Crime Stories (9 page)

I smoothed out the wrinkled edges of the manuscript and went back to my desk.

A few clicks of the mouse later and I was online. Surely Usenet had fiction forums. Without too much difficulty, I located an amateur fiction newsgroup and posted my tome proudly. Let the compliments commence…

“Joe? What is that sticking out of out computer monitor? Is that a hammer?”

“It slipped.”

“You attacked the computer with a hammer? What were you thinking?”

I gave Miranda malice wrapped in a fake grin. “I don’t want to talk about it, honey. It’s still under warranty.”

“I don’t think a hammer in the screen is covered by the warranty.”

“Miranda…”

“What’s wrong with you? Does this have anything to do with that stupid story?”

I stood up, deaf. The story was clenched in my left hand. “I’m going out. I’ll be back later.”

“So, what did you think?”

The wino held out a filthy hand. “Do I get my five dollars now?”

“First you have to tell me if you liked it.”

He brought the paper bag to his lips, took a pull off the unseen bottle.

“It was…”

“Yes?”

“It was wonderful.”

His eyes went dreamy, beatific.

I beamed. “Wonderful?”

He hic-cupped. “The loveliest thing I ever heard.”

Who would have thought it? I didn’t normally endow people who smelled like urine with good taste, but here was an obvious exception.

“What was your favorite part?”

“The chicken.”

I stared at my pages, confused.

“Chicken? There’s no chicken in this story.”

“I ate chicken in Cleveland. Cooked so tender, it fell off the bone. You gonna give me my five bucks?”

Great—he was a lunatic. You can’t get an honest opinion from a lunatic. I turned to walk away.

He grabbed my arm. “Man, you owe me five bucks! I stood here listening to that garbage, I want my money!”

I decided, right then, that I’d rather be disemboweled than give this guy five bucks.

I pulled free and hit the street in a sprint. Shouldn’t take long to lose him. He was drunk and disheveled and—

“Gimme my damn money!”

—right behind me. For a guy wearing at least four layers of clothing, he could run like the wind. I cut through an alley and hurdled a cluster of garbage cans.

“I listened to that whole crappy story!”

The bum was closing in. I could hear his mismatched shoes slapping the pavement only a few steps back. Just my luck—I’d given a reading to an Olympic sprinter fallen on hard times.

Another turn, between two apartments, into the back parking lot. Dead end.

“Gotcha.” The bum grinned, gray teeth winking through a scraggly beard. He gestured with his hand—give it to me.

I sucked in air and nodded submission, my hand producing my wallet.

He shook his head. “All of it.”

“You said five bucks.”

“I’m gonna need a month’s worth of booze, to get that lousy story out of my head.”

I left the parking lot forty bucks lighter.

I stared at the page. My story. My child. Why couldn’t anyone else see the symbolism? The imagery? This story was perfect! From first word to last, a marvel of narrative genius! What the hell was wrong with the world, was it—

Hmm. Actually, I could probably change this part, here, to make it stronger. And this sentence could be tightened. And perhaps that paragraph is a bit wordy. Where’s my pencil?

“Wow, Joe. It doesn’t even seem like the same story.”

I grinned at my wife. “I took everyone’s suggestions into account, and did a little self-editing.”

“A little? You practically changed every line. Even the characters are different.”

“I kept the title, though.”

Miranda nodded, handing back the papers. I could see her searching her thoughts for the right compliment.

I gave her some help. “So it’s tighter?”

“Oh, yes. Much tighter.”

“Is the death still funny?”

“Not funny at all. Very somber.”

I sighed, letting out the tension. “So it’s a lot better.”

Miranda winced. “Actually, I thought the other version was better.”

“See that?” I held my painting in front of my son, keeping it out of reach because the acrylic hadn’t dried it. “Daddy made a picture of Spider Man.”

My son squinted at my artwork. “It’s poopy.”

“Joe, you’ve been staring inside the fridge for ten minutes.”

“I want to make a sandwich,” I told my wife.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I doubt my ability.”

“Joe—it’s a slice of ham and two pieces of bread.”

I frowned. “I’m having some competency issues.”

“Didn’t Darren like your cow painting?”

“That wasn’t a cow. It was Spider Man.”

Miranda rubbed my back. “Go sit down, honey. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

“Miranda! Come here! What is this?”

She stared at the kitchen table.

“It looks like you’ve made a big letter A out of pretzel sticks.”

“Damn right!”

“Joe—are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Want to see me make a B?”

“I’m calling Dr. Hubbard.”

“Many people have feelings of inadequacy. It’s natural.”

The shrink was old, bespeckled. His gray goatee pointed at me when he talked.

“This is more than inadequacy, Doc. I’m questioning every move I make. I feel totally incompetent.”

“All because of one little story?”

“That’s how it started.”

“May I see it?”

Without getting up off the couch I pulled the crumpled story out of my pants pocket and handed it over. As he read, I could feel body go numb. Ice cold, unfeeling. One more heartless comment couldn’t hurt me. I was immune to criticism.

“This is pretty good.”

I sat up and spun towards him. “Excuse me?”

He held up a finger, still reading. When he finished the last page, he handed back the story and smiled.

“I liked it.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Really.”

“You aren’t just saying that because I’m paying you three hundred dollars an hour?”

“Really, Joe. I thought it was a nice, touching story. Good structure. Well-defined characters. Interesting subtext. I’d actually like to have a copy to pass around the office.”

I sprang to my feet, my blood replaced by helium. “Well, sure, no problem, you can have this copy, absolutely, it’s all yours.”

“Would you sign it for me?”

Were there clouds above nine?

“Of course. Here, I’ll borrow your pen.”

“You know,” Doc Hubbard said as I scrawled my name on the top margin, “I’m a bit of a writer myself.”

“Really?” I added ‘To Doc’ above my name, and then underlined it.

“Perhaps you’d like to read one of my stories?”

“Sure,” I told him, drawing a large circle around my signature. “Be happy to help you with it.”

Doc grinned, then opened up his desk drawer. He held out some paper. “Go ahead. Off the clock.”

I smiled and accepted his story, pleased to be valued for my opinion.

It was bad. Real bad.

“So? What did you think?”

“Well, Doc, it’s interesting.”

“Yes. Yes. Go on.”

“Um, very few typos.”

His grin lost some wattage.

“How about the ending?”

“Actually, I, uh, saw it coming.”

The grin was gone now.

“Should have figured,” he mumbled.

“What was that?”

“How can you recognize talent, when you have none yourself?”

“But you said…”

“I lied. I said it for three hundos and hour. I’ve read aspirin bottles with more entertainment value than your stupid story.”

“How can you…”

“I’m sorry,” Doc Hubbard offered a placid smile. “Our time is up.”

“Joe?”

“Hmm?”

“Were you ever planning on going back to work?”

I glanced at Miranda and scratched at my stubble. “I haven’t given it much thought.”

“You’ve been lying in bed for three weeks.”

“Hmm.”

“Work called. I told them you were still sick. They want a doctor’s note, or you’re going to be fired.”

“Bummer.”

Miranda’s eyes went teary, and she walked off.

“We’re leaving.”

I stared at my wife and son over the pile of cellophane wrappers cluttering my bed.

“Leaving where?”

“Leaving you, Joe. You’re not the man I married. I’ve been talking to a lawyer.”

She handed me a sheaf of papers. The word DIVORCE was on the header. I gave them a token look-through.

“This is terrible,” I concluded. “Poor sentence structure, too much legalese, look at this typo…”

But they were already gone.

My story was in front of me, on the table, next to a picture of my family.

I was done dwelling. I’d had enough.

The gun went into my mouth and I pulled the trigger, my last sensation a tremendous BOOM coupled with a sense of perfect relief.

The pitchfork jabbed me in the ass.

“Hey!”

“Keep moving.”

I stared out across the inferno, Satan’s minions tormenting the damned as they slaved away.

“This room is for rapists. Any rapists in the group?”

Two guys in line with me raised their hands. The devil opened the door for them, and they were seized by a huge goat-like creature and thrust into a cauldron of boiling oil.

“Next room, adulterers.”

Four more of my group went in. I winced when the whips began to swing.

“Bad writers. This room here, bad writers.”

No one moved.

“That’s you, Joe.”

I was prodded in, my bowels jelly. But rather than hideous tortures, I found myself in a large classroom, stretching back as far as I could see. People of all races, creeds, and dress sat at undersized desks, rows and rows going off into infinity.

“Hello, Joe.” The teacher had a pig snout and tusks, her hair done up in a bun and her pointy tail raised behind her like a question mark.

“What is all this?”

“This is eternity, Joe. Who would like to critique Joe’s story first?”

Three million hands went up.

“Who are these people?” I asked.

“Murderers. As punishment for their sins, they were forced to listen to your story. Several times, in fact.”

“My story is their torture?”

“Well, I have read it aloud several times. There used to be twice as many people in the room, but a few million elected to go to the boiling oil chamber rather than hear it again.”

I shut my eyes. When I opened them, I was still there.

“And I have to listen to their opinions for eternity?”

“Every thirty years you get a one week vacation in the piranha pool.”

The teacher made me stand in front of the classroom, and the critiques began.

I counted the days until the piranha pool.

Written for a special edition of the magazine Crimespree, which was given away for free at the first Thrillerfest convention. A variation on this essay also appeared in a special Love Is Murder issue for that conference, using different names and tweaking some of the jokes.

E
very year there are dozens of writing conferences. If you’re a fan of mysteries and thrillers, 2006 brings you Love is Murder in Chicago, Sleuthfest in Ft. Lauderdale, Bouchercon in Madison, Left Coast Crime in Bristol, Men of Mystery in Los Angeles, Magna Cum Murder in Muncie, and a slew of others, many of which suck.

The best conference of them all is undoubtedly Thrillerfest, presented by the International Thriller Writers. In one short year, the upstart ITW has grown to become the writing organization with the longest website URL: www.internationalthrillerwriters.org.

What can you expect when you attend Thrillerfest? How can you make sure you get your money’s worth? Will you have a chance to corner ITW Co-President David Morrell and ask him to blurb your new manuscript, The Speech Impediment Murdererererer? (Answer: Yes. Uncle Davy loves this. The best time to approach him is while he’s eating, or in the bathroom.)

Reading and memorizing this carefully compiled article will fully prepare you for anything this conference has to offer. It might even save your life.

REGISTRATION
– If possible, buy your conference pass in advance. Bring proof of your registration to the event (a Paypal receipt, a copy of the letter saying you’ve been confirmed, your hard drive) because there’s a 90% chance your registration was lost, and the people running the conference will have no idea who you are. A much easier, and cheaper, tactic is to simply buy a nametag and a black marker. Stick it on your chest when no one is looking, and you’re in.

THE HOTEL
– If possible, stay at the hotel. After the days’ events are through, there are always exclusive parties where you can get free food and drink and meet cool people. You won’t get invited to these parties, but you can hang out in the hallway with your ear to the door, and listen to JA Konrath make a fool of himself. Actually, you probably won’t need to put your ear to the door to hear that. JA’s pretty loud.

WHAT TO WEAR
– The fashionable conference-goer wears business casual. Comfortable shoes are a must, because you’ll be walking a lot. A book bag is a great accessory. Not only can it hold books, but also an emergency fifth of vodka (do you really want to pay $9 for a martini at the hotel bar?)