Dirty Words - страница 2

Then the dang thing gets selected by BEST AMERICAN MYSTERY STORIES as a "Notable Story of the Year".

I kept my mouth shut. The biggest honor of my short writing career, and I couldn't tell anybody. THAT kinda sucked.

Then, when Kensington books decided to print our anthologies, of course they insisted that I include all of the award-nominated/winning stories.

I decided to get clever.

Sam Edward's bio reads:

Truly other digests deserving recognition on bios, instead, Nasty Sam offers nothing.

Now, take the first letter in each word…

Yeah, nobody figured it out then either. I only spent about three days writing out the acrostic. Time well spent, no?

Oh, and if you actually bought any copies and had the book signed at an event by Sam? That was really Julius Franco, my best friend and co-conspirator in all of life's misadventures since the age of thirteen.

Aaaaaaand some of you may recognize the THUGLIT story (and Derringer-nominated short) "Roses at his Feet" as written by Ms. Dana Frittersmash.

Uh, yeah. I'm her, too.

Again, if you've already read that one, I'm reeeeeeally sorry. But hey, you still got nine more stories here!

Lemme explain (again…)

After the first issue, I hard-marketed the website online and at BoucherCon, the annual crime writing festival. For issues two and three, I was FLOODED with submissions.

Issue four? Sahara. Still managed to put a great issue together.

Then, two days before we were set to launch the issue, a writer inexplicably pulled his piece (this is also why that cover is so shitty and slapped-together-looking). In response, I panicked, made a pot of coffee and stayed up all night writing the story.

The next morning, seeking a new pen name, I accidentally stepped on the apple fritter my wonderful wife had brought me while watching the previous night's UFC interview with Dana White.

Bada-bing, bada-boom, Dana Frittersmash.

Next thing I know, THAT story is nominated for a Derringer.

Although I have to admit that I did emit a few chuckles when I read the letter from the Derringer committee asking for Ms. Frittersmash's contact info.

Again, whoopsie.

And that was that. I never wrote another story under a pen name, although I should, considering the amount of accolades my alter-egos receive.

Maybe my reputation precedes me…ENJOY, FUCKO!

Johnnie sat behind the glass partition in his prison oranges, huffing a Newport. Obese, pale and tired-looking, jail hadn't been kind to him. Not that it's particularly kind to anybody. His dyed black hair was starting to show its brown roots, giving his head a layered chocolate cake look. Johnnie smelled bad to begin with, but the stint in lock-up wasn't doing his hygiene any favors. It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn that I could smell him through the inch and a half of plexiglass. I tried to cover his stink of garlic mixed with wet dog by chain smoking, until the guard informed me of the no smoking policy.

Christ. Can't even smoke in jail. I wondered what the hell passed for currency on the yard since 2003.

I'd just have to breathe through my mouth then. What I needed was a drink. As it was, I interrupted my day's barflying to see Johnnie in the first place.

"T.C., I need you on this, man," he said. Not that he didn't cut a pathetic picture to begin with, but his blubbering only made him seem fatter. Maybe it was my own word association with blubber.

"Tell me why I should, Johnnie."

"'Cause I didn't do this!"

"Again Johnnie, tell me why I should give a shit." I wanted an answer and I wanted it fast. I didn't enjoy being at Riker's, even if it was a friend in there. And in case you didn't have it figured out by now, I'm not a big fan of Johnnie Scumbag's. Nobody really is. The people who like him call him Johnnie Scumbag.

"Because I don't have a lot of time and you're the only person who can do it."

I wasn't, but I was probably the only one who'd shown up when Johnnie called. My services, no matter how mundane, don't come cheap. In the sudden economic slide in New York City, jobs had been so scarce lately that I was even willing to show up for Johnnie Scumbag. Most people who would've been clients a year ago tried to do their own work instead in order to save a few bucks. Most of them wound up on Johnnie's side of the glass. If they were lucky.