Saturday, August 9, 2014

How I Came To Write ONE TRUE SENTENCE



ONE TRUE SENTENCE: Paperback/eBook

FOREVER'S JUST PRETEND: Paperback/eBook

TOROS & TORSOS: Paperback/eBook

THE GREAT PRETENDER: Paperback/eBook

ROLL THE CREDITS: Paperback/eBook

The cover for the new
Betimes Books' release of
ONE TRUE SENTENCE.
In terms of original publication sequence, ONE TRUE SENTENCE, is the fourth in my series centered on a crime novelist and sometimes screenwriter named Hector Lassiter. Chronologically, however, it is the first — depicting Hector as a young writer searching for his voice.

Hector first appeared in long form in my debut novel HEAD GAMES (2007). I thought I’d written a standalone novel. I next moved onto a contemporary thriller about illegal immigration eventually published as EL GAVILAN (2011).

But then I soon revisited Hector for a novel called TOROS & TORSOS.

At the time that T&T was freshly completed, HEAD GAMES wasn’t yet published, wasn’t even sold — dwelling in a kind of limbo and stubbornly unread by its eventual first publisher Ben LeRoy.

Despite that fact, when the manuscript for Lassiter #2 was completed, my then-agent and I agreed T&T, written in a pulp-frenzy style of less than three months, represented a kind of artistic corner-turning and leap forward: it demanded a follow up novel with Hector that would build on the mood and dark literary and metafictional undertow established in T&T.

Looking for ideas, I took a week and dusted off a manuscript about the suicide of Ernest Hemingway I was then calling PAPA’S LAST WIFE. With my agent’s blessing and encouragement, I quickly rewrote what was then a novel about a young writer named Hannah Paulson to insert Hector Lassiter into the book (a novel subsequently published in 2010 under the title PRINT THE LEGEND). To my mind, PTL was a novel I’d publish toward the end of any Hector Lassiter series, if we ever got that far. For me, PTL didn’t seem quite the proper follow up to T&T. I wanted it to be the next-to-last novel featuring Hector.

With New Year’s Day looming, I continued to cast around for what I could regard as the one true follow up to TOROS & TORSOS. I spent those closing days of the year revisiting favorite books and biographies; listening to old favorite music and surfing the net for odd scraps of history nobody had yet plundered for plot lines. Call it prospecting for inspiration: I needed a dark, enticing muse for this new, still unthought-of novel.

On TV, in the background, Country Music Television was playing. Typically that channel just pours out videos by the usual suspects who’ve made contemporary country music feel too much like a wasteland. But that hour’s program was something different — a fleeting leap into cutting edge music in which up-and-coming or avant-garde folksingers and country musicians, quirky singer-songwriters, were showcased.

This particular music video bounced for me: The song was entitled “Passenger 24.” It opens with a driving piano, then quickly brings in some drum work. Then its story unfolds: A rider on a bus with a bag stuffed with cocaine who’s “Left a girl in Amarillo, about as sweet as rum.”



The singer/songwriter was this siren songstress named Melissa McClelland. As her song unreeled against images of Old Route 66 — a tune rife with noir undercurrents — I swung by Melissa’s website. Seemed she’d trucked with Sarah McLachlan for several years. The tune that so engaged me was from Melissa’s new album called, “Thumbelina’s One Night Stand.”

I grabbed that album; took the plunge.

HEAD GAMES grew out of obsessive listening to select Tom Russell songs and albums — an influence so key to that novel’s creation I ended up dedicating HG to Russell for “providing its soundtrack.”

“Thumbelina’s One Night Stand” fulfilled the same function for me. What I regarded as Hector Lassiter number 3, a book I was then calling CITY OF LIGHTS, grew directly out of the inspiration of Melissa’s album — a cycle of songs about unrequited love, self-destructive passion and, ahem…suicide.
The cover for the original U.S.
release of
ONE TRUE SENTENCE,
painted by
Echo Chernick

Song’s like “Solitary Life,” sung from the perspective of a woman in her coffin (“brooding just beneath the varnished pine/wicked smell of death and turpentine”) and “You Know I Love You Baby” (“You look like me/I look like hell”) suggested characters and motivations that wove their way into the plot of a book I saw as a study of 1920s Paris and its rampant artistic nihilism, a novel in which we would observe Hector Lassiter move from aspiring literary writer to crime novelist; a novel in which Hector would engage the most compelling and influential woman in his storied life.

Some writers are inspired by other writer’s books.

Some find their muse in movies.

For me, music has always been the touchstone for creation.

Other novelists have certainly influenced me, even inspired me, but forced to point to those who truly shaped my own writer’s voice, I’d point in directions other than the usual crime and mystery fiction suspects.

I learned more about the craft and strategy of putting words together from Kris Kristofferson, Mickey Newbury and Jimmy Webb than Hammett and Chandler.

For better or worse, Hemingway certainly left his mark on me as a writer, but to an arguably greater degree, so did Kristofferson.

ONE TRUE SENTENCE may read like A MOVEABLE FEAST recast as a crime novel, and in a way that’s true, so far as it goes. But OTS wouldn’t exist without the inspiration of a certain Chicago-born singer songwriter sometimes likened to a “female Tom Waits.”

Gracias, Melissa.

COMING NEXT: The woman who "created" Hector Lassiter.


ONE TRUE SENTENCE: Paperback/eBook

FOREVER'S JUST PRETEND: Paperback/eBook

TOROS & TORSOS: Paperback/eBook

THE GREAT PRETENDER: Paperback/eBook

ROLL THE CREDITS: Paperback/eBook

Saturday, August 2, 2014

OFFICIAL HECTOR LASSITER RELEASE DATE SET: AUG. 21

In just a few weeks, Hector Lassiter returns from a three year hiatus with the first five novels set to release between now and the end of September.

Three of these novels are appearing for the first time; two are repackaged and slightly tweaked versions of previously published Lassiters. Each of these titles will be available in trade paperback and eBook formats, with new introductions and reader group discussion questions.


On Aug. 21, Betimes Books will present the definitive editions of ONE TRUE SENTENCE, FOREVER'S JUST PRETEND and TOROS & TORSOS. A few weeks after that, two more brand new Lassiters will appear: the World War II-era novels THE GREAT PRETENDER and ROLL THE CREDITS, (the latter is Hector's first-person account of his World War II experiences as a correspondent and secret OSS member).

As previously announced, Betimes Books will be presenting the novels in something like chronological order for the first time. Although some of the novels jump from year to year or decade to decade in the telling, the novels will now be published in the order in which the main action starting the novel is set.

Here, for the first time, is the full list of Hector Lassiter novels coming your way this year and their (new) proper publication sequence:

ONE TRUE SENTENCE: Opens in Paris, in February 1924.

FOREVER'S JUST PRETEND: Opens in Paris, December, 1924 before moving on to Key West, in February 1925.

TOROS & TORSOS: Opens in Key West, September 1935.

THE GREAT PRETENDER: Opens in New York City, October 1938.

ROLL THE CREDITS: Opens in occupied France, 1940.

After a brief holiday break, the remaining novels and a short story collection will soon follow.

Stay tuned for more ordering information and first cover glimpses of THE GREAT PRETENDER and ROLL THE CREDITS, coming soon.

Check in here for more about Betimes Books—a groovy new house doing some interesting things by the likes of my Borderland Noir compadre Sam Hawken and a new literary thriller by the mysterious Hadley Colt. Also please consider liking Betimes on Facebook and following the house on Twitter. You're going to be seeing and hearing more about this publisher in days to come.

Here's a look at Betimes very slick trailer for Colt's PERMANENT FATAL ERROR. Like I said...a very intriguing new publishing house.




Sunday, July 20, 2014

JAMES GARNER, 1928-2014: REMEMBERING ROCKFORD


 Note: This article originally appeared in Crimespree Magazine in 2010.

I recently spent the winter weeks revisiting The Rockford Files.
It’s a little tough, now, to grasp what a radical, quirky show Rockford represented in the early 1970s.
James Garner was known to me: I’d recently seen him in Support Your Local Sheriff (an ABC “Movie of the Week” or the like). My mother had told me about Maverick — had nearly named me “Bret” after Garner’s character before opting for “Craig” Stevens of Peter Gunn fame.


Friday night, October 11, 1974: twisting channels (pre-remote days, don’t you know), I saw, “James Garner in…”
The first episode I caught was one called “Tall Woman in Red Wagon,” scripted by Stephen J. Cannell from a story by Roy Huggins.


Befitting the series title — but not typical of the show’s overall format — this episode was framed in flashback.
It opens with Jim Rockford digging up a grave — you wouldn’t catch Mannix, McGarrett or Cannon doing that.
In the course of the episode, we get Rockford’s déclassé digs — a house trailer with a million-dollar Malibu view. We meet his hectoring but loveable old man and we see that sweet tan Firebird (license #853-OKG).


We’re introduced to the slick mini-printing press Jim uses for cranking out on-the-spot business cards. We see a frustrated Rockford back his Pontiac into a suspected tail — at speed. Something else Barnaby Jones would never have the stones to do.
Case solved?
Requisite T.V.-P.I. closure?
Yes and no. From the get-go, Rockford didn’t toe the party line.
As the series evolved, we got a floating pool of recurring characters that gave weight and novelistic scope to Jim’s world.
The writing, featuring some early, brilliant work by David Chase, was sly, knowing and rarely risk averse.
The tone of the show deftly merged comedy and drama, suspense and parody and even some unexpected, powerfully mounted social commentary (season three’s “So Help Me God”) in a way precious few series have come close to matching.
Even the clunker episodes are never less than amiably watchable, and a couple of truly radical episodes are, in their strangeness, charmingly jaw-dropping.
Of the latter ilk, I personally favor “Irving the Explainer,” scripted by David Chase.  It’s a wild concoction of art treasures stolen by the Nazis, a sinister German chiropractor, agents of the Sûreté, a vintage and sleazy 1940s-era Hollywood murder and two men who share the name Irving.
The result is a dizzyingly convoluted thicket of suspects, motives and crimes, so complex Rockford resorts to hiring a UCLA logic student to flow-chart the case.
About once a season, in a wink at Maverick, Garner would unleash the persona of cowboy-hat wearing tycoon Jimmy Joe Meeker (think Brett Maverick with a car). These episodes, perhaps attempting to cash-in on the early 1970s’ success of The Sting (which in turn plundered the classic Maverick episode “Shady Deal at Sunny Acres”), turned on big-store con games:
Jim sold natural gas rights back to crooked real estate agents and mounted a phony King Tut exhibit among other bunko schemes run in the name of (cockeyed) justice.
By the time The Rockford Files reached its fifth and final full-season, the show was arguably at the top of its game.
Of course it had to end sometime.
Rockford’s end was more bittersweet than most.
A frankly uneven sixth season was suspended abruptly when its star’s health collapsed.
Garner — an intensely loyal man — had exacted a heavy toll on an already beaten-up body by increasingly doing many of his own stunts, partly it was reported, to spare his longtime and ailing stunt double.
When Garner’s illness lingered, NBC cancelled the series, and, in time, studio suits and Garner found themselves in litigation over accounting practices. (Legal entanglements with studios is a kind of running motif in Garner’s career: He also wound up in legal battles decades earlier regarding matters related to Maverick.)
The series went into heavy syndication…remained a fond memory.
In the 1990s, quite unexpectedly, the first of what would prove to be eight Rockford Files reunion movies debuted. The first four of these are now available on DVD.
Although a couple of the films feel slightly padded to fill their running time, for the most, the movies work extremely well. The chemistry is still there among the key players (although Noah Beery, Jr.’s “Joseph ‘Rocky’ Rockford” is sorely missed).
Returning writers Cannell, Chase and Juanita Bartlett used the movies to pick up dangling threads from the series and round out some story arcs lingering from the old days, bringing back, among others, Rita Moreno’s Rita Kapkovic and Rockford’s memorable ex-flame Megan Dougherty, played by Kathryn Harrold.
In the purest sense, the movies are a gift to longtime Rockford fans left frustrated by the series’ sad and jagged end.
While the movie cycle also didn’t end definitively — the last movie sat on the shelf for nearly two years before finally being aired — it was, on balance, a strong note to end on. It felt, for the most part, some capstone had been fit.
Years passed.
Everything, it seems, gets (or receives talk of) a remake.
Eventually, someone had the audacity to suggest a Rockford relaunch.
Lord knows, from Doctor Who to the latest Star Trek film, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by many a reboot.
But the idea of a wholly new Rockford goes down hard and thick.
If somebody want to mount some homage and slap a different name on the title character, well, go for it, I suppose.
But the personas of Jim Garner and Jim Rockford are too inextricably bound for any passing of the baton. (Granted, the same might have been said of Maverick’s leap to film, but Garner was very much a player in that one, and, from a character standpoint, could easily have been playing the Bret Maverick we recalled from the original).

Some things just shouldn’t be done (take shot-for-shot remakes of Psycho, for instance).
At this writing, it looks like NBC is plunging ahead with this mad scheme; I’m crossing my fingers the situation reverses and saner heads prevail.
Why spoil a wonderful memory?

Friday, July 4, 2014

FOREVER'S JUST PRETEND PREVIEW EXCERPT

Following is an excerpt from FOREVER'S JUST PRETEND, the first new Hector Lassiter novel in three years, coming Thursday, Aug. 21, along with newly repackaged editions of ONE TRUE SENTENCE and TOROS & TORSOS.



ONE TRUE SENTENCE: Paperback/eBook

FOREVER'S JUST PRETEND: Paperback/eBook

TOROS & TORSOS: Paperback/eBook

THE GREAT PRETENDER: Paperback

ROLL THE CREDITS: Paperback


FOREVER'S JUST PRETEND
By Craig McDonald

“Dream as if you’ll live forever;
Live as if you’ll die tomorrow.”


CHRISTMAS

1924

“Christmas is a holiday that persecutes
the lonely, the frayed and the rejected.”
—Jimmy Cannon


PARIS
Hector & Victoria
It was warm and crowded in the café. The liquor was flowing and everyone was laughing and wishing one another a Happy Christmas. Back slaps, cheek kisses and toasts all around.
Victoria sat in a corner of Le Select next to a sprawling, slightly overweight cat, watching Hector at the bar chatting with his fellow writer, Hemingway. The two authors had already spent most of Christmas Eve together. Victoria envisioned a good deal of the day and perhaps even the holiday evening would be spent with the Hemingways, as well.
Oh, Vicky liked the Hemingways just fine. They were fellow Americans, and Midwesterners, at that. Hadley and Hem recalled the people Victoria had grown up with back home. But they also had a young son, “Bumby” or Jack. The Hemingway child was a kind of knife twist for Victoria just now.
Quite soon, she would be going back there, back to the States, and going with Hector who had at last decided to return home after several years roaming Europe, an unintended odyssey that began with his ill-fated service in the last war.
Hector had met Victoria under bizarre circumstances earlier in the year, right around Valentine’s Day, she guessed. Hector had actually saved her life, rescuing her from a killer. She had heard another woman close to him—his lover before Victoria, a woman named Brinke Devlin—had fallen prey to the murderer.
Although Hector had eventually taken Vicky into his life, then into his bed—although he was paying her way back to the States—he’d always made it clear he wasn’t looking for a permanent entanglement with her. Hector had warned Victoria from the start that the New Year would find him returning to America, and then moving on from New York alone, headed for parts unknown.
Yet it should be different now, she thought.
Hadn’t they been mostly happy together these past few months?
Seemingly, Hector respected Victoria’s remaining secrets, and she respected his—including the sense that some other woman evidently waited for him back there in America. She never confronted Hector about that. She never put the question to him directly.
But sometimes the pale-skinned, raven-haired Victoria caught Hem or Hadley looking at her with this curious mix of affection and concern, almost as if she reminded them too vividly of someone else, someone Victoria could only believe must have been close to Hector. Maybe it was the dead woman? Perhaps it was this Brinke?
It should be different, she thought again, watching the handsome young author.
It was Christmas, and they were lovers, and Hector had at last secured publication of his first novel. They should be returning to their homeland as a triumphant married couple, Victoria thought. Returning to celebrate Hector’s new novel and their departure from this old European city that had stripped so much from them.
But it wouldn’t be like that.
Tonight Hector would be in her arms of course.
This Christmas night he would be hers, but not in the ways that truly counted or mattered most to Victoria. And of course it wouldn’t endure.
This night in the City of Lights, engulfed in laughter and music, Victoria already viewed Hector Lassiter as the one who got away.



KEY WEST
Brinke, Miguel
& Mike
Christmas? It didn’t feel that way at all to Brinke Devlin.
Oh, someone had tipsily strung some colored lights around the bar, and a drunken Creole was playing plinking Christmas tunes on a ukulele, but for a Midwesterner like Brinke, an Ohio girl who had grown up with snow on the ground most Decembers, it felt like a false holiday.
Yet she couldn’t bear to spend this night of all nights alone, holed up somewhere in silence and solitude, wondering what Hector Lassiter might be doing this Christmas night back in their city, so far back there in the City of Lights: Hector, handsome, charming and solo lobo.
So Brinke had brought her notebook to this “blind pig” and found a corner table. She was bent over the table now, all concentration and writing by candlelight, about halfway through the first draft of a new novel.
Her efforts to compose worthy prose in this bar were so far a mixed success. The noise and the music was a welcome distraction from her thoughts. Brinke was making some progress in her writing.
Yet as an unattached, fetching woman in a bar full of drunks, Brinke was also a target of opportunity.
So far, she was successfully rebuffing occasional approaches, rejecting all offers of free drinks calculated to lead to something more.
Brinke was mostly so far successful in ignoring the lustful, baleful gazes she felt upon her, including those from the tallish, rather strapping Cuban man at the bar. She’d heard the bartender call the man “Miguel,” or something like that. This Miguel was the one she sensed might be the most difficult to cool off at this point. He seemed full of passionate intensity.
Fortunately, he was also nearly legless drunk.
So for her part, Brinke figured she could wait out Miguel: let him get so plastered he wouldn’t be a threat of any kind, so there’d be no danger of him following her out of the bar.
Focused on Miguel, Brinke never really registered the rather fat, balding man sitting in a corner opposite hers. Mike Rogers, publisher and editor of one of the island’s two local newspapers, was sitting at a table with his own notebook and pen.
But Mike wasn’t writing a book, or even penning a news article tonight for his rag.
Mike was instead putting away the rum and colas and drawing pictures of Brinke nude in his notebook.
Focusing again on her prose, Brinke drifted in and out of the bar in a sense, trying instead to stay immersed in the country of her story. She was determined to use her creativity to distract herself from thoughts of Hector at ends in their former city. From thoughts that at least two months remained before she might possibly see Hector again.
Hector Lassiter. Just thinking of the name made Brinke smile.



CAYO HUESO
(BONE KEY — THE LAST KEY)
Valentine’s Day, 1925

“He lives the poetry that he cannot write.
The others write the poetry
that they dare not realize.”
—Oscar Wilde


1

The man sat sweating in the shade, awaiting the sunset and watching the child.
The room the man had rented for the past three days had a patio that faced the narrow, stingy beach. Each day he’d sat sweating in the shade of that patio, wearing shorts and a damp T-shirt, brooding and watching the other hotel guests laughing and loafing by the shoreline.
Most of them were older, retired men on holiday with their wives. Probably refugees from the Midwest based on what he could hear of their accents. “Snowbirds,” the Floridians called them.
There were a couple pairs of newlyweds, and, now, another, still younger couple who wore no rings. Probably those last two had sneaked off from some other part of the Sunshine State for a first night of lovemaking. That girl would probably wind up pregnant.
Or, given what the man was going to do to the hotel once the sun went down, maybe not.
There were two or three families; some with young children.
One of those families had a single child. She was a cute, pudgy little blond girl whose coloring echoed her mother’s eyes and hair. The girl was clearly a first child, doted on and fretted over.
The man had noticed the girl and her parents the first day he’d checked in. He’d made a point to find their room number.
If it wouldn’t put him at risk, perhaps later in the evening he’d go ahead and knock on their door, try to give them a fighting chance. Call it salve for his conscience.
Now the little blond girl was waving at a distant ship with a tiny shovel. The man’s stomach churned. Yes, maybe he would do that, try and give them that chance for flight.
The hotel was old, hell, just this side of dilapidated. The man figured none of his fellow renters could be well off.
The hotel, more of a motor court when you came down to it, was the kind of place you booked sight-unseen because it fit a price-range. Or perhaps because it was the kind of place you just ended up in, road-ragged and beat to the wide, exasperated after exhausting all better possibilities. The last rooms on the last Key.
The man looked up at the paint peeling from the wooden overhang above his room’s patio, then at the crisp scrub grown up close to the hotel’s perimeter. It was the dry season and it hadn’t rained in more than a week. The place was a tinderbox for certain. With the sea wind whipping across the shoreline, combing that dry beach grass, the man figured he’d only have to focus on two or three units. The blast-furnace wind would see to the rest.
The man checked his pocket watch. Two more hours until sunset.
Sighing, his stomach sour, he poured himself another glass of lemonade, frowning and then belching from the stomach acid that bittersweet lemon concoction brought up.
Chewing his lip, the man kept watching the little blond girl and her parents now frolicking in the sand and creaming surf.


ONE TRUE SENTENCE: Paperback/eBook

FOREVER'S JUST PRETEND: Paperback/eBook

TOROS & TORSOS: Paperback/eBook

THE GREAT PRETENDER: Paperback

ROLL THE CREDITS: Paperback