Definitions of Noir Mystery

Noir mysteries sculpt imagery from the ice of vocabulary not the stone of definition. Stone is brittle, shaped only by tools. Mood alters ice as it weaves around characters while they struggle to live the plot without knowing their destinations or the consequences of their decisions.

Like the paralyzing sound of hurried footsteps cresting a hollow walkway echoing off water ten yards below, words whittle and change those decisions.

However, it is not enough to experience the crime, not enough to feel the fear or the cold clutch of victory when the bullet fired hits the target, not enough to listen to panting terror as the victim flees death discovering that death was the cold hand he felt clutching his neck and escape is impossible.

When sweat runs fingers down the spine the plot twists, tumbling, turning, the victim slams into facts, betrayal, and faces consequence. Circumstance develops as intent and the hero sinks deeper into a darkness that defines him as a man colliding with justice.

The touch of warm fingers sliding along the jaw, eyes closing, lips brushing, the tip of a knife under the chin, realization, a gasp of surprise, and justice is decided without the rule of law to delay conclusion.

Noir mysteries drip cold from page one. Mood is set, location chosen, a corpse is central to all that matters. Rage, revenge, love denied, the tenderness of moments, leak into hours of regret, racing to embrace renunciation.

We wade through the killer's bloody wrath, witness what the cop or PI sees, feel the grief permeating and miserable until the only relief possible may prove worse than the crime.

From Sunset Orange Water (copyright 2008):

I found a pull chain for an overhead light gave it a tug and felt pleased when a hundred watt bulb illuminated the space around me, and then felt something else, something dreadful when I examined the walls. Every wall held photos and newspaper clippings of murder victims, prostitutes according to the headlines. The oldest dated back to late ’45, the newest was the clipping for Lois. Alongside the news article--the only one not claiming the victim had been a prostitute--about her death, he’d taped a black and white photo of her that he must’ve taken moments before she died. She sat naked in the chair with her hands folded neatly on her lap holding a small black pistol like the one Dunbar handed me the day he came by my office to tell me the news about her death. The connection might’ve been tenuous, but felt like an unwelcome noose uncoiling in my head that locked onto and twisted my feelings for her.

Her beautiful skin showed no signs of a struggle. Blood had run from the corner of her mouth, but I saw no visible bruising. I wondered what he’d told her to effect her submission. However, Lois’ eyes looked wide with the horror she must have felt by his presence as she stared at the person behind the camera. Her stare gave me the feeling that she knew her attacker, and hadn’t anticipated the behavior he exhibited.

In a trained mind, rationality reaches through panic and angst, and guides thought beyond the obvious, the thread of temptation longing to dwell on pity, or the satisfaction of revenge.

The PI or cop feels deeper, like a man running the knife-edge of sanity knowing one slip will end the journey, not looking back, looking forward the distance of a single step only.

Noir is exhausting, exhilarating, daring, shocking, but always dark. The humor shows an ebony sheen those who love slapstick miss. The relief of conclusion is, to the PI, a page turned with more challenges ahead, one of which will eventually shred a piece from his life, again. Yet knowing this, he reloads, slips his handgun into the holster under his arm, and walks into the darkness daring impropriety to challenge him anew.
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So, you fell in love with a vampire!

So, you fell in love with a vampire. Congratulations! Now, here are a few tips and some advice on how to survive the first intimate encounter.

You might be wondering, "How did I get here?" Truthfully, I’m wondering that too, but put that aside for now and look deeply into the mirror. Not at your eyes, examine your neck along the raised lines on both sides that, if you press your fingers to them, will pulse under the pads of your fingertips.

No pulse? You’re dead so skip the next three paragraphs.

Pulse feels strong? Excellent! It's time to discuss how to keep it that way. One idea is convincing your vampire lover to not suck on your neck. Alternatively, you might suggest he or she wear tiny silver sleeves over their "canine" teeth. The silver might present a problem, but you cannot be too safe these days.

Another alternative, is wearing some kind of protection. Safe sex is good sex. However, you will need to wear a collar that is bite proof. Check with your veterinarian for something in leather. The styles are varied and attractive. If your vampire is particularly aggressive, a bit long in the tooth, you may want to go with a lightweight chain mail collar.

Silver comes to mind, but your vampire might object, pulling his or her head back and hissing, while glaring in your direction. It is never a good idea to get your vampire too angry, so let's skip silver and try something in stainless steel. The collar may feel heavy, but it will prove advantageous when the going gets hot and it does make a nice fashion statement if properly polished.

Once you reach the point in the relationship when you are willing to touch your vampire, do not be surprised at the complete lack of activity within his or her torso. Remember your vampire is dead. His or her heart stopped beating a long time ago, and unless you are willing to donate several pints of your own blood, he, or she will not warm up very much to your tender touch. Do not let this distract you from the reason you are embracing your vampire. Love is blind after all.

The next issue we want to discuss is fingernails. Your vampire's nails will keep growing as will his or her hair. Your vampire's nails, however, will, under moonlight glow a pale off-white. They will look kind of like sun-bleached bone, opal or an eggshell. Your vampire's nails will grow quickly too, and on occasion you may find bits and pieces of flesh and blood under them. That is to be expected. Your vampire must kill to continue existing, not to be confused with alive. Unless you did not feel a pulse when we began this conversation, you are alive and if you are extremely careful, you may stay that way for years to come.

Your vampire's temperature may present you with a problem difficult to overcome. You see, since your vampire is dead, he or she will feel like a corpse. In fact, I have been told that a vampire's body temperature is very low. This helps them remain stable during the long hours of night when they can spend time outside their hideaway, i.e. coffin. Should you need time to recuperate after a long embrace, do not hesitate to explain to your vampire that the difference in body temperatures requires you to take a breather.

If you are not bothered by your vampire's frigid touch, you may be dead too, so do not worry about the loss of sensation.

Finally, we come to the most important event in a relationship, consummation. All of us know, or should if we are adults, exactly what I am implying. Therefore, details are not necessary. If you want details, go online and give it a search.

Your vampire's take on consummation will be vastly different than yours will be. First off, your vampire is dead, so the necessary body parts will not respond as if he or she were alive. Flaccid comes to mind, frigidly flaccid is descriptively better. And of course, since your vampire is dead, there will be no fluids, i.e. lubrication. Be patient and be prepared and I think the first night together will be extremely memorable.

PS: if you have decided that the life of a vampire is the life for you, introduce the idea to your vampire using caution. He or she, depending on the state of their satiation, might become anxious and drain you dry before recalling your request. Your vampire must not suck you dry, but leave enough fluids in your body that when you bite into him or her in return you have the strength for a successful strike.

Next time: Newly minted vampire? The joy of your first kill.
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What motivates a fictional private investigator?

Michael Hacker McKaybees is a troubled man.

Those who know him call him Hacker. Most do not know that his legal name is Michael. Back in college, after a stint in the Gulf War, he perfected the art of computer hacking, and while, years later, working with the FBI, uses the skill to aid their search for online predators, human and machine.

Since he received the middle name Hacker at birth, due to an ancient Scottish ancestor, who fought with the Bruce at Bannockburn, known for hacking his opponents using a sword and battleaxe, he feels a strong if distant kinship with the old Scot and drops Michael thereafter. What he did for the FBI was, in his mind, the modern day equivalent of swinging a battleaxe to defeat modern spammers, and pedophiles. Although he needed to sign a statement when he resigned from the Bureau stating he would never again use his hacking skills.

Now caught between the desire to hold onto memories of his deceased mother, and plan a future without the woman he loves, the father he never knew, and believed was dead confronts him unexpectedly. Never having felt anything but a cold loathing for the man, McKaybees is stunned when he steps into his life for the first time in 35 years, and struggles to accept him.

Despite serious effort, McKaybees finds he cannot easily put aside the deep resentment he feels for his father. Yet, fate and criminal intent put them shoulder to shoulder when both stand accused of murdering two men, one of whom is a cop, the other, McKaybees' oldest friend (the plot for Revenge is a Black Promise).

The outcome breeds an alliance that slowly unravels Hacker's conflicted emotions, turning them into a grudging admiration, forgiveness and maybe a little respect.
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A brief history of noir mysteries

Noir writers wrote with a detachment most of the world felt during the years after World War 2 when a sullen hush washed across battered nations numbed by the task of recovery. Many of those writers were themselves combat veterans, and, I suspect, used writing as a means of recuperation from what we now understand as PTSD. It was as if they pictured their story plots, like men standing in the shadows of alleys while out on Main Street life progressed through the struggles writers used to convey their protagonist's adventures but did not necessarily partake in.

Although, I believe noir fiction began under the ink stained fingers of John Carroll Daley while he wrote for the Dime Detective Magazine in the 1930s. His protagonist Race Williams was as brutal as life in the Great Depression, used violence to uphold the law as he, Race Williams, interpreted it. Readers enthralled by Daley's writing, let the story's darkness shed the light of hope into lives lived hand to mouth, which helped create the genre.

Mickey Spillane, who I was fortunate to spend time with during the last years of his life, as a young boy read Daley's stories and later used what he'd learned when he walked Mike Hammer off the pages of comic books and into one of the most successful mysteries ever written, I, The Jury.

While I was a young boy, I read Mickey's books. The pacing, tension and almost machine gun style of writing turned the pages for me. I believe that noir fiction is similar to modern Jazz as introduced in the 1950s and 1960s. It is a free form style of writing, which at times drags the reader along, coddles the senses with imagery, and at other times jerks him up in his chair as if daring him to relax and read. The characters are in your face people, with each other, and a film of tension dangles between them like spider web filament.

* * *

When I created Marlowe Black and his illegitimate son Michael Hacker McKaybees, I wanted the tension between them to navigate plots. Marlowe Black whose pregnant fiancée was murdered in the early 1950s (the plot for Sunset Orange Water) refused to ever again consider marriage. He avoided intimate relationships, staying around until emotions grew thick, and he began glancing over his shoulder should his new love face the retribution his first one had due to the nature of his profession.

When the woman who would become Hacker's mother, announced her pregnancy in 1971, Marlowe immediately decided that he would not be seen with his new son therefore giving the boy the opportunity to live. Marlowe knew he had dragged some of his enemies through the previous decades and felt their hypothetical breaths on the back of his neck.

Now, in the twenty-first century, Marlowe, although a man nearing eighty, continues to work as a PI. He had kept an eye on his son, and provided for him and his mother. He felt pride as the boy grew into a man, but stayed away.

Until the day when an old army buddy's son, a New York City cop, was brutally murdered and he and Hacker were considered prime suspects. Then all the rules changed, and Marlowe Black knew it was time to educate his son about dealing with criminals the old way, using fists and guns. Shoot first and ask questions should one of the enemy, be lucky, or unlucky enough to remain standing.
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The previous post is a synopsis, so I've been told, so this must be a query/pitch

Crawling barefoot through Pluff mud dressed in tattered night clothes that provide minimal coverage or protection, drenched in sweat and river slim, Sue Todd Smith begins to wonder if her decision to rescue missing children might have been an error as she swipes at the onslaught of mosquitoes feasting hungrily on her exposed flesh.








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An attempted mystery pitch - ugh

Savannah, Georgia born Sue Todd Smith, a disillusioned grade school psychologist, resigns and establishes an agency to locate missing children. With fifteen successes behind her, she moves north with her new boyfriend to New Jersey.

Her first job up north comes when a distraught Jersey mother Cindy McDonald hires her--pro bono as it turns out--to locate her missing daughter Peggy
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Sue accepts the job and heads south where the girl's father--a suspected sexual predator--has family.

Within the first 24 hours of her arrival in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, Sue fights off an attempted assault with a well-placed knee, and witnesses a savage murder.

Sue learns she has walked into the middle of a drug ring and that 13-year old Peggy McDonald's estranged father's brother, is deeply entrenched with New York organized crime establishing a drug network in the resort community known for its massive motorcycle rallies.

Determined to find the girl, Sue--with the help of an old friend Horry County cop Dwayne Thompson who wants to develop something deeper than friendship with Sue--becomes driven to succeed without Dwayne by her side.

That decision along with clues left by the drug lord who wants to question Sue about the murder she witnessed only makes success less likely when the drug lord's men kidnap Sue, which forces her to accept that her attempt to save Peggy may prove fatal.
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Silent Observation, an exercise in show me versus tell me

Thorpe stopped walking, turned his head, and listened for footsteps parting the damp knee high grass. A bird rustled through overhead leaves. Twisting his torso, tilting his head slightly, he concentrated listening for other sounds, but heard nothing else.

Boldly now, he walked into the tree line, still pausing every few steps. Silver light flashed to his left, a hiss split the air past his ear, an odor of singed hair brushed his nostrils as warm liquid ran down to his shoulder.

He dropped to his stomach, lifted the .38 from his waist holster, and waited. Moments stretched into minutes. Bird song again filled the air, but no footsteps.

Gingerly, Thorpe touched the raw wound in his scalp and bit his lower lip to swallow the groan of pain. He examined his fingers, frowned as his eyes narrowed, and then wiped the blood on the tail of his black shirt.

Cautiously now, he rose to his knees staying low enough that the tall grass offered some cover, crawled behind a wide oak tree hoping the trunk might shield him. The thick bark was rough and firm under his palm. A line of black ants crept soundlessly though the deep winding grooves.

A snapped twig signaled the approach he anticipated. He wiped a line of sweat from his forehead, smelled a tangy citrus odor on the light breeze, held his breath, and smiled a tight scowl of success.

The unmistakable sound of someone walking carefully allowed him to turn to his left without moving his feet so he might follow the noise of his opponent's advance.

The shooter approached him as if thinking he lay dead.

With brief forethought, Thorpe stood, stepped left, lifted the handgun, aimed, and fired three rounds. The reports exploded and silenced life.

The body crumpled as if boneless, legs folding underneath, arms out to his sides, one holding a crossbow.

Thorpe kept the .38 aimed at his pursuer's head, but when he saw the blood pulsing from the man's chest, lowered his arm.

Grasping the wood and steel crossbow, he yanked it free and tossed it noisily into the brush behind him. He squatted, stared into dying blue eyes, but neither man spoke as the hunter rasped for air.

When life faded from the shooter's eyes, Thorpe stood, turned, and walked quickly towards the parking area a half mile away.

Five minutes passed before a thin whistling sound stopped him. Knife-like pain drove him to his knees. He threw out his hands to break his fall. His gun dropped, skidded into the underbrush, and disappeared.

His right hand went to his thigh, fingers feeling a steel shaft protruding through it, and knew because of the location that it had pierced only muscle. The aroma of fresh blood filled the air.

He heard the second shooter's approach, scrambled to retrieve his .38, desperately scratching the soil under the debris. His fingers closed on his handgun, pulled it close to his chest, and he held his breath.

A large soiled and scuffed black boot appeared in front of his face. He smelled shoe leather, heard it creaking, glanced up, and into the dark brown eyes of the second hunter.

They stared at each other for a second. His opponent had failed to notch a second shaft. He was unarmed.

Thorpe lifted the .38 from where he hid it and fired two rounds. He watched the surprise, saw the pain, and rolled to avoid the body when it fell in Thorpe's direction.

Thorpe slapped a hand over his mouth as pain ripped a raw cry from his throat. His movement had driven the steel shaft further through his leg.

Sitting with his back against the tree, he removed his pocketknife opened the blade, and sliced his blood soaked jeans. With both hands, Thorpe ripped the material from crotch to knee and exposed the tip of the shaft.

The thin metal rod ended in a needle-like point. Thorpe carefully climbed to his feet pressing his torso against a tree, sweat dripping from his face, sliding down his chest and back. With his left hand, he grasped the feathered end of the shaft and with his right; he squeezed the front of his thigh.

He screamed as the shaft snagged on tissue and ripped out with a wet sucking sound. Blood oozed from the wound. Thorpe used his belt as a tourniquet and hobbled the remaining distance to his car.

As he opened the door and swung his uninjured leg inside, he saw his gold shield on the passenger seat, and wondered why he had left it behind as he popped open the glove box and fished out the phone he had placed there so he might be uninterrupted.
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