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EDITOR IN CHIEF:...Cameron AshleyEDITS:...Liam José,Jimmy Callaway &Andrew NetteDESIGN:...Liam JoséISSUE FOURTEEN COVER:ERIC BEETNERwww.ericbeetner.blogspot.comWEB:thecrimefactory.comEMAIL:crimefactoryzine@gmail.comTWITTER:@crimefactoryREVIEW FOR US - CONTACT:crimefactoryreviews@gmail.comSee website for submissionguides. See me for hugs.

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENTHE LINE UPCRIME FACTORY VOL.2 NO.14NERD OF NOIR’S CRIME SLEEPERDOUBLE FEATURE: Print theTruth (But Throw in SomeLegend)...Peter Dragovich...Page 08TRUE CRIME FACTORY:Prodigal Tropical...Tom Darin Liskey...Page 20A SIT DOWN WITH THE GODFATHER:The Peter Corris Interview...Andrew Prentice...Page 4203

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CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENproblems did not evaporate onrewatch but I do kind of loveKilling Them Softly now in away that I didn’t before -and it’s a movie that needslove. There’s almost no waythat this film will ever bethe cult film it deserves tobe, too many people will shunit for its bleakness or itspolitical obviousness or itslack of traditional crime moviethrills. But then the samecould also be said of JesseJames, a movie that similarlyfucks with its audience’sexpectations,and I havefound manypeople wholove that filmsame as me inrecent years.W i t hthese twofilms weighingheavily on mymind latelyI decided toexplore themfurther in this CSDF column.Yes, you can complain that oneof them is actually a westernbut fuck you, my favoritewesterns are essentiallyperiod crime films...so there(how’s that for a wellreasonedargument). BecauseI’ve already talked aboutit at some length here andelsewhere, let’s get into itwith more Killing Them Softlytalk. To refresh your memory– and it should be noted thatif you’re not hip to eitheryou should probably look11

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENelsewhere until you’ve caughtup with them because I’m gonnago deep down the rabbit hole onboth with this piece – the filmfollows ex-con Frankie (ScootMcNairy from Argo) and junkieRussell (Ben Mendelsohn, theparticularly evil brother inAnimal Kingdom) as they take ajob from the Squirrel (VincentCuratola aka Johnny Sack fromThe Sopranos). They are torob a card game run by MarkieTrattman (Ray Liotta from,come on, you know what thatmotherfucker’s been in).Normally such a gigis a death sentence butthe Squirrel figures it’s acakewalk seeing how everyonewill blame it on Trattman asdude’s robbed his own cardgame once before. They do thejob with no casualties in oneof the most quietly agonizingscenes in recent memory andthen Jackie Coogan is calledonto the scene. Brad Pitt’scharacter is the man who knowsall the angles, the fixer forthe corporation who answersto Richard Jenkins’ lawyercharacter, a liaison of sortsto the unseen higher-ups.Coogan quickly figuresout who is behind the robberymainly because of the stupidityof Russell (plain and simpleidiocy is the downfall of manycharacters in both films) andhe is careful and financiallypractical in how he delegatesthe necessary hits. Firstoff, though he knows Trattmanhad nothing to do with it,to keep up appearances on thestreet (public opinion is afickle bitch), the guy’s firstgotta be dealt a beating thenkilled. The beatdown sceneof Trattman is heartbreaking,one of the saddest and mostvisceral scenes of violenceyou’ll see, with Ray Liotta,legendary screen tough guyyet most likeable characterin the movie, begging andcrying and puking while twothugs reluctantly fuck himup. There’s nothing cool or12

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENbadass about the scene in the slightest, just misery and shittyduty.But the subversion of classic genre tropes abounds in this film,though never in a nudging, ironic way. Though there’s some definite“movie-movie” cool in the film, like the makes of a few seventiescars, Pitt’s clothes and hair (rocking a legitimately rad pompadour)and some good cigarette smoke photography, Dominik prefers downbeatand stark instead of holy-shit-how-awesome in Killing Them Softly.There are no action sequences, just pitiful, soul-crushing murders(outside of the aforementioned, baffling-but-heavenly-looking slo-mobullet hit, that is). The violence hurts both the beaten and thebeaters, the dead and the murderers, and transgressive fun neverenters into the proceedings.There are no big twists or conspiracies in the finale, justJackie Coogan demanding payment for services rendered. Along the way13

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENwe also spend some time witha character that advances thestory in no way whatsoever inJames Gandolfini’s washed uphitman, Mickey, a friend ofCoogan’s who is called in as afavor to Jackie. Jackie couldhandle the hits himself buthe’s looking out for Mickey whoamounts of time to supportingcharacters is also a majorpart of the sprawling, looseand visually gorgeous TheAssassination of Jesse Jamesby the Coward Robert Ford.The first two-thirds of thefilm cover the last months ofJesse James’ (Brad Pitt) lifehas fallen on hard times. Theyshare a couple of brilliantscenes together (God, I missGandolfini already) and thenJackie recognizes that Mickeyis too much of a liability,too drunk and scattered to gothrough with the hit.Giving over surprisingwherein he meets and befriendshis killer Robert Ford (CaseyAffleck). This section of thefilm allows us to meet a wholelot of great character actorsplaying the disparate membersof the James gang, with folkslike Paul Schneider, GarretDillahunt, Jeremy Renner and14

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENSam Rockwell making distinctimpressions upon the audiencedespite not being major partsof the central relationshipof the film. Like the Mickeyscenes in Killing, a greatdeal of time is spent betweenJames and Garret Dillahunt’s EdMiller, with tons of suspensewrung out of our knowledgethat James is paranoid andprepared to kill off anybodywho might have whispered wordone about him.As Killing Them Softlyfucked with our expectationsof the crime genre, so doesAssassination set out to shiton our favorite myths of thewestern. Murder and violencein the film is ugly andunexciting, and though thereis something of a shootout,it is sloppy and stupid andunlike anything we’ve seenin a John Ford or even a SamPeckinpah western. Horsesdon’t ever work themselvesup into a gallop in this filmand the outlaw life seems tomainly involve lazing aroundthe farm houses of cousins andfriends, telling tall talesabout the whores you’ve beddedand worrying when Jesse willfinally come around and killyou.Jesse James is the onlycharacter allowed to havesome mythic dimension tohim, same as Coogan was theonly classic movie badass inKilling. Both characters arelegends surrounded by buffoonsand schmucks. James is oftenshown to be a fucking psychoand an asshole but he alsohas genuine charm, wears coolclothes and there’s a senseof mystery and legend aroundhim, mystery and legend thatis equal parts put upon him andspread by him. Few directorshave found as interesting ofways to both fuck with andplay to Pitt’s undeniablytowering movie star qualityas Dominik has with these twofilms.Of course, when Robert15

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENFord lives up to his titular designation, he has a tougher go of theliving legend life than genuine article James in the last third ofthe film. He performs a stage show recounting that fateful day todecidedly mixed reviews because after all, our celebrities were somuch more interesting before they were hounded by TMZ and puttingall their thoughts and lunches up on twitter. Jesse James knew(perhaps just instinctually) that legends don’t grow in constantdirect sunlightThe interplay between the embracing and the disgracing ofgenre tropes is what makes both films sort of wonky but also, moreimportantly, tantalizing and re-watchable. As I wrap up this articleI am only just now realizing that without the mythic moments thesemovies would be one note, they’d be graduate theses instead of lastingart. Both these stories could have been filmed in a very flat andstyle-free way that would hammer home their anti-noir/anti-westernconcerns but then you could only view them once. You’d get what was16

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENhappening implicitly and moveon. Seen it, don’t need torevisit it.But the way they playas they are now, with theirvirtuoso sequences that don’tmatch the rest of their tone(Killing Them Softly) andtheir occasional acceptance ofgenuine legend (Assassinationof Jesse James), the filmsare more intangible, likesomething by Kubrick orpresent period Paul ThomasAnderson. And maybe there’sno grand point to suchcontradictory touches, maybeDominik just couldn’t helpindulging himself in somegood ol’ fashioned classicmovie mythmaking, but for theNerd’s sake I hope he neversays one way or the other.17

“You havepower andmoney.Destroyeverything.”-Nakamura

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENTRUE CRIME FACTORYProdigal Tropicalby Tom Darin LiskeyCarnival of LightThe night-time view from theheights of the city revealsthe eye-straining panoramaof hundreds of thousands ofillegally rigged electriclights - each one illuminatinga ramshackle home or underthe-tablebusiness along thecramped hilltops surroundingthe valley of Caracas. Theshanty-town lights flicker inthe inky sky like frail votivecandles in a dark, misshapengrotto. The pattern of lightspreading out across thevalley lacks any semblance oforder - and darkness fails toshroud the shrill of policesirens and the distant reportof gunfire.Caracas is a war zonewhere every city block is afront-line. Hyperbole or not- the place is Murder City ofthe World. Officially known asSantiago de León de Caracas,the frontier settlement wasfounded in the far off epochof Spanish conquest andcolonialism in 1567. But themodern-day city was built onthe country’s unprecedentedoil wealth. Venezuela has20

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENmore oil underground thanSaudi Arabia. It also has vastdeposits of gold and otherminerals in hot demand. Whenoil prices rise, so does steeland brick. Not surprisingly,the downside of hitching longtermurban plans to short-termcommodity prices means thatwhen oil falls, buildings canremain unfinished. That wasthe fate of the Helicoide, afamous landmark on the skylineof Roca Tarpeya in the SanAgustin parish of Caracas.For years it stoodunfinished like a sunparchedpiece of Babylonianarchitecture before it finallyhoused the hated formerintelligence agency knownby its Spanish acronym asDISIP.This rush to buildbigger and better in Caracashas created a confusingwarren of urban districtsamong crime-ridden “informal”settlements like the hillsideshantytowns where the policewon’t go without armoredcars and riot gear. Worn-outapartment blocks stand besideglitzy skyscrapers and therustic remnants of colonialneighborhoods. Caracas’hodgepodge of architecturalinfluences and styles hashelped to make this frenziedand willy-nilly city a perfecturban killing ground.I saw a lot of this firsthand. I arrived in Venezuelain 1994 - fresh out of college- at a time when the country’seconomic foundations werebeing worn away. Later, itwas easy for me to understandthe former coup leader HugoChavez’s popularity afterhe was released from jailin 1994 and began buildinghis grassroots politicalmovement. Chavez had promisedto be a renovating force innational politics where twoparties - the AD (AccionDemocratica) and COPEI parties- had essentially shared inthe pillage of Venezuela’s21

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENvast wealth for decades. Ican still remember his earlyspeeches from the grimyunderpasses and streets inpoorer districts of the city.Chavez won the presidency andruled Venezuela from 1999 tohis recent death in April 2013.But instead of creating amore equitable redistributionto the country’s wealth, thecronies of Chavismo - and hiscult of personality behindit - have emerged as the newfinancial elite. They are justas shallow and callous asthe oil patricians they hadtoppled.But Venezuela is also acountry writhing amid a crimespree that is even deadlierthan the 60,000-plus deathtoll in Mexico’s war on drugs.Some criminal researchers,like the highly respectedFermín Mármol García, believethat since 1999 Venezuela hasexperienced more than 155,000violent deaths and murders.The body count is rising.Hardened by years of violence,Venezuelans are flocking tomore prosperous salients inthe city, where they livein charming penthouses withpastorally evocative nameslike Prados del Este, thrownup with the easy money of highoil prices.Those who can afford itdrive in armored sedans andlive in apartment towersthat have around-the-clockarmed security. Even moreare fleeing the country toMiami, Calgary, and Oslo.Any pretense of affluenceand modernity is decayingin Caracas as the rot ofcorruption and crime spreads.Venezuela, once one of LatinAmerica’s longest standingdemocracies, is a basket case“Since 1999Venezuela hasexperiencedmore that155,00 vilentdeaths andmurders...”22

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENnow. Its capital Caracas ismore dangerous than war-tornBaghdad and Kabul - or evenHaiti, the poorest nation onthis side of the globe. Ifyou want to understand themacabre mathematics of thecity’s killing spree, lookat the city’s sole morgue inBello Monte. Staff is findingit increasingly tough todeal with bodies waiting inhallways, storage rooms andthe curbside hearses stillwaiting to disgorge their dead.According to the VenezuelanViolence Observatory, in2012 alone there were 21,692murders and violent deaths inthe region. That breaks downto a rate of 73 homicidesper 100,000 inhabitants. Thedeath toll during the highlivingweekend is often thefodder of Monday morning newsstories. Even with the deadChavez’s hand-picked heir,President Nicolas Maduro, inpower, the murder rate isn’texpected to change anytimesoon.Holy RollersCaracas is an urban planner’snightmare. Anyone who has everhad to navigate the greatermetro area can understandjust how haphazard the cityfeels. What helps to keepthe functional chaos of thisurban sprawl sewn togetherare carritos por puesto.These are the dingy - andsometimes whimsically painted- low-fare minibuses thatservice the city. Caracas hasan underground metro, but ifyou have to get some placefast and cheap, you take acarrito.The beat-up buses ziparound the city at a terrifyingspeed - no matter how congestedtraffic is - blasting outSalsa and Merengue music.Thanks to them, Caracas’seconomy actually functions.Carritos provide a crucialtransportation artery in23

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENthis valley of 3 million-plusinhabitants. The downside tothis by-the-seat-of-yourpantstransportation is thatthey have always been easytargets for crime. Knockingover a carrito is easypickings because they operateon a cash-only basis, with thedriver typically accompaniedby someone to handle the tilland make change.A roadside malandro, orbandit, jumps on a bus, oftenlooking like any other hardworkingcommuter. He pullsout a hand gun to stick up thepassengers. Once the thiefhas his loot, he jumps off thebus. It’s blitz banditry. Inmy time in the city, I hadnever seen a bus driver stopto run down the thief. The oddrobbery is simply an expenseof doing business in thecity. No police risk theirlives in raiding the warrensof shantytown alleyways andnarrow streets in search ofthe petty thieves who escapethere.One of the mostdangerous spots in the cityremains the historic downtownarea and government districtwhere streets, alleyways, andunderpasses are poorly-litwith easy access for escape tothe slums. The newspaper, anEnglish language daily, whereI got my start in journalismwas located there. I laid outthe Opinion pages for Sunday.To be honest, I liked takingcarritos to work instead ofthe stuffy subway because thevalley of Caracas has springliketemperatures, yearround.I was lazily watchingthe cityscape pass by slightlybefore noon on Sunday whenthe bus driver slowed downand a new passenger climbedon board. The driver gunnedthe vehicle’s engine and themotor whined with plumes ofblack smoke spitting out ofthe tailpipe. The bus wasgaining speed when I saw the24

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENpassenger from the corner ofmy eye. Instead of sittingdown, he was swaying in theaisle and scowling at theother passengers. That’s whenI saw he was holding a butcherknife. He grabbed a young boyfrom his seat and pressed thebutcher knife against thekid’s throat. The boy musthave been around twelve. Thelady, who had been in the seatwith him, his mother, beganpleading with the knifewieldingman not to harmthe boy. The man ignored herpleas and shouted out threatsto the others on the bus witha cocky bravado.He said he had no qualmsabout slitting the boy’sthroat. He said he was anevil man already. Then hepulled a dingy pillow-case outfrom behind his back withouta blink. So fast in fact theboy could not get away or forhis mother to react - as shewas too astonished anyway.You live in Caracas longenough you learn how to keepyour cool in a situation likethis.The people on the bus hadbeen robbed before and theyknew the drill. They beganthrowing money and whateverother valuables they had intothe bag. The man was laughingby then, making bizarrepronouncements and commentson the quality of jewels -and cash - dropped into thepillow-case.“Very good, mamita,” or“Don’t worry, baby girl, I’msure your rich boyfriend canget you another necklace,” or“Sorry, grandpa, but life ishard all over...”But there was littlesincerity in his voice. Hiswords came off with a hint ofmockery - and malice - at ourmisfortune. The kid’s motherwas crying worse by then. Shetwisted a gold ring - herwedding band - off a tremblingfinger. She handed it to theman as if it were useless scrap25

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENof metal. The mother triedto console the boy who lookedlike he was having a panicattack. When she reached outto touch the boy’s hair, thethief pushed her hand away.He laughed at her and clutchedthe boy in a choke hold anddragged him down the aisle ofthe rollicking bus.Behind me there arose acacophony of rebuke.I looked over my shoulderat the commotion. There werefive ladies sitting togetheron the last two dingy rows ofseats on the bus. They bore theoutward signs of Pentecostalholiness: long hair pulledtightly back in buns, anklelengthskirts and long sleeveshirts, and ranged in agefrom a chubby teenager toa solid gray-haired matron.That woman, I was sure, wasthe grandmother of the rest.The thief stopped midway onthe bus and stared past meconfused.“¿Quién está hablando?”Who is talking?The women ignoredhim with their prayer-likemurmuring and chattering. Itrose in crescendo and a boltof lightning shot throughme. I had heard praying likethis before as a child atPentecostal tent meetings.Pentecostals were peculiarpeople to me as a child,and other people made fun ofthem. But my mother soughtthem out for some reason. Shehad been orphaned as a childand became somewhat unhingedby the death of my fatherwhen I was five. There weretimes she talked of suicideand I’d catch her weeping onthe edge of her bed with herhands folded into her lap likeshe was praying. I think shewent to the tent meetings andstorefront churches lookingfor a miracle - or at least alittle bit of peace.I turned to look at thewomen again. The matron ofthe group by now was openly26

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENyelling at the thief as sheraised her open palms up inprayer. She chastised thethief and told him to let theboy go as the other women inthe group shouted alleluia.None of the other bus riders- including me - knew what tothink or do. The eldest amongthe women prayed louder.She was praying with Jesus’blood. But the thief pressedthe knife’s blade closer tothe young boy’s throat. Themalandro told her to shutup or he’d do something tohim. He said the kid’s bloodwould be on her hands for notshutting up.She shrugged off histhreats and said things like:“Flee you dirty devil - getout of here - leave the boyalone.”The thief’s eyes dartedback and forth, but he kepton yelling at her to quietdown. He kept on saying hewas going to do something like“punch the boy’s ticket.” Theman looked terrified by then.The money and jewelry he hadcollected mattered little. Hedropped the bag on the dirtyfloor, pushed boy aside, spunaround and ran to the bus’door. He jumped off withouta blink. I saw him land onthe sidewalk, stumble, roll,and then regain his footing.“The entireepisode hadlasted threeminutes andforty-fiveseconds...”He ran off in the oppositedirection.The boy’s mother jumpedfrom her seat and grabbed herson. She held him close to herbreast and cried out loudly.Everyone else on that busstarted clapping. We didn’tunderstand what had happened- and I think we all feltuncomfortable, but we wereapplauding those hard-bittenholiness sisters from the27

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENslums of Caracas. The ladiesignored our adulation, raisingtheir hands and shouted out:“Aleluya, aleluya, aleluya…gloria al Señor.” I didn’tknow if the thief was evil,like those ladies believed.I didn’t know if he was justsomeone who had been pushedto his limits and he saw thatknocking over the bus was theonly way he could buy babyformula, diapers, or insulin.Maybe he was a junkie andneeded dope. I really didn’tknow. But he was dangerous andI’m glad the ladies scaredthe living hell out of him. Ireally was. When I looked atmy watch after it was over,the entire episode had lastedthree minutes and forty-fiveseconds.Serve and ProtectI had dodged a bullet that dayon the bus. A few days afterthe attempted bus robbery,I was out on the town withfriends of mine in a backstreetarea of the Sabana GrandeBoulevard, a major retail areain the city. We were in a barcalled El Bon Bon. It was thekind of place where the richcame to slum with artists,leftists, street walkers, andtransvestites. The salsa clubshad all closed by that time ofthe night and the streets werefilling with people grabbing abite to eat or another drinkbefore making their way home.In El Bon Bon, the music wasear-piercing and the dancefloor was writhing with sweatybodies when two motorcyclecops came into the club.They wore bullet proof vestsand high leather boots. Thecops took up positions at theentrance to the men’s bathroomto sell little packets ofcoke. That’s what the cops didsometimes in Caracas. Theywould knock over a dealer inthe shanties, take his stash,and peddle the white powderat clubs like El Bon Bon. I28

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENdidn’t like being around copslike them because they wouldact all friendly with you ifyou were a foreigner and thenshake you down. I told myfriends I was leaving as thecops looked over at us andstarted whispering to eachother. I left out the doorat the opposite end of thebuilding. I had enough changein my pocket for a carrito,so I hailed one down.At the time I lived inVenezuela, there were severalpolice jurisdictions in thecity.Some, like the eliteinvestigative force, LaPolicia Tecnica Judicial, orPTJ, actually had a modicumof respect because youngertechnocrats had flockedto its ranks. The PTJ isnow known as the Cuerpo deInvestigaciones CriminalesPenales y Criminalísticas, orCIPC. The largest police forcein the greater urban area,the Policia Metropolitana,commonly known by the Spanishacronym as PM, were the mostloathed - and feared. Itsrank-and-file was recruitedfrom the slums.It was March and therewere PM roadblocks on the road.We were waved through most ofthem until a PM officer orderedus to pull over near Los Dos“The copstook uppositions atthe entranceto the men’sbathroom tosell coke...”Caminos metro station.The bus was not even halffull. Most of the bus riderswere waiters, cooks, anduniversity students headinghome. The only female onthe bus was a dozing middleagedwoman who had swayed tothe rhythm of the bus in theseat behind the driver. Thebus idled in park as two PMswith their corporal climbed29

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENon board. The driver knew theprotocol and he kept his eyeson the road ahead of him. Hedidn’t even look at them. ThePM corporal squeezed past themand took the lead. He hookedhis thumbs into the straps ofhis bullet proof vest as hisscuffed combat boots thumpedhollowly on the floorboard.The two younger PM recruitsfollowed him with their fingersresting on the trigger guardsof their automatic weapons.The corporal told us totake out our papers. No oneraised their eyes to the PMsexcept the sleepy-eyed womanup front. She breathed outtiredly when she handed overher dogged eared carnet, orID, to the officer. Sometimesthe corporal sucked airbetween his teeth when helooked at the IDs. It was hisway of showing disdain. WhenI handed him mine, he lookedat both sides of it and didthat. He returned most of thecards to their owners. Some,like mine, he slipped intohis shirt pocket behind thevest. After he examined allof the IDs on the bus, hemotioned to five us - the oneswhose ID he still held - toget off. We grabbed our thingsand followed the PMs to thesidewalk.One of the PMs standingguard at the blockade slappedthe side of the carrito, givingit the okay to continue on.We were left behind. In oursmall group there was a welldressedman carrying a load ofbooks. He looked to be aboutthirty-five. I could tell fromtheir bindings they were lawbooks. The PM corporal orderedus to the wall.“Some of you haveproblems with your ID - andsome have not papers at all.We’ll pat you down and thentalk,” he said.They were looking forweapons and easy-to-swipecash. We placed our armsagainst the wall, but the30

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENwoman in our group pleadedto be let go. She said herdaughter was sick.She even held up theprescription that needed tobe filled. The corporal ignoredher. I leaned against the wall,my legs spread eagled. Theypatted me down before movingto the man with law books.There was sudden shouting andthe tell-tale clicking ofweapons being cocked - andthen a thump. The law studentcollapsed after one of the PMswhacked him on the back ofhis head with the butt of hisautomatic rifle. The other PMsstarted pummeling and pistolwhippinghim. The wounded mantried to wiggle away. One ofthe PMs bent over and yankeda small service revolver fromthe holster clipped on thelawyer’s belt underneath hisshirt. But the man kept oncrawling on the sidewalk asthe PMs kicked him harder.He finally stopped and curledup into a ball on the dirtypavement.I couldn’t understandwhy the PMs were pummeling theguy after they disarmed him.But then I caught a glimpseof the mobile phone he hadpressed hard against his mouth.I could hear him yell out thewords “Dos Caminos” and “PMs”until he fell unconscious fromthe beating. The mobile phoneskidded across the sidewalkwith one final boot-kick tothe man’s face. The voice onthe other end of the devicewas anxious: “Hello? Dammit -do you copy me?”The PMs dragged theunconscious man across thesidewalk and leaned himbleeding against the wall. Thewoman with the sick daughterwas sobbing and biting hertightly clenched fist - theman’s text books lay open andscattered on the pavement.A friend of mine in thecity was a lawyer. The firm hada big case awaiting judgmentfor months. In Venezuela a31

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENdelay of this nature meantthe judge was waiting fora little nudge. He wanted abribe. But even corruptioncalls for decorum. So sheand another lawyer sent thejudge a present. The sub-rosabenefaction was some rarevolume on jurisprudence. Thelawyers had even cut some ofthe pages out of the book andstuffed the space with a loadof cash.It was almost likesomething from a movie, shetold me. My friend then toldme it was a pretty hefty sumof money. She said hated to doit, but sometimes you had totip the balance of justice.Then she told me that thejudge sent her and the otherlawyer a thank-you card. Thenote read that while the judgeloved reading the first volumeof the collection, he was noweagerly awaiting the “secondtome” in the series.At the barricade next tothe beaten-up cop, one of thePMs pulled me away. He askedfor my wallet. I asked himwhy he needed it since theother PM already had my ID.He shrugged and told me tohand it over. I looked at myfellow traveler bleeding onthe wall. So I caved, pulledit out and slapped my walletinto his open hand. He dugthrough it looking for cash -but found none. The he pulledout my bank card. He lookedat as if it were Willy Wonka’sGolden Ticket.“Look, $200 dollars willtake care of your fine.”“What fine?”He held up my ID.“Fake documents. Theyare forged. You can pay thefine or be done with it.”“I’m not going to pay.I’m a journalist. They are notfake. They are accredited”He shook his head.“You’re a journalist?No, man, you are jodido, youare screwed - that’s what youare.”32

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENHe handed me the walletback.“And now you’rearrested.”But before I could evenlet it sink in, three policecruisers came barreling down onus from the main road. The carscame to screeching halt nearthe blockade. PlainclothesPTJ officers rolled out of thecars with automatic weapons,pistols, and pump shotgunsaimed at the rival PMs. Themetropolitans were now atthe ready too, their weaponspointing in the direction“They kepttheir fingersclose tothe triggerguards...”of the incoming judicialtechnical police. There wasshouting and threats. Everyonewas hair-triggered. The PTJswere shouting and demandingthat the PMs release theirfellow officer - the bleedingman on the wall. I was waitingfor the first shot when a PMsergeant stepped out into themelee with his arms raisedlike a referee.“Whoa! Whoa!” heshouted.The PTJs and PMs stoppeddancing around each otheras the sergeant pushed theofficers apart. There was nobravado when he spoke, but ataut, nervous grin cut acrosshis face. He made some excuseabout one of the younger PMrecruits seeing the gun andpanicking. Some crap alongthose lines. The PTJs easedback.The PM sergeant was eatingcrow because his barricadecontingent was outnumberedby the rival force. Silencefell and the sergeant noddedto the jittery PMs to lowertheir weapons. They followedhis command, but kept theirfingers close to the triggerguards. The sergeant huddledwith the head of the PTJs. They33

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENbroke apart and the judicialtechnical police got the goaheadto gather their woundedcomrade. They bundled himinto the back seat of one ofthe sedans. The vehicles leftthe scene with their tiresscreeching. The adrenalinewore off among the PMs. Theywere slighted by the PTJsand were pissed off about it.So the PMs grabbed us by theshoulders and forced us acrossthe street to a Wrangler Jeepthat had been converted intoa paddy wagon. They threw usinside amid curses. All wecould do there was wait now.Nothing happened for anhour. The back of the jeepwas cramped and one of thegroup asked a passing PM ifwe could stretch our legs.He opened the back door tolet us out. We lit up again,smoking cigarettes and talkingquietly about what was goingto happen next. The prevalentidea was to make a kitty withour cash, watches, and othervaluables for a bribe. Butbefore we could move on that,the sergeant saw us from acrossthe street. He sprinted overwith a riot gun clenched inhis hands. Once he reached us,he began whopping the biggestof the group with the butt ofthe rifle.We scrambled back intothe wagon, but the sergeant’sblows fell hard on the man’sface and upper body. We triedto pull the man inside with us,but we weren’t quick enough.The enraged PM officer slammedthe doors on the man’s legswhen his belt got stuck onsomething. We finally got himinside and the PM sergeantwalked away, yelling at theother officers.The man was beaten sobadly that the whites of hiseyes filled with blood. When hetried to speak his breathingwas raspy. All we could makeout was that he had been outso late at night only becausehe wanted to see his daughter34

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENon her birthday. The man wasseparated from his wife andlived some distance fromher.The Jeep finally jerkedto life. We ascended uphill,swaying and bumping in thetight space of the paddywagon. There had been plentyof rumors of cops killingpeople and leaving them inshallow graves in the dismalwastes above the city. Wedidn’t know where we werebeing taken.Calabozo BluesWe were processed at a nearbystation. A senior officer satpompously at a wooden table atthe entrance of the station.He was drunk and ridiculedevery detainee that passedbefore him. Each one of ushad to kowtow to his questionsand accusations. They seemedboth insidious and surreal.“Is that a Colombianaccent?” he asked the worryingwoman with a young daughter athome sick awaiting medicine.“No, sir, I amVenezuelan-born, and proud tobe so,” she said with her eyescast down, her fingers runningalong the edge of the foldedup prescription.The officer stood upand pounded the table withNapoleonic flare.“Turncoat! Spy! Get herout of here. Don’t tell me Idon’t know a foreign accentwhen I hear one!”Then it was the turn ofthe beat-up man to go beforethe inebriated official. Thewounded man wavered there,bloodied and barely responsive.He was still stunned, aconcussion perhaps.The officer grewfrustrated with the laconicresponses from the man.He yelled, “Drunk!Have some respect when you facethe law. Clean up,vagabond!”The man was hauledaway. Each one in the group35

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENwent before him, including aneffeminate young universitystudent.“Little papi, I hope youbrought some lipstick withyou tonight because these meninside are hungry for somefresh meat. Chau, pendejo!”Then it was my turn.He greeted me with a bizarresmile.“Hey, gringo, welcometo our country. But no cleantowels and no breakfast inbed for you today. But pleasedo enjoy your stay!”Inside the stationthey made us un-loop ourshoestrings, belts, and turnin anything else that could beused as a weapon. One of theclerks - a young pretty womanin uniform - asked me whatI was doing there. She couldtell I was a foreigner andseemed genuinely concerned.When I told her it wasbecause I didn’t want to bajarde la mula, or get off themule, and pay the crooked cop,she shook her head. I did notsay anything about the clashbetween the PTJs and PMs - itwould not have mattered. Shesaid she could not do anythingfor me, but then told me toget behind the desk and callsomeone to come down with mypassport. She had no idea whena magistrate would be able tosee us - the latest additionsto the country’s overcrowdedjails.I had to turn my walletover to her. There was a USone dollar bill in it thatI had hid. She dug throughthe hidden pouch and pulledit out. It had been my infather’s wallet when he died.I had held onto the greenbacksince I started carrying awallet in my teen years. Ialways carried it with me,knowing no matter how toughthings got, as long as I hadthe old dollar, I’d never bebroke. I begged her to notto let anyone steal it. Sheonly nodded, took the wallet36

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENbut let me take out some ofthe Venezuelan currency,bolivares, I had hid. I neversaw that old dollar bill againand I was stupidly naïve tothink she would believe me.I stashed the fewbolivares I had into my cowboyboot. I snuck behind her andcalled my roommate. No oneanswered, but I left a message.Another PM led us, in Indianfile, through clanging gatesto the jail. The concretewalls were greasy with sootstains. To our right therewere showers where you couldshoot up drugs. An Italian- who I later found out wasbusted for trying to smugglecoke out of the country - metus after we walked in. He saidhe had basuco - a very cheap,but highly addictive form ofcocaine - for sale.The cops who led usthrough the starkly lithallway heard him offering thedrugs to us.They let him sell thedrugs because they got aslice of the profits. I askedhim if he had any cigarettes.He nodded and I bought two.They took us to one of thejail cells in the building,a vast and bare windowlessroom with the high overheadlights burning through thenight. There were no bedsin the place. Prisoners werecurled up on the dirty floorwith shirts pulled over theirheads to block out the light.Two reeking buckets wereplaced in the back for ournecessities.The prisoners had carvedout pass-through holes in thewalls where the cells couldcarry out jailhouse commercefor food, cigarettes, anddrugs. There were about 45men in the cell. The youngerones pranced around the cellwith a cocky attitude. Somehad fresh tattoos and brandnew- expensive - runningshoes. We were the newcomersand they wanted to show their37

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENdominance of the place. Agroup of them came over tome.“Epa mi yanqui, what’sup, brother? Busted by thecops! Ha! Were you trying tobuy drugs? Did you get bustedfor something else? Whathappened, big daddy?”Why lie?“One of the PMs wantedmoney - and I wouldn’t payhim.”That was all I had tosay. The mood lightened upafter that. They believed me.They better than anyone elsein the city knew how crookedthe cops were. One of themoffered me a smoke. Anotherone flicked his lighter forme. I was not a part of theirbrotherhood, but even thesehardened could show a mercyon a poor slob who had fallenon the wrong side of a crookedpolice force. An older drunkstood up and shook his fist atthe bars imprisoning us.“Bastards. These copsare a bunch of sick bastards.We got such a beautiful countryand they throw tourists injail! Corruption, the wholeplace reeks of it.”The drunkard slid backon the floor and mumbled tohimself - something abouthis adulterous wife who hereckoned had finally learnedher lesson. I declined to askhim just what it was. I easeddown onto the floor next to thebleeding man from the WranglerJeep. One of the arrestingcops - the sergeant who beathim up - came by. Someone elsefrom the group, a narrowfacedman who claimed to bean accountant making his wayhome from a late night at theoffice, made a joke about theaccommodations. The PM lookedat him pointedly.“I found coke in yourbelongings. You are going tobe here a long time.”The man trembled.“I didn’t have coke, youmust have planted it!”38

“I wonderedif myautonomywasn’t itselfan illusion,a phantomoperatinginside theblack hole ofThe End”-Hendricks

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENA Sit Down With theGodfatherThe Peter Corris Interviewby Andrew PrenticeWith one of the longest-running seriesin crime fiction history, Peter Corrishas been dubbed the godfather ofAustralian crime writing. Approachingthe 40th Cliff Hardy novel, Peter’sfamous literary Sydney PI, Corrisand for that matter Cliff, are notplanning on slowing down, despiteboth enduring more than theirfair share of health setbacksin recent times.Andrew Prentice fromCrime Factory and Petersat down one afternoonat one of Cliff’s favouredNewtown pubs, tochat about writing,films, politics and whySydney is the placeto be.Photo: Lorrie Graham42

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENYour pre-writing career wasacademia and journalism,wasn’t it?Yes.Where did the shift take placeinto writing novels?I was working at the NationalTimes when the first of theHardy books came out in 1980.I was the literary editor,sending the books out, doingthe reviews, and also doingsome interviewing pieces,sports people, politicians…and the first book was asuccess, very well reviewed.That was The Dying Trade?That’s the one. And I’dalready finished the secondone because I enjoyed doingthe first one so much, and hadstarted a third one, and well,the ball just got rolling,even though it took aboutfive years for the first one toget published. I gave up thejournalism and was bringingin enough from the books andwriting short stories to getgoing. I should add I had aworking wife as well, whichwas helpful. In fact, I handedthe literary journalism jobover to her. That’s Jean(Bedford) of course, so sheworked at the National Times43

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENand topped things up while Iwrote.And was there a particularreason why you leftjournalism?I got sick of it. I got sickof the literary editor shit. Igot fucking sick of new books,beautiful new hardbacks flowingin every week in their dustcovers, filling the cupboardup. For the first year or so Ithought, “This is heaven.” Itook a hell of a lot of themhome myself, got paid for theextra reviews I did outsideof the paper. It was a dreamjob for eighteen months butit got to the stage where Ihated the look of a new book.It just sort of swamped me. Itbecame so much more enjoyablestaying at home, tapping awayat Cliff Hardy. I’d found myniche.What was the inspiration forCliff Hardy?Look, I’ve never known. It wasreally just to imitate RaymondChandler and Ross MacDonaldand see if I could. I’d trieda historical novel based on myPHD thesis and about eighteendifferent publishers rejectedit. So I had this idea. I’dbeen reading Chandler andMacDonald recreationally foryears, and I thought, well,I’d try this. I felt like Ireally knew how they workedand what the formula was likeand what changes you couldmake. I thought, Sydney, SanFrancisco, LA, I felt likethere was a symbiosis thereand figured, have a go atwhat you know you can write.Imitation was the stimulus.But after a few books, I feltI had an individual voiceand the confidence to playaround with the formula, saywhat I wanted to say, shit onpeople I wanted to shit on,things like that, so it tookoff creatively after a very44

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENimitative start, you mightsay.It’s been often noted that upuntil the time the first Hardycame out, that most Australiancrime fiction was the CarterBrown-style books that werevery Americanised and thiswas the very firstA u s t r a l i a n i s e dcrime book.of faux-American. It reallywasn’t set anywhere. But thosepublishers were wrong, thereare letters in the MitchellLibrary from some of thosepublishers saying, this willnever work, Peter should dosomething else. Fuck ‘em.And that’s why therewas resistance toit from publishersfor at least fouryears. They saidthat Australiancrime readerswanted booksabout New York,LA or London. Theyweren’t interestedin local crimeapart from, asyou say, the pulpstuff, Carter Brown,Larry Kent, whichwas really sort45

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENHa, we’d all like to say thatabout a publisher sometimes.And so in essence, certainlywith the Cliff Hardy series,Sydney became as central acharacter as Cliff did.I supposeso, but itwas never ac o n s c i o u sthing. I wasbrought up inM e l b o u r n e ,and well, Igot away fromM e l b o u r n e ,don’t like theplace, got awayas quickly asI could. Inthe drearyworking classneighbourhoodI grew up init was a grey,p u r i t a n i c a lcity. I knowit’s not like that everywherein the place but I finisheduniversity there, got toCanberra, tried Melbourneagain, tried Gippsland,working at a CAE, and really, Ijust hated Victoria, I wantedto get to Sydney. I’d visitedSydney, andI wanted thewarmth, theactivity, thepubs stayingopen till teno’clock, andso I said toJean, that’swhat I want todo, and off wewent.M u t u a ldecision ofcourse, and Ilove Sydney,I’m still wideeyedaboutSydney. Imoved to Glebe,it hadn’tgentrified tothe extent it has now, itwas still a mixture of derros46

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENpauses in the action, timefor the character to reflectwhat’s happening. It’s nota central motif but it’s auseful device and I give itwhatever shine I can.What point did you think CliffHardy went from imitative tounique?The Empty Beach.And that was made into amovie.and crazies, old blokes inboarding houses. It had aseedy side to it as well asa gentrified side so it wasa very interesting place tobe. The novelty of Sydney waspart of the early books andit just kept on going. I’vekept going back into the cityand wandering around becauseit changes so much. The urbanlandscape thing that peopletalk about, for me, it’smainly just punctuation,That’s the one. Ratshit movie.Terrible film. But the moneyenabled me to put a depositon a house. My stand-up comedyline is that I much preferredthe house to the film.It’s a great line.Yep, I’ve wrung a few laughsfrom that line.I read online that you said TheEmpty Beach should have been47

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENthe time, he mighthave been thirteen orfourteen, said that.The film was a failure,a terrible flop.And yet it had somestar power.Oh, shit yeah. RayBarrett, Bryan Brown,John Woods, but therewere all sorts of thingswrong with it. I don’tknow whether you knowDavid Stratton’s book,The Avocado Factory,about the Australianfilm industry? There’sa whole section onreaction to The EmptyBeach in there.called The Empty Cinemas.Can’t take credit for thatone, it came from the son ofa girl I was living with atI had various gripes,mainly about thescript, which was ratshit. I was contractedto write a script, so I did,and they said… actually, I wascontracted to write three,and then they had the right48

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENto get another scriptwriterif they wanted. That was fairenough. So, I submit thefirst one – too tough. Secondone – too soft. Did thethird one, and the producersaid to me, “Peter, this isalmost there.” And the nextI’d heard, they’d chucked itout and got someone else in.But that’s film producers, youknow? They have their ironsin the fire and they take outthe one that heats up.So you remain ambivalent aboutthe movie but you still likedthe house.(Laughs) That’s it in anutshell. I mean, the movieplayed in the cinemas for awhile, it played on TV, itwas a video in the shops forquite a long time and it helpedto stimulate the book, whichwent through three or foureditions so the whole thingdid give me a kick along –what they call it? A bounce.Political speak. Kevin’s gota good bounce, and I got abounce out of the movie.Did you have a lot to do withthe cast?With Bryan (Brown) I did.I met him a few times, andwe talked about the role, Iliked him, and I liked himin the movie, he was good.But there should have beenvoiceover, if there’d beensome voiceover from him togive you an idea what he wasthinking instead of that verystoic look he had, I thinkit might have even redeemedthe bad script. Otherwise,no, I think I got shittyand went overseas. I wasn’tpresent for the shooting. Oneof the things that went wrongwas that the girl, the maincharacter, was supposed to bea very spunky, streetwise,skinny, go-getting woman. Shewas when they cast her but bythe time they came to shoot49

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENshe was pregnant and they hadher in flowing gowns. Thatdidn’t help.Any other film options on theHardy books?Many, many. Over the years,it keeps coming up, forfilm or television and keepsfalling over for one reasonor another. And when they payoption money, you welcome itbecause you don’t ever haveto pay that back, and that’shappened several times. I’mnot sure another film willmake it; that sort of privateeye story, being told things,knocking on doors, is a bitanachronistic. Crime films noware high-tech, very dependenton the workings of technology,CSI-type stuff. You’d haveto set a private eye filmback in the seventies andit’s expensive, costuming,cars, they have to mask themobile phone towers, thingslike that. So I think it’sunlikely.But everything old is newagain, Peter.Well, there’s that. I’ve writtena couple of retrospectiveHardy novels set back in timeso I’ll get my agent to pitchit to a producer and see ifshe can get them interested.Mind you, I haven’t read everyCliff Hardy, but I’ve readquite a few, and Cliff moveswith the times.Yeah, he does.He’s got a mobile phone.True. I had a mobile for awhile but my eyesight wasgiving up and I couldn’t text,I couldn’t keep the screenlive long enough to text, even“Yes, I’ll be there.” So Cliffdoesn’t text either, he takesphotos with his phone, andmakes calls. He’s reasonable50

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENwith email and Google butthat’s about all. But hisdaughter Megan is pretty flashat that, as my wife is, sohe’s got a back-up.So are you convinced the moderntake on a private eye wouldn’twork in a movie setting?I’d like to think it couldbut it would take a tremendouscommitment from someone whoreally wanted to do it. You’dneed to have someone asgood as the people who madeChinatown. To me, that is asuperb movie, set back in thelate thirties, early forties,around there, the timeline isa little indistinct, whichyou can do. You’d have tohave a terrific script, reallygood actors…it might work, Imean, look at LA Confidential,that’s a bloody great film,even James Ellroy liked itand James Ellroy doesn’t likeanything.James Ellroy doesn’t seem tolike anything or anybody.No. I’ve met him a few times,a remarkable guy, mad as allhell.I read an interview he’d donewhere he said he couldn’t waitfor Bill Clinton to die so hecan write a book about him.He hates Bill Clinton. Therewas an interview he did withBob Carr, who’s a noted crimereader, and Ellroy calledClinton a “weeny-wagger”,and Carr said, “You can’tsay that” and Ellroy said, “Ifucking can!” He endorsed abook for me once by writing,“This book is hotter thancougar come.”He used to answer thephone with a howl and say:“This is the American Werewolfof American Literature.”Fucking mad. I thought hisbooks were fabulous, up to,but not including, The Cold51

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENSix Thousand. I couldn’t read it. I couldn’t read Blood’s A Rover.I think he’s disappeared up his own arsehole as a stylist. Do youthink?Agree 100%. I lovedLA Confidential,The Big Nowhere…American Tabloid?American Tabloidis one of the bestbooks I’ve everread.Exactly! One of thevery best books.And that was thehigh point. Andthen he took on thatcryptic, tabloidstyle, you couldn’tget a handle oncharacter, ordevelopment, oranything. He saysthat he writes acomplete summaryof the whole book,about 200 pages,52

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENand then goes back and buildsit up and that is the completeand absolute antithesis ofwhat I do, which is start,and not know from one day tothe next what is happening.I ask that question of anywriter I interview, haven’tinterviewed Ellroy. But theothers say the same: Theystart the book not knowinghow it’s going to end. CarlHiaasen once said it wouldspoil it for him knowinghow his book is going to endbefore he starts it. Thatwould be like reading the endof a book first.I am exactly the same. Thechallenge is finding outwhat is going to happen andthe anxiety of “Can I keepthis going?” That keeps meinterested and excited untilabout two-thirds of the waythrough where you have to havesome idea how to shape it, andthen that’s interesting in adifferent way. Agatha Christiewrote the last chapter first,so she knew what was going tohappen, so I guess its horsesfor courses.I write the same way youdescribed. Does it ever - foryou - lead to an impasse,where you think, I don’t knowwhere to go from here?So far, no. I’ve never hadto abort a novel. Aborteda few short stories or putthem on hold because of thatsort of thing and I dread ithappening in a novel, andthe anxiety about that, as Isay, is one of the fuels Iuse to keep going. There havebeen pauses, and times when Ihaven’t written for a day ortwo. I go out and see Jean, wehave a drink, and it occursto me what I have to do andI’m back on it, as it were.So, a few moments like that,but not terminal. Sick, ill,but not terminal!53

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENon someone like Fred, someonewith a cerebral and physicallife, a popular and well-knownfigure. But that’s passed meby now. I’m down to Cliff.Browning’s gone, Crawly’sgone. I did three books abouta witness protection agentnamed Dunlop…Luke Dunlop?That’s the one. Nobody wantshistorical novels any more.They only want to read HilaryMantel… So I’m down to Cliffnow, and I’m lucky, Cliff’sstill a bread and butter man,and can keep me writing, keepsome money coming in.How old is Cliff in literarytime?You age a serial character atone-third the natural rate.The first Hardy I read wasAftershock, which was setin Newcastle after theearthquake. You were up thereat the time, weren’t you?Yes, I lived at Dudley,the house shook, and as wemoved around we saw what hadhappened. There was reallyno way that such a traumaticevent wouldn’t translate wellinto a Hardy novel. Thatapplies to some of the novelsbut not all by any means.So, Peter, not everythingthat has happened to Cliff hashappened to you?No, not everything. Though whenI had a quadruple bypass thatgave me the idea for anotherbook and there probably areother examples which if wehad five hours to sit here I’dremember. A lot of the stuffdoes derive from personalexperience, especially thestuff around relationships,good relationships, breakups…when that happens, theinformation goes into a sort56

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENof a well and you know howto write about it when youneed it, painful or shamefulthough it may be.place in other locations. Arethey places you’ve lived orvisited?Writing fromp e r s o n a lexperience?That’s right. Idon’t do a lot ofdocumentary orphysical research.The ideas comefrom my own life,my imagination andwhat’s around,what’s in thenewspaper, what Ihear on the radioor see on TV, whatfriends tell me,you know, just thebasics of the lifearound you.While Cliff Hardy ismost identifiablewith Sydney, afew novels take57

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENThe locales are importantwhen they become familiar.There’s been a novel setin New Caledonia which Jeanand I went to for a literaryconference, that was Master’sMates. Byron Bay has appearedin a few short stories.The South Coast?A few times, where we’ve livedat odd times on and off. It’sgreat territory for a novel,you’ve got the escarpment, thecliff road that fell apart andhad to be re-built, that sortof thing, which translateswell into a novel.Do you try and fit favouriteplaces into a novel, afavourite pub, restaurant,that sort of thing?Very much so. Newtown, wherewe are now, figures a lot. Thisvery pub has appeared a fewtimes. Hardy’s office has movedaround according to changesin the city. I mean, St PetersLane in Darlinghurst. I wentto have a look at it just acouple of weeks ago and it’schanged, it’s gentrifying.Next to the building where Iimagined Cliff’s office to bethere’s a new block of unitsand some of the streets havebeen blocked off to control thetraffic and make it quieter forthose who’ve bought terracehouses to live there (puts ona snobby voice) if you knowwhat I mean. The end of KingStreet where he had an office,gentrified. It was a set ofold buildings and they allgot tarted up and the rentsskyrocketed. And now he’s inPyrmont. But he had to takeout a mortgage on his Glebehouse in order to be ableto afford to be in Pyrmont.So when you ask does Sydneyinfuse the books, well, itdoes in this kind of way. Itprovides the working materialthat the story moves around.58

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENIt often strikes me that along-running crime series setin a certain place can be ahistorical documentation ofthe changing nature of thesetting as the story itself.told me I had to update mystreetscape. So that’s theonly payola I’ve ever had.Do you read much Australiancrime fiction yourself?That’s certainly true. I thinkthat’s very much true of Rankinand Edinburgh. I think Rankinis very conscious of his localebut for me Sydney is a littlemore subliminal in the Hardybooks. Another one is Connellyand Bosch with Los Angeles.Those books really chart LAsocially and physically. Idon’t consciously do thatabout Sydney, but I couldbe lying to you about that!I’ve never gotten any payolafrom a publican or restaurantmanager for including theirestablishment in my booksbut a few have thanked me.Although, Gleebooks (a famousSydney bookshop) once gaveme a brand new UBD streetdirectory, because Hardy usedto go in all the time and theyI don’t read a lot of crimefiction at all. I readhistorical novels, don’t knowwhy I veer away from crime.I read the Scandinavian crimenovels. Jean is passionateabout them. I read the recentRankin just to see what itwas like. I would read anew Bosch. Peter Temple, Ithought The Broken Shore wasterrific, but wasn’t so fussedwith Truth. I read a bit oftrue crime and wrote one notlong ago.Up until recently, you werethe only writer flying the flagfor crime fiction in Sydney.Everything seemed to come outof Melbourne.Funny how it works. When I59

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENstarted, Melbourne didn’tseem the place to set a crimenovel. It was more a placefor espionage and politicalintrigue. But that all changedwith shotgun blasts fromCarlton to Brunswick and thegang wars.There are a few more seriesbased in Sydney now. Iinterviewed Lenny Bartulinrecently, who sets his booksin Sydney. He has a charactercalled Jack Sisko, and Lenny,despite being from Tasmania,said that Sydney was an almostperfect place to set a crimenovel, and that he almostwrote the first book with hisfeet, by walking around theplace.I have seen his work, and hecontinues a great traditionof crime writers who settheir books in places otherthan that which they wereborn. Simenon was born inBelgium and wrote about Paris.Chandler was from Chicago andwrote about LA. Hammett wasborn in Baltimore and wroteabout San Francisco.Why do you think that is? Arethey seeing a new place withfresh eyes?I think that’s it exactly. Itsounds a bit glib but I can’tthink of a better reason whyit happens so often. I’ve gotno desire to set a book in60

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENMelbourne. I’ve got a bookcoming out soon called StandingIn The Shadows. This is fromArcadia, I’ve published twohistorical novels with themthat haven’t made any greatsplash. But this one is threenovellas that trawl throughthe sexual underbelly ofSydney from the 1940s to the90s.That’s covering a lot ofground, Peter.No, it’s not, there’s a bit oftransposition perhaps…but tothe extent that any of thesepeople are in Melbourne, theymove from Melbourne as fastas they can. So watch out forthat one.I will.You know where the title comesfrom?No…?Yes. The first one is abouta homosexual wrestler who isworking in the years after theSecond World War, and all thesorts of things he gets upto. The second one is abouta transvestite draft dodger,set in Sydney in the late 60s.And the third one is about alesbian literary agent in the1990s (laughs).That’s not going to be cuttingtoo close to the bone is it?“Standing in the shadows…”Mick and Keith…Oh, I know who Mick and Keithare.I should hope so.They just played Glastonbury,and the only concession to thebig stadium shows was theyhad fireworks at the end.Well, Mick’s nearly as old asme. I’m 71, Mick’s turning 7061

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENsoon.You’re still looking good forit.been proposed. When it cameclose, at one time… do youremember Phoenix, the show onthe ABC?Yeah, Mick’s looking betterthan me, doesn’t walk with alimp. Keith’s a bit youngerbut…A well-worn late 60s, sort ofa medical miracle.The grooves in that face, it’slike you’d have to unfold themto read his story, a poet saidthat, can’t remember his name.But jeez, a fucking greatmusician. His autobiography,ghost-written obviously, is adamn good read.So, tell me, Peter, if afilmmaker contacted you andsaid, ‘We want to do a CliffHardy movie,’ who would playhim? If you got to choose?Well, it’s funny. Over theyears various people haveYes.Remember Peter Faithful, bigdark guy, who had been an excop.Really good actor. Hewould have been a very goodHardy. Hardy is a big, darkguy, bit of a hooked nose,hard look to him, but funny.So I would have been veryhappy with that, but we nevergot to casting. And there wasa weird time that seemed toget close, when Paul Hogan wasin the mix. And I thought,well, if you were going to gofunny and quirky, well, notmy first choice but I wouldn’thave set my mind against itif the money was right.I had not imagined PaulHogan.But you can, in a way, can’t62

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENyou? But that didn’t go. But,if I had a choice, Russell,Russell Crowe. Right age,looks right, looking a bitknocked about, bloody goodactor, and all he needs to dois just look… doesn’t need tosay very much.We can excuse the fact he wasborn in New Zealand?Well, yes, and the fact he’sinterested in rugby league,which I despise. And he’sprobably a bit of a shit, butgreat on screen. I saw him in3:10 to Yuma, have you seenit?Yes, the western based on anElmore Leonard short story.don’t think you’re as bad asyou’re made out to be.” AndCrowe just looks at him, andhis presence fills the screen,and all he says is, “Yes I am.”And you believe it. That’s anactor. What does he commandfor a film now? Is it twentymillion?He owns a football team. Itcould be anything.He was thinking of selling it,wasn’t he? Anyway, maybe it’sfifteen million. Well, if notRussell… Mel’s a bit short,but he’s about the right ageand looks a bit knackered. Ifthey had short women, shotfrom an angle, Mel mightwork.That’s right, and there wasan earlier movie as well. Andthere’s a point in the moviewhere they’re camped out,there’s a young kid, it’sdark, there’s a campfire andso on. And the kid says, “IIf Tom Cruise can be cast asJack Reacher, Mel might be OKfor Cliff.I’ve read a few of theReachers, some of them werevery good. I didn’t see the63

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENfilm, can’t bring myself tothink of Cruise as Reacher.Mind you, I think Cruise isa good actor. Have you seenCollateral? Great movie, hepulls it off brilliantly,almost playing against type asthis cold assassin. He can’thelp being five foot five. RainMan, he was fantastic in thattoo. I mean he’s a pompousprick with the… what’s thatwhacko religion…?Scientology.Fucking whacko religions.John Travolta is apparently ascientologist but it doesn’tseem to affect him as much.Another really good actor butin a whacko cult (laughs).Great as Chili Palmer in GetShorty, that was one of thefew Elmore Leonard books theymanaged to make a good movieout of, at least the crimenovels. His westerns werebetter on screen, Hombre isone of my favourite films ofall time but the crime novelsseem very hit and miss. A lotof it is in the dialogue, thatidiosyncratic dialogue thathe does so bloody well andfilmmakers seem to struggle totranslate that to screen.Get Shorty got that right,and so did Out Of Sight.Haven’t seen that one.George Clooney, Don Cheadle,Ving Rhames, and JenniferLopez.So you’re a movie man?I am a movie man.So am I. Very much, althoughmy wife now has to conductme into the cinema and placeme down in the seat becausein a dark theatre, I haven’tgot the faintest fucking ideawhere I am. As soon as the64

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENscreen’s lit and I’m closeenough to see it and I’ve gotmy hearing aids in, I’m fine.I even saw The Great Gatsbythe other day and I thoughtit was pretty good. I thinkBaz Luhrman should have beentaken out and shot after doingMoulin Rouge and Australia,but this was not bad at all,and Strictly Ballroom wasfabulous.So we already know that youcan’t go many days withoutwriting…Absolutely not, a week ishell!So, how do you structure yourwriting day?I get up in the morning andlisten to Fran Kelly onbreakfast radio till aboutnine o’clock. I piss aroundfor a while, not doing toomuch, then I turn on MichaelCathcart Books and Arts andif it’s about ballet or operaI turn it off and if it’s abouttheatre or film or writing Imight listen. Then about tenthirty, I pour a big glass ofwine, a bloody sight biggerthan this (pointing to theglass of wine in front of him),then I’ll go in and write foran hour, always knowing fromthe previous day’s sessionwhere I’m going to start. Getsme to about twelve, listen tothe midday news, have a sleepfrom one till two.Very Spanish of youVery 71 years old of me. ThenI’ll go for a walk, do someshopping, piss around, on somedays do my AFL tips, fill in thetime. And then I work againfrom five till six, anotherglass of wine. Occasionally,I might cook once or twice aweek, watch a film at nightand then read. Read, read,read. That’s a day. We’ve gotgrandchildren who come around65

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENand I’ll play with them, I’vegot some weights, a golfputting machine, I’ll playwith those with the grandkids,bit of cricket in the backyard. That’s a day; bit ofwriting, family, reading,drinking. It’s a good life,I’m very lucky.So if you had one piece ofadvice for a budding writer,if they came to you and said,Peter, I don’t know how to getstarted, not sure what to doto get published, what wouldyou tell them?Those are two different things.One is how to get publishedand one is how to write, whichare we talking about?Can you do both?Both? OK, imitate the manner,the style and the form of thewriter you most admire butusing your own imagination andmaterial. See if that works. Asfor getting published – Jesus,that’s hard now. You have toget an agent. And that’s noteasy, not a lot of agentsare taking on new talent.My agent, Gabby Naylor, whois terrific, isn’t taking onanyone new unless somethingcomes her way that absolutelytwists her knickers and thatdoesn’t really happen verymuch.My suggestion wouldbe to try and break intoit some other way; throughjournalism, maybe gettingprofiles published, shortstories, maybe somethingonline, something like that,to build up a bit of a CV andthen hope you can attract theattention of an agent. I mean,I was so lucky, it was mucheasier back in the late 1970sbecause that wave of interestin Australian writing wasjust starting to build and thefew agents that were aroundwere just getting going andwere eager to take people on66

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENand work like fucking knavesto promote us. And that wasgood because like a lot ofwriters I was bored shitlessby contracts and money androyalties and the like. Justtell me where to sign and I’llwrite the book.anticipate some of the thingsthat might happen between nowand then. The retrospectiveis called That Empty Feeling.I’ll leave that for when I’mdead and Jean can publish itposthumously and make somemoney.So there’s another Hardycoming out soon?Yes, Silent Kill comes out inJanuary (2014), that’s number39 and they’re planning tomake a fuss about number 40.As they should.Well, you know, it makes somesense. Now, I’ve writtenanother one, but it’s aretrospective, set back in the80s, and I’m pretty sure theydon’t want a retrospectivefor number 40, they want acontemporary one, so that’swhat I’m writing now. Andit can’t come out till 2015so the trick is to try andDid you imagine back in 1980when The Dying Trade waspublished that you’d hit 40Cliff Hardy books?Oh, shit no. I just did it assomething to try and see ifI could get a novel publishedbefore I was forty. And I madeit by two years. And I’ve beenblessed ever since, exceptI’m an atheist and atheistscan’t be blessed.67

“At 16 Ipretendedto fall inlove withAlyssa. Shetried hardto makeme feelanything.”-Forsman

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENTEMP WORKSHORT STORIESThe Peach-Streaked BlouseBy Kevin Burton SmithMen. They never listen…I mean, really, theyjust don’t have a clue.Like Bill, the socalledman of the house. Givehim simple instructions, hecan’t even get them straight.Like laundry, for crying outloud.I must have told himabout a million times, Honey,if you’re going todo thelaundry, do it right. Thebrightly coloured things gohere, the whites go there,these are done in hot water,these are done separately, incold. Like that.The man memorized theroster of every MontrealCanadiens team since beforehe was born, but he can’tremember to separate whitesand colours?So what happens? Ahouseful of dirty clothes, andhe does one load. One load.And that’s after me nagginghim for three days. And sonaturally my new ivory blouse,the really nice one, dressybut professional-looking, theone I saved up for from thatlittle boutique on St. Denis,the one I really wanted towear today, just about theonly clean thing I have leftin the whole damn house thatfits since I lost that weight,is a streaky, stomach-churningshade of pale peach.And Robbie? I love him,but I’ve told him and toldhim and told him not to tryto pour the milk over hisShreddies by himself. So whathappens this morning? Yep. Amilk flood. The whole bag on71

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENthe floor.So he’s crying, andthere’s milk everywhere andBill’s all pissy because Idared to point out he ruinedmy blouse, and now I have toclean up the mess and I’mthe one running late, and ofcourse, Bill’s car is blockingmine, despite the fact I’veonly told him about a milliontimes or so to park it on thestreet when I’m on the dayshift, and then I’m late forwork and, yeah, because myother clean blouse is now fullof milk and breakfast cereal,I have to wear my brand newblotchy pink blouse, and hopenobody at work notices itunder my blazer.Fat chance. Of coursePierre does right away, themoment I walk in, and thenstarts with his typicalcondescending crap abouthow Anglos don’t know how todress.Of course he instantlytells me he’s joking. Hah hahhah.So I turn to him and say,like, (well I didn’t actuallysay it, but I’m definitelythinking it) Hey, like thanksfor the fashion critique, Mr.Polyester Tweed from Sears.Now could you pry your eyesoff my breasts and run off thatHenderson report like you weresupposed to do last Friday?But of course, when Ido actually ask him about thereport, it turns out he didn’trun it off because, gosh, hejust had so many other thingsto do.After all, I only lefthim two or three memos, andreminded him in person abouta hundred times. Like, howmany languages do I have tospeak before it sinks intohis brain?So now I have to do it,plus all our other paperwork,because he’s off in court orto the dentist or something,and that takes up most of mymorning. And the last thing I72

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENneed is more grief from guyswith butt plugs in their ears.And that might have been thehighlight of the day. It goesdownhill from there.And then it’s lunch, butthat’s no escape -- I have togo to the bank to cash a cheque(because Bill forgot to get outsome money, of course), andnaturally they’re renovatingall the damn ATMs again orsomething at the Alexis Nihonmall (“renovating” them forour “convenience” of course)so I have to wait in linefor an actual teller and I’mstuck behind some old geezerwho smells like an old ashtrayand keeps turning aroundand trying to peer down myblouse.And then, just make myday complete, some greasylittle twerp with the junkiesweats and a Supertramp Crimeof the Century T-shirt breaksout of the line and whips outa bloody old .38 and startswaving it around like he’sAl Friggin’ Pacino in DogDay Afternoon, and yammeringin French that it’s a stickupand everybody stay calmand nobody will get hurt andmouthing off about all us richmaudit Westmount Anglos andall that tired old nationalistcrap.Like, Supertramp?Really? What year is this?1976?Well, get hurt, my ass.I pull my piece, and politelyidentify myself to the littlecreep, flash him my badgejust in case he thinks I’msome stupid citizen tryingto pull a fast one or somecrazy American tourist whothinks he’s Dirty Harry andtell him calmly but firmly,just the way we’re supposedto, one hundred percent bythe book, to please put downthe weapon.Sir.Or I’ll shoot him in thedamn kneecap.But you think Jesse73

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENJames there listens? No, ofcourse not! He’s a man.So then his gun goesflying and people are screamingin all the usual languages,and he’s spinning around andaround on the floor like anold 45, yelling and cryingand there’s an awful lot ofblood around the crotch ofhis jeans and he’s yellingat me, “Why’d you fucking dothat for, maudit Christ dechienne?”Okay, so I missed hisknee by a few inches, butChrist, what does he mean,why did I do it?I swear, men, they neverlisten….126 74

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENHobo RaceBy DeLeon DeMicoliWaz Mane’s elbow grinded intoCap’s jawline. Face pressed upagainst the fence. Warm bloodtrickled down onto onlookersfingers curled into the chainlinks. Cap remembered howMane’s gold lion’s head ringfelt when the ruby eyes cutinto his flesh. He wore a beardback then, white whiskerspeppered with a few darkstrands. Wads of cracked fleshsagged under his eyes. Toastedcomplexion caked with grimeand dirt. Was a different manthen. Too clean cut for Maneto recognize now. Spent a yearliving out of a tan Chevy 30motorhome. White Man fine withCap parking it in front ofhis dilapidated Victorian aslong as he picked up afterhimself. Freed up afternoonsto ride his restored SchwinnPanther around the LowerBottoms, scavenging throughpiles of junk left behindby contractors and evictedtenants.White Man had wads ofScotch tape holding up hisplastic frames. Scratchedup lenses made it hard torecognize one letter from thenext last time he visited theDMV, resulting in his driver’slicense being revoked. Buthis sight still good enoughto identify vintage fromgarbage when Cap looked tohock treasures, hoping to buya plate of tacos or a partfor the rusted 60s Triumphmotorbike frame hung on theback of his RV.Prescription coughsyrup bottles dangled froma telephone line the lengthof the corner lot. Empty CupNoodles styrofoam caught intall grass. Feet crunched downonto empty liquor bottles asCap pushed off the fence. Freedup space for him to circleaway. Bloodied up Mane’s nosewith a jab. But his right75

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENhook cut through the nightair, giving Mane time to duckand counter, crashing Cap’sorgans into one another. A kneeslammed up into his groin. Hedropped to the ground. Chunksof glass stabbed into hisforearms.Mane stood over him.Gold Franco chain dangledfrom muscles carved into historso. Baggy jeans hung belowhis backside. Chunks of Hanesboxer shorts collected overhis belly button. Rapped,“Stay down if you know what’sgood for you.”Cap spit snot and bloodinto a patch of weeds. Khakitrousers soiled with dirt.Joints sounded like cracklingice dropped into tap as heshifted his weight onto hisknees. Said, “Not even closeto being done with you yet.”He rose to his feet. Blooddripped off his elbows.Cutty stood on the otherside of the fence among thelocals. A large jagged scarran down the side of his face.Wore a blue hoodie and jeans.A black and gold iced outG-Shock timepiece attachedto his wrist. Pitched Mane abrown vial over the fence post.Mane poured a bump of whitegirl on the side of his hand.Snorted it. Placed the vialinto his pocket and rapped,“Ain’t no turnin’ back whenI’s put a molly whoppin’ onyou.”Sign on White Man’sstreet stated no parking firstWednesday’s of each month dueto street cleaning. Cap parkedhis RV along the service driveleading to an abandoned trainstation to avoid a ticket.Woke up in the early hourswith a pillowcase coveringhis head, hands knotted up infront of him. He sat on hisknees. Warm drizzle poureddown the side of his legonce his imagination got awayfrom him. He knew there wereplaces in the Lower Bottomsfolks weren’t welcome. Heard76

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENstories of what happened whenkeaks got a hold of you,but always thought they wasfolklore.Waz Mane wore a blackleather jacket, baggy jeansand white on white Air ForceOne’s. A thirty-three set tohis lips. Pulled the damppillowcase from Cap’s head.First thing Cap focusedon were flames dancing inside arusted steel drum. Cracklinglight illuminated the exposedwood beams in the ceiling andbrick interior.Mane passed the broccolito Cutty. Exhaled. Took a swigfrom a bottle of eighteendummy juice wrapped in brownpaper. Pointed over Cap’shead and rapped, “Hit ‘em.”A wave of cool liquidsoaked into Cap’s clothing.Dripped from his beard.Both men on either side ofhim drenched as well. Theintoxicating fumes stung eyes,burned nostrils and made themen cough and spit onto thecold cement ground.Mane rapped, “First onemake it to the pail and putout their fire lives. Othertwo cook. Them’s the rules,yo.”A large, robust man namedBirdy, dressed in a yellowPuma tracksuit, threw theempty canister of gasoline,he poured over the three men,into the darkness. Grabbedanother canister set by asteel column. Poured a lineof gasoline from each man’spost to twenty feet back. Hadall three lines converge byhis feet. Then, pulled out amatch.Waz Mane moved like Coachtaught him when there was astring dangling the length ofthe room, bopping and weavingfrom one end to the other.Cap too old to keep up withthe young man’s pace. Got offfirst with a jab. Mane leanedback, raised his shoulder tocover his chin. Counteredwith a cross, pivoting off his77

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENright foot with enough forceto snap a wood plank in half.Cap back-footed like he wasblotto. Mane smirked. Turnedto Cutty and rapped, “Dudeain’t got nothin’ left.”A Kool dangled fromCutty’s lips. Rapped, “Lethim know what happens when hego ‘round tha ‘hood callingyou out, yo.”Flames ate up gasoline,rapidly approached thethree-seated men. Cap lungedforward, ran towards thepail of water while excessgasoline, soaked into hisclothing, dripped underneathhim. Other two men followedsuite. Orange heat chasingthem down like guard dogs letloose on trespassers.Syd spent the sixtiesfighting the establishment andto end war. Disability checkspaid for protest fliers andcanned food. Lived in a tenton a putting green acrossfrom the neighborhood sportsfield. His arms flailed overhis head as he tried whackingaway flames that ate at hisclothes and hair. Screamedlike a hyena. Boils formedover his skin. Vertigo kickedin causing him to drop to theground, curl up into the fetalposition and cook.Other hobo went by Bear.Got his first taste for theneedle overseas during thewar. Returned to the LowerBottoms with an appetite hecouldn’t shake. Swept floorsinside Leo’s Custom Auto Shopon 15th Street. Found peaceunder the entrance of a UAWoffice. He struck Cap in theback of the head. Waves ofyellow and orange crawled upCap’s leg. Whacked at themwith open hand strikes. Feetfelt nestled in lukewarmbath water. He kicked off hisboots. Peeled off his sweaterand yanked down his pants.Crawled away from his burningpile of clothes in his socksand underwear.Other end of the78

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENbuilding, a water drenchedBear felt his jaw shift over tohis ear. Arm dangled againsthis ribcage, pail releasedfrom his grip once Cutty’sbaseball bat pelted hiselbow. Second swing knockedhis legs out from under him.Cutty and Birdy hammered awayuntil Bear lay in a pool ofwarm juice.Mane left impressions ofhis ring onto Cap’s bare skin.Cap protected his head. Armstook damage from foot stomps.Waited until Mane took abreather. Lunged forward andran. Jumped out of a windowopening. Didn’t realize hewas on the third floor untilhe counted the seconds duringfree-fall.He woke up several dayslater on a hospital bed.Bandages covered his face.Right arm wrapped in a cast,same for his left leg. Feltpressure against his chest.Wheezed when he inhaled. Hisdaughter, Hildy, ran out ofthe room once she felt hisfingers curl into her hand.His wife, Lorraine, stoodover him. Face red and puffy.Damp Kleenex enclosed in herfist. Said, “Doctor’s coming.Take it easy.”Cap wasn’t used toresponding by his Christianname for the year he’d beenaway. Doctors, police andfamily members asked whathappened to him? Why abandonyour family after being laidoff from your job?A molar felt like hardcandy as it swirled around theinside of his mouth. Spit itonto the ground. Hugged WazMane’s pant leg while hammerfists struck the side of hishead. Mane turned around andkicked out, freeing himselffrom Cap’s grip. A push-kickfollowed, causing the bridgeof Cap’s nose to snap. Eyesswollen. Back hit the dirt.Stared up into the nightsky as he fell in and out ofconsciousness.79

CRIME FACTORYISSUE ISSUE FOURTEEN EIGHTMane grinned. Turned aroundand rapped, “Let’s get a taco.Hungry as fuck.” Grabbedhis shirt hung on a post.Wiped off the blood and spitcollected on his gold lion’shead ring.Fired shots muted a policesiren heard a few blocksdown Peralta Street. Chunksof Mane’s insides dangledfrom the chain link fence.Blood spatter covered most ofCutty’s face.The area quickly cleared ofwitnesses. Mane had troublekeeping his balance. Clenchedthe fence for support. Kneesshaken. Air Force One’sstained from liquids heavedout of his mouth.It took a moment for Cap toget to his feet. The .38 Smith& Wesson 15-4 pressed againsthis knee as he caught hisbreath. Made sure his legswere steady. Then stammeredtowards the fence. RippedMane’s hand free. Gripped thechunk of gold wrapped aroundMane’s finger and pulled it off.Leaned into his ear and readaloud graffiti written on thefar brick wall, “Raised by afist, but shot with a gun.”He turned around and walkedaway.80 140

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENEvil StreakBy Michael M. B.GalvinThey were getting along fineuntil Freddy went and saidthe thing about Kate.Gregorio’s hadn’t beenremodeled since the 80’s. TheCoke was flat, the floor wassticky, the pizza was bad andthe garlic knots were as hardas math. It was dark, though,and the booths were private,and Reagan wasn’t eatinganyway. You didn’t maintainpeak physical condition byeating crap, and maintainingpeak physical condition wasimportant to him. You neverknew when you might have torun, or kick something reallyhard, or lift something reallyheavy, or break somebody’sarm at the elbow. Life wasunpredictable.He was one inch shy ofsix feet, with brown hairthat came over his foreheadin an untamable cowlick anddark brown eyes Kate had oncereferred to as mocha. He wassolid, with broad shouldersand big hands, and just alittle bit top-heavy. He didn’tsmile easily. He had a scaron his chin from a childhoodaccident. He was shaved closeand was wearing a tight grayzip-up sweatshirt.Freddy was not in peakphysical condition, and hedidn’t mind the bad food.Reagan watched him shove sliceafter slice into his face andwondered how the guy stayedthin. Then again, he wasn’tthin, not really. He didn’tweigh much, but what therewas was all fat. Reagan wasaware of such things. Freddywas maybe thirty. Reagan wasthirty-two.The crack about Kate cameup early in the conversation,and, at the time, Reagan hadlet it pass. He hadn’t datedKate for almost two years,and he hadn’t even seen her81

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENfor about ten months. He stillthought about her, though,and to Reagan, that countedfor something.“Yeah, she looks likeshit,” Freddy said. “You onFacebook? Look at her pictures.She’s out every night of theweek, she’s always fucked up.She’s all over anything thatmoves. Plus, she’s gainedabout twenty pounds. Youask me, you got out just intime.”It’s possible thatFreddy meant it as a kind ofmale bonding, the girl dumpedyou, let’s rag on her together,you and me, women, Christ,who needs them? Solidarity,brother.That’s not the wayReagan took it. He felt thattingle in his head. He wipedhis palms on his jeans.Freddy moved off thesubject and went into thedetails of the heist, slurpingdown free refills and blowinghis nose into napkins. Reagannever said anything. ThenFreddy pushed his plate awayand started to pick at theback of his front teeth, likethere was a clump of tartar hecouldn’t dislodge. First heused his fingernail, and thenhe grabbed a plastic coffeestirrer, broke it in half, andstarted digging with that.After a few minutes, Reagancouldn’t concentrate onanything the guy was saying.He began to believe he couldhear Freddy scraping away athis teeth. It gave Reagan aheadache.So when Freddy flippedthe coffee stirrer onto thefloor and asked him what hethought, Reagan weighed thedig at Kate against the meritsof the job. Then he picked upa glass shaker filled with redpepper flakes and bashed theasshole in the mouth with itas hard as he could.Reagan waited in a line ofcars outside the pre-school.82

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENThere was no way tojam a car seat into his owncar, a blue and silver 1981Datsun 280 Z, so he was in hissister’s red Toyota Matrix.There were Cheerios groundinto the upholstery and thecar smelled a little likesour milk. There were fadingbutterfly stickers stuck onthe inside of the back window.An empty water bottle rolledaround in the passenger sidefootwell.It had been about a weeksince the thing at Gregorio’s.Reagan had been careful notto lose his temper since. Hewas in control of his body,and he should be in controlof his mind. He rememberedwhen he was a kid, not toomuch older than Clementine,and he had gotten into a fightwith his neighbor Chris, andReagan got so angry he pickedhis bike up over his head andthrew it, grinning as thepedal caught Chris in theshin. Chris had to go to thehospital for stitches, and hewas terrified of Reagan afterthat. Reagan wound up in atherapist’s office, but thesessions didn’t last long.What some professionals mightconsider ‘impulse controlissues’ most people recognizeinstinctively as an ‘evilstreak.’He rolled down hiswindow and inched along untilhe came to a harried teacherwith a clipboard and a walkietalkie.He gave her his nameand she checked the list. Thenshe called into the school andhad Reagan drive up a hundredfeet or so to wait.Clementine bopped out ofthe door, all bookbag and pinkboots. She hugged her uncleand showed him a drawing shehad made of what she claimedto be a volcano. He openedthe back door and scooped herinto the child safety seat.She hummed to herself as hebuckled her in.Reagan finished, stood83

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENup, and looked over the carand across the street. That’swhen he saw the Ford Explorer.It was too far away to knowfor sure, but his instinctshad always been good, and hisinstincts what telling himwho was in the truck and whatwas about to happen.He got in the driver’sseat.“You all buckled in?”“Yes,” said Clementine.“Then let’s go!”Reagan pulled out ontothe street.“You want to listen tomusic?”“Yes!”“What kind? Opera?”“No! The Fresh BeatBand!”Reagan checked his rearview. The Explorer was twocar lengths back, between aricer Mitsubishi and a silverAvalon. He could see Freddy inthe front seat with some kindof a bandage over his nose.He recognized the black guydriving, too. They had workedtogether last year on theDockit Industries thing. Hewas a good man, all business.There was a third guy in theback seat, but Reagan couldn’tsee him. They were arguingabout something.“The fresh meat band?That sounds awful.”“Not meat, beat! TheFresh Beat Band.”“Oh. Let me see what wehave here.”He popped the CD intothe stereo. He doubted theywere out to kill him. Freddywas pissed off, sure, but hewasn’t stupid, and the factwas Reagan made the Greektoo much money for Freddy totake him out. Freddy wouldwant to teach him a lesson,though, so he put togetherthis little trio to give hima good beating. Reagan didn’tthink the other guys in thetruck were Freddy’s buddies.That meant Freddy was payingthem, and that meant that they84

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENweren’t emotionally investedin the outcome. They werearguing because they knewthere was a kid in Reagan’scar. The guys wanted to call itoff or postpone it, but Freddywanted it done. Or maybe itwas the other way around.The Fresh Beat Bandcame on, multi-ethnic twentysomethingscheerfully blastingout catchy pop music fortoddlers. “On your mark, getset, let’s move! Hop aboard,we’re leaving now, we’ve gotso much to do!”“This music is terrible,”Reagan said.“No, it isn’t!”“It sounds like a washingmachine full of rocks.”“You’re weird, anky!”Clem called Reagan ankybecause when she was smallershe couldn’t say Uncle. Itstuck.He ran through hisoptions. He could just keepdriving, but you never know,this might make Freddy evenhotter and he was just dumbenough to start firing out thewindow if he got frustrated.Reagan’s sister would killhim if anything happened toClementine.He could drop the kidoff home and then go to meetFreddy. But there wasn’tanybody over there. Melaniehad to take Josh to a doctor’sappointment for his foot. Theguy had been hobbling aroundfor months.He could outrun themif he was in his Z, but theMatrix was a gutless wonder.Good gas mileage, though.He could just take thebeating.They were still on histail. He made his decision andtook a left into the shoppingplaza. They followed him pastthe Dick’s and the 24 HourFitness and the Staples.“Are we going toMcDonald’s?”“Do you want to go toMcDonald’s?”85

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEEN“I want French fries!”“But little girls don’tlike to eat French fries.They like to eat worms anddirt and bugs.”“No, they don’t!”“Really?”“They don’t!”“I don’t know. I’m prettysure I read that somewhere.”“I want McDonald’s!”“Let me think aboutit.”He drove around andbehind a TJ Maxx and parkedfacing a wall. The Explorerpulled in after him and satidling about a hundred feetaway, waiting to see what hewould do.“Listen. I have to getout of the car for a minute.You just wait here, please.”“Okay.”“I won’t be long.”“Okay.”He took a quickinventory of the Matrix. Therewas nothing in plain sighthe might use. He searchedthrough Clem’s bookbag, buthe knew it was a longshot.Not even Melanie would send athree year-old to school withsomething that could be usedas a weapon.He handed Clementine astack of books and a packet ofGo-Gurt. “Here. You can readabout Angelina Ballerina anda cow that drives a boat.”“That’s a dog!”“I’m pretty sure it’s acow.”The guys in the other carwere waiting. Reagan crackedthe center console. Nothingbut empty gum canisters,Splenda packets and CD cases.He hit the glove compartmentand found the car’s manual,some hand lotion, a packetof tissues, napkins fromChipotle, and a pair ofsunglasses.And a screwdriver.Flat-head, maybe fourinches of metal sticking upfrom a skinny plastic handle.Cheap. Flimsy. Not a tool you86

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENwould use for a real job, butjust the thing for prying astuck CD out of a stereo.It would have to do.Reagan stuck the screwdriverinto his sock and looked inthe back seat. Clementinehanded him the Go-Gurt.“You have to openthis.”He tore the top off thepackage and gave it back. Clemsucked away as she flippedthrough a book. The car seatreached around on the sides,so even if she got bored andwanted to look around shereally couldn’t. Unless sheunbuckled herself. Couldshe do that? He assumed shecould.He would have to be fast.He turned up the music.“Wait for me here, Clem.Don’t get out.”She ignored him.Okay. Go time.He got out of the Matrixand walked with his hands outto his sides.He stood. He waited.The driver shut off theExplorer’s engine. He andFreddy and the guy in theback climbed out. Freddy hadan automatic pointed at theground. Reagan guessed theother two had guns somewherehe couldn’t see them.The Fresh Beat Bandblared out of the Matrix. “Areyou ready to roll? ‘Cause herewe go!”“Glenn,” Reagan said tothe driver.“Reagan.”“Looking good, Freddy.”“Fuck you, you fuckingpsycho,” said Freddy. Reagancould hardly make out thewords. Freddy’s jaw was wiredshut.“You didn’t get theflowers?”Glenn smiled and Freddyseethed. The tape on his facemeant the nose was broken.The left side of his face wasbruised and swollen. Therewas a burst blood vessel87

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENthat made his left eye almostcompletely red.He mumbled through hisclenched teeth, “Real fuckingfunny, dick.”Reagan nodded to theguy from the back seat, atough looking kid with acnescars, twenty, twenty-one,in a Stussy baseball cap anda striped hoody. Stussy juststared.“No guns,” said Reagan.“You don’t make therules,” said Freddy.“He’s right, no guns.We don’t need to get carriedaway.” Glenn turned to Freddyand the other guy. “Put themin the truck.” When neitherman moved, Glenn repeatedhimself. “Put them in thetruck.”They obeyed. Reagannoted that even with Freddyrunning the show, he wasn’treally running the show.Freddy smiled at him.“You sure you want to do this,Reagan? There’s three of usand only one of you.”“You want me to waituntil you get more guys?”Freddy waved Stussy andGlenn forward. “Move! What thefuck am I paying you for?”The kid bounced on thesoles of his feet and shook outhis fists while Glenn walkedcarefully to Reagan. He pulleda small length of pipe fromthe back of his waistband andheld it in his right hand.“Nothing personal, Reagan.”Reagan nodded. “Nothingpersonal.”When they were aboutthree feet away, Reagan lungedfor Glenn. Glenn was a knownquantity. He was older thanthe kid and he had been inthe business almost as longas Reagan. He worked for theGreek, too, though Reagansupposed that in some wayeverybody probably worked forthe Greek. Glenn had him bytwo or three inches, but hewas too deliberate to be agood fighter. He lacked the88

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENkiller instinct. He justwasn’t angry enough.Glenn ducked underReagan’s haymaker, but hewasn’t expecting the kickReagan leveled at his knee.It caught Glenn flush andbent his leg backward with asickening crack. Glenn wentdown, clutching the knee,and the pipe clanked to thepavement.The music from theMatrix never stopped. “We gota green light! We’re gonnatake a ride! Come on, whatare you waiting for? ‘Causehere we go!”Before Stussy could evenreact, Reagan was on him.He tackled him and broughthim down, but the kid hadsomething to prove. He kneedReagan in the stomach andsquirmed away, swinging anelbow that caught Reagan inthe mouth. Reagan ducked tothe side just in front of awell-thrown left that couldhave done some real damage.“Come on, asshole,”Stussy said. “You’re a fuckingpussy.”When Stussy came at himagain, Reagan got him with aforehead to the face. Now thekid had blood streaming outof his nose to match the bloodfrom Reagan’s mouth. This madeStussy mad. He responded witha flurry of punches, some ofwhich Reagan blocked and someof which he didn’t. The kidwas strong and fast. Reagancouldn’t quite seem to hithim and the constant blowswere starting to get to him.He went down on one knee.Freddy yelled “Fuckingkill him!” as loud as hisclosed jaw would let him.Reagan saw Stussy movingtoward the pipe on the ground.He couldn’t let the kid getahold of that, so he charged,wrapping Stussy up and drivinghim across the parking lotand right into the side ofthe Matrix.The Fresh Beats sang,89

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEEN“It’s time to move it! It’stime to groove it! Are youready? ‘Cause here we go!”Freddy’s face smashedinto the window right nextto Clementine. She looked upwith her big three-year-old’seyes and Reagan pulled himaway. He winked at Clem andcircled his finger around hishead in a this-guy’s-cuckoogesture. Then he threw Stussyas far across the parking lotas he could.“Give it up, kid. He’snot paying you enough to getkilled.”“He’s paying me enoughto fuck you up.”He came again, and thistime Reagan sidestepped him.As Stussy went past, Reagangrabbed his arm and spun him.The kid was ready, though,and he caught Reagan with abrutal forearm to the eyes.It hurt. It also woke up thatthing inside Reagan that hewas always trying to keepunder wraps. He felt the heatwash over him. He tuned outthe pain. He tuned out theFresh Beat Band. Stussy cameat him again and Reagan simplyreached out, grabbed the kid’sright ear, and ripped it offof his head.When the assistantmanager from TJ Maxx came outthe back door with both handsfilled with garbage bags, hesaw a black man lying on theground cradling his leg, awailing kid on his knees in ablood-soaked sweatshirt, andReagan, bleeding from morethan one spot on his faceand holding a severed ear.Reagan grinned at him withblood-stained teeth and theassistant manager dropped thebags and ran back inside thestore.Reagan snapped backto reality. Time to go, hethought. Cops are incoming.But before he turnedback around, he felt Freddybehind him. He had gottenthe gun from the truck and90

CRIME FACTORYISSUE ISSUE FOURTEEN EIGHTwas pointing it at Reagan’shead.“You couldn’t just takeyour fucking beating,” hesaid. “Anybody else wouldhave just taken the fuckingbeating.”Reagan put his handson his knees and started topant, calming himself, tryingto get his heart rate down.“I have a kid in thecar.”“The fuck do I care?I had some pussy lined upthis weekend, and look at myfucking face!”“It’s not that bad.”“I’m eating through afucking straw!”Reagan looked over atthe Matrix and went pale.“Clem! Get back in thecar!”Freddy swiveled hishead to look, but no one wasgetting out of the car. Heturned back just in time forReagan to pop out of his squatand shove the screwdriver upand into Freddy’s left temple.It slid right inside Freddy’shead and took a piece of skullwith it when it poked out nearFreddy’s forehead.Reagan let the screwdrivergo. It stuck. Freddy droppedthe gun and reached his handsup to his face. There was alot of blood.Somehow, Freddy wasstill on his feet.“What did you do?” heasked, honestly confused.“Seriously. What did youdo?”Reagan backed away asFreddy patted gently at hisown face. The rage in Reaganwas fading fast. He wiped asmuch blood off his own face ashe could with his shirt.Freddy felt aroundgingerly until he found thescrewdriver’s handle. Heasked, “What do I do? Do Ipull it out?”“I wouldn’t. Maybe getto a hospital. Actually, youknow what? Just stay here.169 91

CRIME FACTORYISSUE ISSUE FOURTEEN EIGHTI’m sure somebody’s coming.”Reagan started for theMatrix.“Wait! Don’t leave me!”Reagan shrugged and gotinto the Toyota. He turnedthe music down before he putthe car in reverse and backedup, careful not to hit Glenn,or Stussy, or Freddy, who waswandering in panicky littlecircles with his hands on hisface.“Who was that man?”asked Clem.“What man, honey?”“The man at thewindow.”“That was my friend. Hewas just being silly.”“He was all bleeding!”“He was not. He was justplaying a game.”He slammed the car intodrive and wrenched the wheel.That’s when he saw Stussy, redanger in his eyes, pointing agun right at the windshield.Without even thinking, Reaganleaned on the gas and plowedright through him. As theydrove away, Reagan could feelthe kid’s head bounce againstthe undercarriage . He couldhave been okay, but Reaganknew he wasn’t.“Whoa!” Reagan said.“Speedbumparoonies!”Clem didn’t seem tonotice. When you’re a kid,lots of things happen thatyou can’t explain.“Are we still going toMcDonald’s?” she asked.“Absolutely. We need toget you a spider milkshake,”said Reagan. “Right after wehit a car wash.”92 140

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENThe House OnNorth CassBy Robert JamesRussellAnd as he walks up the driveof the small house on NorthCass with the snubnose tuckedin his pocket, Jimmy triesto discern where the uneasyfeeling has come from. Itisn’t on account of how easyRollo gave up the locationthat bothers him…not really:he has absolutely no doubt inhis mind it’s all a set-up.Really it’s that he’s goingalong with it anyway—thatYoung Jimmy, Smart Jimmy,would never do such a thing.But here’s Old Jimmy, UnwiseJimmy, walking right intoit.Jimmy can’t be botheredwith any of that now anyway.Instead he limps slowly up thedriveway and can feel freshblood run down the inseam ofhis left leg and soak theinsides of his boot, makinga mess of his sock. The painhas almost all but vanished—or, anyway, it’s subdued, notworth thinking about at a timelike this.He lumps forward, hisswollen eyes distortingthings on his peripherals andcausing shapes to jump outthat aren’t actually there. Onaccount of a concussion, morethan likely, from earlier.He stops near the broken-downgarage door, listens: birdcalls above in the dark sky,thunder somewhere close, carhonking, a dog. He can painta scene with the familiarityof those sounds in a placelike this, a neighborhood sofar gone it had almost trippedon itself coming back aroundagain. The kind of place heonce felt comfortable in. Thekind of place he now feelswary of, ready to be donewith. But that’s impossibletonight.The dog he hears barking—pretty consistent since his93

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENarrival ten minutes earlier—it’s south, two houses down,one street back. It was alwayshis job to find the escape routefirst, always first, so beforehe shuffles any further up thestreet and before he brazenlyapproaches the house—thehouse—he peers through thebackyards and makes an exitstrategy like he had beentaught making mule runs withPsycho and Little Bill backduring those initiation days.“You just never know,” LittleBill would say. “Better alwayshave a fucking get-away.”So Jimmy plans before hetakes one more step like it’sas natural as breathing: headone street over, in front ofthe house with the barkingdog, down two blocks thennorth on King half a mile,wash-up at the Texaco and he’sclear. For a while, anyway.He surveys the streetagain: busted-out streetlamps, burned-down shell ofa house that stands in thelot adjacent, gaping windowsand semi-collapsed roof,then back to this house, thecurtains drawn and that faintsmell of vinegar in the air.Places like this, when theygo quiet, he knows no goodis being had. This is noexception.Jimmy approaches thesagging front stoop with thecorners of the stone stepsall but chipped away and looksthrough the front window besthe can, mapping in his mindhow he thinks the interiormight be laid out. Theseranch-style houses are allbuilt from the same goddamnedblueprint anyway: front dooropening to living room openingto dining/kitchen area, smallhall leading to bathrooms andbedrooms, stairs to basementnear the garage. He takes astep up and feels a sharpburst of pain run through hisleg and to his back and eventhough every bit of him isscreaming for him to stop and94

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENturn around, he ignores theseinstincts and lurches furtherup to the door, cracked open asif he was an invited guest.Inside the living room—just where he thought theliving room would be—theTV is blaring some sort ofinfomercial, coating theotherwise dark room in aviolent blue-white haze. Ittakes Jimmy a moment forhis eyes to adjust, and asthey do the outline of a mancomes into focus lying on thecouch, shirtless. Asleep. Hewaits, makes damn sure itisn’t a trick, takes stockof everything he can see:living room dirty, unkempt;plates of food and takeoutcontainers staggered; La-Z-Boy type chair in the corner,cushions ripped out; kitchendark, empty; sliver of lightfrom hall wedged on thedining room floor; man snoringsomewhere, spare bedroommaybe; TV on somewhere else,maybe basement. Not sure.Jimmy takes out the gunand steps toward the couch,slow. The only good graceof old age, he thinks. Theimpetuousness is gone even ifhe wants it back. He hoversover the man he recognizesthrough thick beard andspotted, booze-soaked skin asBenji Queen, just a kid whenJimmy left so long ago. A damnkid.Doesn’t matter—he’s partof this now, they all are.Jimmy wipes his eyes clean,clear, thinks about how it’sgoing to go down. Use the gun,everyone’s awake. And there’sno telling how many are holedup in this shithole. So, whatinstead? Jimmy waits, thinks,watches Benji shift in place,snore loudly, shift again,finally get comfortable, thendoze back off. Oblivious.He pockets the gun andwalks quietly to the kitchenlooking first down the hallto the left—all doors openand dark inside but one, a95

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENbedroom at the end, open acrack with some light comingout. Where the second TV is,he thinks. He passes throughthe small dining room withthe table covered in bottlesand more food containers andsees, like he knew he would,a door past the kitchen nextto a small bathroom leadingto the basement: door shut,all quiet. He waits, listens,hears the collective snoringof the collective bodies fillthe house, then goes back tohis task and finds, on thefirst try in the first drawerto the left of the sink, adrawer of cutlery. He grabsa steak knife—will do nicely,slightly serrated, still hassome of its point to it—andturns back toward the livingroom to find Benji standingbetween him and it, staringstraight back, all awake now,his muscled body ready topounce.Benji doesn’t say athing—Jimmy has no idea why—and finally lunges toward himwith a knife of his own, ofthe hunting variety: short butfat, sturdy, the kind you’d useto dress a deer. Jimmy managesto deflect Benji’s initialthrust and they topple towardthe sink together, making aloud clanking noise when themetal of the blade hits. He’sbehind Benji now and withouteven contemplating he puts himin a headlock, trying hard tosoothe the wild beast. Benjikicks and bucks his legs,spills a nearby plate on thefloor that cracks in pieces,loud. Shit, Jimmy thinks.That’ll just about wake upeveryone else, then.Meanwhile, Benji’strying hard to break free fromthe hold. He continues to kickhis boots wildly along theground, leaving crooked blackskids on the cheap linoleumand, finally, remembers he’sstill holding the knife andreaches back with it, slicingopen Jimmy’s neck just below96

CRIME FACTORYISSUE ISSUE FOURTEEN EIGHTthe collar. Jimmy releasesBenji, who falls, then scootsback toward the fridge asJimmy grabs at the wound. Atthe ache.Benji breathes hard andlabored and it looks like he’snow ready to make the callfor his compadres to comeback him up. But Jimmy, usingeverything he has, rocketstoward him, hand meetingthroat—hard enough that Benjicannot speak—then elbows hisknife to the ground. Benjifights back again, more likewrestling—as all cornered andwounded animals will—evenmanages to punch Jimmy in theleg near where he had gottenshot earlier. But Jimmy keepsat it: one hand on Benji’sthroat, the other fending offhis tree-trunk arms fightingback, all while keeping theknife in check, trying hardto find a place to sheatheit, Benji blocking him everytime.The two of them gruntand pant, no words beingspoken yet—must sound likea dancing party to anyonedownstairs—but Jimmy isn’tthinking about any of that,only this, right here, pittingeverything he has againstthis great rhinoceros. Helooks in Benji’s eyes—wideand wild, tired—and isn’tsure how but finally gets hisopening and jacks the knifeinto Benji’s neck along theside, covering his mouth soany last minute sounds cannotescape. Benji struggles fora moment, reaches up as ifhe wants to pull the bladeout, but they are in a sortof bear hug now and Jimmykeeps the blade firmly plantedin, pushing harder until hecan feel it hit bone, spine,until the great beast is limpin his arms.Jimmy sets the body onthe floor and collapses nextto it, exhausted. Then henotices the hole on his legmore gaping now, blood pouring169 97

CRIME FACTORYISSUE ISSUE FOURTEEN EIGHTfrom it, another cut above hiseye from the fight—somehow—butthere’s no time to worry aboutany of that now: footstepson the basement stairs, twosets.So he takes the gunout and cocks the hammer,aiming best he can betweenshaking hands, his visionblurry, shaken up, too. Andhe waits.98 140

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENScribbles FromThe UnderworldBy Ryan K. LindsayOn the stormy afternoon ofFriday the 11th of June, 1982,a squad of police officersraided the Downtown Bar andmade a slew of arrests andacquisitions. A known hot spotfor the Melbourne underworld,thirty-five arrests were madewith seventeen successfulconvictions stemming from theday. History would dub thisday ‘The Last Drink’ as theDowntown would shut its doorsand never reopen. Those whoscurried away from the longarm of the law found newplaces to imbibe and plan foranother rainy day.The names and photosfrom ‘The Last Drink’ wentdown in history but what wasnever revealed were many ofthe material items recoveredfrom the raid. Numbers ofweapons and street value ofdrugs made good headlines,but the little things thatcould fall through the crackscould and did. Until now.With the aid of VictorianPolice, we can present to yousome of the stranger evidencecollected on that day in theDowntown. Below you can readsamples of the paperworktaken from the thugs’ pockets,hidden cracks between tables,written on the bathroom walls,and crumpled in the bins. Intheir own words, we present toyou the men of the Melbourneunderworld and their secretthoughts and musings.Collected from the jacket ofBrandon ‘Legbreaker’ Murphy- lined A5 notepad paperTO DOPick up milkWash carBurn clothesBury shovelCall BradFix back step99

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENBuy new shovelFloss(Ed. A few of these items wererelated to the recent executionof a police informant, namewithheld, and I am worried‘Floss’ might actually be apart of that grouping)Collected from the backpocket of Billy Coogan - aDowntown napkinTANYAProsCan deep throatLoves to deep throatDrinks Melbourne BitterConsChubby thighsFamily in GeelongRed hairCan’t driveMANDYProsGreen eyesLong hairReads booksFinished schoolLaughs at my jokesDrives a HoldenConsSmarter than meMother is a train wreckListens to The UndertonesBorn on Valentine’s DayCan’t deep throat(Ed. Billy would later marryMandy Fell. Tanya Windsorwould become his long standingmistress until he found herwith another man in theDandenong cottage he paid renton. He beat both of them intothe ICU. She recovered andmoved in with her mother)Collected from the bar infront of Waz Atkins rightnext to his freshly pouredschooner of Victoria Bitter- plain A4 paperFree Datsun - IdeasGive to Gary for his 16thCar bomb in PrahranWhack Joe, pop in the boot,100

CRIME FACTORYISSUE ISSUE FOURTEEN EIGHTlaunch into Sorrento BackBeach surfChadstone car park burn outclubHide drugs in doors, park infront of Joe’s, give Keene an‘anonymous’ tip off(Ed. This note exposed thepreviously unknown ChadstoneBurnout Club and also sparkedan IA inquiry into DetectiveRalph Keene who was discoveredto be incredibly corruptand would be eventuallydishonourably discharged)list)Collected behind the bartacked to the wall -cardboardBooks you need to read:The Moon and SixpenceAnd Then There Were NoneThe Long GoodbyeUtopiaThe Daughter of Time--Uncle Bang BangCollected from the wall tothe left of the men’s urinalCollected from DenisPaygen’s wallet - yellowPost-ItWayne’s Birthdayguitarshot gunbikebootsnight at Palace Playmatesbowie knife???Betamax player(Ed. The Betamax was probablythe most dangerous on theIdeasDon’t get caughtDrink moreRob Zarn’s JewellerySleep with Zarn’s daughterA urinal for shittingHave better ideasBlow my brains outDon’t carry more than $75Read a bookWrite a bookLook up: bookEat a whole chicken in onesitting101 169

CRIME FACTORYISSUE ISSUE FOURTEEN EIGHTEat a whole dog in onesittingStop letting Ashuns in thebarLearn to spellCollected from the mouthof Charles Douglas as heattempted to swallow it -lined notepad paperRecipeCardboard box4 packets of nailsFresh dog shitShit loads of sparklersA dozen gas bulbsServe white hot(Ed. This ‘recipe,’ or ‘cooksheet’ as it’s sometimesknown, linked Douglas to arecent attack on a Vietnameserestaurant - he was chargedand sentenced to six years inPentridge)I only want to leave. Ialways want to leave. I needto leave.I will never leave.(Ed. Clinically depressed,Campbell would serve time fora concealed weapon withouta permit. While in prison,Campbell found Jesus andconfessed his sins. He hadkilled over thirty criminalsknown to the police. Helead officers to every crimescene and accrued multiplelife sentences. He was thereligious figurehead withinPentridge until it closed. Hewas released on good behaviourand did finally leave Victoriaand has never been in troublewith the law since.)Collected from GuyCampbell’s hand as he staredat it until placed into cuffs- lined index card102 169

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENKEVIN BURTON SMITH is aMontreal crime writer,reviewer and Mystery Scenecolumnist, as well as editorand founder of The ThrillingDetective Web Site. He’salso a bookseller, graphicdesigner and musical bookingagent for a local coffeehouse, and is currentlyliving in California’s HighDesert waiting for rain,respite from the heat androyalty cheques. He’ll sleepwhen he’s dead.A man of many worlds, RYANK. LINDSAY writes comics,about comics, and otherprose. His credits includeGHOST TOWN from ActionLab Entertainment, theFATHERHOOD one-shot fromChallenger Comics, and a MYLITTLE PONY one-shot fromIDW.He’s had shortstories published by Image/Shadowline, ComixTribe,Martian Lit, and CrimeFactory. He’s also had essayspublished in CRIMINAL,GODZILLA, HORROR FACTORY,and has a book of them aboutDaredevil called THE DEVILIS IN THE DETAILS: EXAMININGMATT MURDOCK AND DAREDEVILfrom Sequart.He is Australian. Hithim up @ryanklindsay forwords daily104

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENDeLEON DeMICOLI writes forthe MMA Underground, aCBSSports.com partner. Hisfree time is spent on themats learning Muay Thai, JiuJitsu, boxing and Krav Magain East Bay, CA.ROBERT JAMES RUSSELL is thePushcart Prize nominatedauthor of Sea of Trees(Winter Goose Publishing,2012), and the co-foundingeditor of the literaryjournal Midwestern Gothic.His work haas appeared inGris-Gris, The Collagist,J o y l a n d , T h u n d e r c l a p !Magazine, LITSNACK, andThe Legendary, amongothers. Find him online atrobertjamesrussell.com.105

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENMICHAEL M.B. GALVIN is ascreenwriter living in LosAngeles. He is working ona graphic novel featuringa pissed-off Reagan out forrevenge against his doublecrossingmother and islooking to publish LOUDERTHAN BULLETS, his crime novelabout a washed-up hair metalsinger who becomes ensnaredin a web of kidnapping andviolence.106

“I amdamned”-Cave

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENThe Mystery ThatHas No PhysicalExistence, ButThat HauntsIn their groundbreaking essay “Broken Windows,” authors James Q.Wilson and George L. Kelling articulate a rather interesting theorythat seems to be at odds with popular conceptions of humanity. Everheard that one about how people will do anything to avoid beinghurt? More than likely, you’re familiar with the utilitarian beliefin the happiness principle, a dictate and a philosophy that arguesthat humanity is at its most content when it is performing dutiesand engaging in activities that are bringing them the most pleasure.Both of these ideas are materially-based, and both utilitarians andthose afraid of fists would agree that it’s all about the physicalimpact.In “Broken Windows,” the thing emphasized is the threat ofviolence. Actual violence matters less than the feeling that violencemight happen. Instead of fearing the knife or the gun that we seeA Reflectionon GeorgesFranju’sNuits Rougesby BenjaminWelton108

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENin front of us, we are terrified by the stranger that we pass onthe street. More importantly, we are afraid of what this mysteriousperson is capable of. Thus you not only have the unique character ofurban paranoia, but you also have the original seeds of the detective“Poe was more beloved andrespected in foreign climesthan on his own nativeshores...”and crime fiction narratives.The first true example of this fear of the chaos lurking withinthe heart of modern metropolises was written by an American. Edgar109

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENAllan Poe’s “The Man of theCrowd” (1840) is a bizarretale of an unknown narratorwho follows a malevolentlookingstranger throughLondon’s various ghettos ofimmorality. The final revealof this story (if indeed therecan be said to even be one)is that the impromptu gumshoetelling the story believesthat the mysterious manfrom London’s teeming crowdis the essential “genius ofdeep crime.” In other words,Poe’s haunting specter of thepossibilities of the urbanatmosphere is crime itself.As has been the casewith many other Americanmasters (for instance PatriciaHighsmith, Raymond Chandler,and Horace McCoy), Poe wasmore beloved and respectedin foreign climes than onhis own native shores. Inparticular, Poe developed afollowing in France due tothe translations of CharlesBaudelaire. Baudelaire wasa master of the macabre inhis own right, and plenty ofthe poems in his Les Fleursdu mal (The Flowers Of Evil,1857) gleefully presentParis’s debauchery and itspredilection for violence.In particular, Baudelaire’s“Le Vin de l’assassin,” whichis often translated as “TheMurderer’s Wine,” presentsa bloodied narrator whohas just dispatched of hiswife in the most brutal wayimaginable. Recalling theschizophrenic monologues ofRobert Browning’s “MadhouseCells,” “The Murderer’s Wine”helped to inaugurate a newnarrative platform for socialcommentary - that of thecriminal as confessant anddefiant anti-hero.The French must have akeen fondness for this typeof thing, for throughoutthe nineteenth century andthe early twentieth, Frenchpopular fiction presenteda whole of host of amoral110

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENprotagonists along withthe standard detectives andother figures of traditionalauthority. From Eugène Sue’sLes Mystères de Paris toMaurice Leblanc’s debonairgentleman thiefArsène Lupin, thecriminal was allthe rage in prewarFrance. Still,despite France’slong infatuationwith fictional andreal-life rouges,French readingaudiences stilldid not seemprepared for whatthey received in1911. In thatyear, two rightwingBonapartistsand journalistsunleashed on theworld the literaryembodiment ofnihilistic chaosand surrealsadism.M a r c e lAllain and PierreSouvestre’s creation -Fantômas - is without questionone of the most importantfigures of twentieth century111

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENcrime fiction. The Fantômasnovels and the subsequent filmsdirected by Louis Feuilladeare some of the most unlikely(and thrilling) pieces ofEuropean art. You could addthe prefix “high” to that lastsentence, because Fantômas,the arch-criminal who is bothnothing and everything, was afavorite of André Breton andthe Surrealists who saw in thecharacter a demonic exampleof the Surrealistic project- the orchestrated desire toelaborately display society’snonsensical, suicidal, andsadistic core.Along with Breton andother members of Paris’sradical and left-wingintellectual class, Fantômashad a fan in Georges Franju,an aspiring filmmaker fromthe small city of Fougèresin the legend-haunted regionof Brittany. Although Franjuwould later admit in interviewsthat the Feuillade films didnot directly inspire him,the presence and characterof these earlier films arediscernible in Franju’s mostpopular works. This isn’t merespeculation, for Franju’s twomajor crime thrillers - Judex(1963) and Nuits Rouges (1974)- have direct connections toFeuillade’s World War I-erafilm serials.First of all, both filmswere co-written by JacquesChampreux, “a habitué of theBoulevard du Crime” and thegrandson of Feuillade. Second,Franju’s Judex was a remake ofFeuillade’s 1916 serial abouta Corsican named Jacques deTremeuse who dresses up asJudex, a black-clad avengerwho is out to punish thebanker Favraux for his handin the elder de Tremeuse’ssuicide. Feuillade’s serialis a melodramatic affair thatis throughly Manichean. Whileit maintains the original’squick cuts and use ofintertitles, Franju’s Judexwas consciously made as an art112

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENfilm with noticeable touchesof Expressionism.Judex was no labor oflove though, and from the veryoutset Franju made it clearthat he would rather remakeFantômas, a film series and acharacter he found far moreintriguing. In a 1984 interviewwith the editors of L’Avantscènecinéma, Franju picksapart the Judex character inthe most unflattering light:“He’s a vulture; he’sa vampire; he’s a sadist. Hetortures Favraux, he keepshim locked up, he sticks himin a hole, and he watches himsuffer...”Franju’s main point ofcontention with the Judexcharacter was his own selfappointedposition as amoralist, a position thatwas based upon his owntransgression of certainmoral codes.Fantômas, on the otherhand, is openly a murdererand is a villain with nofalse pretensions. ForFranju’s sensibilities, thischaracter needed more time onthe screen. Franju didn’t getthat chance with Judex, but hefinally did with Nuits Rouges,the maestro’s final featurefilm. Nuits Rouges (whichtranslates to Red Nights) isthe very definition of pulp,and its storyline is one partcomic strip crime and one partfantastique. As a whole, NuitsRouges is far from Franju’sbest film (that honor belongsto the stunningly beautifulhorror film Eyes Without aFace [Le yeux sans visage,1960]), but it is certainlyhis most decadent. It is thisvery decadence that ties NuitsRouges back to the literarytraditions of France and whatRobin Walz has termed French“pulp surrealism.”With Nuits Rouges,Champreux spun a sordid taleof secret treasure, secretidentities, and secretsocieties. In one corner, The113

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENMan Without a Face (who isplayed by Champreux himself),a crimson-hooded criminal whospends the entire film in amyriad of disguises, is drivenby a desire to attain a losttreasure. The Man Without aFace, who is a clear homageto Fantômas, is supportedin his quest by The Woman(played by the American GayleHunnicutt), the insane Ledocteur Dutreuil (played bya convincing Clément Harari)and his collection of mindlessand emotionless zombies.Standing in the way ofThe Man Without a Face are theKnights Templar, that perennialgroup of rumor and suspicionsince the fourteenth century.In Nuits Rouges, the modernincarnation of the KnightsTemplar seem like a crossbetween a religious cult anda gun-wielding street gang.Considering that Franju’s filmcame after Amando de Ossorio’sTomb of the Blind Dead (LaNoche del terror ciego, 1971),it should come as no surprisethat Franju’s Templars are at114

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENtimes more menacing than evenThe Man Without a Face.Stuck in the middleare the police (including apoet-detective named SéraphinBeauminon), Paul de Borrego,the son of the slain historianand Templar Maxime de Borrego,Martine Leduc, Paul’s loveinterest, and Professor Pétri,a British historian with aspeciality in the medievalworld.As can be guessed bythis vague outline, NuitsRouges bears, on the surface,more in common with one ofFeuillade’s film serials thanit does with any other filmof its own era. The ironyhere is that Franju, whileconducting an interview withBritish film critic Tom Milne,once again claimed that he wasmore inspired by Souvestreand Allain than Feuillade.This claim seems true enoughin regards to Nuits Rouges,which contains all of the overthe-topsensationalism of theprewar pulp novels. NuitsRouges is also deceptively afilm of its own time - an erain European film history whensuch directors as Ossorio,Mario Bava, and Jesús Francowere busy producing sleazy,semi-pornographic films thatalso dealt with all thetypical pulp subject matters.Similarly, it can be arguedthat Champreux’s decision touse the Knights Templar in hisscreenplay was influenced by a1967 book by Géraud de Sèdeentitled L’Or de Rennes. L’Orde Rennes probably doesn’tstrike a chord with Anglophoneaudiences, but the books itdirectly inspired - The HolyBlood and the Holy Grail andThe Da Vinci Code - are. Andmuch like in these laterconspiracy theories, NuitsRouges (which is unabashedlya work of fiction) promotesan alternative version ofhistory. In the world ofThe Man Without a Face, theKnights Templars discovered115

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENAmerica before Columbus,and in doing so, they nettedthemselves a fabulous hordeof gold. It is this gold thatThe Man Without a Face seeksto acquire and the Templarsstrive to protect.But unlike the far morepopular The Da Vinci Code, theappeal of Nuits Rouges liesnot in its plot, but ratherin its aesthetics. Althoughit was mostly shot in Tito’sYugoslavia (which, accordingto Franju, was a terribleordeal) the sets on Nuits Rougeshave the same streamlinedquality and Bauhaus-inspiredsense of clean, straightlinemenace as either FritzLang’s Spione (yet anotherexample of a European artfilm director who was in lovewith the mastermind criminaltheme) or Edgar G. Ulmer’s TheBlack Cat. The one glaringdifference between these filmsis the cinematography. WhileLang and Ulmer’s films aresleek, stylish masterpiecesthat were clearly made forthe big screen, Nuits Rougesfeels more like a smallscreen endeavor, and despiteFranju’s occasional touch ofovert filmmaking (an exampleis the long and uncut rooftopscene with the Woman and thepolice), Nuits Rouges caneasily be mistaken for a TVfilm.This mistake isn’t toofar off. Since Franju andChampreux were unhappy withNuits Rouges, they decidedto make a TV mini-seriesentitled L’homme sans visage.Many of the characters fromthe feature film return inthis mini-series, and as thetitle clearly states, TheMan Without a Face is at theforefront of Franju’s nextto last project. And whyshouldn’t he be? The themeof the faceless criminalis an organic one, and itrecalls the very origins ofcrime fiction. Franju’s redhoodedcriminal may be pale116

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENin comparison to the oldermodel, but nonetheless TheMan Without a Face remindsviewers why such films asNuits Rouges can be regardedas “art” in Europe. For theFrench and the British, thefaceless urban dweller isstill terrifying, and sincethis fear has been with themever since the IndustrialRevolution and the coming ofthe uncontrollable city, itdoesn’t look like it will bedisappearing into the nightanytime soon.Benjamin Welton is a musiccritic, fiction writer, poet,and academic currentlyliving in Burlington,Vermont. He has writtenfor Seven Days, CrimeMagazine, InYourSpeakers,Vantage Point, Schlock!, andRavenous Monster. He can becontacted at benjaminwltn@gmail.com117

“By now hehad a prettygood ideawhat wascoming.”-Doolittle

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENTHE HIP POCKETSLEAZE FILESManson on the Rackby John HarrisonIn my 2011 book Hip Pocket Sleaze, I devoted a chapter to the plethoraof, mostly, cheap and pulpy paperbacks published in the wake of theinfamous 1969 Hollywood slayings puppeteered by Charles Manson andcarried-out by his not-so-merry band of counterculture followers.In this instalment of The Hip Pocket Sleaze Files, I’d liketo expand on the idea and take a closer look at some of the Mansonrelatedmagazines and tabloids that have populated the newsstandracks over the ensuing years.Although the events unfolded nearly a half-century ago, it’sstill not uncommon to see Manson’s crazed eyes glaring out at youfrom some new supermarket tabloid or true crime magazine. Such isthe impact of his crimes.Naturally, this is by no means any kind of comprehensive listing(to try and provide one would necessitate a book of its own), but itprovides a decent introduction and overview of what I consider to besome of the more important and/or interesting appearances of Mansonin published media.Titles are listed alphabetically.120

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENArgosyMay 1970 (USA)A highly sought after earlyManson cover appearance, itfeatures a blood-red tintedphotograph of Manson throwinga sideways grin at thecamera, next to which is theforeboding question: “Couldthis man control you?”The interior article istitled I Lived With CharlieManson’s ‘Family’, a firstperson account by philosophygraduate Y. L. Freeman, whopaid a visit to Spahn Ranch asa non-Family member in 1968,before quickly being seducedinto their world and handingover all of his worldlypossessions to Charlie.Freeman, however, paintshimself as being stronger thanManson and the majority of hisfollowers, fleeing Spahn Ranchjust as things were startingto get violent:“So Charles Mansontook my possessions from meby destroying my will andtaking charge of my mind. Buthe did not get from me whathe wanted most: my identity.When I awoke, dazed, the nextday, there was still a littlevoice inside that said, ‘I amY. Lee Freeman’”.Accompanied by photosof Freeman revisiting SpahnRanch, this article remainsan important early documentof the pre-killing atmosphereand activities at the ranch,despite the fact that the toneof the piece has obviously121

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENbeen heightened for dramaticeffect, and was written at thepeak of public hysteria overManson and his perceived Godlikepowers and influence.BachelorJune 1970 (USA)Bachelor was a low-rentAmerican skin rag. This issuefeatures a rather generic threepage article titled, CharlesManson: King of the Communeby Larry Leman, alongsidesuch other lurid pieces asThe Wild Pussycats of VoodooIsland, Five Mistresses TalkAbout Their Mattresses andThe Latest Rage In Wear andWhere.Idols, no. 16June 1989 (UK)Riding the crest of the 1960snostalgia boom that peakedin the late-1980s, Idols wasa glossy magazine devotedto various elements of popculture, with a particularemphasis on movies andmusic.This issue features atwo-page article entitledCharles Manson: The BeachBoys Connection, in whichwriter Will Good recounts therelationship between Mansonand Beach Boy drummer DennisWilson, speculating on theirrecording and songwritingsessions together, beforeclaiming that “newcomers toManson’s music have foundsome merit in his blending ofEastern-tinged psychedeliawith the folk troubadourstyle”.Inside DetectiveNovember 1969 (USA)This typically lurid andsensationalistic true crimepulp magazine features a coverphoto of Sharon Tate (nakedunder bedcovers) with theheadline Movie Queen SharonTate - Victim In The Blood122

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENBath That Sent Hollywood IntoHiding.LifeDecember 19, 1969 (USA)One of the few Manson coverfeatures that managed to makeit into print before thesixties had officially ended.The iconic cover photo, withCharlie peering at the readerwith hypnotic, disturbedeyes, became one of the mostenduring images ever capturedof Manson, and was reused inthe ensuing years on variousother magazine covers (aswell as the cover for Lie:The Love and Terror Cult, a1970 LP which compiled musiccomposed and recorded byManson throughout 1967/68).The interior twelve pagearticle on The Love and TerrorCult is a seminal piece ofearly reporting on the case,with journalist Paul O’Neilpushing the hysteria of “thedark edge of hippie life”while still giving us a goodbackground piece on Mansonand his early life, the sexualand psychological power hewielded over his femalefollowers, and the Family’slife in Death Valley and theinfamous Sphan movie ranch.The large, moody black & whitephotos are absorbing to studyand provide a great companionpiece to the text.MemoriesAugust/September 1989 (USA)123

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENSubtitled ‘The Magazineof Then and Now’, this wasa short-lived publicationdevoted primarily to Americannostalgia. This issuefeatured a general round upof the Manson case, alongwith a quarter page black andwhite cover photo of Charlie(sharing the space with GraceKelly, Jimmy Hoffa and JudyGarland).Miroir de l’Historie, no.291March 1976 (France)A smaller format Frenchcurrent affairs publication,the infamous Life magazinecover photo is reused to greateffect here, sitting beneatha banner blaring “Satan isAmerican,” and the words“Love, Death” written acrossthe bottom of the photo.Movie MirrorJune 1970 (USA)American movie/celebritymagazine, featuring anarticle on actress ElizabethTaylor’s fear that her hippiesons, living in a shabbylean-to in Hawaii, may end upbecoming part of a murderous,Mansonesque cult. It’s a goodexample of the paranoia thatswept through Hollywood inthe wake of the killings.124

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENMurder Casebook no. 31990 (UK)A weekly serial publicationfrom Marshall Cavendish, asubsidiary of Time PublishingGroup, Murder Casebook builtup into an encyclopaedia ofthe world’s most notoriouscrimes. Aimed more at thecuriosity seeker than thehardcore criminology student,each thirty-eight page volumeof Murder Casebook focused ona particular crime or criminal(occasionally an issue wouldbe devoted to a particularcriminal theme).Like all issues of MurderCasebook, the Manson volumeis broken up into sectionsdetailing a particular aspectof the crime, its perpetratorsand victims, as well as theaftermath. Beginning with thediscovery of the victims atthe Sharon Tate/Roman Polanskihouse, subsequent sectionsdevote themselves to Manson’supbringing, the formationof his Family, the move toDeath Valley, the arrestand conviction, the socialclimate in which the killingstook place, and finally alook at Manson’s visions andpreaching.It concludes with apostscript that updates us onany relevant events that haveoccurred in the years sincethe crimes were committed.Sidebars throughout the issueprofile the victims along withany other relevant peopleor places/events (such asPolanski, the Beatles andcommune life), while newspaperreproductions give us a feelfor how the crimes werereported and perceived at thetime.Easy to read, MurderCasebook was compiled withthe assistance of noted crimeauthor Colin Wilson. In 1997,the series was updated andreprinted as Murder In Mind,with new volumes devoted tomore recent criminals such as125

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENFred and Rose West. The Mansonissue was reprinted, withminor changes to the layoutand some updates on Mansonand Family members, as issuenumber 9. Murder Casebook wasalso published in a number offoreign languages throughoutEurope (such as France, whereit was known as AffairesCriminelles).NovaApril 1971 (UK)A British fashion/lifestylemagazine, this featured afour page article by PeterMartin titled Waiting ForCharlie, about the femalefollowers who patiently waitedon the sidewalk outside thecourthouse during the Mansontrial, unshakeable in theirbelief that their leaderwould be found not guilty andset free.It also looks at thefamous vest the girls sewedfor him whilst waiting, intowhich they stitched theirown hair they had shorn inemulation of Manson.Quick, no. 6February 1970 (Germany)A glossy German lifestylemagazine (the first to bepublished in that country sincethe end of the Second WorldWar), this issue featured asix page colour cover featureon the Manson killings. It’sa scarce item and one thatcommands a fair price on theodd occasions when it surfacesfor sale online.RaveSeptember 1969 (UK)An English rock music magazine,this issue is noted forcontaining the Dennis Wilsoninterview in which the BeachBoys drummer talks about hisfriend “The Wizard”, otherwiseknown as Charlie Manson. Justabout every book on Manson126

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENmakes some reference to thisinterview.Real-Life Crimes No. 161993 (UK)Haught, Joel Pugh, a formerFamily member found murderedin London on 2 December 1969,and lawyer Ronald Hughes).Published by Midsummer Books,Real-Life Crimes (subtitled...and how they were solved)was another weekly serialpublication, very similar informat to Murder Casebook andobviously inspired by thatearlier magazine’s success.With only eleven pagesdevoted to Manson (theremainder of the issue coversseveral unrelated crimes),the coverage is not as indepthas Murder Casebook, noris the layout as eye-catchingor user-friendly, and mostof the photos illustratingthe piece have been seenmany times before. The mostinteresting part of the issueis a sidebar that looks atthe other potential victimsof the Manson clan (includingShorty Shea, John PhilipRolling Stone, no 61June 1970 (USA)“The incredible story of themost dangerous man alive. OurContinuing Coverage of theApocalypse.”Another important earlyManson cover appearance.127

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENRolling Stone was still in itsrelative infancy in 1970, andended up winning a NationalMagazine Award for landing anexclusive prison interviewwith Manson. David Dalton, theauthor of the piece, claimedManson agreed to speak toRolling Stone because he wasstill looking to establish amusical career behind bars,and hoped the magazine wouldpromote his recordings.Scanlans, volume 1, Number 6August 1970 (USA)Scanlens was a counterculturepublication with a heavyemphasis on politics, drugsand bringing down Americaninstitutions. Featuringa Robert Crumb coverillustration, this issuecontains an article entitled,An Astrological Portraitof Charles Manson by GavinChester Arthur, in which theauthor draws up a horoscopeof Manson, which trades onall the usual myths that werebeing perpetuated about theman at this point in time,such his incredible sexualpotency and mesmeric powerwhich he wielded over men andwomen.Arthur believed Mansonwas endowed with genuinepsychic powers and the abilityto hypnotize people into doinghis bidding. The articledoes at least point out thestrong connections whichManson’s horoscope has with128

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENthe elements of fire, earth,air and water. After claimingthat Manson had the potentialto become another Houdini orArthur Ford, Arthur finallycame to the rather simplisticconclusion that he is ‘mad asa hatter’.SpinSeptember 1994 (USA)A tabloid-sized monthly devotedto music and popular culture,this issue reuses the famousLife image on its cover, thistime with a blood red tint toenhance its effect. Manson’svisage is also worked into afull-page colour illustrationaccompanying an article onthe summer of 1969. In this,the author takes the tactthat the number sixty-ninevisually represents the yinyangsymbol, explaining inpart the two extremes of loveand hate which occurred thatsummer: Woodstock, followed aweek later by Manson.The article rehashesthe usual sequence of events,grabs another standard quotefrom Vincent Bugliosi (theattorney who prosecutedManson for the Tate killing).It finished by looking atManson’s emergence as a cultcelebrity amongst musicianssuch as the Lemonheads (whocovered Manson’s Your HomeIs Where You’re Happy ontheir 1988 CD, Creator) andTrent Reznor from Nine InchNails, who rented out 10050Cielo Drive and used it torecord parts of The DownwardSpiral.A photo of Axl Roseperforming in a Manson t-shirtaccompanies the article............cont.129

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENTrue Detective, volume 94,Number 6April 1971 (USA)The issue of the US true crimetabloid magazine features an11-page illustrated articleentitled “Jesus” Manson &His Girls – Guilty of Murder!Authored by Chris Edwards,the article is written in thesensational style which wasde rigor for these magazines,with the emphasis on shocktactics, sexual perversion andthe underlying hint that therandom nature of the killingscould be repeated anywhere,anytime and to anyone.“Perhaps the mostterrifying thing about thehorrendous killings was thefact that they were committedwithout motive. The ghostlypack of “creepy crawlers”stepped out of the night likeevil phantoms, announced thatthey had come “to do the devil’swork,” and methodicallywent about the business ofslashing, gouging, shooting,and clubbing in an orgy ofblood-letting so frenziedthat it admittedly gave atleast one of the killers asexual orgasm.”130

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENtitillation suggested by thearticle’s title ‘What conjugalvisits were permitted theunmarried members of the juryhas not been disclosed’.Uncensored, volume 20,Number 4August 1971 (USA)FURTHER READING:A classic scandal/sleazepublication, this issuefeatured a cover photograph ofManson along with the caption“Sex Capers of the MansonJury.” The accompanying fourand a half page illustratedarticle, written by JeanneVoyeur, is a strained attemptto dig-up any dirt surroundingthe Manson jurors, but fallsfar short of delivering on theBad Mags, Volume 1: TheStrangest, Sleaziest andMost Unusual PeriodicalsEver Published,Tom Brinkmann, HeadpressPublishing, 2008Hip Pocket Sleaze: The LuridWorld of Vintage AdultPaperbacks,John HarrisonHeadpress Publishing, 2011131

“Theseguys wereall fuckingidiots.”-Winslow

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENPERFORMANCEEVALUATIONPerformance Evaluation is a necessary and benefical process, whichprovides bi-monthly feedback to investors about job effectivenessand career guidance. The performance review is intended to be afair and balanced assessment of a subject’s performance. To assistsupervisors and department heads in conducting performancereviews, the Factory Office has introduced new Performance Reviewforms and procedures for use in this official periodical.AMERICAN DEATH SONGSFeatured BookAMERICAN DEATH SONGSJordon HarperAvailable on AmazonBefore writing any review,I listen to music to setan appropriate mood. ForJordan Harper’s AmericanDeath Songs, it had to be AC/DC’s Hell’s Bells. This isnot a book for those with afragile conscience or a heartcondition.I can’t recommend itstrongly enough.The first story in thecollection, ‘Midnight Rider’,kicks it all off with a methdealer on the rabbit-end ofa high-speed chase, policeright on his tail. And thatsets the tone for the wholebook. It never slows downmuch.One way or another, everystory in this collection hassomething that will blow yourhair back and make you slap134

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENyour face in disbelief.Commonly featured in thisbook are the Aryan Brotherhoodand the meth plague. Theycreep into nearly every story.A lot of them take place inthe Ozarks, while some arein California. I guess youcould say the AB-meth cultureis just as much the settingas any real place. But theone uniting feature is death.Just about every story has amurder, hence the title.In keeping with the runfor-your-lifepacing of thebook, the story ‘Agua Dulce’is about a man being hunted byAryan Steel, the faction ofwhite supremacists featuredseveral times in the book.Much of the story is the maincharacter actually runningthrough the desert, trying tobeat his pursuers back to themotel where he left his youngchild. It’s as frantic anddemonic as any story you’llfind in the genre.‘Plan C’ is the robbingof a bank. Obviously, it’s whathappens when plan A and planB fail. And it’s not pretty.Harper excels at putting youin the mind of a condemnedcriminal at the exact momentof understanding. That is tosay, you get to experiencesaid criminal’s realizationnot just that he will die, buthow and when. The moment deathis a discernible, concretereality.Harper crafts some superbstories around the old themeof the hardboiled guy wantingto do something decent, ifonly just the once. ‘BeautifulTrash’ is about a fixer in LA.Time and again he makes theproblems of the wealthy andprivileged go away. He fakessuicides and overdoses. Heapplies the right pressure toget cooperation. You wouldn’texpect any part of his jobeats away at him.Also exploring thistheme of redemption is ‘RedHair and Black Leather’. An135

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENex-biker and dealer turnedbar owner tries to help awoman who is running fromsome people a lot like whohe used to be. It’s a storythat starts with the softunderbelly, deceptively, andgives that vicious bite younever expected.Implicit throughoutHarper’s collection is thedog-eat-dog principle of TheLife. This is most openlyexpressed in the story, ‘IWish They Never Named HimMad Dog’. This is my favoritestory of the bunch. An older,experienced dealer witnessesthe rise in the pack ranking ofa young punk from strugglingup to crazy, larger than life,alpha dog. The older man knowswhat happens when you get toomuch attention in The Life.To sum up, the bigger the man,the bigger the target. Thestory is told with the olderman’s sense of inevitability.And the truth of the endingbites as hard as any wolf atthe door.I didn’t know what toexpect with this collection.I was completely blown away.It’s the kind of storytellingthat you come away fromnodding your head, whisperingto yourself, “Yeah, man, yousaid it.”Harper’s now on my listof authors to follow.- Frank Wheeler136

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CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENBOOKSALL DUE RESPECT: THE ANTHOLOGY(Volume 1)Various authorsFull Dark City PressThe best thing about crime asa genre is that it can take aninexhaustible array of shapesand still retain its essence.In All Due Respect, the newanthology from ChristopherRhatigan’s Full Dark CityPress, 29 very talentedauthors do exactly the samething the online crime fictionjournal All Due Respect hasbeen doing since 2012: showjust how eclectic hardboiledfiction can be.The anthology kicks offwith a standout: Joe Clifford’s‘Day Tripper’. The narrativefollows a day laborer out ofjail and desperately trying tooutrun his past and get backwith his wife. Clifford’s proseis tight and straightforward,making readers fullyunderstand what the man isgoing through and presentinghim in a light that makes iteasy to root for him. However,not everything is as it seemsand while the man’s co-workerfor the day, a pervert witha thing for children, keepshis hands clean, the maincharacter ultimately changeseverything you think you knewwith a single act.While Clifford’s tale isa superb opener, it’s not theonly story in the collectionthat deserves attention. Hereare some more highlights:Mike Toomey’s ‘Even Sven’is as close to a nightmare asshort fiction gets outside thehorror genre. This dialogueheavy,fast-paced tale of aman who accepts an easy jobis also one of the most brutalstories in an anthology that’spacked with them. It startsout with a lot of humor and138

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENeven a few paragraphs awayfrom the end things are nottoo bad, but the last actionis the kind of thing that canmake a criminal leave a houseand puke as soon as he stepsoutside.Erin Cole’s ‘7 Seconds’is one of those rare storiesthat deserves to be calledcinematic because, besidesgood writing, it delivers theaction using a style that’sreminiscent of great editingpaired with slow motion.AlecCizak’s‘Methamphetamine and aShotgun’ is a cerebral treatthat clearly shows why methis such a constant element innoir. While the plot has to dowith a meth-head trying to findhis woman, Cizak’s feverishwriting makes languageitself the real focus of thenarrative. On a related note,Ryan Sayles’ ‘Formula andMeth’ is also a prime exampleof why meth is one of the bestdrugs when it comes to noir.Plus, Sayles combines it withanother American classic thathas become a recurring themein crime writing: strippers.The list of greatstories goes on and on. Infact, although there aresome narratives that leavean indelible impressionwhile others are forgottenafter a while, there are nothrowaways.There is strange andunexpected humor, like inRichard Godwin’s ‘Donald Duckand the Avian Snitch’, andpunchy first lines that pullthe reader in viciously, likethe one in Benedict J. Jones’‘Habeus Corpus’: “By the timeI got there, they’d alreadytaken three of his fingers.”However, what makesthis anthology remarkable isthat the classic elements onewould expect from a collectionlike this are all there, butpresented in diverse andunique ways.Guns, bad decisions,139

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENmoney, death, vengeance, sex,drugs, poverty, jealousy,violence, and pain are allpresent in this hardboiledanthology, but the voicesthat bring them to the tableare all different and manageto make even classic elementsfeel new. That diversity andquality are what makes AllDue Respect a must-read forfans of gritty literature.--Gabino IglesiasNIGERIANS IN SPACEDeji OlukotunRicochet BooksRicochet Books was foundedin 2012 by people involvedwith Molossus, the Skylightbookstore, Phoneme Media andthe LA Review of Books. Itpresents itself as a publisherof international suspense,contemporary noir, and lostclassics.Their first release isDeji Olukotun’s Nigerians inSpace, and it certainly fitsthat description.The narrative starts inHouston, Texas, in 1993. DoctorWale Olufunmi is a respectedlunar rock geologist who getsan outlandish request, tosteal a piece of the moon.Wale is a successful immigrantwith a good job and a lifethat most Nigerian immigrantswould kill for.However, he is also aman full of ambition, and theconsequences of him stealingthat piece of moon are justtoo big to ignore. Insteadof denying the request andcontinuing on his professionalpath, Wale decides to travelback to Africa and do whatwas asked for him. Whilereturning home is a dream ofall immigrants, Wale’s tripback will be more a nightmarethan a dream.Almost twenty yearslater in present day SouthAfrica, Thursday Malaysius, a140

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENkid brought up in the streetsin a place where not beingsmart enough can mean a veryquick death, gets involvedin smuggling South Africanabalone, a type of sea snail.Soon, instead of a betterlife, Thursday finds himself onthe run from the law and themob. How this youngster andWale end up being part of thesame story is what occupiesthe rest of the storyline.Nigerians in Space ishard to categorize. Whileit’s definitely a crime story,the narrative also containssome of the same elements asbooks such as Loida MaritzaPerez’s Geographies of Homeand Edwidge Danticat’s TheFarming on Bones, issuesof exile, the struggle ofidentity construction in aforeign land, and the factthat you can never go backhome.The mix is interestingbut it also contributes toone of the novel’s downfalls:length. By trying to write acrime story with a complexplot but also mixing in longdescriptive passages aboutSouth Africa and a few othercountries, information abouteach character’s background,Olukotun ended up with a storythat, when read as crimefiction, seems bogged down attimes.Ricochet is off to asolid start with Nigeriansin Space. However, it fallsshort of spectacular becauseOlukotun’s prose, while farfrom mediocre, is not assharp as it could be. Readersinterested in South Africa orcrime with an internationalflavor and dealing with exileand identity should definitelypick this one up. Fans offiction that comes at you atbreakneck speed and sticks tothe essentials, like Ken Bruen,should look elsewhere.- Gabino Iglesias141

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENTHE DEADHoward LinskeyNo Exit PressHoward Linksey’s debut novelThe Drop landed with a bangin 2011, introducing DavidBlake to the world, a manmore white-collar criminalthan straight up gangster,who rose through the ranks ofNewcastle’s criminal milieuby a combination of brutalityand Machiavellian guile.The follow-up, TheDamage, cemented Linskey’sreputation as an author withsolid skills and saw Blakefinally ensconced at the topof the Geordie mafia.But holding control canbe even more perilous thantaking it and in the latestinstallment, The Dead, Blakefinds himself assailed on allsides, with long buried secretsthreatening to break lose andblow his life apart.The Dead opens withthe murder of a young woman,seemingly just another randomsex crime, except this girlis the daughter of a localDetective Inspector who isin the process of trying tobring down David Blake and hisorganisation and the policebelieve they don’t need tolook much further than thatto find her killer.It’s made clear to Blakethat if he doesn’t want to godown for the crime he’d betterfind the culprit. Fortunatelyhe has the resources to dojust that.But the arrest of Blake’saccountant on an old childkilling throws a spanner inthe works. Everyone knowsthe man is guilty and Blakewants to hang him out to dry.Blake might be a gangsterbut he has his principles.Unfortunately, the accountanthas other ideas. Knowing thatthe only way he’ll beat thecharge is with Blake’s helphe locks down his finances as142

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENa safeguard.This money is vital tothe continued smooth runningof Blake’s empire and withSerbian gangsters musclingin on his territory and amegalomaniac Russian oligarchtrying to hijack his Europeansupply chain for some shadowypurpose Blake can’t affordto be put out of game eventemporarily.At home things are just ascomplicated, as Blake’s missusbegins to ask questions abouther father’s death, ones hecan’t under any circumstancesanswer honestly, not if hewants to maintain the stablefamily life he has built onthe old man’s bones.As you’ve probablyalready gathered there is ahell of a lot going on in thisbook and it takes a writer infull and firm control of hiscraft to bring all of theseelements together. Linskeyachieves it with enviablestyle, never once lettingthe pace slacken and bringingthe plot to satisfyinglyneat denouement of the bloodspattered, nerve shreddingvariety.A large part of TheDead’s success lies withthe character of DavidBlake, an anti-hero you’llwarm to against your betterjudgement. He smart, funnyand a million miles away fromthe usual gangster clichés.While the surrounding castof trusted lieutenants, footsoldiers and suits, as wellas a particularly obnoxiousfootballer, are well drawnand uniformly strong.The Dead is Brit Grit atits finest, sharp, pacey andtotally compelling.- Eva DolanWELCOME TO THE OCTAGONGerard Brennan (as JackTunney)Fight Card143

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENThe folks at Fight Card haveattracted some great names tothe series since it kickedoff last year, Eric Beetnerand Heath Lowrance being mypersonal standouts. Now GerardBrennan, one of NorthernIreland’s leading noiristes,has joined the stable witha Belfast based MMA offeringwhich takes the old schoolfight pulp and brings it intothe twenty first century.Mickey ‘The Rage’ Raffertyis a journeyman MMA fighterscraping a living aroundBelfast’s underground fightscene. It’s a brutal world,unlicensed, unregulated,no drug tests, no weightdivisions, where huge sumsare gambled on the performanceof brawlers who come into thering drunk or high and oftenso out of condition thatthey’ll resort to cripplingmoves to get the win.Mickey is a cut abovethe usual class of opponentsthough, a man with ambitionstowards the big time who’sbeen drawn into the dark sideof the game out of necessity.Mickey is a widower with alittle girl to care for andsince fighting is his onlybankable skill he’s forced tokeep going back. Much to thechagrin of his trainer Eddie,who understands the mechanicsof the business better thanMickey and can see where thesebouts are taking him.Eddie wants him toknuckle down, train harder,be patient, work his wayup to the big cage fightslegitimately. The bills haveto be paid though and fatherfigures at some point have tobe defied.Opportunity arises inthe shape of Swifty, a slickand sharkish gym owner whomakes Mickey an offer thatlooks too good to be true.Top facilities, top trainersto fix the holes in his game,a shot at the elite fights.144

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENMickey’s gut tells him ‘no’but circumstances force himto accept and soon he finds outexactly what’s behind Swifty’sdubious act of generosity.I’ve been a big fan ofGerard Brennan’s work since Iread his debut The Point andhe keeps getting better withevery book, bringing a grimyauthenticity to everythinghe writes, but even at hisdarkest there is humour andhumanity and he has a knackof making you care about hischaracters.For me the real joyin this book comes from thefight scenes though. They arewritten with precision, andsolid knowledge gained fromBrennan’s own experience inthe ring, and have a sweaty,intense quality rarely foundin fiction.Welcome to the Octagonis only a slim novella but itthrobs with vicious energy. Mysole criticism, and it’s notreally one, is that I’d haveloved for it to be longer.Brennan clearly knowshis way around the materialand I’m convinced at somepoint he’s going to producean outstanding, full-lengthwork on MMA. He’s one of thefew writers working rightnow who’s qualified to do thejob. Until then I’d stronglyrecommend Welcome to theOctagon as an essential pieceof top rank fighting pulp.- Eva DolanRECKONINGR Thomas BrownBriarhill PressThis is not one of your usualcrime novels.No, this is not asupernatural thriller. It’ssimply the story of somefriends who have committeda heinous crime many yearsago in their small town ofComal Creek, Texas. What wasthe nature of their crime? It145

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENwouldn’t be right for me tosay since it would take awaya lot of the mystery, as wellas the reading pleasure. WhatI can tell you though is thatit was a crime that hauntedsome of them for years.Can a person escapetheir past? That’s the mainquestion posed here. The truthis that sometimes you can -or you can pretend to.They say that timeheals all the wounds, thatit helps bad memories fadeaway, but what if both woundsand memories come calling inyour sleep? That’s the casewith Eric Daniels, one ofthe good guys in this novel,who’s trying hard without anysuccess to start life anew.If he wasn’t so weak, and ifhe finally made up his mindto talk to Sophia Marquez, apolice detective who reallylikes him, he could do that,but he is, and he can’t.The people in thesepages are prisoners oftheir own selves - of theirweaknesses, their obsessionsand their vices. Most ofthem can’t or don’t want tosee right from wrong. Othersdon’t dare question the orderof things even if it hurtsthem or they have no problemwhatsoever selling their soulto the devil if that is goingto buy them their way to thetop. The realities describedhere are grim, but thanks toEric’s ethics and Sophia’sstubbornness, even wheneverything seems to go frombad to worse, not all hope islost.The author has donea great job in creatingcharacters that are not onlyhard to forget but that alsogive rise to different andmostly conflicting feelings inthe readers’ hearts. A coupleof them they’ll love, mostof them they’ll hate, whilethey’ll feel sympathy forothers but just a little ofit.146

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENAs for the story itself,it’s not so much driven by themystery but by the longingof finding out how things aregoing to end. Will the badguys get what they deserve?Will Eric find his way tosalvation and a new life? Willjustice finally win the day?To find the answers to thesequestions all you have to dois read this somewhat strangebut very interesting book.- Lakis FourouklasUNSEENKarin SlaughterDelacorte PressI came to Karin Slaughter alittle late and perhaps that’sone of the main reasons I likeher tales so much.Her writing isconsistently good and soare her plots, and in hercharacter of Will Trent I havefound one of the most likeableand unforgettable heroes ofcrime fiction. What makes thischaracter so different arehis flaws. He’s dyslectic, anorphan and someone who prefersto work alone and undercover,not because he’s misanthropic- but because he doesn’t wantto see people he cares aboutget hurt.In this story Trent,along with many other copsand agents from the GeorgiaBureau of Investigation(GBI), go after an invisibleman, a big time drug dealerwho’s currently moving hisoperations from Florida toMacon. The main barrier totheir efforts to find and arresthim is that no one has everseen him. He runs his businessin the darkness and movesin the shadows, and whoevercomes close to discoveringhis identity doesn’t live totell it.Perhaps the only chancethe cops have is to get lucky.But even if they do, willthey be able to achieve their147

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENgoal? Big Whitey, as the drugdealer is called, is some onewho is not only very cleverbut also extremely careful.Will hopes to get close tohim by going undercover. Butwhat if the man you’re goingup against knows your everymove right from the start?The author has created atight plot, with some twistsand turns, but mostly withlots of downs when it comesto her heroes. Every singleone of the protagonists ofthis series of novels seemsto be struggling with theirlives.Can these damaged soulslive together or around eachother and do their jobs withoutgetting into some serioustrouble? Their weaknessesmake them human, and theirhumanity brings them close,and as a result they have eachother’s back no matter what.If you’ve enjoyed theprevious novels in the seriesyou’ll surely enjoy thisone. But if you haven’t hada chance yet to pick up anyof Slaughter’s work, startinghere could be as good a pointas any. This is well-written,finely tuned crime fiction. Ifyou are a fan of the genre,you’re bound to enjoy it.- Lakis FourouklasDRIFTJon McGoranForge Books (2013)Doyle Carrick is the kind ofcop who never gives a thoughtas to whether he’d be thehard-boiled kind of detectiveyou find in books. He’s alittle busy losing his shitat bad guys, punching out hispartners and refusing to dealwith his grief at losing hismom and step-dad in shortorder.And that’s just the firstchapter.Luckily for everyoneconcerned, Carrick gets148

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENsuspended and he returns tohis dead parents’ house inrural Pennsylvania to lickhis wounds and sort out hisman-pain. Now, you can take acop off the beat but you can’ttake the beat out of the cop.While ostensibly courtinghis neighbor Nola, in themost adorably ‘I’m-not-intoyou-but-I-brought-you-theseflowers-kay-bye’way possible,Carrick notices drug dealers,crooked sheriffs and a wholehost of suspicious behaviorconnected with the big scaryagricultural plant next doorto Nola’s one-woman organicfarming op.And he investigates.Now, you’re either gonnabe the type of person who fullydigs corporate conspiraciesinvolving genetically modifiedcrops and shady dealings inrural areas or you’re not.If you fall into that lattercategory, wise up and try thisbook, because it’s the bees’knees.Carrick is sweetlyhilarious in a low-key way,and the wisecracking banterwith his partner, Danny,still on the force back inPhiladelphia, delivers on thesmart-ass. Moose, Carrick’shealth-food-junkie sidekick isthe perfect foil for the newlyminted Corn Crimes Detective,and the array of small-towndealers and jack-asses pulltheir weight as minor butimportant characters.And let’s have a specialshout-out to ProfessorSimpkins at Pine CrestCollege, botany specialist,frustrated lothario andpitch-perfect academic. Heoozes thwarted lust and arcaneplant husbandry knowledge atNola while Carrick ponderswhether to deck him now orlater. If you’ve ever beenanywhere near an agriculturalcollege, you nod wildly toyourself and likely picturethe guy who didn’t ever makechair of the department, no149

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENmatter hard he slithered orwhose leg he humped.This book is just plainfun. McGoran’s grown himselfa winner (whatever; I’m fairlysure I’m supposed to make thatpun by law) and you can’t dobetter than letting it takeroot on your bookshelf.- Audrey HomanFISH BITES COP! STORIES TOBASH AUTHORITIESDavid James KeatonComet Press“In societies where modernconditions of productionprevail, all of lifepresents itself as an immenseaccumulation of spectacles.”Guy Debord, thecombative, snarky embodimentof the French Left of the 1960s,spoke these words in 1967.His Society of the Spectacleattempted to synthesize theacademic Marxism of theSorbonne with the Frankfurtintensity of Walter Benjaminand the youthful anarchismof Paris in the age of DeGaulle and rock and roll. Henot only presaged 1968, buthe unknowingly contributedto the absurdism of much ofmodern American literature.If we take Debord tobe gospel, then it is easyto understand the appeal ofdetective dramas and booksabout cops. Law & Order isall about the spectacularfictionalization of supposedlyreal crimes. In Debord’s ownRepublic, Georges Simenonused his upstanding andsolidly bourgeois policemanMaigret as a turning pointin the history of detectivefiction wherein the lonely andindependent private eye nowhad to share space in thepublic’s imagination withwhole precincts (as in thecase of Ed McBain) and theirfamilies.Maigret in turn150

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENinspired such quasi-fictionalspectacles as Dragnet andAdam-12. Since then, real-lifepolice officers have been heldto the standards of fiction,and thus the simulacra, ormore precisely the interplaybetween reality and fictionalconstructs, continues.In David James Keaton’sworld, the truth is moreopaque, and there is seeminglyno direct correlationbetween how society thinkspeople should act and howthey actually act. In otherwords, Fish Bites Cop is onan amoral, topsy-turvy planewhere the cops are the biggestscumbags around. Why? Keatonand his subtitle would seem toargue that all authorities,from firefighters to soldiers,are not only inherentlyguilty of sinfulness, buttheir glamorization inpopular culture only beliesthe sickness of culturalreproductions.Again, in more clearlanguage, Keaton’s shortstories are gleeful, wickedlysatirical send-ups of all thosepositions that are held inthe highest regard. Keaton’sintentions are transparent,and if you are not the typeto read dust jackets, thentitles such as ‘CastratingFiremen’ and ‘Nine Cops KilledFor a Goldfish Cracker’ shouldlet you immediately that youare not holding a followerof Mickey Spillane in yourhands.While Keaton wants thisanti-authority, writer-assubversivemystique as hiscalling card (he’s a productof America’s French theoryobsessedacademy, so heprobably can’t help but tobe attracted to Herr Marx andMonsieur Althusser), it isthis very feeling that mostlyhampers Fish Bites Cop. Shortstories such as ‘Bad HandActing’ and ‘Heck’ are lessabout witty displays of anintellectual’s insurgency151

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENand more akin to an impudentman screaming into a bucket.The sheer expanse of Keaton’sdisdain for cops only dragsthe reader down.Still, despite Keaton’spenchant for preaching,certain stories in his latestcollection shine as dazzlingexamples of modern Americanliterature. From the morbidcomedy of ‘Greenhorns’ to thenoteworthy ‘Either Way ItEnds With a Shovel’, Keatonproves that he is capable ofreal, honest literary power,with or without the impulseto bash authorities.And by the time the readercompletes the final story, theyshould feel like they havejust survived a meeting witha true surrealist. We are thebetter for it.- Benjamin WeltonSECOND HAND GOODSJim WinterAvailable on AmazonThe private detective yarnis uniquely and distinctlyAmerican. And while it isno longer entirely owned oroperated by Americans (someof the best PI novels aremade in Italy and Francethese days), the core spiritstill embraces individualism,a distrust of authority and acynical worldview that pitsthe lone, typically maledetective against a hordeof crooks, scheming femmefatales, and shifty middlemen who consider conventionalmorality a laughable,unfounded concept.This swarming pool ofambiguity is the workplacefor Nick Kepler, Jim Winter’sbeer drinking and blues rocklovingprivate eye. Set inamong the industrial wildsof Cleveland, Ohio, Kelperis, to quote his own words,“an insurance guy with a PIticket.”152

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENIn Second Hand Goods, thesecond novel in the series,Kepler finds himself embroiledin a local mob war. The storyincludes a former KGB agentturned crime lord known toCleveland authorities as “theAntichrist,” a double-dealingRussian lieutenant who wantsboth the Antichrist’s throne,a white limo with a specialprize in its trunk, a Jamaicanpimp, and, of course, a blondetemptress who plays mensexually for her own ends.Second Hand Goods,like Northcoast Shakedown,the first Kepler novel, isa traditional hardboilednarrative, and its devotionto the classic formula shouldeasily appeal to the massesof readers all along crimefiction’s spectrum.Much of the distinctflavor of Second Hand Goodscomes from its regionalism andits use of the city of Clevelandas a character. While thisis nothing new (just try andimagine if Hammett hadn’t sethis books in San Francisco orif noir authors had avoidedLos Angeles entirely), thecity of Cleveland has notbeen typically fodder forfiction. In Winter’s handsCleveland becomes a postindustrialnightmare that isboth seemingly on the roadto recovery and awash inorganized crime. Kepler is athoroughgoing Clevelander, andthe large cast of antagonistsand supporting charactersgives the reader a sense ofcommunity, almost as if SecondHand Goods could double as adisturbing Baedeker for thecity’s corruption.In an age where detectivestories are set among suchunexciting locales as CapeCod and Wyoming, Second HandGoods is a good reminder ofwhy detective is an urbananimal that relies on innercity attitude. While not agreat book, Second Hand Goodsis a decent novel with all153

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENthe trappings that most of ushave come to know and loveas aficionados of literarymurder.And while its plot isfairly prosaic, in Winter’shands, Nick Kepler’s journeythrough Cleveland’s underbellyis both captivating andtitillating without seemingunnecessarily low-browedor trashy. There is realhumanity in this novel, andreaders will certainly careabout the characters, whetheror not they are mob goons ora stoner informant.- Benjamin WeltonGHOST MANRoger HobbsAlfred A. KnopfIf you believe the hype machinesurrounding him, Roger Hobbsis the literary equivalent ofthe second coming, and this,his first book, will put torest any arguments about whois the best thriller writerof our generation, especiallywhen Warner Brothers makesthe movie, and no doubt castsTom Cruise in the lead role.Ghost Man is anotherfable about that most enduringof modern crime characters;the guy who lives off the grid,plays by his own rules, isnotoriously hard to contact,and is the man to turn to whenthe shit hits the fan. If JackReacher just popped into yourhead, you’re on the righttrack, although the blurb onthe back of the copy I readexhorted me to think of GhostMan’s lead character as likeHarvey Keitel’s Mister Wolffrom Pulp Fiction. See what Imean about hype?So anyway, our MisterFix-It gets called upon todeal with the mess left aftera casino heist in AtlanticCity goes totally bellyup,with one bandit shotdead in the parking lot and154

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENanother vanished and wounded,presumably along with $1.2million dollars in cold hardcash. Our eponymous fixer, whocalls himself Jack even thoughno-one knows his real name,flies straight into a shitstorm when he lands at theairport, with the FBI alreadywaiting for him (althoughno-one’s supposed to know heexists) and 48 hours to findthe money before it explodes.Literally.Jack is only doing thisbecause he’s indebted to theperson who organised the heistand who couldn’t have foreseena rogue sniper waiting togun down the robbers. Thistakes us on flashback to abotched bank job a decadeearlier in Kuala Lumpur andserves as back-story to howJack became involved in thiscriminal nether world. Whileessentially meaningless, theplot surrounding the KualaLumpur heist is far clevererthan the main plot aroundrecovering the lost cash fromAtlantic City.I had a number of problemswith the book. First, inorder to have the charactersremain “mysterious,” RogerHobbs has instead renderedthem “characterless” andthat makes it hard to gainan affinity for any of them.Secondly, Hobbs seems so hellbent on displaying his obviousknowledge and expertise onthe rules of large moneytransactions, bill engraving,casino cash flows and securitymeasures that the book readslike a manual rather than astory.The book starts at acracking pace though, withthe spectacular shootout atthe casino, and sucks thethriller lover in with realpromise. However, a lot oftime is spent on the technicaldetails that more importantaspects, like Jack being ableto transform into older oryounger characters to suit155

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENthe scenario he has to playin, are glossed over to thepoint of disbelief.There was a good storywaiting to be told here, butthe hype machine seems to haveswallowed it.- Andrew PrenticePINK TIDEJarad HenryAustralianScholarlyPublishingEver since the ABC TV series ofthe same name, city-dwellershave always seemed fond ofthe “sea change”, where theyescape the confines of the bigtown for something more laidback,a slower pace, a moreuncomplicated lifestyle.This is especially sofor Jarad Henry’s serialcharacter, Detective SergeantRubens McCauley, who was putthrough the grinders in thefirst two books of the series,Head Shot and Blood Sunset. Heand his wife Ella move from thegrunge and crime of bohemianSt Kilda to the quieter lifeof Jutt Rock, a small town onVictoria’s south west coast.As is usually the casefor a big city homicidecop, Rubens brings with hima bad case of burnout, anaddiction to prescriptionmedication, and the hope thatthe spectacular sunsets whichcolour the shoreline pinkmove him one day closer torecovery.However, the calmingpink tides of Jutt Rock are ametaphor for a darker malaisethat sweeps the town when thelocal surfing hero and a mateof his are brutally bashedwhile walking home from aparty. The mate happens tobe Rubens’ nephew and salesguy at the local surf shop,and the last time Rubens sawhim conscious he was crackingjokes about Rubens’ lack ofsurfing ability.156

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENThe surfing champ diesand it becomes a murderinvestigation and at least onelocal gang is convinced thatthe murderer was a tourist.Rich visitors from the citymay be helping Jutt Creek’seconomy but they’re nothelping the local psyche. Theheated clashes are not helpingthe investigation either,a case Rubens finds himselfdesperate to involve himselfin, despite being warned tostay on the periphery by hissuperior, District InspectorWendy Kannasini, due to hispersonal link to one of thevictims.As the case unfolds,it becomes clear there aremultiple reasons why itwas not a revenge attackby a belittled tourist. Hiscontinued involvement makeshim realise Jutt Rock mightnot be the sea change he waslooking for, and his relianceon pills threatens to spiralout of control, as does hismarriage and his reputationin the town.These are familiarthemes, given a modern andskilled treatment. JaradHenry’s background inVictoria’s criminal justicesystem is put to good effect andPink Tide marks a new standardin his McCauley series. Thecharacters have a realism andvulnerability shaped as muchby the system they work inas the hazards they face onthe job. This is a welcomeaddition to Australia’s modernurban crime canon.- Andrew PrenticeTHE DUNBAR CASEPeter CorrisAllen and UnwinThere are no greater comfortsthan regular familiarity, evenfor crime fiction readers. Thisbeing the case, Peter Corrishas been providing comfortto the reading community for157

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENmore than 30 years, and TheDunbar Case is his 38th CliffHardy novel.By any stretch, theinkwell should be empty. Howcan a serial character survivefor this long?Well, in this case,we’re talking about a masterat work. That refers toCliff just as much as Peter.And beyond any reasonableconvention, the Hardy seriesjust keeps getting better.If you’re not clued in,Cliff Hardy is a Sydney PI whohas been treading the meanstreets of the harbour cityfor more than two literarydecades.The Dunbar Case openswith him sitting at AntonsOn King, a French restaurantfavoured by the locals, and ameeting place for his newestclient, Henry Wakefield.Wakefield is a professorof history at a privateuniversity and he wants Cliffto find a long-lost artifactfrom the wreck of the Dunbar,a luxury passenger liner thatwas washed onto the South Headrocks when trying to enterSydney Harbour in 1857.Officialrecordsdocumented only one survivorof the sinking but Wakefield’sresearch uncovers a second,William Dalgarno Twizzell. Oneof Twizzell’s last survivingmodern day relatives isserving a sentence in Bathurstjail for assault with a deadlyweapon and Wakefield wants Cliffto interview him.It turns out that JohnDalgarno Twizzell may well besafer in the clink, given heassaulted Kristine Tanner,the daughter and sister ofa notorious Newcastle crimefamily, who are itching toeven the score. And so thecase gets turned on its headas Cliff follows the trailfrom Bathurst to Newcastle.In the process linking up withan old flame who is writing atrue crime investigation into158

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENthe life and times of theTanner family, and runs afoulof an undercover cop who mayor may not have gone rogue ashe investigates the Tanner’srole in a huge robbery.This is what is sowonderful about Peter Corris’style. He manages to sneakthe plot under your guard asyou revel in Cliff’s lamentsabout the changing face ofhis home city, his views onfree university educationand Lionel Murphy’s no faultdivorce laws. Before you knowit, the case has mushroomedfrom the recovery of an oldshipwrecked journal to thefeud between two families.Cliff Hardy ages welltoo. His office is now atPyrmont and he has to keepworking to afford the rentalon the place. He’s come outthe other side of a quadruplebypass with a sense of hisown mortality, if not a senseof self-preservation. He isAustralian crime fiction’smost enduring character andPeter Corris is the genre’sundoubted master.- Andrew PrenticeLOST IN RANGOONChristopher G MooreHeaven Lake PressFor well over twenty yearsCanadian lawyer turned crimewriter Christopher G Moorehas chronicled change inThailand and the surroundingregion through the characterof Bangkok-based Americanprivate investigator, VincentCalvino.Moore has pennedthirteen Calvino books. Mostof them are set in Thailand,although Moore has also takenhis character to Vietnamand Cambodia. In the latestinstallment, Lost in Rangoon,Calvino heads to Burma or, asit is now officially known,Myanmar.159

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENThe opening pages findCalvino standing in the shellof the Lonesome Hawk Bar, oneof a number of establishmentsthat used to form part ofWashington Square, a wellknown and down at heel partof expat Bangkok, recentlydemolished to make way for yetanother of the condominiumsthat mark the city’s skyline.Calvino suggests to the formerowner that he should considerstarting over in Rangoon, acity on the make and welcomingall comers, much like Bangkokwas decades ago.Not that Calvinoparticularly wants to makethe journey himself. He’sbeing pressured to travelto Burma by a disagreeableEnglish brothel owner, whowants to hire him to find hisson. The son has disappearedin country’s capital alongwith his Burmese girlfriend,a real head turner and thelead singer in the band theson plays in.There’s never any doubtCalvino will take the case,especially when his long timeoff-sider Pratt, a colonelin the Thai police and anhonest cop, announces he istravelling to Rangoon. A keenjazz enthusiast, Pratt hasbeen asked to the Burmesecapital to play his belovedsaxophone at an upmarketclub. Off the books, he’s alsobeen asked by his superiorsto help cut off the supply ofcold pills from Burma used tomake methamphetamine, thentrafficked to Thailand.Rangoon now is a lot likePhnom Penh was like in thenineties, a heady mixture ofbreakneck economic and socialchange, gangster capitalismand political rumour andintimidation. Soon Pratt andCalvino are enmeshed in itsbrutal Darwinian underworldand shadowed by Burmesemilitary intelligence.I read the fest fewCalvino books when I was160

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENliving and working in Mekongregion in the nineties, butstopped getting them after Ileft. I didn’t pick up anotherone until Lost In Rangoon.Moore has lost none ofhis ability to convey a senseof menace and intrigue. Hisdescriptions of Rangoon areexcellent. In particular,he excels at describing thehuman and social fall out thatoccurs when a poor, isolatedcountry suddenly opens itsborders to the world. Thereare flashes of humour too,particularly concerningCalvino’s interactions withBurma’s self declared first PIand astrologer.Lost in Rangoon is asatisfying read, a mixtureof hard-boiled crime fictionand acute social observationset in a little known part ofAsia. What’s not to like.- Andrew NetteKL NOIRVarious AuthorsBuku FixiIf you need further proofthere’s no better vehiclethan noir fiction (and film)for shining a light onto thecrevices and cracks in societythe powers that be do not wantyou to see, check out a newfiction called KL Noir.That’s KL as in KualaLumpur, the capital ofMalaysia.Kuala Lumpur may notseem like the most obviousplace to set an anthology ofnoir fiction. On the surface,at least, it has a reputationfor as an orderly, some wouldsay, almost bland, city.But if this book isanything to go by, there’sa lot going on under thesurface. KL is a city crawlingwith horrendously exploitedmigrant workers and angryghosts, where breakneckeconomic development and161

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENrampant consumerism has leftmany of its citizens withno other social outlet thanshopping malls, and whichis governed by a highlyauthoritarian ruling partythat’s clung to power forover half a century.KL Noir is first of fourvolumes about the city’s darkside by independent publishingcompany Buku Fix.How Asian writersinterpret crime fiction ingeneral, and noir narratives,in particular, fascinates me.I didn’t like every storyin this collection, par forthe course in the case ofany anthology, and stories Icouldn’t relate to. But thereare some great tales and,collectively, they’re a greatinsight into what noir meansin this particular neck ofthe woods.Briefly, my favouriteswere as follows:‘The Runner’ by AdibZaini, was the first story andwas probably my pick of thebunch. It’s a taunt littletale about a good Muslim girlwho thinks dealing drugs fromher local Internet café isthe solution to her problems.She is very wrong.Marc de Faoite’s ‘MamakMurder Mystery’ deals withthe plight of Malaysia’smigrant workforce. An Indianrestaurant worker decides toinvestigate the murder of afriend and co-worker, anothermigrant, and unearths a muchbigger case than he everexpected.Kris Williamson’s‘Chasing Butterflies in theNight’ is a brutal tale ofa serial killer targetingprostitutes who has very goodreason to be confident of hisimpunity.Shopping mall foodcourts are the focus for muchof the action in this book. Thebest of these is ‘Vanished’by khairulnizam Bakeri, whichdeals with a busker with a162

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENsecret.Last, ‘The Unbeliever’by Amir Hafizi is a fascinatingtake on a modern Malay ghoststory, with a distinct WickerMan feel to it.International readerswho want to check out KLNoir can by a hard copy fromAmazon.- Andrew NetteTEQUILA SUNSETSam HawkenSerpent’s TailTequila Sunset is Sam Hawken’ssecond novel following hisbrilliant debut The DeadWomen of Juarez. As in thatnovel Hawken again returnsto familiar territory: thecross-border flux betweenthe statistically safe, lawabidingEl Paso, Texas, andCiudad Juarez, a lawless,murderous city where 7,500people were killed in 2006.It is against this starklandscape of statistics thatHawken has his characters playout their differing fortunes,gang members and authoritiesalike.Felipe or Flip as heis known, is out of jail butstill in with Barrio Aztecagang. Watched over he returnsto El Paso, moves in with hismother, gets a job with hisfuture stepfather and looks tokeep his head down. But he’ssoon plugged into the Aztecaslocal set-up and taken underthe wing of Jose the gangboss.And Jose needs afavour.Cristina Salas is an ElPaso cop on gang duty. Herand her partner, Robinson,go through the motions butare relatively powerlessin pursuing the gangs.Surveillance is as excitingas it gets. They know Jose buthave little to pin on him.Over the border Matias163

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENSegura, a Mexican federalagent, is up to his neckin gang-related murdersand various body parts.Corruption, brutal violenceand lawlessness are thewatchwords as Segura moves fromthe aftermath of one murder toanother. He knows the Aztecaand is not averse to adoptingmore questionable methods toobtain information.The FBI complete thelaw enforcement triangle andbring together the El Pasocops and Segura. Between themthey plan to put a major holein Jose’s operation and dentthe business of the Cartel.To break the border economy ofdrugs for guns. But as theirnet begins to tighten tragedystrikes, Flip finds himself ina quandary and it all getsvery messy. And bloody.What an ambitious bookand testament to Hawken’sskill that he pulls this offbig time. The single mum UScop, the gang member lookingto make a new start, theexhausted Mexican fed are allfinely portrayed, believablecharacters getting throughlife one shitty day at atime. The juxtaposition ofthe environs coupled with theintertwined three-prongedstoryline mark Hawken as amature, stylish writer withhopefully many more books tocome.Tequila Sunrise is aWire-esque-depiction of adeplorable situation but onethat is imbued with humanityand spirit.- David HoneyboneA HEALTHY FEAR OF MANAaron Philip ClarkSnubnose PressA Healthy Fear of Man is thesecond novel in Aaron PhilipClark’s Paul Little seriesfollowing on from his debutnovel The Science of Paul.164

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENPaul, an ex-con lookingto get away from his old lifein Philly, has moved onto hisdeceased grandfather’s farmin North Carolina. As much ashe’d like to, Paul can’t seemto stay out of trouble andwhen a death on his propertybrings the local cops aroundhe decides he has to find outwhat happened before he endsup back in prison.Set in a former tobaccoboom county, now fallen into astate of decay, Paul is forcedto wade deeper and deeperinto the town’s underbelly.A place made up of backwoodsdive bars, poverty strickenreservations and the methfuelled thugs and corruptofficials who run them. Clarkpaints a vivid portrait of aplace that is slowly dying.His characters thrum withsteady currents of anger andresignation as they eitheraccept their poor fortunes orfight uselessly against them.The opening chaptersof the novel are easily itsstrongest with Paul trying tosurvive on the land in selfimposedisolation. Here hesifts through the detritusleft by his senile grandfatherand contemplates the decisionsthat have brought him there. Asthe plot became more and moreelaborate in later chaptersI found myself wanting toreturn to the quiet of theLittle farm and hear more ofPaul’s voice.This isn’t to say thatthe story is overly convolutedor poorly constructed.Once things get going thenarrative barrels along at arapid pace and the action anddialogue are well crafted.The friendship between Pauland his grandfather’s friendBo, a kindly good ol’ boy, anda young girl called Gilly areboth believable and touching.And a slow romance with a localgirl feels achingly real andin no way contrived which,sadly, is often the case with165

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENmany crime stories.On the down side theending felt out of place. Ingoing for a brighter epilogueClark loses the hard, pragmaticand brutal tone that serveshim through out the rest ofthe novel and the book isweaker for it.A Healthy Fear of Manis an exciting and impressivenovel. I’ll be tracking downThe Science of Paul and I’msure after reading it I’ll belooking forward to the thirdPaul Little book.-Addam DukeRONNIE AND RITADeborah SheldonDark Prints PressSet in the outer suburbs ofMelbourne, Australia, Ronnieand Rita is a twisted lovestory between two brokenpeople, Ronnie, a quietmiddle-aged gardener who haswasted his life and Rita, anintense cleaning lady with ashady past.Ronnie has spent thirtyyears mowing lawns, lives inthe house where he grew upand is committed to the ruthe has carved out for himself.Rita cleans floors, lives ina one-room unit and has alandlord that knows her by adifferent name. After meetingat the village the pairbecame romantically involvedand their relationship,while initially sweet andpassionate, soon takes anobsessive turn.The earlier tendermoments between Ronnie andRita are touching and sad. Youcan feel Ronnie’s lonelinessand the desire to be lovedthat he has kept hidden evenfrom himself while Rita’sseemingly open and honestnature obscures a dark andsecret pain. It is these earlyscenes that hold the storytogether and keep Ronnie and166

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENRita’s actions believabledespite the surreal eventsthat later take place. It alsomakes it all the more painfulwhen things start to fall topieces.Ronnie and Rita dreamof starting a family despiteRita’s admission that she is‘damaged goods’ and cannothave a child. When shenotices that Ronnie’s nextdoor neighbour is pregnantshe convinces Ronnie thebaby could be theirs and fromthere things rapidly spiralout of control. Ronnie andRita’s love is not glamorousand their dreams aren’tgrand instead they’re smalland fractured. The narrativemoves at a frantic pace andher tight prose adds a senseof claustrophobic panic asthe walls close in and thenstart to crumble around theduo.I have to admit I had abit of a biased affection forDeborah Sheldon’s Ronnie andRita. Having spent two yearsworking as a gardener at aretirement village in theEastern Suburbs I’ve knowna few people very much likeRonnie. Sheldon perfectlyportrays the resignation tomediocrity that permeatesmany of the working/middleclass neighbourhoods whereI grew up and the desperatethings they’ll sometimes doto break away.-Addam DukeHOME INVASIONPatti AbbottSnubnose PressA compilation of short storiesthat form a novel, HomeInvasion follows the sagaof the dysfunctional BatchFamily over a period of fiftyyears. This tale certainlyhits the spot when it comesto appalling parenting, flawedmorals and the darker side of167

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENearly 20th century America.Abbott’s dark anddistressing style depictsthis family with their taintedtrail of debased businesses,impulsive escapes and illegalendeavors, with the expertiseof a psychoanalyst working inchild services.The book begins with thecharacter of Billie Batch andher incredibly self-absorbedmother, Kay.Following Billie fromher jarring adolescence, thestory becomes irritably slowpaced and a little frustratingduring her transition into atragic alcoholic mother withtwo boys and a con-man husbandwith some unyielding angerissues.Leaping from one hopelesssituation to the next,this story is riddled withconstant displays of patheticparenting and the family’shardships and bad fortuneare painfully continuous toa point where empathy can nolonger be given at will. Theelated feeling of optimisticanticipation is lost afterthe first few chapters.Delving into the teenyears of her youngest son,Charlie, the chronologicalplot begins to pick up whenhe acts upon his fascinationwith home invasion.Charlie is the glue inall of his confusing, candid,peculiar adolescent glory thatkeeps you reading on. Even theprogression from a small boyto adulthood Charlie’s lifeis sparred with byzantinebehavior and ambiguousobsessions that ultimatelyland him in prison. On hisreleased he is confronted withan intrinsic blend of lies, astolen child and unthinkableblackmail from his formerlover, Melissa.Abbott’s prose, plotand complex, desperatecharacters satisfy a strangehunger brought on by thissad and potent narrative in168

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENwhich her literary brillianceshines through. The rawnature of this story is bothdark and blunt and some willfind being hauled throughthis tale heartbreaking andbeholden while others may findthemselves saying, “What thehell just happened?”I was the latter and yetHome Invasion has become mindinvadingalmost indefinitely.- Elke FlintTHE MANNEQUIN HOUSER.N MorrisCreme de la CrimeSet in London before theoutbreak of the First World Warin 1914, The Mannequin Houseis the ultimate crime fictionand period drama piece. Thestory centers on the murderof a young fashion modelcalled Amelie, working in theprestigious department storeand consumer paradise that isthe House of Blackley.The first chapter presentsthe department store in allits elegance and allure isas a place of dreams to itscustomers but in other ways,a form of imprisonment to itsemployees. The aftermath ofAmélie’s death has its fareshare of twists and turns(including the bizarre detailof a fez-wearing monkey foundin the dead girl’s room),but it is the story’s mainprotagonist, Detective SilasQuinn with his charactercocktail of audacity,nerve and ambiguity, thatcontinuously coats this prosewith intrigue.In this era ofinnocence, Morris expelsdespair, pain and violencewith abundant emotional andpsychological depth. Thedeeper Quinn delves into thethwarted passions and secretsof the mannequin house, themore the detective’s past isdivulged to us. Amongst these169

CRIME FACTORYISSUE FOURTEENanomalies is Quinn’s tendencyto act “as judge, jury andexecutioner”.Quinn’s chief suspectis the department store’sowner Benjamin Blackley, amultifaceted character andthe clear ‘villain’ of thepiece. Rumored to keep themannequins (as the store’smodels are referred to) undertight parameters, Blackleyis a natural suspect but hasconnections that can put Quinnand his career at risk.But between MisterBlackley and the fez-wearingmonkey is of course the houseof mannequins. Emotional yettight lipped, the girls expeltoxic levels of bitterness andjealously, hindering Quinnfrom unveiling the truth ofAmélie’s ghastly fate.Character dialogue isdecisive and witty, leavingones imagination to run wildwithin Morris’s discerningelaborations. He is sharp yeteloquent and delivers thisabsorbing historical mysterywith sophistication andprecision. The novel readswith constitution but most ofall with feeling and thoughthe suspect list is short andguessing the culprit isn’texactly rocket science, thereis a nice twist at the end tosatisfy all.In the words of SilasQuinn himself “At this stage,anything and everything couldturn out to have a vitalsignificance. Or none atall”.- Elke Flint170

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“Nice try,asshole.”-Catlin