I was ten minutes late. Chunky Baines stood in the crisp factory doorway with his hands on his hips or at least where his hips used to be. He was wearing a grubby string vest, stained tracksuit bottoms and a pair of worn tartan slippers, despite the fact that it was pissing down with rain. He chomped on a bar of chocolate. I jogged up to him, sweating like a pig. ‘You’re late,’ said Chunky, grinning. ‘No shit Sherlock,’ I said. ‘Yes, I know Sherlock’s shit,’ said Chunky. ‘But Wilson’s been looking for you. He knows you’re late.’
London Detective Sergeant Ronnie Burke and Polish cop Jola Lach are on the trail of a serial killer, and New York private eye Solitaire is sent to Spain to track down a missing rich kid. See how their lives intertwine in Big City Blues. British coppers, an American private eye, London gangsters, international spies, and a serial killer known as The Black Crow all collide violently and hilariously in Big City Blues, another fast-moving and funny Brit Grit novella from Paul D. Brazill.
And here’s a CLIP!
New York, USA.
The waiting room was filled with the sound of muzak – sleepy synthesizers and yawning saxophones. The pastel walls were covered with generic abstract paintings – all splashes, dots and sharp lines – that were probably worth a fortune. The view from the window was terrific, despite the sky being granite grey. The Manhattan skyline was everything it was supposed to be.
Lisi Solitaire checked her reflection in the mirror that hung on the back of the door, knowing that you didn’t get a second chance to make a first impression. Especially with big shot clients like the one she was about to meet. She was pleased with what she saw. She thought she looked as sharp as a razor. Dressed all in black with thick black framed glasses and her head recently shaven she thought he looked more like a successful New York psychiatrist than a struggling private eye, even if her designer threads were all knock offs.
She picked up a magazine from the mahogany coffee table and flicked through it. She was reading an article about whether or not Superman was a scab – how the man of steel’s habit of working for free was reducing the salaries of hard – working cops and firemen- when she heard the cough.
The night before, she’d been playing the celebrity lookalike game with her roommate Dana, who was a dead ringer for ‘Father Of The Bride’ era Martin Short. Solitaire herself, it had been decided, was like ‘Alien 3’ era Sigourney Weaver. When she looked up she saw a more than passable Lauren Bacall lookalike standing in the doorway to her office. Doctor Katherine Howard was elegant, tall and beautiful. Her raven black hair was tied back and her half-moon glasses hung from a chain around her neck. Solitaire guessed that Doctor Howard’s designer clothes were all bona fide. Unlike Solitaire, she was a genuinely successful New York psychiatrist and she could afford the real deal.
‘Ms Solitaire?’ she said in a husky voice that fit the way she looked perfectly.
‘That’s me,’ she said. ‘The only game in town.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that but it certainly seems there aren’t too many female private detectives about these days, I’ll admit,’ said Katherine, with a warm smile.
Katherine held out a perfectly manicured hand.
‘Katherine Howard,’ she said. They shook. ‘Do I call you Antoinette or just Lisi?’
‘Call me anything you like but don’t call me early.’
She winked. Katherine smiled weakly.
‘Sorry, lame line. Most people call me Solitaire,’ she said.
‘Come into my office,’ said Katherine.
This certainly wasn’t the first time that Solitaire had been in a headshrinker’s office. Far from it. In the past, though, the rooms’ design had been anonymous, minimal, Spartan. Devoid of any trace of personality. Much like most of the shrinks she’d encountered, truth be told. But Katherine Howard’s office was different, which led her to believe she was different from those other psychiatrists, too.
On one wall was a large print of Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks and on another a number of framed vinyl album covers – Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bessie Smith, Tom Waits, Van Morrison, Edith Piaf. There were photographs of Katherine Howard socialising with various celebrities- Al Martino, David Bowie, George Clooney, OJ Simpson. There was a wall length shelf of vinyl albums and book case containing the works of Albert Camus, Dostoevsky and Graham Greene, amongst others. Solitaire realised that this was more of a masculine office than she’d expected.
‘Take a seat please,’ said Katherine.
Solitaire sat in a leather armchair.
‘Nice room,’ said Solitaire. ‘Not what I expected. Not a typical psychiatrist’s office.’
‘Oh, I don’t see my patients here,’ she said. ‘This is my sanctum sanctorum. My dojo. My home away from home. Would you like coffee or tea?’
‘Espresso would be great.’
She went over to a machine and made two death black espressos. Gave one to Solitaire and sat on the edge of the desk.
‘So what can help you with, doctor?’ said Solitaire.
‘Call me Katherine. It’s nothing complicated, really. I just want you to find my husband.’
‘How long has he been missing?’
‘Oh, only a few days. It seems Howard has gone on one of his drinking binges – he does this every now and again- and I need him back here to sign some important papers.’
She handed Solitaire a piece of paper.
‘These are his regular boozing haunts. He’s sure to be at one of them,’ she said.
Solitaire looked at the list.
‘I’m not one to turn down work but why can’t you go? Doesn’t seem that difficult a task, since you pretty much know where he’ll be.’
‘I’m a recovering alcoholic, Mr Solitaire. It would be too much temptation. Especially under such stressful circumstances.’
‘Do you expect it to be stressful?’
‘For sure. You’ll need to use your brain as well as your brawn to drag Howard out of there. You know what, he’s like, right?’
‘I’m sure my husband’s reputation has preceded him.’
‘For sure. He’s a crime fiction writer and a pretty successful one, too. Writers operate by different rules to the rest of us, I expect,’ said Solitaire.
‘Maybe. Or maybe it’s just an excuse for self-indulgence,’ said Katherine.
‘You’d know better than me,’ said Solitaire.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Katherine. ‘So, can I ask you about your name? It’s a tad unusual.’
‘Yes, it’s my real name and yes, before you ask, I am related to Antoine Solitaire. I’m his daughter, for my sins. Which are not as many and as varied as his, of course.’
‘Antoine Solitaire. Well, there was a man who operated by a different set of rules to the rest of us.’
‘He certainly did. For better or for worse.’
‘How long is it since he went missing?’
‘Five years, now.’
‘Do you have any leads on the case?’
‘Nope. There’s not a lot the cops can do short of digging up half of Brooklyn.’
‘Is your mother still alive?’
‘Sure is. She’s alive and kicking ass. Literally. She runs an actual dojo Downtown.’
‘Really?’ said Katherine.
‘Yes. She’s working with some has-been action movie star. Teaching the five fingers of death to the local geriatrics.’
Katherine walked over to the window and black clouds spread like a cancer across the skyline.
‘It’s certainly a life of surprises,’ she said.
Solitaire finished her coffee got to her feet.
‘Well, I’d best get going. I’ve got a long bar crawl ahead of me by the looks of it,’ she said as she looked at the slip of paper that Katherine had given her.
‘It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it,’ she said. ‘I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve found him.’
‘By the way, Howard is a pussycat, even when he’s drunk, but if he’s with Bertie, you’d better be careful.’
‘Too Many Crooks was the longest story that I’ve read from this author and man…what a story. I think that anyone who can write of Iron Maiden and Makers Mark in the same story will find a fan in me. A recommended quick crime read. I’ll be looking into more from this writer.’
I also have my killer novel expose as it is, Portrait Of An Assassin out with Near To The Knuckle run by the peerless Craig Douglas:
An original novel about a hit man I met in the heart, or interior as they call it, of Sicily when I rented a villa from a Mafia lawyer.
And last but not least my anthology of short stories, Crystal On Eclectic Acetate, how’s that for a title, also out with Down and Out Books run by the peerless Eric Campbell
What is it about? Are you kidding?
AND COMING my sci fi porn novel Android Love, Human Skinis to follow.
Watch this fucking space.
A dystopian science fiction novel that explores the nature of gender and sexual conflict and the addiction to pleasure in a virtual word.
Welcome to the four genders in a future with no planned conflict, a utopia of pleasure engineered by the union.
Society has been revolutionised by gender control and the technologization of man and woman. In a future where a biochemical weapon has removed the skins of the population, the rulers hunt for the beautiful ones, those men and women who still have skins. The union is the new government, a faceless body of politicians who were behind the order to use the weapon that backfired on them, leaving them skinless.
In the glass citadel, the new utopia, where the only surviving humans with skin are placed, they recreate the world of gender by offering humans four types of robot with which to have relationships. All the humans are placed in relationships with machines, apart from Gerald, who appears to be a spy for the union and is filming the humans, and Elliott, a robot programmer. The union watches it all, political voyeurs in a totalitarian state of enforced sexual ecstasies. Food has been replaced by nutrient skins, and flavours can be chosen.
Bio: Richard Godwin is the critically acclaimed author of novels Apostle Rising, Mr.Glamour, One Lost Summer, Noir City, Meaningful Conversations and Confessions Of A Hit Man. He is a crime and horror writer as well as a produced playwright. He was born in London and obtained a BA and MA in English and American Literature from King’s College London. His stories have been published in many magazines and anthologies. He has 29 distinct works in print. You can find out more about him at his website http://www.richardgodwin.net/.
‘I met him on a Monday and although my heart didn’t stand still, per say, it certainly skipped a beat or two, I can tell you,’ said Martyna. She giggled. ‘But then that was Philly Bailey. He was a charmer, alright. Not to everyone’s taste I know, a bit rough around the edges and that. But he always had something about him. A twinkle, you know?’ Martyna finished her gin and tonic. She sucked on an ice cube.
‘He was certainly a hell of a ladies man,’ said Ryan. ‘I’ll give him that.’
A thrilling journey to places you don’t want to visit, especially in your dreams. Death and drama served up with a fascinating slice of life on the edge of society. An intense read, I was glad to get out alive when the story ended !
There aren’t many better ways of spending a couple of hour’s reading-time than in the company of one of Brazill’s books…… mystery, cultural references, action, violence, enough boozing to sink a battleship, memorable characters and a genius for situational comedy
‘They’re coming fast and furious from Paul D. Brazill: it’s another cracking Near to the Knuckle novella from Mr B, the hardest working man in Brit Grit. This is #9 in the series and like the others a rip-snorter of mayhem and it’s got plenty of humour.
Big City Blues ranges across Europe and over to the colonies, or at least New York, which is a world of its own. Brazill always like a sprawling jumble of wild threads which he slowly knits together over the course of the unpredictable events and connections. Even his Seatown stories make the small burg feel complex. It’s not like wild coincidences either; it’s more like Six Degrees of Separation — or in this case, maybe only three degrees.
There’s a joyful abundance that teeters on the baroque: old cons, old cops, young geezers, unpredictable collisions of desire and convenience, and always sudden bone-crunching violence lurking around the next corner. Some of the jokes my grandfather would know but with a twist that makes them new again, and so many original observations that had me laughing out loud with surprise. And don’t tell anybody but hiding in between the laughs, the grimaces, the double crossing and the name dropping, you’ll find heart-searing observations about the walking wounded and some prose that will knock your socks off:
The night had draped itself over the city, and the moon bit into the sky. He stopped on the neon-soaked street to breathe in the sultry air. He could smell the lust, the sin and the decay.
A shard of sunlight sliced through the blinds, picking out specks of dust that floated in the air. An old electric kettle boiled in another room. A refrigerator hummed. A dishwasher chugged dully. A mangy black and white cat strolled across the newly polished bar before curling up on a wooden bar stool and going to sleep.’
British coppers, an American private eye, London gangsters, international spies, and a serial killer known as The Black Crow all collide violently and hilariously in Big City Blues, another fast-moving and funny slice of Brit Grit from Paul D. Brazill.