KC: Tell me about one of your characters.
MG: Stories are fun when the characters take over. I think that’s true for readers, and it’s sure as hell true for writing.
When I was writing my first book, Josh Whoever, I carefully outlined every chapter before I started. In about the third chapter, I had a woman who had one line. Didn’t even have a name. But she refused to leave the stage, took over, and made everything better. After I finished the book, I realized that a woman like that had been living in my house for thirty years—and making everything better for me.
But that first day, I didn’t make that connection. All I knew was that I had to have Marci (who now had a name.) So that afternoon, I redid the outline.
And that was how my writing day went for the rest of the book. Every afternoon, I’d rewrite the outline. Every morning, Josh and Marci would cheerfully rip the outline up and march off in their own direction.
But I got even with Marci.
CHRIS KNOPF
Chris has been writing himself out of trouble since he talked a teacher into accepting a short story in lieu of an essay, and an essay in lieu of a multiple choice exam. A college professor wrote a comment on a friend’s paper that would have also applied to him: “You write well, which is good because you have very little command of the subject matter.”
To support his fiction habit he started working for PR firms. That evolved into a career as an advertising copywriter and later a creative director at Mintz + Hoke, a marketing communications agency in Avon, CT, where he is now CEO.
His command of subject matter continues to be thin, but now more broadly based, having written technical papers for chemical engineering and bioscience companies, TV commercials for construction products, tire cleaners, banks and hospitals, radio spots for car dealers, yogurt and popsicles, and print ads for jet engines, medical insurance, valves, liquid chromatography, missiles, bicycles and casinos. To name a few.
His preferred environment involves a lot of saltwater, having summered as a youth on the Jersey Shore. He lives with his wife Mary Farrell in Connecticut and Southampton, NY, where he sets sail on the Little Peconic Bay.
SHORT STORY
The Best Is Yet To Come
When the boys got together at the Palatine Restaurant every month, the talk invariably went from comparing the greatest ballplayers of the Brooklyn Dodgers era to the current Yankees’ lineup, to deciding which movie stars of today could have played Anita Ekberg’s part in La Dolce Vita, to assessing the relative capabilities of past and present contract killers.
They didn’t say the words contract killer, of course – or hitman, or trigger man – though discretion wasn’t needed, given the Palatine’s bug-free, wise-guy friendly environment.
“Joey Peaches, he’s a clever son-of-a-bitch,” said Tony “Two Step.” “Does the close-in. Neat with the shiv.”
“They say he’s a surgeon,” said Billy Panzano, aka Bogart. “You know, an actual doctor. Knows exactly where to slice and dice.”
“Seems like a strange application of his professional skills.”
“Maybe the surgeon business ain’t so hot these days.”
The Palatine was suitably dim and overstuffed with comfortable tables and chairs, with waiters in white coats and black bow ties and a piano player maintaining a discreet music bed under the murmur of voices and clinking tableware.
The boys, Two Step and Bogart, had been eating there for over twenty years, believing the owner’s claim to the only authentic Italian cuisine in Brooklyn, even though neither of them had ever been past Connecticut much less anywhere in Europe.
“I hear some Ruskie name of Petrov is comin’ on strong,” said Bogart.
The boys passed anxious looks across the table.
“You believe that?” Two Step asked.
“What’s not to believe?” said Bogart. “Got his signature on a half dozen jobs just this year.”
“You seen him do any of that?” Two Step asked.
Bogart allowed as how he hadn’t.
“Nobody’s seen him,” he said.
“That’s right,” said Two Step. “Could be a bunch of different guys all pretending to be Petrov. Knowin’ the Ruskies, they probably want to spread the fun around.”
Though there was nothing funny about the Russian mob, which a look at the set of the boys’ expressions would quickly confirm. Ever since the Italians lost their monopoly over the illicit trades of Greater New York, a lot of the joy had gone out of the business of narcotics, loan sharking, extortion and grand larceny, replaced by the creeping realization that their better days were all in the rearview mirror.
And most of the victims of Petrov’s recent string of executions had an Italian last name.
“To hell with the Ruskies,” said Two Step.
They toasted to that.
Despite being too far away to hear the conversation, and thus unaware of his affect, the piano player helped lift their spirits by launching into an ornate rendering of New York, New York. This prompted another toast and a snap of Two Step’s fingers at the waiter to bring over another bottle of wine.
Soon after, the chef came out from the kitchen to ask how the pair liked the Spaghetti Bolognese. Both agreed it was prepared just the way mama would have done it, the ultimate compliment. The chef, flushed with modest self-satisfaction, shook their hands, saying grazie, though not exactly the way mama would have said it.
The piano player shifted into That’s Amore, demonstrating again his instinctive sensitivity to the emotional climate of the occasion. The boys lifted their wine glasses to him in appreciation.
“We haven’t talked about Louie Crackers,” said Two Step, “the premier artist of all time.”
Fond associations crossed their faces.
“Nobody had more style than Louie,” said Bogart. “Come off a job, sit down to dinner right here in the Palatine, in a nice suit and tie. Fresh as a daisy.”
“Got pretty quick service,” said Two Step, getting a good laugh out of his associate.
“The special’s on the house tonight, Mr. Crackers,” said Bogart, producing even bigger laughs.
Some of the other patrons, drawn involuntarily to the sudden burst of gaiety, looked over at the boys’ table, then quickly redirected their attention to their drinks and meals.
“Too bad about Louie’s sudden exit from the living,” said Two Step, dampening the tone if not the volume of their conversation.
“I saw him. That suit didn’t look so great no more,” said Bogart.
“No, listen,” said Two Step. “Style is part of the point here. What’s lacking today in our society is style. A manner of doing things. An attitude. What do them new people know?”
“Bupkis. You gotta have some knowledge about things to have style, am I right? If you don’t know nothing, how you gonna know how to act?”
This supposition brought mutual agreement. Commentary ran to the sadly uneducated tide of Eastern European immigrants who had populated the ragged neighborhoods left behind by the Italians and Jews in Brooklyn, who’d made something of themselves and moved on up and out to places like Nassau County and the Upper East Side. Often leaving behind the same trades that had enriched the families of Two Step and Bogart.
On cue, the piano player slid into The Way You Look Tonight, causing Bogart to fix the knot of his tie with a theatrical flourish, a grin emphasizing the overbite that gave him his nickname.
“This is what I’m saying,” Two Step went on. “You can’t express a sense of style if you don’t have a presence in the world. We all knew Louie. You’d recognize him on the street. This Petrov, who the hell is he? Tell me that?”
Bogart looked down at his Bolognese.
“No idea. Where’s the professional pride?”
“Where’re the balls, is what I’m thinkin’,” said Two Step. “Afraid to show his face.”
This was a new idea, that provoked a fresh line of commentary.
“You got something
there,” said Bogart. “This new style is all sneakin’ and peekin’, slippin’ around corners in the middle of the night.”
“Hiding among civilians.”
The gentle waltzing rhythm of Somewhere My Love drifted over from the piano. The boys’ pondered the significance.
“Somewhere My Love?” asked Bogart.
“Don’t know the lyrics.”
“It’s about telling this broad you’ll catch up with her some other time,” said Bogart. “You know, ‘later babe,’”
“Hasta la vista, baby?”
“That’s Spanish. Then he’d be playing La Bamba,” said Bogart, laughing more or less alone at his own joke. Though the reference gave rise to a discussion about New York’s Latino population, with some appreciation for the cultural differences among the various nationalities.
“You can’t be comparin’ your standard Dominican with your standard Columbian,” said Two Step. “And Cuban. They got this whole other thing.”
“My sister married a Cuban,” said Bogart. “Friggin’ accountant. But okay, you know? Good to my sister and the kids.”
“I know this Puerto Rican guy whose family’s been here longer than mine. Can’t speak a word of Spanish.”
“Like your Italian?” Bogart asked.
“Hey, fangul,” said Two Step. “How’s that Italian for you?”
A young woman bussing tables caused further talk to hush while she cleared their dinner plates. Each of the boys politely moved to the side to give her room, allowing a chance to appraise her comely figure. Eye glances confirmed the consensus that she was worth the look.
When the woman left, Two Step said, “You think Francine would mind if I brought that one home with me?”
“Course not. Might like the domestic help.”
While the boys took the next moment to visualize the impossible, the piano player provided The Girl From Ipanema as a soundtrack.
“Not exactly La Bamba,” said Two Step.
“That’s Bossa Nova,” said Bogart. “It ain’t the same thing.”
“I didn’t know we had a professor of music in our midst.”
Bogart saluted his colleague and turned his attention to the dessert menu that the waiter had carefully placed on the table. Two Step rubbed his belly, as if assessing current capacity. Then he ordered a bottle of Grappa and glasses for two. When the drink was poured, they prepared for a toast.
“To style,” said Two Step.
“May it triumph over the unstyled,” said Bogart, leading to the first of several downed glasses of Grappa.
While the feelings at the table had moved toward brash booziness, the piano player, nearly unnoticed, had begun a medley of Tchaikovsky, beginning with Opus 20 from Swan Lake, the moodiness of which seemed to conflict with the boys’ general humor. They sat quietly and listened.
“So, Bogart,” said Two Step, “what the hell’s that?”
“I think it’s ballet,” he said.
“Hate all that. Bunch of fairies jumpin’ around the stage.”
As if sensing some mild discord, the maître d’ ghosted up to the table and asked if the gentlemen would care for after-dinner coffee, or perhaps another bottle of Grappa. Two Step said all-the-above, but to make his coffee an espresso. The other concurred on both counts.
The maître d’ bowed and made his retreat, though Two Step called him back.
“Do me a favor and tell the piano player to pep it up a little,” he said. “The classical stuff is rainin’ on the party.”
The maître d’ nodded and headed for the piano. Neither at the table bothered to look, since they knew what would come next. Which in short order it did, in the form of The Best Is Yet To Come.
“Now you’re talkin’,” said Two Step. “Old Blue Eyes.”
More toasts followed when the fresh bottle of Grappa arrived.
“Actually, it was Tony Bennett’s song, not that anybody’s counting,” said Bogart.
“’Nother goomba, all that matters,” said Two Step.
Thus the ambience was restored while the espresso and Grappa disappeared along with extravagant selections from the dessert tray, supplemented by special orders not seen on the menu. Once upon a time, the next round would have been cigars, but even the Palatine had been forced to bend to New York State’s strict smoking ban.
Somewhere along the way, the music shifted yet again, with a nearly sub-audible delivery of Speak Softly, Love.
“Oh, no,” said Two Step. “You’re kidding me.”
“Ain’t that The Godfather song?” Bogart said, then started to laugh before saying, “I think he’s trying to pay a compliment.”
Both grinned at that, though Two Step got serious again.
“Okay, but he’s gotta know this is not done in the Palatine Restaurant,” he said.
Both agreed, though the accumulated effects of the meal had softened the force of their disapproval. Two Step snapped his fingers again at their waiter.
The man stood by the table while Two Step wrote something on a napkin. He told the waiter to bring it over to the piano player, then sat back to finish off his espresso.
“What’d you say?” Bogart finally asked, after some suspense had built up at the table.
Two Step looked a little reluctant, but then said, “That song don’t get played in here.” Then he added, “And no more of that twinkle-toes crap.”
Laughter bubbled between the two as Bogart pulled back to take some pressure off his inflated stomach. Two Step took notice and gave a little burp, which got another rise out of his friend.
The piano player’s next song verified that the message had been delivered, though the selection was again a little mystifying, if not annoying.
“Mack the Knife?” asked Bogart. “What’s up with this guy?”
The waiter approached with a folded napkin in his hand, which he gave to Two Step.
“What the hell’s this?” he asked.
“A response from the piano player to your request, sir,” said the waiter.
Two Step opened it up on the table.
Despite the breach of manners, the waiter couldn’t resist reading the note over Two Step’s shoulder. Not that Two Step noticed the affront, given what the note said, which took a few moments to completely absorb.
“Just need the music you boys want played at your funerals. Sincerely, Petrov.”
EXCERPT
Cop Job
"Cop Job delivers not only smart and sassy characters, but a nifty narrative full of intriguing plot complications having to do with confidential informants and home town corruption. A Sam Acquillo novel is always more than well-wrought plot and character. Knopf has a fine eye for the quiet beauty of the East End, and he knows how to fashion a theme about the quirks of human nature that also allows for some timely, trenchant social criticism." –Joan Baum, NPR
Chapter One
I got there just in time to see the crane hoist Alfie Aldergreen out of Hawk Pond. He was still strapped in his motorized wheelchair. Grey green saltwater poured off his rigid body and cascaded over the chair’s tubular chrome framing. His head was twisted back and his eyes were closed, thank God, though his tongue, a swollen purple mass, protruded through his lips, which were partly chewed away.
Dead bodies are never pretty.
The scene was lit like a night game at Yankee Stadium. Cops in uniforms and political people from the town milled around. Few had official functions to perform, but all tried hard to look as if they did. I saw Joe Sullivan in the middle of it all, a Southampton Town detective upon whose broad shoulders the burden of sorting through this dreary affair had already settled.
I was called there by Jackie Swaitkowski, a lawyer who worked for a philanthropic law firm specializing in hard-luck cases like Alfie’s. I saw her standing near the crane, wearing a summer suit with a hem an inch or two above the entirely professional, clutching herself around the middle in a rigid pose of shock and sorrow.
When I tried to go to her, a pat
rol cop stopped me by sticking the butt end of a nightstick in my chest.
“Step back,” he said “This is a secured area.”
I looked down at the stick.
“I’m here with Attorney Swaitkowski,” I said.
I looked over his shoulder and the cop followed my gaze. As luck would have it, Joe Sullivan and Jackie were deep in conversation. The cop dropped the stick and I brushed by, making a little more body contact than was probably necessary.
“Oh, Sam,” said Jackie, as I approached.
I let her put her arms around me, and even gave her a slight squeeze. Sullivan just stood there and waited.
“What the hell happened?” I asked him.
“Your friend Hodges was fishing off the breakwater. When the tide went out, he saw the top of Alfie’s head. It was almost sunset before he realized what it was.”
“Any ideas?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “Jackie?”
She looked down at the ground and shook her head.
“He’s been very agitated lately. Paranoid. More than usual,” she said, looking up at me.
We were all aware of Alfie’s mood swings. A regular presence along Main Street in Southampton Village, year-round, Alfie was known to have conversations with himself, or people no one else could see. He was usually happily engaged, often playing a very credible alto saxophone, though sometimes his face was lit with fear, and he’d stop passersby to warn them of impending catastrophe.
I’d spent a fair amount of time with the guy, sitting next to his chair on a park bench drinking coffee I’d bought for the two of us. One time I had to talk down an angry shopkeeper who thought Alfie had stolen some of her merchandise, when in fact one of his invisible companions had made it a gift. That’s when I introduced him to Jackie, whose free legal services became a regular necessity.
“Not like suicidal or anything?” I asked.
Jackie looked around the area where we stood – a parking lot serving a boat launch adjacent to the harbor’s breakwater.
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