Friday, April 18, 2025

FFB: DUE OR DIE, Frank Kane

 From the archives (Randy Johnson)

FFB: Due Or Die – Frank Kane


Author Frank Kane created P.I. Johnny Littell in a short story for the pulps in 1944 and went on to write twenty-nine novels featuring him, plus an unknown number of short stories. According to his granddaughter, he claimed four hundred, though she believes that an exaggeration. And Bill Crider said in 2000, if it’s a Frank Kane book, chances are “it’ll be a competent straightforward P.I. story.” DUE OR DIE certainly was all that. I quite enjoyed my first Kane book.

P.I. Johnny Liddell got the job offer from a most agreeable source. Beautiful redheaded singer Lee Loomis. Mobster “Fat Mike” Klein, who Johnny knew from the old days, needed help in Las Palmas, a small Nevada city where the gambling joints were controlled by aging mobsters, no longer the hard men they’d once been. The deal was $10,000 to find the killer, half now, half when the job was done.

They didn’t dare let New York know what had happened. The remaining five knew the vultures were already out there and they didn’t dare let anyone know that a hit had gone down without their knowledge.

But Johnny arrived too late. Fat Mike had been murdered as well, shot down in his car on the side of the road. The remaining four showed Johnny the note all had received promising each would be killed unless they ponied up a million dollars. With each death, the share went up for the others.

They wanted Johnny to simply deliver the money. The two deaths had been covered up, the first a heart attack, the body quickly cremated, and Fat Mike had committed suicide, the body to be buried as soon as possible.

Johnny didn’t like that. Fat Mike had not been a particular friend, but he’d accepted the job and he was loathe to quit before he got it done.

Tom Regan, the police chief, was as crooked as the mobsters, in their pocket, and was no help. Despite his bosses agreement, he seemed determined to impede the investigation.

Johnny plugs away, avoiding beatings, dodging frame-ups, and questioning anyone and everyone.

He thinks he has it figured out. Now all he has to do is prove it before being killed.

Enjoyed this one. Johnny Liddell appeared in 29 novels and numerous short stories(Kane claimed four hundred in a letter, though his granddaughter thought that an exaggeration)

Wednesday, April 16, 2025

Short Story Wednesday: Jenny, Annie, Fanny,Addie, by Adam Levin


 https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2025/04/21/jenny-annie-fanny-addie-fiction-adam-levin

Two things about this struck me. Although I have written from the male POV many times, I always assume the protagonist is the same sex as the author. Not here though.  Also,  I often mishear the lyrics of songs as what happens in this tale. In this song, by THE BAND, I misheard it too.And I assumed two words were running together.

A 13 year old girl is groped by a boy, which leads to his banishment from the camp they are attending. Also there is a long discussion of who deserves humiliation in these circumstances.

George Kelley 

Jerry House  

Tracy K

Steve Lewis

Monday, April 14, 2025

Monday, Monday



 THE FRIEND (Sigrid Nunez) was a favorite novel a few years ago and now it is a terrific movie. Bing, the dog who plays Apollo will steal your heart. Also reading TELL ME EVERYTHING by Elizabeth Strout, which is enjoyable. She has an unusual style, which is probably not for everyone.

So much on TV right now: OUR FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS (Apple), THE PITT (MAX), HACKS (MAX,), BLACK MIRROR, etc. Started a Netflix show called THE CLUBHOUSe about the Boston Red Sox, and NORTH UP NORTH, a comedy, about an Inuit community at the Arctic Circle. 

Bulbs finally coming up although it is still pretty cold here. I am way out of shape from my trip to Florence in three weeks. I ordered a walking cane, just in case.

What about you? 

Friday, April 11, 2025

FFB-Dilated Pupils

I went to the ophthalmologist to make sure my kaleidoscope vision was not a detached retina. It wasn't but my dilated pupils keep me from doing this today. Take care.

Wednesday, April 09, 2025

Short Story Wednesday: "Shrapnel" James Lloyd Davis (reviewed by Matt Paust)


 

SHRAPNEL – James Lloyd Davis

Shrapnel is what warriors call the little pieces of flesh-tearing metal launched by a bomb, an exploding artillery or mortar shell, or a grenade like the one on the cover of James Lloyd Davis's new collection of fifty literary tales. A warrior himself, having served in Vietnam, Davis knew well the metaphor's power when he chose SHRAPNEL as the book's title. He doesn't explain why he chose it, but to me the grenade represents Davis's creative mind. Open the book, and its cleverly crafted pieces fly at you—the many sizes and shapes—none lethal, although some will discomfit readers whose own minds cringe from notions outside familiar terrain.


    "Be good for what ails them," as my mother would say in her generous variation of the “tough s**t” lesser souls are apt to employ.

But words are “only games, after all,” Davis reassures us in the first of Shrapnel’s stories, Knitting the Unraveled Sleeves, a tender, yet suspenseful yarn from the viewpoints of an Irish couple, he a retired fisherman who can’t resist going “to sea” with his small boat every morning from their home on the Nova Scotia coast. This morning, protected from cold north winds in the heavy wool sweater his wife knitted for him, he catches “a heavy, proper cod” As he prepares to gut the fish, noting that with its size it could feed him and his wife for at least a couple of days, lightning from an approaching storm strikes the water nearby and heavy gusts arrive pushing waves and battering the little boat. He drops the fish and tries to start the outboard motor. In his haste he floods the engine, but, knowing the oars won’t get him home in time, continues to struggle with the motor hoping to beat the storm that’s racing toward him...

Resonances of another old-man-at-sea story reach through these words as no surprise recalling the other author’s physical sense in this one’s visage. Indeed, Davis does Hemingway more than once in this collection, albeit keeping to subtle inflections and with original characters and stories. The tone is hard to miss from the start in Storefront Poet: Opening the shop in the early morning, turning the key in the lock, I look over in time to see Mrs. Rodriguez wave from her taqueria across the street. Her bright eyes and beautiful teeth always make my day, but this morning they help me transcend the sounds of a low rider homeboy, passing by between us on Telephone Road, basso profundo speakers trembling my big glass window with alpha-waves I never really understood, but recognize...”

Hemingway’s seeming simplicity can tempt any halfway skilled wordsmith to give him a try, especially a male who resembles the Nobel laureate in his person. And Hemingway parodies abound. Key West holds an annual “Bad Hemingway” contest for writers, and it seems the winners frequently look like “Papa” as well as try to send up his easily recognizable style. I don’t know if James Lloyd Davis has ever entered this contest, but it would surprise me, as, based on these stories alone, I find him unquestionably too serious a writer to consciously make fun of another.

Not that his sensibility doesn’t drift onto other stylists’ turf, such as the “Southern grotesque” plots and characters of the inimitable Flannery O’Connor, whose milieu and tempo come through with dark familiarity in Davis’s flash story Way Cross, Georgia, 1937. Imagine two traveling snake-oil salesmen who attract deadly trouble hawkingholy” mineral oil off the back of their pickup in a banjo-belt crossroads town. Laughs and gasps from this masterful glimpse of con and consequence.

No one is safe from Davis’s unerring eye and ear—bumpkins, slicksters, tough guys, damsels, predators, victims...none so vulnerable as other artists, such as Where have you gone, Norma Jeane, Norma Jeane? And those in the “being” vignettes: Bogart, James Dean, Che, and Picasso. “Being Picasso” has one of those laugh-out-loud endings you write down so you get it just right in your mental archive: (Being Picasso has left me entirely drained, so I must now lie down. It is also dangerous, Please…don't try this at home.)

For those attracted to Shrapnel thinking the stories might be about the military, considering the grenade on the cover and seeing that Davis is a Vietnam vet, if such is the only sort of story you feel like reading at this time, there are two, which alone are worth the price of this book. Both are short, no longer than the average newspaper column, but they are unforgettable—even for readers who have never worn the uniform. They are Memorial Day and Pulitzer Grade.

In wrapping up this review I want to leave you with something special, a zinger perhaps, something to “close the deal” as people in sales would put it. But I’m not selling anything. I’m merely sharing my enthusiasm for a book I truly enjoyed, hoping to infect you with some of that spirit because I know no one who reads Shrapnel will come away disappointed. These stories, as I mentioned my mother would say of them, “Are good for what ails you.” I would add, “They’re just plain damned good.” As for zingers, Davis has sprinkled so many sparkling, resonant lines of prose throughout these stories I am hard-pressed to pick only one to leave you with. I had planned early on, in the very first story—Knitting the Unraveled Sleeves—to use this line to conclude the review: “What is it that anyone can wish for, finally, but comfort, a hedge against solitude, and, once in a while, a poke or two at rapture?” And that line has held up against all of the others that come to mind right now. It’s a keeper. It shall stay with me for the rest of my life. But it’s too fine a sentiment for zinger duty.

What we need now is what stand-up comics call a rimshot. If you don’t know what I mean, you’ll find out when you read Standup Gigs in Zendos Make You Cry. It features the comic “Zenny Youngman, [who] walks onstage and blinks, squints into the silence, the spotlight so bright he cannot see the room. The sharp light it casts illuminates the pockmarks on his cheeks, accentuates his wide nose, casts shadows that resemble a dark mustache on his upper lip. His intro ends and he bows at the waist.” The silence continues, joke after joke… Oh, the jokes aren’t that good, but we feel his pain. We love Zenny. We want someone to laugh. And when the rimshot comes, we do. 

George Kelley 

Jerry House 


                       Happy Birthday, Josh. To all I could ask for in a son. 


Monday, April 07, 2025

Monday, Monday


 Reading WHAT I ATE IN A YEAR, Stanley Tucci. (Lots of pasta). He goes to the gym every day though. 

Kevin is leaning toward University of Wisconsin. They have a lot of sports management programs, Firs t I heard of this as a major. 

Went to a clarinet concert for Josh's birthday. Like THE STUDIO (Apple), sort of. Just started TH E PITT (MAX). 

What are you up to?