The Lead
It was cold. The kind of October night that reminds those of us in colder climates of what is just ahead. The rain acted as a barrier against progress, against almost all hope; that last ember was fighting, barely struggling for a foothold against the sheer face of mounting fear. It was hopeless, so he thought. Everything was gone or levied with smothering arrears. His family was gone, his job was hanging by the lint of a thread and his life was over. For all reasonable expectations, it was over.
 There was nothing left but the walk. The destination was almost as frightening as the consequences of not doing so; of not taking that walk in the rain. But there was nothing left and if his life was not fragile enough to end on its own, he was certainly not going to tip the scales in one last act of foolishness. This was desperate enough, he thought. There was enough pride to resist that final label for those few who loved him still. There was that little girl, that hopeful ex-wife who loved him, the sister who was struggling with monsters of her own, and the already crushed widow who had lost one son to suicide and had just lost her husband: a fine man and great father. He was not going to put her through that again, and not introduce such a tragedy to the lives he had already damaged, perhaps beyond repair. So he walked in the rain.
---
The image is the seminal moment in what is called a Lead. Those of you familiar with recovery from a personality disorder of almost any type, but especially that of addictive behavior, know the drill. It has not really changed in almost 75 years. We call it sharing our experience, strength and hope with others. The lead is the main part of most meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotic Anonymous, Gambler’s Anonymous and several other informally formal groups dedicated to recovery from some substance or behavior that has become destructive.
The speaker is just another face in the crowd, usually smiling and holding out a hand to greet anyone venturing in, especially those coming in from the rain. But for one night the focus is on his or her story. How we got here, what happened and what we do today to maintain the positive change. They can be as different as the disparate types of people who attend these meeting. Some are passive and filled with quiet emotion and stark contrasts. Some are dramatic and some are energetic and creative. It does not matter. The purpose is to connect with those in attendance and remind each person why they did not drink-take drugs-gamble-whatever… today.
That’s another thing these groups have in common: the knowledge that all we have is today. One could even tighten the focus and say all we have is now, but that is a difficult enough concept for normal people. For those fighting the relentless predator of their own destructive nature, today is quite enough to deal with.
So the request is made by, again, a loose bit of formality. One member chairs the meeting and all participate.  The chairperson in May for one especially gracious group asked this writer to Lead. First Monday, next Monday, the story will be presented in a critically important, yet relatively young oral tradition.
That rainy night described earlier happened on October 1, 1986. Slowly, in uneven increments, that life got better. Today there are still fear, disappointments and challenges. But there is also an answer to those predators circling the water. We know that a shark looks like, we’ve seen one up close, and by the Grace of God we are not going through that hell again!
There is strength in those meetings, in this sober life and in the knowledge that no matter how tough it is today it was once much, much worse. And what do you know? Somehow we made it through that, too!
Such Privileged Problems.
The sign blew down, hitting the pavement with a metallic clang! The Baja Fresh special would go unnoticed, thanks to gusting winds on an otherwise welcomed sunny day. The forgotten salesman felt just as useful. Stood up again.
 The meeting was set and confirmed just a few days before, but it was not unusual for adults to revert to the lame-brained excuses favored by children when it comes to talking about important issues. These are important issues: life and death, poverty and prosperity, loved ones left behind. The specter of mortality and preparing for that eventuality is losing its place in American society. So be it. Not everyone is so cavalier and the job will take. But this is about one late morning, not about the challenges of a mystery writer who must wait out the precession of the equinoxes as a New York Life agent. Publishing seems cosmic in its urgency, unless, of course, they are in a hurry. Then a book can be slapped together and on the end-caps at Barns & Noble in a matter of weeks!
No, this is about signs; those little messages – and sometimes not so little – that are all around, the whisper of the universe that serves at a guide for the lonely and the desperate. We are all that, in some form or another. No matter how well things are going there is doubt, confusion and fear. The best of us are merely versed at disguising the internal engine, that coal-fired furnace that turns the screws on the graceful ship. We move along the waters of time as though we belong there, when in reality we are dreading the iceberg; that sinking feeling.
The salesman, feeling useless at the outdoor table for one, picked up the sign and Baja Fresh once again had a special to proclaim. 
We have all heard the story: I felt self-pity for my mangled foot until I met a man who had no legs. It is a good fable; short, poignant and absolutely true. And the same lesson is played out all around us. As the salesman gave up on his eleven o’clock, he went into a natural foods store to try and drum up some business when the man at the check-out caught his eye. He was too old to have been in the current war, a particularly ugly affair leaving more and more Soldiers, Sailors, Guardsmen and women and Marines with polymer parts where thriving flesh once was. Yet he, too, suffered a similar fate. Both arms were gone below the elbow, and he proudly wore short sleeves freeing the mechanisms. As far as we have come in engineering, we still cannot easily duplicate the basic function of the human hand. Not nearly enough. So he had a surigical steel grip on one arm and a more anatomically appealing plastic hand on the other; both able to grab, at least in a rudimentary way, and both serving the owner well. The man was cheerful and smiling at the young cashier who helped him with the change.
Worries about money, sales and triggers, mistakes of the past and challenges of the future shrank to their appropriate size. Two working hands moved freely at the end of the writer’s forearms. A healthy heart and energy to spare fueled this ship into the promises of this day and days to come, no matter how skewed the course thus far.
And the sign wobbled in the warm wind, nearly falling and going unnoticed, until someone stepped out of themselves and placed it upright for all to see.
A Cult of One
CLEVELAND [April 13, 2006] --- The instructor said we were a cult, maybe it was more like, “you New York Life guys are sort of a cult.” Okay. The only man in the class wearing a suit and tie could not argue. His days are filled with a desire, a passionate desire to get in front of people and tell the story. To get them to do something - at least as far as this service is concern – to help themselves and their families. It is a triviality we preach; it is just about their lives, their money and their loved ones. But as one respected and hugely successful friend said: “Don’t drink the Kool-Aid.”
We are all caught up in cult thinking in one form or another. For writers it is the endless stream of guilds, associations and insider groups (not unlike this well-meaning and useful website). But ultimately it is the work we do everyday that supports a belief that a change is underway and what we do is important.
A very dear young person cried on the other end of the phone last month. It was an uncharacteristic breakdown. She was overwhelmed by the lack of direction and purpose; the void that filled her days loomed larger than the Chicago cityscape. This week the voice on the other end was quite different, and it was her loving parent who shed tears, overcome by the positive change. Perhaps she had joined the cult of self-sabotage while an undergrad at a very important college. Perhaps she was convinced that the real world would welcome her talents with equity and clear opportunity. It never works that way. Like Glinda the good witch said, “If I told you so, you would not have believed me.” So she had to find out for herself, and the journey has been progressively joyless. Now, surrounded by people who are bright, accomplished and kind, she might have found a home. At 25, she is still well ahead of the game, of the rest of the country. And that’s about all we can hope for.
Cult thinking has a very dark side as well. At lunch with a young man, a young agent starting to test the New York Life waters, the discussion veered toward motivation. He is sharp, with clear, focused eyes and strong, handsome features. The impression from a stranger might be that he is someone you might see in the movies or on the news: a young black man with near physical perfection and social ambiguity. Thankfully there is nothing ambiguous about this young man. He has twin toddlers and a strong faith. It appears that no one will stop him from his goals. He once worked as a Hip-Hop radio salesman, yet he kept his boundaries clear. He did not drink the Kool-Aid of a destructive cultural anomaly and he won’t now.  (Member’s note: To infer from this sentiment that all hip-hop is bad would be a major mistake. It is a business and many have succeeded. But the perversion of this art form’s message has broadened the divide between Americans, and that is never good.)
There is a cult that has saved lives and flourishes today. It is the cult of sobriety in the form of Alcoholic’s Anonymous. By definition there are cult-like characteristics: change your thinking; follow these steps; live by these principles; believe you are powerless and submit to a Greater Power. No human can, nor should take on the mantle of the power, but each member is allowed to define that spirit/energy/compassion/love/caretaker in his or her own way. That is where this cult differs from the likes of the Vatican, or the Synagogue, or the Mosque, or the Church… or Jonestown.
Do you know someone who believes in nothing but himself? That there is no mystery to this life, to these days and these deeds? If one were to really examine that motivation one might stumble upon the most destructive cult of all: A cult of one.
Getting What You Want
CLEVELAND [April 5, 2006] --- There is a sense of moving into the heart of America, at least well away from the elite edges and into the body-mass. Lines blur, intensions equalize and the struggle gets smaller - the smile of a five-year-old, the candle craft of a good woman – but no less important. This is Canton, Ohio. Oversized claim to the genesis of America’s favorite spectator sport and home to its shrine: the Pro Football Hall of Fame. But this is another place, far from the pain and glory of such controlled brutality.  This is a different kind of pain and a separate glory. Living. Making the most of little, and treasuring life and faith over money and fame.
Eric and Cheryl are surprising pieces in this starkly homogenous mosaic. They smile easily and welcome a stranger without apprehension. They are not gullible and they hold a certain intelligence that says, “Without you, God’s work is not done.”
Their home is a labyrinth of interesting clutter. She finds beauty in isolation and works her magic to fit it all in a place the children of the neighborhood love to visit. They are parents – they have two daughters, five and ten – and surrogates to the little girls and the occasional boys who romp through the kitchen politely asking before helping themselves. The volume of loving voices stays at a constant: low and easy. One can imagine that such treatment is not necessarily the standard in the varied homes of these ephemerally migrating children. Eric and Cheryl’s home might be as different in emotional content as is the physical surroundings.
“I’m a press operator.” He says with a small amount of pride. When it is pointed out that that can be a dangerous occupation, he says: “what am I supposed to do, park cars?” as though his options were limited to the mechanical and the mundane. Eric takes great joy in simplicity, in kindness and faith. His work is not coaxing metal into a preordained form for a predestined function. His task is to make this day a little better than the last for his wife, his children and the strangers he might meet along the way. The funny thing about this man is that when one first lays eyes on him, should prejudice and imagination take hold, a totally different picture might emerge. Eric and Cheryl prove one thing right from the start: you must ask the question and then listen, wait for the answer.
--- 
Kent, Ohio [same day] --- Brian has been quite wealthy by most standards. His beautiful home sits on a finger of a larger lake. Golden wood and just the right light through carefully cut glass gives the place and shimmer that is hard to see directly, but you notice something. He makes a stranger feel welcomed and in record time that stranger become a trusted friend. But there is a sadness and perpetual disappointment in his eyes; as though dreams have been reduced to melting snow, soiling as it flows. His good nature has been turned against him and the pain has turned within taking much of the good fortune with it.
Yet Brian and his gentle and caring wife have not given up. They picked up and started all over again, halted the fall and put control back where it belongs. Some call it a Higher Power. Eric and Cheryl will quickly call it Jesus Christ. How it is thought of is personal and not really the point or place here. Brian does trust again and extends that vital human support in both, in all directions.
It seems that there might be one constant in all endeavors: Only those who quit truly fail. Like these two very different families and very different circumstanses, by living one more day, by facing fears and inequities with whatever courage this day offers, you just might find you get what you need.
2005
Imus
CLEVELAND [April 2] -- It was sometime in the 80’s when the gruff man in the fringe jacket and sour smile – and it was a smile – walked into my small studio. There was no question that he would rather be somewhere else; anywhere other than this microscopic blip barely in the same medium, the same planet as his wide and growing stage. But the new novelist had a mission. He knew how the game was played. The story was years in the making, if only in the form of performance after performance on his radio show. Now his dream had come true, Reverend Billy Sol Hargus was alive between rich pages of cutting sarcasm and remarkably visual prose. The book was out, God’s Other Son, and so was the author; out from behind the shielded microphone and the well-directed conversations in which he and he alone ruled.
Don Imus was not a stranger to Cleveland. He was a member of an elite society of broadcasters that made its home on the wasted shores of Lake Erie. Rock N’ Roll got its birth if not as an art form, at least its name, from Alan Freed, a Cleveland broadcaster. The payola scandals of the Fifties were bread between the spins on Cleveland Radio. And before there was Howard, there was Gary. Gary Dee, an acerbic man who broke all the rules, made millions and would disarm an insipid caller by abruptly labeling her (or sometimes him) a Colored Whoore.
Through it all a smart young man from the Southwest, with obvious detours through deep drawl country, discovered what many of us here already knew: it is not New York where the entertainment boot camp resides, it is Cleveland. If you can make here, you not only can make it anywhere, you are driven toward success.
It was here that morning radio first opened its Zoo. Not with the drug inspired antics of Buzzard Radio, but with a couple of guys in the late fifties named Martin and Howard. This duo – part in the vaudeville tradition and part comedy team - was so tired of radio’s inherent repetitiveness that they actually started the “I’m Tired of Hearing About It!” fan club. This writer was a card-carrying member.
Mr. Imus was very cordial to the young interviewer. We both knew that I had no audience and, other than having read his book, had no qualification to guide his limo, let alone this interview. But radio has always been a great equalizer. It is to this day. Don Imus is a very successful man on the air. He speaks to presidents and would be presidents. But in many ways he is remarkable for his lack of relative success. He is heard by far fewer than Rush, Howard, Sean and a hundred other syndicated talkers, but while they are the tabloids of our industry, Imus managed to remain the Times and Post of the airwaves. Fewer may read him, but among those who do, much more influence is found.
Why Radio? Because, like a good story, it is everywhere. It is the backdrop of everyday lives and the source of everyday fantasies. It at once fuels our anger and provides a release. It informs, inflates and tickles our egos. It is a diversion without demanding time away from our duties. It is wrought with mystery and phantasm, yet it is as natural as brushing your teeth.
Super Tom
CLEVELAND [April 7] -- It was a sick feeling. In the days of Vodka and Redbud, sick feelings were an almost daily occurrence. But this was an arms-locking, hyperventilating, end of the world feeling: Tom Armstrong was dead. Few, other than blue-haired Clevelanders, even know the name, and fewer still would remember the day he died. This PM member is neither of the generation he served so well, nor someone prone to hero-worship. Yet Tom Armstrong was something of a legend in the rich tradition of Radio. He was a person who never gave up until his heart finally gave out. Eighteen years later he is just another shadow in the footlights of radio’s long and often forgotten history.
In one of the last private monologues shared with an audience of one, Tom reflected on everything from body building to all-night sex to the foggy last scenes of live radio. His was a generation of sound effects men in booths crowded with noise-making artifacts, of twelve piece orchestras and actors so immersed in their roles that audiences of suited men and hatted women would pay just to watch them; listeners would stare at the radio, imaging the action in the amber glow of the dial. Many years sped by, and Tom found his place entertaining that same generation as it slowly faded. He played the old songs, told great old stories about the musicians when the visited Cleveland – and they always did.
Tom was replaced at WGAR – the station that gave him fame in the fifties – by John Lanigan, a glib student of comedy who to this day fills the mornings with laughter behind the mic of an oldies station.
In a long career, this radio craftsman had the pleasure of working with both men. They influenced my life and introduced a more disciplined and even loving approach to the industry. Now the skills honed in those years, made better by the men and women met along the way, are part of this relatively new effort.
Why Radio? A well known author once advised, “don’t just write what you know, write want you don’t know about what you know.” The Radio Murders starts in places well-known: suburbia, a multi racial society and, of course, Radio. But the process has taken the writer to fascinating places and introduced him to amazing people. It is with a sincere wish and overwhelming desire that those who love good stories will come along – are able through publishing - to come along for the ride.
Alfred
CLEVELAND [April 10] --What kind of monster would give a ten-year-old boy a book a about violence, insanity and the brutal Nazi system of human extermination? One who cares that the boy grows into a thinking adult, deserving of the gifts he has been given and ready to face anything. This was just one of the many lessons taught – and learned – during a brief period with Alfred. A graduate student in mathematics, a philosopher and historian, Alfred swept into the unsuspecting family like a black whirlwind; looking like an officer in the Gestapo and speaking in a mock German dialect that should have sent chills up the spines of any middle-class parents. For this PM member’s family the effect should have been a small tsunami of concern over the intellectual upheaval and apparent embrace of history’s most notoriously racist regime. But the father and mother, both wise beyond their advanced degrees, saw the experiment for what it was: an adjunct to the development of their children’s education, the multi-gel spotlights on a stage of bland furnishings and deadly-dull dialogue – if any dialogue at all – produced by public schools in the early sixties. The masquerade, the black fedora and trench coat, the Nazi salute and the European style inverse finger-grasp of the cigarette, all served as a bit of theatre designed to excite the young mind and provide a counter-weight to the commonplace.
And there were the stories. London’s Sea Wolf; Twain’s Mysterious Stranger; Orwell’s 1984; and the AP course: Durant’s The Pleasures of Philosophy and Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning. With all the knowledge and masterful narrative represented, it is the latter title that remains the most dominant in the child’s memory. The tiny book told a gigantic story of the single most desperate place in history, The Death Camps, and how men survived the ordeal. The idea conveyed through genius and brevity is that if there is a why for one’s life, then one can endure almost any how. In a remarkably calm voice, Dr. Frankl takes us on a journey whereby all is systematically removed; all possessions, all dignity and finally, within the narrowest of margins, existence itself. It is only through a personal philosophy that he survives; a belief that there is more to do, more to contribute and, no matter how small, more the community of man requires of him.
Why Radio? Launched from this pad of cerebral jujitsu, this writer was forced, at an early age, to put forth his best effort, believe in the work and remain persistent. If, after all, the men, women and children who survived The Camps can bear those scars and make more of their lives – as so many have - then so can we all. These mysteries, these carefully nourished stories based on the insight gained from a particularly interesting industry, are one way, perhaps the best way to advance that philosophy.
(wow, big gap here...what happened?)
Seeing Hell, Again
CLEVELAND [April 19, 2005] -- The term lessons learned has been tossed around like a Nurf football on a Florida beach. It is often used to underscore mistakes, or illustrate progress, depending on which side of the event one might reside. For most of us mistakes of the past are either too painful for review or too laughable for words. But some lapses in judgment and general missteps are important to keep in the conscious mind, if only for the changes they prompted and the desire to avoid that feeling. This PM member summarizes the practice with the words of Chief Martin Brody, the movie version of the ultimate Boy Who Cried Wolf in Jaws 2: ”I know what a shark looks like. I've seen one up close. And you better do something about this one, because I don't intend to go through that hell again!” It was a moment in that film - part of a trend in the Seventies, along with The Godfather and others, where the sequel was better than the original – when all our fears and frustrations were perfectly, succinctly summarized. We do know what the sharks look like and yet we wade into the water and are surprised by the bite.
Radio, or anything one does for more than a few decades, has a way of driving points home not through successes, but through sharply focused failures. The first draft of a first full-length story is riddled with the misjudgments of the novice. So we go back, again and again until it is as good as it can be in that given moment. But tomorrow we are different writers. Like the Doppler Effect, the relationship between writer and work is changed with time and distance. Yet we go on, knowing that if it ever gets into print - the final arbiter of relative perfection – the flaws will sound like trumpets, glow like hot pokers and sting like a thousand hornets.
But still we go on. Mistakes are a part of life. There are five huge errors that stay with this writer from Radio days, and already several in a fledgling career in fiction. So like the lessons learned in a previous life, the missteps, misuses, and overall flawed characters and ill-conceived plots can do one of two things: spell defeat or add to the inventory of improvements that makes us better writers, better craftsmen today than we were yesterday. After all, most of us have seen the sharks up close, and there is no need to go through that hell again!
What If?
CLEVELAND [April 21] -- That is the starting point for most good stories. It is the most profound question this divine element called creativity can conjure. The writer, <I>the imaginer</I> takes the premise and fills it with people, places, things and deeds. The more unlikely the question, the closer the story veers to fantasy; the more realistic, the closer to Romance, and the more deadly, the closer to mystery. Should one start with a complex question, reamed with many facets and possibilities, and there is the talent, skill and desire, then the finished product might look like literary fiction. No matter the outcome, it is all a matter of that first question the writer must ask, and there in no one to answer except a blank screen (or paper) and time.
This PM member’s What If’s” are simple. As a mystery writer the question has something to do with life and death, paranoia or just plain evil. They are: What if</B> there was a radio show devoted to murder AS IT HAPPENS? What if there was a great central collection of the world’s most prized items and men whose sole purpose was maintaining and adding to that collection. What if the private sector found a way to track each of us like amoeba under a microscope, right down to our blood cells? What if the next terrorist attack was covered up and the next execution was made public? And finally, what if a group of runaway slaves stopped at a station on the Underground Railroad with an entirely different approach to the balance of freedom and security? These are the basis of the stories to which this page is dedicated; further fueled by the desire on the part of their creator to continue the work. The last premise is under construction and available by summer, but the others are fully realized and available through the representative listed below.
Life is filled with What if’s, and there is no better way to understand the weight of the question than to build a world around it. Everyone does it; most build it with the raw material of worry and doubt, only to have the structure crumble under the weight of fear and indecision. Some build with the bricks of confidence and purpose. But for the writer, what if is the shapeless marble slab, the stretched canvas, the plaster cast the block of hardwood, the four notes that seed a melody or the image in just the right light and framed in just the right way. It is the beginning of our craft and our art; the rest is up to us. The question calls, and this craftsman must return to the answers, but in closing, one might ask, what is your What if?
A Scannable Life.
CLEVELAND [April 22] -- During a visit to the local filling station/convenient store, an observation was made that furrowed brows and prompted the question. “Did you just scan her ID?” the customer asked. Sure enough, the Ohio DL was swiped through the same slit as a credit card, resulting in the immediate information - the young woman was old enough to purchase cigarettes – and who knows what else. The magnetic strip on the small card issued by the state in order to operate a motor vehicle began appearing about a decade ago. The change went unnoticed, but the implication was plan: drive a car and get reduced to zeros and ones enough to have your entire existence digitized, database’d and, most certainly, electronically shadowed.
There is a growing sense that we are becoming more like Canada in the Eighteenth Century. That was when we were all basically the same, far outposts for the muddle-minded George III; working our fields, growing an economy based largely on exploiting land and people and sending the wealth east in fortified sailing vessels. It was somewhere in the middle of that fateful century that the question arose: which do you value more, your freedom or your security? The world was a dangerous place. Europe was in a constant state of war, much of which spilled into the oceans and washed up on shores in the form of garrisons of foreign troops. Our own neighborhood was growing more hostile as indigenous people began resenting the burgeoning encroachments and rose up with vengeance. The Crown offered armies and navies to defend the colonial farmer and factory worker from all enemies, foreign and domestic. All it asked in return was loyalty. The Canadians weighed the options and with little debate chose to take George up on his offer. We had other plans. And thus began a virulent pursuit of life, liberty and digging out our own security. It has been a desperate, at times horrific struggle. But we found a way, thought compromise and war, to maintain freedom and bow to no one.
Now we are faced with enemies in the midst. And once again we asked which is more important, freedom or security? It does not take much to damage a fragile freedom. Fear is the best solvent and we seem to have an abundance of that today. In the stories offered here there is one recurring theme: we are giving up ourselves to preserve ourselves. It seems almost a function of natural selection, but it is not at all clear to this writer that the part that is saved is, in fact, the best of us.
Shoot This Page!
CLEVELAND [April 24] -- Continuity is going the way of the two dollar per gallon gasoline and the five percent mortgage. What was once the tie that binds days of shooting – or months of writing – into one, smooth flow of images and actions is now merely an afterthought. In a favorite police drama, a nickel plated handgun in one scene became gun-metal black in the next. Never mind that the caliber miraculously moved from .380 to 9mm. And how many times has the assistant director in charge of overdub found some dramatic imperative in the sound of a hammer being cocked on a weapon that clearly has no such mechanism? It is perhaps a small thing, but for someone who studies the realism of a story, either on the page, the big screen or between commercials, such inconsistencies break the spell and can ruin the mood.
As a Mystery Writer, one must become familiar with the instruments of death. It helps that the interest predates the venture into the craft, but while respecting the facts, one must be careful not to bog down the narrative in minutia. The difference between a revolver and an automatic is elementary, but muzzle velocity of .40 cal verses .357 is hardly important while killer or cop is standing over a perforated body. It helps to understand that if a man were thrown back by the strike of a bullet from a handgun, then the laws of physics dictate that the shooter must experience the same counter-punch and land on his backside as well. It just does not happen. A shooting victim falls because his body’s signals have become scrambled and his legs give way, not because, “he is knocked on his ass by hot lead.” And lead is a hazardous material. Bullets have not been made from such a deviant element for decades and are almost always a combination of nickel or copper alloy, usually jacketed in copper.
Finally, the threatening slide pull
It looks great, menacing and is somehow supposed to convey to the viewer/reader that what was deadly before is more so with slap of metal and the snap of a wrist. Nonsense! Most professionals do not enter a dangerous situation without a bullet chambered and most modern weapons are DA, or double action, which means that a squeeze of a trigger is sufficient to render any argument moot. Even the hardy types who prefer a single action auto - such as the famous 1911 style .45 - will have the weapon cocked and locked before any potential confrontation. The timid and almost imperceptible ping of a safety release must sound less threatening than an unnecessary clunk of a springing slide. For this writer, it is more fun to instill tension, danger and fear through the emotions of the players rather than the misrepresentation of the hardware. It is perhaps easier to up the threat level with gratuitous gunplay; to do otherwise takes thought, preparation and a true love of the mystery.
Noir Redux
CLEVELAND [April 27, 2005] -- “I love living in the shadows,” he said, ramming a tobacco-stained incisor into a slip of skin behind his bottom lip. “The crooks are just this side of brain dead and the good guys are supermen with a junk habit.” The previous scene may, or may not have happened in any one of the thousands of mystery stories known collectively as Noir. It is in this high contrast world of the double-cross, the terminal seduction and the infinitely flawed hero that still holds a magnetic attraction for this PM member. Imagine a small boy turning on the TV at the promise of a new episode of the superhero Batman, only to find the tilted cameras and slashing gray lights in The Bat, a Thriller/Noir that still haunts a much older man. When the shadows cut across the ceiling in the middle of the night, one swears - Swears! – something is moving out there! Noir is not just the staccato dialogue, long moments filled with mournful gazes and, of course, the verboten atmosphere summoned by a wailing sax; where even in the light some part of you is not safe. It is the side of life we all try to avoid, yet are drawn to with the pull of a small, dark star. It was a lost art, until modern film makers, writers and audiences began re-discovering the addiction.
On the page there are the works of James Ellroy, Michael Connelly, Carl Hiaasen and Robert Parker, to name just a few. On the big screen, Noir is disguised behind many faces, from the obvious such as Memento, The Man Who Wasn’t There and David Lynch’s Mulholland Dr. in 2001, to the more recent over-the-top titles such as Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow and Sin City. Even the small screen has caught the dark ailment. The excellent dramas House, The Shield and to a lesser degree Cold Case have the crispy edge of Shadow-World, and the new Kojak with Vin Rhames pulls everything from beneath the lamppost: a dark street with a cop big enough to cry and tough enough to break the rules.
But the most lasting impression of Noir came from a most unlikely place. It was the sights, sounds and mind of the blue-gray dimension known as The Twilight Zone. The powerful Friday night dramas easlily delivered a troubled and imaginative youth to the dark side. This is not the sulfur-choked fire world of the Sith or his Master; it is the sunken cavity of justice in its most ruthless form. The stories of the first two seasons of Rod Serling’s genius were Noir at the edge of imagination, the height of our fears and the crossroads of desire and consequences. Remember the twisted millionaire who brought his most noted detractors to an underground shelter, just to tease them with a realistic visual of New York being reduce to atomic glass. Their lives spared for the small price of begging this erstwhile delinquent. To a person they chose death. Or the bookworm who so shunned people that on the fateful day of the mushroom cloud, he – being spared by his literary vice – took solace in the great library, now his and his alone. Yet fate was not finished and the hopelessly nearsighted little man was robed of his spectacles and thus his salvation. These are but two examples of the best to come from that particular brand of shadow. There is more, much more. And for this apprentice, the greatest light to shine on stories realized and maybe, just maybe a livelihood gained, seem to come from the tiny corner of the mind; just there, in the room where no one goes and of which no one dare speak.
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