Eddie Arcaro crouched on Whirlaway after winning the '41 Derby. A cheap reprint of a Rockwell barbershop scene set in a $5 frame. And a desk that looked as if it was castoff from Goodwill. Oh – and on the desk was a well-worn set of brass knuckles. Try as I might, my eyes kept drifting back to the knucks.

"Ted, Ted, Ted," he sighed. "You're a nice-looking, smart young lad. How in the name of... how the hell did you get yourself this far in the hole?"

The question was rhetorical. He knew it as well as I did. I had a problem. A very bad problem.

"You know my grandson?"

No. I didn't.

"My grandson was riding his bike on Redwing yesterday."

Redwing Road. A hilly suburban street where cars took turns playing roller-coaster while trying to avoid pedestrians.

"Some Hispanic slammed into my grandson with his pickup truck. Both of his legs were broken, compound fractures. A piece of glass sliced his hand damn near off. Thank Christ he was wearing a helmet, cause he went through the windshield. And guess what? The driver pushed him right out of the window, onto the pavement and took off. Hit and run."

He sucked on his cigarette, deep. Blue tendrils of smoke seeped out of his nostrils and, with the light and his eyes hidden, he looked like a rendering of the devil himself.

"Lucky for me, his brother was with him. He got a partial on the plate. The cops showed up, but they've come up empty so far. My grandson may never walk normal."

He made a noise that sounded like either a sniffle or a sniff.

"Ted, you were in the force. You know how to find people. And you owe me. You owe me big. I want you to find this scumbag. Call me when you have him. I'll send someone to pick him up. I don't want him even seen in the area of the shop."

"Why can't your people find him?"

"They're trying. But they're not trained investigator-types. They're hired muscle. They haven't found jack squat so far. And it's worth twenty-five gees of your debt if you can bring him to me in the next week. I don't want the police within even a mile of him."

I'll admit it. I didn't think twice. 25K was 25K.
“You’ve got a week. Find this bastard for me, Ted.”
"What about the five K that the mutant took from me?" I tilted my head at the giant whose frame filled the doorway.

"What about it?"

"That should count for something."

"It does. It counts as a token of your appreciation for me not bouncing the knucks off your dome a couple dozen times."

"I'll need some of that for expenses. A few hundred, at least."

He considered that. I waited. It wasn't like I had a choice. After a while, he tilted his rear in the chair and pulled out a billfold. He flipped me some fifties. Then he picked up the phone. I guess that gesture and the giant lifting me by my collar meant I was dismissed.



Chapter Two

I had two numbers off the plate and a description that was as useless as an ashtray on a moped. The kid's brother had said the pickup was either gray, brown, or green. Old, beat up, and full-sized. That made it American: Chevy, Ford or Dodge. Really narrowed it down. I was on a roll. By 9am, I'd have collected the kid and picked up a hot dame to boot.

I left a voicemail for Danny, my old partner. We still got along okay, especially when I bought him whiskey rocks at O'Reilly's after his shift. On the machine, I asked him to run the list of pickups that matched the numbers, including for adjacent counties. And a copy of the accident report.

I headed back to my apartment. It was late and I needed a shave and a fresh start in the morning. My one-bedroom palatial estate smelled a little musty. A visit to the laundromat with the drapes and bedspread in tow would help. Someday. So I grabbed a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam instead and poured myself a quick taste. Just two fingers worth. It went down hard, then easy. I decided on another. That went down smooth. I didn't feel any better about the musty smell, though, so I got up and rinsed the glass out.

I tried to sleep, but visions of a broken bicycle kept floating in my head. At about three I gave up trying and shuffled into the "living room". It was a box about twelve by ten with enough space for a lounger, a small couch and a bookshelf with a TV on it. I watched a documentary on the endangered tern. I couldn't muster a lot of sympathy. I was an endangered species myself if I didn't get things turned around.

I started to wonder what Dante was going to do with the punk when I delivered him. There was a drill press in the body shop. Rumor had it it'd been used for more than just bodywork. The thoughts came quick and ugly and I had to force myself to stop. It could just as easily be me lashed onto a drill press. After a while, I stopped thinking altogether and slept.

The sun woke me up, angling between the drapes. I got the coffee started and hit the shower. A quick ten-minute scrub and I was shaving and combing my hair and beginning to resemble an actual human being. I brushed my teeth so as not to light up a smoke. Poured some coffee and turned up the TV. The local news was on. No mention of the hit-and-run.

I hadn't heard from Danny so I got in the Buick and drove over to Redwing to check out the scene. It was on the northwest side of town. Suburbia central. Cookie-cutter houses in cookie-cutter neighborhoods without a damn thing to distinguish one from the other except for the names on the overblown entrance signs. Rolling Meadows. Gramercy Farms. Windermere Lake, where Redwing was located. There wasn't a lake I could see, but there was a small, algae-green pond that was covered with a scummy film. I drove the length of Redwing. I didn't spot anything at first, so I did a U-turn and drove back slow. There was no police tape to identify the spot. In fact, there wasn't much left after the cops had cleaned up. But a cluster of broken glass gave it away. It was at the bottom of the deepest drop in the road, just off a cul-de-sac where the kids probably hung out and where cars would hit maximum speed.

I parked the car in the cul-de-sac and got out. Looked carefully at the ground. It wasn't glass, it was glittering plastic, all that remained of the kid's bike reflector. Poor kid. Didn't do anything to deserve getting hammered into a month-long stay in the hospital. And here was all that was left of his bike.

"Excuse me."

I snapped out my reverie and turned to face the voice. A woman, a blonde about five-feet seven and wearing sweats stood in the driveway across the cul-de-sac. The house behind her was a tidy Cape Cod painted all white, spruced up with some annuals that were poking out of some decent mulch.

"Can I help you?"

I didn't respond for a second, because I was taking in the sight of her. She was athletic, lithe, about 30. Her hair was tied high back into a pony-tail which swung behind an elegant neck.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," I immediately reverted to cop-mode, "I'm a licensed private investigator." I fished around in my back pocket for business cards and I hooked one with two fingers. I glanced at it -- a little worn in the corners, but the best I could come up with on short notice. I walked over to where she was standing. She smelled good, like she'd just spritzed herself with something nice but not overpowering. I handed her the card. Her ring finger was bare. Her eyes were a mix of blue and hazel; her teeth were straight and white. She read the card for a moment.

"Mister... Huston, I'm sorry for bothering you, but we have a quiet neighborhood here. We don't get strange people out wandering the street every day."

"No problem. And I don't get called strange every day either. I was asked to investigate a hit-and-run accident that occurred here yesterday. A boy on a bicycle... was almost killed."

She took a step back and covered her mouth with long, slender fingers. "No... are you serious?"

"I was going to canvas the houses around here to see if some of the folks saw something. I take it you didn't?"

"I work all day. Most folks in the cul-de-sac do as well. What time did it happen?"

"Early afternoon. Two-ish."

"I was at work. And I know the neighbors on either side of me were as well. Mr. Garibaldi, I mean the older gentleman in 6684," she pointed to a ranch dominated by a two-car garage, "is retired. He might have seen what happened."

"Thanks, Ms. ..."

"Clay. Elenore Clay."

"Thanks, Ms. Clay. If you happen to hear or see anything relevant to the case, please feel free to call me anytime."

As if on cue, my phone burbled. I excused myself and unholstered it. The caller ID was the fifth precinct house. Danny.

"Hey."

"Yo, hombre. Whatcha into now?"

"Did you pull the list for me?"

"Yeah, I got the list of trucks. All surrounding counties. There are only about 200 that match the digits. Twelve pages of printouts."

"What about the report?"

"Nada. Can't find it. Redwing, right? Was it picked up by County?"

He meant the Sheriff's office. Depending upon who arrived on the scene first -- and, in an emergency, it could be anyone -- the case could have gone straight to County.

"Dunno."

"Want me to get someone over there to look it up?"

"Nah. The list is good for now. Can you just fax it to me?"

"No problemo. O'Reilly's tonight?"

"You old lush. I'll try and make it over there about eight. That is, if I can get this cleaned up, the odds of which are dropping faster than your chances at promotion."

"Heh. That bad?"

"You don't know the half of it. Okay, maybe see you later."

Elenore was walking back into her garage. It was a nice view. I called out to her.

"Thanks again, Ms. Clay."

She executed an efficient, backhanded wave without looking back and then the garage door came down.

Garibaldi was of less help than Elenore. He'd been out during the time in question, visiting his mother in the nursing home. Garibaldi looked like he could have fought in the Civil War, so I was having a hard time picturing his Mom. She had to be closing in on Methusela.

I knocked on a few more doors. Everyone was playing "Hide from the Traveling Salesman" or they were out. This was getting me nowhere fast. I walked back to my car. It was starting to get steamy. I lit up a smoke and glanced over at Elenore's tidy little Cape. I thought I saw a curtain move, but it could've been my imagination.

I drove back up Redwing, took a few turns to head back into town and immediately ran into heavy traffic near Formosa. I slowly crept my way into the city. Everything was bleached in the sun. People. Cars. Buildings. Even asphalt and dirt. My eyes hurt and perspiration started to form on the back of my neck. It was partly the rising temperature and partly thinking about a drill press.

My office was located in a cheap rental building a few blocks too far from downtown. It was on the west side, where vacancies were frequent. It was the kind of neighborhood where everyone used coupons or food stamps or didn't eat at all, because they were junkies. I parked semi-legally and headed up to my second-floor office.

The painted caption on the glass pane in the door read, "Huston Investigations, LLC" and it needed a touchup. I unlocked the office door and it squeaked open. I caught a whiff of the same odor of age that permeated my apartment. Not overwhelming, just - there. It smelled like dust and old leather and maybe some gun-cleaning fluid. While wading through my overwhelming book of messages, I field-stripped and cleaned my .45 1911. Old habits die hard.

Some filing cabinets had been pushed against the single room's far wall. My desk faced out from the windows. There was a stellar view of Hobart Street and a similar office building across Hobart. I walked over to the card table upon which an old fax machine sat. A sheaf of papers had spilled out of the tray. It was a couple of junk-faxes and Danny's list of partial matches.

I grabbed the papers and sat heavily in my leather office chair. The rollers didn't work real well. I urged the chair over to the right side of my desk and eased open the bottom drawer. I pulled out a glass and a bottle of Jack Daniels Green that was a third full. I poured two fingers into the glass and began to read.

I was looking for Hispanic names. Using a pencil, I underlined one after another. Silva. Chavez. Javier. I took a sip of Jack. Vazquez. Padilla. Bolivar. Another sip. There were quite a few. It took about twenty minutes.

I taped a message on my second phone line, the "cold line." The message went:

"Thank you for calling Edwards' Automotive and Truck Repair. We're away from the desk right now, but if you leave your name, home address and phone number, we'll call you back with scheduling options for your free repair work."

The cold line wasn't in the reverse lookup directory. Using the same line, I called the first number on the list. It rang a while and then clicked over to the machine.

"Hi, this is Eddie over at Edwards' Auto Repair. We have an emergency recall notice for your pickup truck. The truck has defective wiring that could result in a fire or explosion. Because of the danger involved, the manufacturer is paying us to come to your home and repair the wiring free of charge. The repair should take no longer than ten minutes. Please call us as soon as possible. There is a risk that your truck could catch fire..."

I repeated this call a dozen times and never once reached a live person. I needed a break from the phone, so I took a sip of Jack. My main phone rang. I answered, "Investigations."

A female voice was on the line. "Is this Mr. Huston?"

"Hold on and I'll check."

"Mr. Huston, this is Elenore Clay. Is this really your office?"

"No, but now that you've called, I'll go out and rent one."

"My, you're a snide man."

"It whiles the time away, in between all the calls and letters."

She sighed. "Perhaps I shouldn't have called. It's too much work trying to talk with you."

"I'll behave. How can I help?"

"It's my ex-husband. He took something from me. Something valuable. And I'd like you to help me get it back."

I almost banged my head on the desk. A divorce case.

"It's three hundred a day plus expenses."

"How many days would this typically take?"

"What's the item and how do you know he has it?"

"We divorced three years ago and I think he's been having money trouble lately. And this is a very valuable piece of art. I think he broke into my house and may be trying to sell it. Nothing else was taken and he knew exactly where to find it. I mean, it wasn't exactly hanging in the living room."

"What's the art?"

"It's an M.C. Escher lithograph called 'Belvedere #426.' It's worth, I'm not sure, but a great deal of money. Hundreds of thousands."

I whistled. Not so much over the price as the art. I'm an Escher fan. I knew the piece. You've probably seen it: a beautiful, double-decker gazebo with a ladder that defies the laws of physics. The ladder lays flat against the outer wall and yet it stretches from inside to outside the gazebo.

"Well. If the artwork is on the premises, I might be able to secure it in a day. Not on the premises, it could take longer. I'd have to tail him. Obviously, we'll have to get the cops involved, though."

The phone was silent for a while.

"No police, please. A.J.'s... A.J.'s a wanted man," she was pleading. "I don't want him in jail. He loves our son."

I gulped. "What's his full name?"

"A.J. Cohen. He's a former art dealer and -- really -- a good dad."

A.J. Cohen. The same guy that Victor Dante was after. Way too much of a coincidence. Dante sends me out to investigate his grandson's accident and I just happen to meet Elenore Clay, the ex-wife of A.J. Cohen. But why? Something wasn't adding up, but I wasn't going to comprehend it while bantering on the phone.

"Tell you what, let's grab a drink and we can talk it over. Do you know where O'Reilly's is on Bay Street?"

"Yes, the corner of Queen and Bay."

"That's it. Does 8 work for you?"

"I should be able to get the girl next door to baby-sit, so... yes. I'll see you then."

I sat quietly, contemplating my navel and A.J. Cohen's entrance into my world. I resisted the urge to walk down to the corner newsstand, buy a newspaper, throw everything away but the Sports section, and check the NFL betting line. Placing another bet was certain to land me a date with Dante's drill press.

I sipped my Jack for a while and tried to figure out the Cohen equation. It didn't add up and, yet, there it was. Thinking about it made my head hurt. I unlocked the top drawer and pulled out the 1911. Switched off the safety, released the magazine, then racked the slide. I caught the ejected round in the air. It was a Federal cartridge, a hollow-point, designed to inflict maximum damage to the human body. But I'd never even fired a live round at a human being. As a Marine or as a cop.

On auto-pilot, I stripped the weapon and cleaned each component, with special attention to the slide. I reassembled it, wiped it clean with a rag, then deposited it back in the drawer. I locked the drawer. I wouldn't typically carry a weapon, though Dante and his crew might get me to reconsider that quaint notion.

The cold line sat silent. None of the fish were biting. I put my feet up on the desk, folded my arms, and closed my eyes.

I awoke sometime later in the afternoon when my office door opened. The mutant filled the doorway. Then a sneering, wannabe tough-guy walked in. They positioned themselves on either side of my desk. The smaller of the two had a gangster stroll, a thin black mustache, and a bad attitude. He stood at the right side of my desk.

"Mr. Dante wants to know your progress, shamus. So spill it."

"I've got a week to report back on progress. You need some crayons to do the arithmetic?"

The sneer on the little guy widened and I watched his hips swivel. As he began his right-footed kick at my legs, I pulled a desk drawer out. His shin slammed into it, full force. He groaned and doubled over, massaging his lower leg.

"Maybe him," I nodded at the behemoth, "but not you."

I looked at the big guy. "Why are you hanging around with Freddie Mercury here?"

The behemoth just looked sheepish and shrugged. I turned back to Mercury, who was still caressing his shin.

"Tell Mr. Dante I've got several leads, which are being actively pursued. I'll call him with an update by the deadline. Now, beat it."

A moment of silence was interrupted by a ring on the cold line. I put my index finger to my lips to silence the audience.

"Eddie's Automotive, Eddie speaking."

The voice on the other end was female and sounded anxious. She wanted to get her truck fixed. I asked her some facts about the owner, address, and best time for a look-see. I recorded it on the list and hung up.

"Now are you starting to get the picture? Is the fog lifting over Marblehead? I'm running a scam on Mr. Dante's targets and they're calling in to me. You're interrupting the process. What would your boss think -- say, should we call and ask him?

The pair looked at each other and then sidled out. As he left, the little guy fixed his idea of a scary-mean sneer on his puss and shot me the evil eye. "You haven't seen the last of me, wiseguy."

"I know. I couldn't get that lucky." The door slammed shut, rattling the glass.
I made a few more calls to the remaining targets on the list. As I finished things up, my main phone line rang. I answered, only to have the caller hang up. Wrong number or, perhaps, someone checking to see where I was. I folded the list and put it in my pocket.

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If you'd like to read the rest, the Kindle version of Hard-Boiled is available for download for a whopping $0.99. Hey, it's almost Christmas. Treat yourself!