This Week’s Monologue of Menace: Tony’s Wake up Call.

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Wake up, Tony.

You hear that sound? That’s the safety lock being pulled back on my Semi-automatic Glock nineteen, perfect fit in my tiny hand. Feels nice.

Remember the time we spent at the gun range? You teaching me the basics. Me scared like a kitten visiting a lion’s den. But I’m doing fine today. No tremble in my hands. No sweating.

What were the big three again?

One: treat every gun as if it were loaded. Don’t worry, this one is.

Two: gun always pointed in a safe direction. In this case that means away from me.

Three: Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Oh, I’m ready.

And four: Don’t point at anything you’re not willing to destroy.

And then there’s the proper stance: elbow slightly bent, leaned forward to absorb the weapon’s recoil. I’m ready, motherfucker. Are you?

Remember how spooked I was when you bought me the gun for my birthday. Too scared to touch it. You told me I needed it, living in this shitty neighborhood. Never know who’s going to be lurking in the bushes late at night, watching, waiting. You never know what kind of harm some creep like that can do if you’re not ready for him.

But now I’m ready. Because now I know the creeps don’t only come with crowbars and handmade shivs. Sometimes they come with big smiles and shitty lies that almost make sense. And sometimes they get busted coming back from office parties that didn’t happen. Because they forget their cell phones at home. Wake up, Tony. I really need to empty a few rounds in your skull. But I’m waiting until you’re wide-awake because I need you to know why.

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Read this piece with your ears

The transition from journalist to crime novelist

Bruce DeSilva's Rogue Island

dread lineA lot of people think that daily journalism must be a great training ground for novelists. I tell them that, for the most part, it is not.

As someone who worked as a news reporter and editor for forty years before writing crime novels, I was never comfortable with the bad writing habits and journalistic traditions that make most news writing unnecessarily turgid and tedious. In fact, I spent my career at The Providence Journal, The Hartford Courant and The Associated Press rebelling against those traditions and the editors who enforce them.

I wanted to write about real flesh-and-blood characters, but most news stories are populated by stick figures identified by little more than name, age and job title. I wanted to set my stories in real places, but most news stories use street addresses in lieu of a sense of place. I wanted to write yarns with beginnings…

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This Week’s Monologue of Menace: How I Got the Scar (excerpt from Kiss the Ladies Goodnight)

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In this excerpt from Kiss the Ladies Goodnight, Legato’s toughness gets tested by a young suburban punk named Tolliver who’s not too eager to answer questions. “All right, tough guy,” Tolliver said. “Tell me about the worst beating you’ve ever taken.”

Legato sat in front of the guy, then pointed to a small scar under his left eye. “How about I tell you about this. See the scar?”

Tolliver smirked. “Yeah, I see that. What, you get that from some mugger or maybe the bully from Brooklyn high school?”

Legato shook his head. “When I was a kid, there was this guy on the block, never knew his real name but they called him Tweaks. Every block had one. Dude used to sniff glue day and night, lived for the shit, dug through dumpsters to find an extra tube. That guy. The neighborhood joke, everybody laughed at his sorry ass – the way he’d twitch and stutter. The way he’d get lost in mid-conversation if you asked him how he was doing.

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“Then he moved up to heroin and the shit wasn’t funny anymore. He started robbing people, hiding in alleyways with a tire iron. He’d be in and out of prison and some days you’d see him with bloodstains on his collar that he wouldn’t explain.

“One day I come home from school, hearing screams in the hallway as I walk up – Mama’s screams. When I get there, Tweaks is there, this baseball bat in his hand and Mama’s laying on the floor, arms up, bracing for a swing. Then he looks up, staring at me, kind of laughing, but it’s hard to tell with Tweaks. He raises the bat over Mama, says to me, ‘You better talk some sense to your mother. You hear me? I need money and this is not going to get it!’ He shows me this tiny wad of cash. He stares into Mama’s eyes. ‘Come on, lady! You got more than that!’ Mama was shaking, kept whimpering ‘no’ over and over. She’s looking at me, she’s looking back at Tweaks and I’m scared. Daddy was gone by then, no man in the house. So Mama had a gun, kept it hidden under the bathroom sink. I scampered away, straight to the bathroom, hoping I could get back before it was too late. I was going to shoot this guy, right between the eyes if I had to. I was going put down Tweaks before he put Mama down.

“But then I got back into the living room, that revolver shaking in my hand like an egg timer. I aimed it at his chest, but there’s something about holding a gun and aiming it at somebody. Tweaks started laughing, then came after me with his hand out. He may have been out of his mind, but he knew I didn’t have the heart. I was only twelve, could barely pee straight. And I was talking about shooting somebody? I tried to take aim at his chest again, but I lost my nerve. He turned around, raised his bat and started to swing for Mama’s head. And I fired three shots, two went through his ribcage, sent him to the carpet, shaking like a marlin somebody plucked from the river. The third shot? It went into a mirror off to my left side. A splinter came back and got me just under the eye.” He pointed to the scar again.

The punk said nothing.

“You ready to cooperate with me, Tolliver?”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, back erect now, almost respectfully. No more jokes.

This Week’s Menacing Monologue: Daddy’s Little Girl

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This Week, Rochelle has a few words for Daddy’s new girlfriend.

 

Here’s the thing. You’re not the first. It started with Linda, Dad’s first “friend” after the divorce. She was nice, kind of pretty. But not his type. The chemistry between them was off, a little awkward. She was kind of bookish, a little too nerdy for Dad.
 
Then came Stella. Tall redhead, good cook, really into fitness. But here’s the thing with Dad: he’s not a fitness kind of guy. And never will be. Nice try, Stella, but no.
 
Next was Sarah. Sweet lady, but the whole Wiccan thing? I don’t think so.
Janine was a wild ride — big drinker, motorcycle, too many tattoos. Dad thought it could work anyway. It did for a weekend. But Dad needed stability. And Janine needed a team of therapists. So their splitting up was the best for everybody.
 
Then we get to Julie.
 
I warned him. I told him the thing with Julie would end the wrong way. That things would go sour and she would leave him all broken and sad. He didn’t listen.
 
“Hey, who’s the grown-up, here?” he’d say. And he’d laugh and laugh until everything crashed into an ugly mess just like I said it would.
 
God, he was impossible that week. I’d never seen Dad like that before. Weak and helpless, sliced up into a million different pieces that would never be Dad again. What Julie did was beyond crappy. And I’m sure you’d never repeat it.
 
But if you ever did, here’s the thing: I will hurt you. I’m serious. I know I look small and seem innocent. But I will take my aluminum bat and I will track you down and I will find you. And I don’t care if I have to scale your backyard fence and slip into your bedroom window at two am. I will get you. I will wake you up to the worst beating you’ve ever had.
 
I will hit you and hit you and hit you until you are bruised and bloody and maybe even choking on your own teeth. And I swear you will regret the second you ever thought it was a good idea to break my Dad’s heart.

 

Oh, another thing: Would it be okay if I called you Mom?