The Long Drunk by Eric Coyote, 2011

Kindle, $2.99

This is the gritty story of a homeless alcoholic who must solve a murder in order save his dog’s life. If that turns you off…wait.

When I first started out as a graphic illustrator I thought maximum contrast meant black and white. Gradually I discovered that gray makes black seem blacker and white whiter.

So it is with Eric Coyote’s The Long Drunk. His depiction of the homeless and the affluent gives noir a new, sharper, more disturbing clarity. And the emotional force behind Ulysses S. Grant Murphy’s needing money for expensive medical treatment to save his pet bull hit by an SUV will keep you reading long into the night. But the author does an equally fine job, whether it is a scene in the back alley, a gay bar, yoga class or the world of art.

I’ll be honest. I felt like I was reading a Raymond Chandler (Murphy’s own guide) or Dashiel Hamett that no one had yet seen. The Long Drunk is a masterpiece you’ll remember twenty years from now with a smile on your lips and tear in your eye.

An excerpt will appear in the next edition of Lit Noir, around the start of March. Watch for it.

Meanwhile, (for Murphy’s dog, Betty) here’s one of my many unpublished dog poems:

HUNTER’S MOON

My dog and I are silhouettes

against the stars. He cocks his

head toward where the moon

will soon appear. And it does.

- John Lehman

Buy this book directly from Amazon. Click the title below:

THE LONG DRUNK

If you prefer to pay by check or want to send a purchase order and be billed, write: Zelda Wilde Publishing, 315 Water St, Cambridge, WI 53523.  Our telephone number is: 1-800-7-TO-KNOW

The hell with 2012, the real news is that pulp fiction for the digital age has “come of age.” Not only can you buy Lit Noir #2 for a buck, but you can get a free Kindle app for your computer if you want plus try a sample of the new pub before you decide to buy anything. I think you will find it fresh and exciting. Books, movies, poems, short stories, articles, tough-guy wisdom…it is all here. Check it out. Click: Lit Noir #2 and let me know. It is “bigger and better than Mantovani.”

Lit Noir, itself, is available at: Lit Noir # 1. Here you will find stories, book/DVD reviews, articles, tough guy quotes, new and classic noir, all for only $1. Easy to read on your PC, Mac, notebook computer, I-Phone or even BlackBerry. And the right length (like the old pulp fiction magazines) to be enjoyable at home or at work. Suddenly, we are into a new age, where all things are once again accessible. Enjoy!

If you are interested in buying an inexpensive Kindle without paid advertising on it for $109, click: Kindle, Wi-Fi, 6″ E Ink Display

It’s impossible to read this book and not see and hear
William Powell and Myrna Loy in the classic 1934 film that inspired five
sequels. The plot is preposterous and the Hammett novel (and its readers) don’t
really care. Nick Charles typically stands in the midst of inexplicable events
with a drink in his hand, nodding wisely as if he understands everything and is
not about to share. When a reporter asks him, “Can’t you tell us anything
about the case?” Nick replies: “Yes. It’s putting me way behind in my
drinking.”

But there is something endearing about this drawing room
comedy with corpses. The banter between husband and wife, their life, like a
piece of enjoyable art, a good cast of secondary characters (thugs, cops,
reporters and an untiring line of partygoers who turn up nightly at the
Charles’ suite for free drinks) and, of course, Asta the dog. As opposed to
Agatha Christie the pieces of the puzzle seem to fit together without any
effort. In the movie on Christmas morning, Nick tests the new air-rifle he got
as a present by firing at the balloons on their Christmas tree and he throws a
dinner party for all of the suspects, with plainclothes cops as waiters (Nora
tells one of them: “Waiter, will you serve the nuts? I mean, will you
serve the guests the nuts?”).

Life is fun, and we are ready for those sequels.

This classic of shadowy, noir alienation predates Patricia Highsmith’s The Talented Mr. Ripley by three years but has the first-person narrator enter into the crime in a way that makes us both cheer and abhor his (our) amoral choices. Credible settings, taut dialogue, haunting theme, Thompson has a way of making things happen off stage and revealing plot twists that might have changed our reactions to events had we known them earlier. But more to the point, we are left wondering about our empathy for this psychotic, murderous West Texas deputy sheriff. The process speaks to the heart of reading: how I can sample other lives and other situations though sometimes I might be shocked at the result—might be shocked by the killer inside me.

A friend recently asked me if I was interested in getting the much acclaimed DVD version of this Thompson story. But the kind of perspective possible in a novel like this is different from a movie. I’m rereading The Remarkable Mr. Ripley and as much as I admire the perfectly cast film version with Matt Damon, Gwyneth Paltrow, Jude Law and the ever-suspicious Phillip Seymore Hoffman,  it cannot have the same kind of intimacy (or catharsis) as the book. This is the difference between observing something and experiencing it for yourself. Jim Thompson is a master in doing the latter. And—like it or not—we gotta go there.

Buy this book directly from amazon for $11.16.  Just click: The Killer Inside Me

     Steve McQueen was a macho shrimp, raised in a brothel – a former Marine who was bisexual and died of AIDS. Milton Berle called himself, “The Thief of Bad Gags,” and here are the real causes of George “Superman” Reeves death (portrayed so inconclusively in “Hollywood Land.” Discover how Joseph Kennedy (JFK’s father) first consumed his affair with Gloria Swanson and find out who said of Elia Kazan’s receiving the lifelong-achievement Oscar, “If we didn’t honor backstabbers in this town, there would be no awards ceremony.”

     At first glance you might wonder who would buy a book like this – film school libraries? But the answer is, most of us have shared our lives with these stars, would be stars, directors, writers and Hollywood groupies. Here finally is a chance to get their story straight from someone who has done the reading, research and follow-through that make them human. There are also great additional reading titles listed after each subject. “Fade to Black” is a terrific title for a terrific book, you need to buy and have on that shelf above your DVD player.

Click to buy it directly from amazon for $22.95 Fade to Black: A Book of Movie Obituaries (Omnibus Press)

The entranceway—stark, mail on the floor, broken buzzer and unlocked door—with a little Scotch, takes on a movie musical glow. A set where you tap dance up the staircase into the arms of someone who is young and silken-robed. In fact, the place is shabby. One, two, three stories of fried onion smell. Then, of course her apartment door is locked and at this time of night, why would she answer anybody’s knock? So, it would be back to Rick’s anyway, right?

No, not quite, because you see the door is inexplicably ajar, though all is dark inside. Now there are two more choices: to call out “hello”—the only sensible thing to do—or push the door open and, very quietly step within, the idea being that you’ll make your way to her room, kneel beside her bed and whisper your affection in her delicate ear as she dreamily awakes. In you go, for this is the night of fools, feeling furniture with your toes stealthily as a cat.

 Each step takes days, each day is a week. Your lifetime passes as you breathe through the doorway to her bed which is—What did you expect?—empty. All you know for sure, is that you’re tired and drunk and sad. You want to tumble on top of that bed for a minute’s rest.

You do, and dream that you are back at Rick’s, and this time she comes in. She puts her fingers to your lips; there’s no need for you to speak. “My place or yours,” she smiles and since you already smell the lavender candles of her room and feel the softness of her pillows on your cheek, there are no choices, anymore.

But you’re not in her dreams, like she’s in yours. You don’t need to leave Rick’s to discover that. So you sit and listen to Chet Baker’s trumpet on the jukebox, to remember and forget