Noir at the Bar NYC with a (new) story by me
|Juliet Fletcher, Charlie Stella, Rory Costello|
(Photos by Peter Rozovsky for Detectives
1) Met a couple of folks whom I had previously known only through social media and e-mail, notably Charlie Stella.
2) Met some new folks from the United States and elsewhere.
3) Had enjoyable reunions with all kinds of crime fiction folks and my favorite bartender in New York.
4) Stayed late, by Noir at the Bar standards, and still managed to make my bus back to Philadelphia.
|Scott Adlerberg and Jen Conley,|
the evening's hosts.
The story—the opening section of a story, really—is a distillation of some fragments that I wrote years ago and that finally may come together as a coherent whole. Here we meet the characters and set the stage for the main action.
Before we go, thanks to Jen for inviting me to read and to Scott Adlerberg for MCing the event with her.
Oh, the story's title. West Fourth Street is the nearest subway stop to Shade. Beyond that, if you don't recognize the allusion, you've got a a lot of nerve to say you are my friend.
by Peter Rozovsky
Fetch indicated a door, and Blake shook his head. Fetch held up one finger and ducked into the doorway. Blake shrugged, leaned against a pillar, and lit a cigarette.
"Think I'd be able to do this if I wasted my time in bars?" She whacked the speed bag and made me feel sorry for the leather. Chin tucked, knees flexed, back straight. Elbows in, her back heel lifting slightly each time she struck. Her two fists became four, then six. Her breath came in short, spitting wheezes with each punch. I got tired watching her.
But she did waste time in bars, and I wanted to know why. "What's with the gym stuff?" I said. "You don't fight."
She stopped punching, and she smiled as she blew a wisp of platinum hair from her left eye. "Would you want to be whipped by a fat dominatrix?"
"Out of the car. And leave the boxes."
I jerked the gun to the right as Blake went for his jacket. "Hold it right there, Tiger."
"What am I going to call you? Paddy? Mick? Now, out of the car, Celtic, and keep your hands away from your — "
"From my Marlboros, you gobshite. All right, I'm getting out."
I waved out the window of Fetch's black 2008 Lexus as I pulled away.
The snake tattoo is flicking its tongue at Kasey Thompson's scapula, but I've got one eye on the two guys.
One of them says: "I'M OUT OF HERE FOR SOME CIGARETTES."
His friend, a husky, saltish-pepperish dude with a Rangers jacket and a Tim Horton's bag, shrugs, and they head my way. Shit. Fetch and Blake.