by Jack Kilborn
In contrast, if you spot James O. Born, feel free to bring him your paperback ex-library copy of Shock Wave. Born will be thrilled to sign that. He’ll also sign other authors’ books, cocktail napkins, food products, and basically anything but the check.
PANELS – If you’re an author, you need to speak on a panel. But it’s too late to sign up for one now, bonehead. They’ve already printed the programs. If you are on a panel, there’s only one important rule to follow: Make sure you’re on a panel with Barry Eisler. Barry is the one with the gaggle of drooling women following him around, hoping he’ll suddenly keel over so they’ll get to administer CPR. Don’t expect anyone to remember a single thing you’ve said when you’re on a panel with Barry, but at least you’ll be speaking to a packed room.
FOOD – Conference food is usually barely edible, but it’s expensive to compensate. That’s why all of the popular authors usually go out to eat at the trendiest restaurant in the area. It’s very easy to get invited to one of these exciting outings, where industry gossips flows fast and loose, and Barry often takes his shirt off and dances the lambada—the dance of love. If you want to go along, all you have to do is write a NYT Bestseller. If you haven’t done that, then you’re stuck with the hotel food. Be sure to try the potato salad. Is that potato salad? It might be rice pudding. Or lamb. Or a big dish of pus.
ITINERARY – There are many things to see at a conference, and often you’ll be tortured by the dilemma of two good panels happening at the same time, with no clue which to attend. The answer is easy. Attend both of them. Authors love seeing scores of people leave the room while they are talking—they believe they’re being so effective, the crowd is rushing out to buy their book. Try to do this five or six times per hour, and make sure you open and close the doors loudly. Also, take that extra time between panels to talk on your cell phone. If your conversation carries on into the panel room—it’s okay. His Majesty Rollins will forgive you.
WHERE ARE THE AUTHORS? – You’ve been trying desperately to get F. Paul Wilson’s autograph, but he’s been missing in action for two days. Where is he? He’s in the hotel bar. In fact, all of the authors are in the hotel bar. If you want to chat in depth with your favorite thriller writer, arrive early while they’re still coherent. In Paul’s case, I challenge you to figure out when that it.
THE BOOKROOM – This is the most important room in the whole conference. Here, you’ll find all of the books by all of the authors in attendance, expect for the one book you truly want to buy. They’ll be out of that one. But don’t worry, there will be plenty of pristine, unsold, unread copies of Bloody Mary by JA Konrath. Plenty of them.
BARGAIN HUNTER TIP – All the paperbacks in the bookroom are free if you simply rip off the cover beforehand! Don’t be bashful—the booksellers love it!
ETIQUETTE – It’s during one of the delicious buffet-style meals. You’ve got your plate piled high with something that might be meat in gravy, or it might be a cobbler, and you’re searching for a place to eat. While walking around the room, you see an empty chair between Tess Gerritsen and ITW Co-President Gayle Lynds. Do you dare ask to sit there? In a word, NO! They are huge mega bestsellers and that seat belongs to someone a lot more important than you are. Go sit by Jon and Ruth Jordan, who publish this magazine. Always plenty of chairs around them. The surrounding tables are usually free too.
PAID ADVERTISEMENT – Buy the anthology Thriller — Stories To Keep You Up All Night, an ITW collection featuring stories by superstar mega-bestselling authors such as JA Konrath, and others.
ATTENDEES – Conferences are a great place to meet new people who share common interests. They’re also a great place to get abducted by some weirdo and killed with a blowtorch. Wise convention goers avoid talking to anyone else, at all times. Try to keep some kind of weapon on you. They sell $59 letter openers in the hotel gift shop, right next to the $42 tee shirts and the $12 bottled water. If you’re an author, save the receipt—it’s deductible.
Or try carrying around a plate piled high with that stuff they served at lunch—the stuff in the gravy. That way, if someone tries to assault you, you can say, “Stop it! I’m eating!”
AWARDS – At most conferences, the writers like to congratulate themselves by giving each other awards. They usually do this over a nine course meal that takes eleven hours, and a cash bar that charges so much for a Budweiser you’ll need to put it on lay-away. In an effort to distinguish itself from the many other conventions and organizations that do this sort of thing, the ITW decided to do this as well.
The star-studded gala begins at 7 P.M. on Saturday, and ends sometime on Thursday morning. When the event has concluded, be sure to congratulate the lucky winners. It’s also a lot of fun to go up to the losers and congratulate them for winning, and then pretend to be confused when they tell you they’ve actually lost. Do this two or three times to the same loser. They’ll start to find it funny, eventually.
SIGNINGS – There will be many scheduled signing times, where dozens of authors all sit in the same room and greet the hundreds of fans waiting in line for Lee Child. If you’re in Lee’s very long line, remember that to keep things moving quickly you aren’t allowed to say more than two words to him, and he’ll only have time to sign an “L.” A lower case “L.” Lee’s a very busy man.
Lee Goldberg, on the other hand, will have plenty of time to sign his full name. Plenty of time. If you so desire, he’ll even sign it using the time-intensive, hand-lettered art of calligraphy. Don’t be afraid to ask. He has plenty of time.
SUNDAY – This is the day where everyone sleeps in and/or catches their flight home, and panel attendance is traditionally low. By some dramatic conference oversight, 9 A.M. on Sunday is when JA Konrath has his scheduled panel. He’s not sure how this happened. Perhaps he pissed someone off somehow, unlikely as that may sound. But he urges you to attend this panel, on the super-exciting topic of writing for female characters. Never saw that hot-button topic at a convention before, have you? There will be some other high caliber authors on this panel, probably, and JA is bringing some butterscotch schnapps to put in the audience’s coffee. Get your lazy butt out of bed and be there. He’ll be entertaining. Promise.
CONCLUSION – Remember, if you want to have a memorable conference, responsibility rests squarely on one person’s shoulders—the person running the conference. Be sure to complain about every little thing, at any given time, even if it’s something they can’t fix such as, “The carpet is too soft” or “F. Paul Wilson touched me inappropriately” or “I hear voices in my head.” Demand a refund. Threaten to contact an attorney. And above all, remember to have fun.
A humorous take on the many detectives in crime fiction who are able to glance at a crime scene and brilliantly deduce everything that happened. I wrote this for an anthology, but they rejected it. Too Monty Python-ish, they said.
Special Investigations Inspector J. Gerald Oxnard arrives on the scene moments after the crime has been committed. The usual entourage of detectives from the SI Division of New Bastwick’s Police Department accompanies him.
I’m the newly appointed member of this crack investigating team, a reward for my exemplary grades at the Police Academy. It’s just my luck that my first case is a murder.
The portly Inspector kneels beside the cooling body of a man in his late twenties. After several minutes of intense scrutiny, he nods and clears his throat, prompting one of the nearby detectives to help him to his feet.
“He was killed by a lion,” Inspector Oxnard says. “I’m thoroughly convinced.”
The room absorbs the declaration, mulling and silent.
“But…Inspector,” I say, “How did a lion get up to Room 715 of the Vandenburg Hotel without anyone seeing it?”
Inspector Oxnard puts a thin and elegantly manicured hand up to his mustache and rolls the waxy end.
“A disguise,” he says.
“A disguise?” I ask.
“Of course. Perhaps a long overc
oat and some dark glasses. Haven’t you ever seen a lion walk on his hind legs at the circus?”
Several of the detectives standing around sound their approval. One writes it down in his note pad.
“But what about the knife?” I ask.
“The knife?” Inspector Oxnard shoots back, eyes sharp and accusing.
“In the deceased’s back.” I say.
There’s a moment of chin-scratching silence.
“Don’t lions have an opposable thumb?” Detective Jenkins asks.
“No, you’re thinking of monkeys,” Detective Coursey says.
“But isn’t a lion kind of like a big orange monkey with sharp teeth?” Detective Rumstead asks.
There are several nods of agreement. Inspector Oxnard runs a hand through his gray hair, which is slicked back with mint-smelling gel, and wipes his palm on Detective Coursey’s blazer.
“It had to be a lion with a knife,” the Inspector says, “wearing an overcoat and dark glasses. Put out an All Points Bulletin, and check to see if a circus is in town.”
“But Inspector,” I say, “there’s no sign of forced entry. How did the lion get into the room?”
“Simple. He had a key.”
“Why would he have a key?” I ask.
The silence that follows is steeped in apprehension. After a full minute, Inspector Oxnard makes a self-satisfied yelping sound and thrusts his finger skyward in apparent revelation, poking Detective Graves in the eye.
“The deceased was having an affair with the lion! Thus, the lion had a duplicate key!”
Excited applause sweeps through the group. Inspector Oxnard draws on his pipe, but it does little good because the bowl is upside down, the tobacco speckling his shoes.
“Did the lion prefer the company of men?” Detective Struber says.
“Perhaps,” Inspector Oxnard says. “Or perhaps it was…a lioness!”
Several ‘ahs’ are heard. Someone pipes in, “Of course! The lioness is the one that does the hunting!”
“But what about motive?” I ask, my Police Academy training coming out. “What was the motive?”
“Hunger,” the Inspector says. He nods smartly to himself.
“But the body is intact.”
“Excuse me?”
“None of it has been eaten!” I say.
“That makes no difference. Maybe the lioness was scared away before she could finish, or perhaps she simply lost her appetite.”
“I sometimes have terrible gas, and can’t eat at all,” Detective Gilbert says.
Nods of acquiescence all around, and several discussions of gas pains ensue.
“But where are the paw prints?” someone shrieks. “Where is the fur? Where is the spoor? Where is the damn reason that this was done by a lion and not a human being?”
Everyone stares at me, and I realize I’ve been the one shrieking.
Inspector Oxnard frowns and gives me a patronizing pat on the head.
“I know you’re only a novice, so I can understand why you cannot grasp all of the subtle intricacies of a murder investigation. But in time, Detective Cornhead, you’ll begin to catch on.”
“My name is Richards, Inspector. Detective Richards.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Inspector Oxnard slaps my shoulder. “We were all young once.”
Detective Oldendorff runs through the door and trips over the body. He picks himself up, urgency overriding embarrassment.
“There’s been another robbery!” he says. “The First New Bastwick Bank!”
Inspector Oxnard thrusts out his lower lip and nods.
“It sounds like that blind panda has struck again. Come, gentlemen!”
Inspector Oxnard gracefully exits the room, his entourage filing behind him like ducklings. I stare at the body for a moment, and then follow.
This police work is a lot harder than I thought.
A farce, very much in James Thurber territory. I’ve always want to write a straight humor novel, but there isn’t any market for it.
Frank stood beneath the mismatched letters on the marquee and frowned.
ONE NIgHT ONLy, it proclaimed.
That was still one night too many.
Ahead of him in line, another poor dope with an equally unhappy face was being tugged towards the ticket booth by his significant other.
“He’s supposed to be brilliant. Like Marcel Marceau, only he talks,” the wife/girlfriend was saying.
The man was having none of it, and neither was Frank. He stared at his own pack leader, his wife Wendy, mushing him forward on the Forced Culture Iditarod. She noted his frown and hugged his arm.
“Stop moping. It’ll be fun.”
“It’s the playoffs.”
“It’s our anniversary.”
“We have another one next year.”
Wendy gave him The Look, and he backed down. He glanced at his Seiko, wishing he had a watch like Elroy on The Jetsons, with a mini TV screen. It was ten after nine. Halftime would be almost over, and it was the pivotal fifth game in the Eastern Conference Finals, the score tied 48-48.
Frank had managed to catch the other four pivotal games, but this one was really pivotal. If the Bulls won, it meant there would only be seven more pivotal games left in the playoffs.
They reached the ticket counter, and Frank noted several divots in the thick glass. Probably made by some other poor bastard forced here by his wife. Tried to shoot his way out, Frank guessed.
He could relate.
His mind wrapped around the fantasy of pulling out an M-16 and taking hostages to avoid seeing the show, but he lost the image when he noted how many twenty dollar bills his wife was setting in the money tray.
“This costs how much?!?”
“It’s an exclusive engagement,” the cashier said. “Alexandro Mulchahey is only in town for one night.”
“And what does he do for this kind of money? Take the whole audience out for dinner in his Rolls Royce?”
Wendy gave him The Elbow. But Frank wasn’t finished yet.
“Maybe you folks will finally be able to afford some more capital letters for the marquee.”
Now Frank received The Love Handle Pinch; Wendy’s fingernails dug into his flab and twisted. He yelped and his wife tugged him aside.
“You’re embarrassing me,” she said through a forced smile.
“I’m having chest pains. Do you know how many Bulls tickets we could have bought with all that money?”
“If you don’t start pretending to have a good time, I’m going to invite GrandMama over for the weekend.”
He clammed up. Wendy’s grandmother was 160 years old and mean as spit. Her mind had made its grand exit sometime during the Reagan years, and she labored under the delusion that Frank was Rudolph Hess. The last time she visited, GrandMama called the police seven times and demanded they arrest Frank for crimes against humanity.
Plus, she smelled like pee.
Wendy led him into the lobby, and began to point out architecture.
“Ooo, look at the columns.”
“Ooo, look at the vaulted ceiling.”
“Ooo, look at the mosaic tile. Have you ever seen anything so intricate?”
“Yeah, yeah. Beautiful.”
The theater was nice, but it was no Circus Circus. While his wife gaped at the carved railing on the grand staircase, Frank’s attention was captivated by a little boy sitting alone near the coat check.
The boy had a Sony Watchman.
“Did you want a drink, dear?”
Wendy smiled at him. “A glass of wine would be wonderful.”
Frank got in line—a line that would take him right past the little boy and his portable TV. He made sure Wendy was preoccupied staring at a poster before he made his move.
“Hey, kid! Nice TV. Can you turn on the Bulls Game real fast? Channel 9.”
The kid looked up at him, squinting through thick glasses.
“I don’t like the Bulls.”
“Come on,
I just want to check the score.” Frank winked, then fished five bucks out of his pocket. “I’ll give you five bucks.”
“Mom!” The child’s voice cut through the lobby like a siren. “An old fat man wants to steal my TV!”
Frank turned away, shielding his face. The bartender gave him the evil eye.
“Merlot,” Frank said, throwing down the five.
The bartender raised an eyebrow and told him the price of the wine.
“It’s how much?!?”
“Frank, dear…” Wendy was tugging at him as he pulled out more money.
“Hold on, hon. I think I just bought you the last Merlot on earth.” Frank watched the bartender pour. “And it’s in a plastic cup.”
“I want to get a program.”
Frank’s wife led him past the little boy, who held up his Watchman and stuck out his tongue. The little snot was watching the Bulls. Frank squinted but couldn’t make out the score.
They got in line for the programs and Frank momentarily forgot about basketball when he saw the prices.
“For a program?!? Don’t they come free with the show?”
“That’s a Playbill, Frank.”
“What’s the difference?”
The difference, apparently, was forty bucks.
“Do they have a layaway?”
“They have sweatshirts, too, Frank. Would you like one?”
“I don’t want to have to get a second job.”
“Your birthday is coming up.”
Wendy grinned at him. Frank couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. He forked over the money for a program, and then they walked to the mezzanine and an usher took their tickets.
“Row A, seats 14 and 15.”
“Front row center,” his wife beamed. “Happy Anniversary, Frank.”
She kissed his cheek. Then she began pointing out more architecture.
“Look at the balconies.”