So Johnny Fizz was dead and now it was my problem.
Not because I was some hotshot Austin cop working the 6th Street district, wrestling with drunken punks the way Stevie Ray had wrestled with that fire-breathing Strat. No, it was my problem because I’d played in a band with Johnny for years, and I knew at least a hundred people who wanted to see him with his head blown off . . .
It was full of backpackers, Udaipur: dreadlocked, slightly malodorous waifs and strays from the Western world, decked out in worn sandals and ill-fitting local garb, gathered from their travels around Asia . . .
Delhi Noir contributor Uday Prakash is Jan Michalski Prize Finalist for his book, The Walls of Delhi
The night before Christmas 1937, the taxi dancer calling herself DeLyria was murdered in the bath of a luxury, park-view apartment . . .
Giselle slid in her green contact lenses before slipping out the back door and tottering in her stilettos across the parking lot to Chief’s car. When she opened the passenger door, she was greeted with the smoke of his nasty cigarette and a bouquet of blue hydrangeas. “For me?” She picked them up off the seat, eased into their place, and leaned over to plant a kiss on Chief’s cheek . . .
Housing Works Bookstore & Café assistant store manager Merril Speck approached our booth at BEA with a refreshing counterpoint to the hours of hyper-commercial meetings, greetings, queries, and conversations for which the trade show is known. His idea for an International Crime Book Group—to help engage the non-profit’s clients while securing contributions from publishers—stood out from the mundane busyness with which we were otherwise engaged. We agreed to contribute (our Venice Noir is on the group’s docket), and, in service to our International Crime Month theme, asked him to tell us more about himself, Housing Works, and the International Crime Book Group. We’re pleased to find his writing style just a little bit noir.
Miss Jo ladled an extra spoonful of golden brown stew over the fat, long dumplings in the bowl before sliding it across the counter to George. His mouth watered at the sight of the red crab legs glistening in the curry. “You fix me well nice,” he said, beaming at the food.
Miss Jo beamed back at him. Her gold tooth with its tiny diamond winked at him from between her full, brown lips. “You know you does get it special,” she said. She leaned her heavy, middle-aged bust over the counter. “I go get my special later?” she whispered . . .
Allison sits in the breakfast room and watches the cardinal pair, male and female, dipping in and out of the holly bushes where they make their home. She avoids this room in the morning—too much sun. But it’s tolerable starting from early afternoon, which it now is, when she can drink her tea and look out the tall windows and watch the shadows sit neatly under the trees like coasters.
Her husband Britt is upstairs in the green guest room. Since winter, when he fell in with a new group of friends, he’s been tumbling into bed at all hours, reeking of vodka and smoke and sweat. A month ago she asked him to use a guest room on nights he goes out, and mostly he remembers. For some reason he eschews the gray one with the nautical theme and king-sized bed in favor of the mint-green one with the Colefax chinoiserie print that swathes the walls, draperies, armchair, and dainty canopy bed . . .