Eight Mystery Writers You Should Be Reaing Nowwww

by Michael Guillebeau

  Mayor stared a long time, and I thought for a minute that he might say no this time. But the money clock ran slow here; most drinks were paid for with wadded-up dollar bills and change counted slow from dirty pockets. A pile of crisp fifty dollar bills was rare, except from me. Mayor looked at the calendar, studied it like the football coach on the TV studying his playbook.

  “Let’s say the end of October. Same deal as always: sleep in the back room, sweep up at night, and drink only the cheap stuff, only enough to stay drunk. Eat from the lunch buffet, though you never eat much anyway. Don’t cause trouble, though you never cause trouble. You can be everybody’s buddy, but you can’t buy them drinks ‘cause you got no money and I ain’t fronting you any.

  “End of October, skinny girl and I will wake you up. Last two weeks, no booze, nothing but coffee and the buffet, sober up and go back, jack, do it again. Wheels turning round and round, find some scam or an actual job until you show up here again. Or not. Cash aside, won’t break my heart if someday you get stuck in the real world and don’t make it back here.”

  “Deal,” I said, and shoved the bills across the bar. “Let’s get started.” Mayor reached under the bar and pulled out the plastic tumbler that was my cup and the gallon jug of the cheap stuff he used to top off the expensive-looking bottles behind the bar. No need for the pretense of a nice bottle. He filled the tumbler half full. No need for the pretense of dishing this out one shot at a time either. I looked at him and wished that I was one of those who got the good glasses with the tiny drinks. One of those that came in, had a couple of drinks, and toddled home to a happy wife and kids.

  What bullshit. I picked up the glass and emptied it. I picked up my crushed and sad paper sack and headed to the back.

  “Think I’ll take my luggage to the Presidential Suite. I’ll join you in the Main Ballroom for happy hour after I’ve freshened up.”

  “What do you do back there, anyway?” Mayor turned back to the TV.

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Need any paper?”

  “I don’t write anything down.”

  *****

  The next thing I remembered clearly was Mayor and the skinny girl shaking me awake at the end of October. The coffee cup in front of me looked like a swimming pool I was supposed to drink. Mayor just looked at me like I was another mess at the bar that Mayor had to clean up, but the skinny girl said to Mayor: “You don’t know. I talked to a guy who knew him on the outside. He’s somebody. Used to be somebody, anyway.” I looked at her sweet, wasted face and wanted to thank her. Thank her, and tell her how wrong she was.

  “He’s a cork in a bottle,” said Mayor. “And you’re a professional heartbreak. Don’t waste it on this one.”

  In a flash I remembered something else less clear: the skinny girl, sometime in the middle, holding my head, saying, “Oh Josh baby, oh Josh baby. You could do it for me, Josh baby.” I couldn’t remember if the words came during one of the times she had shown me a kindness, or just one of the times when I was too drunk to get to my room without help. But she said it, I was sure, and now I wondered what to do with it.

  Chapter 3

  I shook the memory of the Western World away and snatched my head back to the here and now in the bank. The robbers finished and told us all to lie down and face away from the door. Then they were gone and the bank was silent until the police crashed in like heroes here to save the day now that the day had walked out the door.

  The detectives gave us all numbers, like we were in a deli waiting for a corned-beef sandwich, but instead we waited our turn to be brought into the conference room to have our formal police interview. My number was nine; they were on five. I was sweating and hoping the sweat wouldn’t dissolve the little bits of glue that held my eyelids up to make me look more Chinese. Once they saw I was phony, or once they pulled my record and checked me out, then everything would all be over.

  I shuffled humbly over to a detective standing around drinking free bank coffee and texting on a cell phone. Tried to tell him about the silent robber, nudge the detective into solving the crime before they pulled my record and talked to me. But no, the detective waved me back. Take your turn, sir, follow procedure, sir; we’re not really interested in solving the crime, sir, just doing our jobs, sir.

  I spotted the manager leaning on one of the desks in the middle of it all. He could have been watching guys mow his lawn for all the interest he showed.

  “Mister—ah, sir?” I said to him.

  “Romanov.”

  Christ, I thought. All I said to him was, “Romanov?”

  The manager smiled at my surprise.

  “Yeah, that Romanov. I run the bank for my father. He owns a lot of stuff.”

  Yeah, I thought, some of it’s even legal. I hadn’t known the Romanovs owned the bank. Now I wished I’d picked a different one.

  Romanov looked up, squinted a minute, then it came to him.

  “Joe Chan?” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” I answered to the name I’d put down on the application at the bank. “Though it’s pronounced ‘yow.’ It’s a traditional Chinese name, taken from my honorable grandfather who first came to this country seeking freedom. I’m honored that you know my name, sir.”

  Romanov shrugged. “Yeah. Dad believes I should know the employees. So I memorize names of new hires to impress him.”

  “Sir,” I said, polite and deferential. “I’ve tried to talk to the detectives, but they seem to be busy. I believe I have information that might be helpful.”

  “So? What do you want me to do? Haul my ass over there; tell them Charlie Chan here has solved the case and saved the day? The bank’s got insurance, son. Let it go.”

  “Sir, did you notice the way the silent robber walked? Now look at the assistant manager.”

  Romanov tried to look bored, but he looked at Robert at the other end of the bank and smiled.

  “You weasel,” he said, watching Robert. “Good for you. Finally grew a pair and stopped begging for it.”

  He turned back to me.

  “Yeah, maybe,” he said. “Cops already said they got one witness outside the bank. The witness saw a tall guy come out alone. Not wearing a white suit. Not carrying a bag. So they’re looking inside already. Probably got him in their sights right now. I’ll go tell them for you; you get the credit. You got good eyes.”

  A detective came out of the interview room and called out for number eight and I knew my time below the radar was running out. Romanov waved the detective over, snapping his fingers like he wanted another glass of water. I grabbed Romanov’s sleeve but Romanov shook me off.

  “Sir, it might be better to tell them you thought of this yourself,” I said, “and leave me out.”

  The detective walked over and stood waiting for orders, knew he couldn’t offend the manager. Didn’t like being ordered around either, so he stood there, refusing to be the first to talk.

  Romanov talked to the detective, not taking his eyes off me while he did. “Just wanted to know how the investigation’s going.”

  The detective tried to smile politely but his mouth tightened into a narrow line. This rich jerk called him over for a personal status report?

  “You’ll know as soon as we do, sir.” He drew “sir” out to about five syllables, and left.

  “So.” Romanov turned back to me. “You work in a bank where there’s just been a robbery, but you want to stay below the cop’s radar?”

  I saw the detective looking for another witness, skipping number eight and coming for me. I saw Romanov looking at me and I needed a story and needed it right now.

  “Yes, sir. I’m really a private investigator, sir, and don’t need to attract the attention of the police. I only took this job because I need the money.”

  “Got a license you can show me?”

  “No, sir, I’m kind of unofficial. That’s why I’d prefer to stay anonymous.”

  “Yeah, I bet. Unlicensed private detective who can’t pay the bills,
and is afraid of the cops. Good luck with that. I think we’ll just let the police do their job.” He turned away and said back over his shoulder, “Good eye, just the same.”

  Nervous, screwed, no help anywhere. The detective was looking for me; somebody else in another room was pulling my application. I thought about running, a calculated risk sure to draw attention. Maybe if I could get through the door, maybe even get to another city, find another bar, maybe I could start over. It was more than I could handle just thinking about it.

  Bang. There was an explosion in the assistant manager’s office. The texting detective leaning in the office door looked in and saw red dye everywhere and a hole in the ceiling. He pulled his gun but there’s no threat there, no one in the office, just an answer or the start of an answer anyway. The dye pack has gone off finally, stashed in the ceiling with the money and clothes and guns. Robert made a break for the door but everyone was on edge now and they wrestled him to the ground. Maybe running wasn’t such a good idea.

  They stopped bringing in witnesses. The detectives had an easy job now, and I had an easy out. Stay quiet and they’ll send people home. Call in tomorrow too traumatized to come back to work. May even make some money here. I eased towards the door.

  “Charlie Chan?” Romanov came up behind me. I thought about correcting him but decided, no, get this over with fast.

  “Thinking about what you said.”

  I stared at him with a polite look on my face and my eyelids starting to sag and my feet already pointed to the door.

  “You did pretty good back there. My family could use a detective, an unlicensed detective, do jobs other people can’t.”

  The door looked good now. I needed to fail this job interview.

  “What you charge?” asked Romanov.

  “Five hundred dollars a day, plus expenses.” There, that ought to do it. I had seen that on Mayor’s TV, thought it was absurd. It sounded even more like a joke when it came out of my mouth. No straight citizen would pay that. But Romanov just looked back like I’d told him the price of a hamburger.

  “Sounds about right. Look, my brother’s got a twenty-three-year-old daughter who disappeared three days ago. Cops aren’t interested, say she probably just ran off. Plus they don’t like my brother too much. Or the rest of us Romanovs, for that matter. So my brother’s got a couple of his guys looking into it, but they’re bozos, plus they’re not going to tell him anything he doesn’t want to hear because they’re afraid they’ll get hurt cause that’s what my brother does for my dad, hurts people.

  “Come up with an address for her by the end of the week, and I’ll pay your five hundred a day. Actually get my niece back home, and I’ll double it.”

  He poked a business card at me.

  “Deal with my brother’s wife; it’ll be better for you.” He started to walk away and then came back. He smiled at me, a big Chamber of Commerce smile between partners.

  “Enjoy your new job. Do a good job and there’ll be more,” he said.

  Romanov stepped into me, nose to nose, and lowered his voice to a growl.

  “Course, you don’t do a good job for us, know this: we don’t forget, and we don’t forgive. My brother will come for you.”

  Interview

  Kathleen Cosgrove: I first met Michael in 2014 at Killer Nashville when we shared a panel on Oddball Characters. Never, since the combining of bacon and chocolate in a turkey, has the universe designed anything so chaotically perfect. If you haven’t read him yet, then stop not reading him. Michael’s ability to bring complex and off beat characters to life in such a seemingly effortless way, and to weave them into a story you can’t put down, is a gift you should no longer deny yourself.

  KC: We’ve tried to put together a wide variety of stories in this collection. What kind of reader should give your stuff a shot?

  MG: I grew up on John McDonald’s Travis McGee and Robert Parker’s Spencer and anything by Donald Westlake or Elmore Leonard or Ray Bradbury. I tend to write mystery and crime because they stress characters, and not because I’m fascinated by solving complicated murders or coming up with innovative ways to kill people.

  I tend to feel at home only with the oddballs of the world, and with the oddball view of life. Hafiz wrote about the beautiful, rowdy prisoners of life trying desperately to break out of their cages. If a character doesn’t fit that description by the second or third chapter, I tend to get bored with them and not finish writing their books. Shows them.

  I also like funny and like characters who are cynical and sarcastic. Josh Whoever is probably my funniest book, with A Study in Detail being a more gentle funny and Play Nice generally more tough than funny.

  A warning: I like digressions. I write—and read—for fun. If I’m writing a great bunny rabbit scene (no, I don’t have any of those) and I get fascinated with life in Kathmandu, well, my bunnies need to get ready to travel.

  I also agree with T.S. Elliot (yes, that Elliot) that every mystery must be quest for the Holy Grail. Whether the characters know it or not.

  KC: Tell us a little about how your writing has evolved?

  MG: Growing up, I was the kid in the back of the room reading. I read everything in every genre. At different times, I got obsessed with Salinger, Bradbury, Ayn Rand (sorry, but it’s true), Vonnegut and Ibsen.

  Well, I read everything but mystery. Mysteries just seemed like puzzles, and not stories.

  Then one day someone gave me a book about a non-detective who lived on a houseboat he’d won in a card game. I read every Travis McGee story written, at least three times. I was lucky enough to start the series while John McDonald was still alive. When I finished one of his books, I’d often read it over and over until the next one came out. Even now, if I wake up feeling lonely at 3 am, Travis and Meyer are the friends I turn to.

  McGee led me to Spencer, and then Elmore Leonard and Donald Westlake and…

  Oh, you wanted to know about my writing? Well, when I was in my twenties (I’m in my sixties now) I wanted to be a great writer so I wrote great important stories. I won some contests, got some praise, but made almost no money. As great as my stories undoubtedly were, no one—including me—really wanted to pay to read them. I had to give it up.

  After forty or so years of writing software for NASA and DoD programs, I woke up one day with a story that I wanted to read that hadn’t been written. So I wrote it. It led to another. In that first year, I wrote fifty stories, and sold ten.

  One story kept bugging me after I’d published it. The story I’d written was about a guy who lived in the broom closet of a bar, hiding from a world that thought he was a hero when he knew he wasn’t. In the process of running a small scam for beer money, he had to solve a bank robbery to protect his own identity so he could go back to the bar. The twist was that the bank was run by the Russian mob, who were impressed enough to hire him to find a missing relative. Find her, they said, and we’ll make you rich and famous (not something he wanted). Don’t, and we’ll make you dead (even less so).

  So the story ended there and the editors were happy enough to send me a (very small) check. But all the unanswered questions kept bugging me until it turned into my first book, Josh Whoever. Five Star Mysteries published the book and Library Journal named it a Mystery Debut of the Month.

  And then Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine published a story I wrote about a missing artist. And that turned into my second book, A Study in Detail.

  And so it goes (bonus question: What author from the sixties (and more) peppered his books with that phrase? If you don’t know, you’re in for a treat when you discover him.)

  KC: What do you want the world of your stories to feel like? Sad? Warm? Funny? Dark?

  MG: I think the key word here is “feel.” I’m not much on description (if you want great description, read James Lee Burke. The man can make a thunderstorm seem like an epic.) I’m more interested in how the world feels to my characters. I like damaged characters who often try to cover that through h
umor.

  I think a lot of my stuff comes from an ingrained belief that life is a struggle between the world and the individual. The world is generally corrupt, even when it tries to be honest (think heavy-handed laws and religions and bureaucracies.) Individuals are often at their most noble when they think they’ve given up the struggle and are living on cynicism alone.

  So I guess, at best, my world feels like a struggle, and a struggle where the only weapons we can rely on are bad jokes and an occasional magic, fragile connection to someone who’s struggling with us.

  I’d never thought about it till now, but I guess that’s one thread that runs through all my stuff: We all feel like we’re struggling alone, and that our struggle is meaningless and doomed. I want to hint to my readers that the world is full of other beautiful, rowdy prisoners fighting the good fight in the same loneliness that you are. And laughing about it.

  KC: Which writers inspire you? Which writers do you think your books are like? Who do you wish they were like?

  MG: Gosh, after dropping so many names on the last question, I’m not sure there are any left. I’ve actively studied Elmore Leonard and Carl Hiaasen to try to learn from them. One thing that I believe strongly is that each of these writers (and Bradbury, and Westlake and…) have the courage to follow the story, even if that means ignoring the plot.

  Who are my stories like? I don’t think my stories are even like each other. Smart writers establish a brand, so you know what you’re getting when you buy, say, a Michael Connelly book. I’ve never been able to do that. A reviewer said Josh Whoever was like Leonard and Hiaasen. A Study in Detail, on the other hand, is almost romantic suspense. My third book, Play Nice, is kind of like an adult Noir Nancy Drew. Someday I’ll figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

  Who do I wish they were like? Donald Westlake. Or Leonard.