Absolutely Kate's Blog

UNDER CONSTRUCTION ~ OVER DELIGHT
* AT THE BIJOU * ?
Yes, that's right.
From our newly refurbished red velvet reader seats . . . 


to showcasing AUTHORS AUTHORS who enlighten . . . 

to our Flourish man -- ( There's always a flourish man )

to Wardrobe ~ Writing ~ Authors! Authors!

to knowing an opening impression is a lasting impression . . . 

to how our spots and kliegs and central chandeliers enlighten voracious minds . . .
 
to knowing you always TAKE THE MAGIC WITH YOU
when you come across Writers Raves becoming Readers' Faves

That's why *AT THE BIJOU*
is going to be back in author-showbiz again.

WATCH FOR US FOLKS! ~ Absolutely*Kate who has a hammerand a hunch our first lineup is gonna really pound some tales 

   A P P A R I T I O N   circa 2009 -- How time flies when writing's fun
*AT THE BIJOU* proudly presents an oldie but a goodie, scared up at the classic Horror Queen's hallowed ~13 Days of Horror:  Absolutely*Kate at the very eerie ERIN COLE's:WELCOME TO THE 13 DAYS OF HORROR

The esteemed author ERIN COLE once murmured, like a warm stage whisper:
My next featured guest on the 13 Days of Horror is a writer with such a unique edge, her prose is a voyage through the magic and mysteries of spirit and psyche — she has muses working for her. Collaborating thirty-three writers for the stellar venture, Harbinger*33, {sailing out of the future}, backed with her own witty, diligent, and talented works, she is a gale storm of splendor and a true comrade to many.

It is with great honor to introduce to you my next guest, and kindred spirit, Absolutely*Kate and her story, APPARITION.
   A P P A R I T I O N   
           ~  by Absolutely*Kate

Bill didn’t have a ghost of a chance when Mary died suddenly the night following the annual Christmas cookie exchange on Mocking Raven Lane. Bill adored all the merry merits of Mary. Why, that’s why Bill married Mary. Admiration knew no bounds for the passions, pleasures and playful priorities that Mary brought to the blend of their loving life. Oh how Mary loved life!

Mary created and considered, then created some more, and Bill loved Mary’s creations ever more. He cherished her pottery, plantings and photography, her tapestries, timetables, teriyaki and tiramisu. Whenever Mary baked up a storm for any season’s reasons, he played their special song while the oven attuned to 350-bake. Midst brown sugar and sprinkles, almond flavoring and the warm flavor of Mary’s appetizing eyes, Bill slowly undressed his pal and his gal, let fingers linger, sensed thoughts collide, and came into new understandings every way inside. Proud Bill told talented Mary time and time again, “Just like you Mar, perfection is delicious.”

On the pre-holiday afternoon of the annual thumbprint cookies bake-a-thon — which the whole neighborhood knew were to die for — Bill’s thumbprints left slow, swooning indentations all along Mary’s supple breasts, pulling her natural lovely nakedness oh so tenderly into his own. Aye, that was the rub that tendered the Bill. The whisper from the big-hearted man into the woman who flexed his vitality, rasped with feeling over the raspberry filling, “Sweet Mar, never change any ingredient. How could it be you if otherwise?”
   * * *   
As the calendar turned a new year and turned Bill’s life achingly upside down, the new neighbor Edna showed up with casseroles and condolences. Eager Edna edged into pedal pushers, then short shorts, then a string bikini as spring gardening turned into backyard summer tanning. While cutting the lawn one day, Bill noticed where the grass was greener. Theirs was a spirited howl of a whirlwind relationship from late May to early October, in which Bill bedded and wedded Edna in a thinly veiled ceremony attended by the knowing neighbors of Mocking Raven Lane. The reception was held at one of Bill and Mary’s former favorite haunts, where some said they felt uneasy around easy Edna.

Every night felt so familiar as Bill told Edna how well she filled out Mary’s silks and satins, which he hadn’t the heart to toss into Thursday’s trash or the Goodwill receptacle downtown. He told her she was an apparition to behold.

Halloween night saw Edna half-heartedly backing the buoyant boyhood spirit of Bill at the door, with Reese’s, Butterfingers and Snickers galore. He chuckled past princesses, Transformers, zombies and more, after asking one pirate tyke, “Hey — where’s your buccaneers?”, and the kid jeered back, “Under my buckin’ hat!” To Edna the joke fell flat. Bill reminisced how Mary would’ve giggled on and on about that.

Funny, in all the groups of Trick-or-Treaters, one costumed neighbor mom fringed the sidewalk’s edge more and more. In the midst of the mist of the darkening dusk, he sensed a melancholy her non-smile was putting out. Cheer of prior years hauntingly reminded ~ he just missed Mary. Mentioning the freaky frequency he’d gazed at the gauzy lady, edgy Edna crackled and snapped, “Most likely the vicious vampires are changing their get ups behind the bushes and hitting us up for more than their fair share. Can we shut the porch light out yet?”

Upstairs in bed, Bill heard Mary’s grace of giggles. His dreams? The radio? Nope ~ he’d remembered waiting until 12:15 when their old favorite radio station played Clapton’s “After Midnight”. A simple play list maneuver, but any purposeful pun set off Mar’s giggles. The allure just took off from there. Nope, the radio was off . . . but the music wasn’t.

Bill didn’t have a ghost of a chance when “Unchained Melody” began to play. Like the wind, her song stayed on his mind, as engulfing passions tend to do. Desire aspires to where intertwined fires flair and flare. Her spirit, or his bewitched, bothered and bewildered thoughts played “Misty” for him next. A chilling sensation just out of reach had his guilty reach go to Edna. Chilling there too; no real surprise. He strained to adjust his eyes towards two small approaching lights. Warm lights like ~

The first shot that rang out in the dark went straight through Billy Boy’s heart. The following volley sought where Mary wondered if evil Edna even had one. When she’d viewed their vows at the flimsy altar of intentions, her solemn dark of soul vow became to taunt, daunt and haunt the man who done her wrong, the man that should’a known . . . the proof wasn’t in the pudding that fateful night, the secret was always in the sauce, the raspberry sauce.

Three ghosts now aghast circle-swirled the wretched room. Two rookies and a seasoned spirit of soul who knew how to create an entrance, amongst other titillating talents. Take tonight ~ she’d done her tutorial well, bided her time, knew the Halloween power of forging worlds. With the savvy of mentor Marley’s ghost, Mary unchained her refrain dead-on, evenly at Edna’s eerie “Eeek”.

There were sparks to her aura and she knew how to use them. In solemnity of spirit, she taunted just right, “I saw you through your garbage. That’s where you nonchalantly tossed your vile vial. Since it didn’t make my raspberry butter batter better that afternoon, you were bitter. You tried to take over my perfect life. You set out to become my Bill’s wife. But it takes love to have a perfectly delicious life. Cold souls can’t. Disintegrate Bitch!”

And with that declaration centering her power, Mary turned on the power of that which was hidden ‘neath her diaphanous spinning swirls ~ the trusty dust-buster that mutilated grime and the remnants of this farcical crime. Marley had showed her the adjustments for molecular karmic ‘vacuumation’. Edna was now an eon of her former self.

“And YOU!” She turned to Bill, the only lights in the room the flash of eyes he remembered taunting him so well. Despite her dismissive disgust, he was desperate for her tantalizing touch, that sink into sensation of skin against skin . . . errrr . . . apparition against apparition? How the sorcery did they express pent-up passions? Does ghostly charm disarm or alarm?

Mary’s soul though, went solely for harm. “You willingly let another ingredient prevent perfection. By the powers vested in me by the Exalted Spirits of Eternity, your punishment is permanent paralysis of reach and touch and please and ease. A vortex of vulnerability is where you’ll flail. Nothing personal any more Bill, I’m sentencing you to hell.”

Mary positioned the life-size pottery images she’d conjured into various dead shadows in various darkened windows. The folks on Mocking Raven Lane went about their street sense and left lifeless recluses to themselves. The sage among them though, (and those who burned sage), remembered that perfection was the joy of a life vitally lived as Bill and Mary had vibrantly done. At nights, Mary at first visited hers and Bill’s old haunts, but with true character no longer tormented by a broken soul, Mar ‘s heart opened to a new whirled’ wide woo of warlocks . . . and wonder of wonders, developed a zest for zombies along the way. 
Zing went the gossamer of her spirit and un-life passed perfectly. 
She became a ghostwriter and is finishing . . . this . . . story . . . now.

The original ran proudly at Erin Cole's with all of the Really Scary Authors of our Life and celebrated Times . . . 

~ Absolutely*Kate, Halloween festooned as vintage vixen, shares the daring duality of fellow Gemini gal the eerie cool ~ Erin Cole ... appreci'kating the opportunity to scare it up with the horrorifics - back when we first danced with the wonder of words.

No Trick -- all Treat ~
Read every book Erin Cole's written,
destined to write and conjures still.

~ Fan & Fanfare,
~ Absolutely*Kate on Hallow's Eve

R O O K I E  at  B O U C H E R C O N ?
~ Absolutely*Kate


Oh yeah, first time, virgin appearance, musing and schmoozing rough and tough elbows with crime-time greats. Noir Stars and killer-thrillers of our shadows' days.

All cliches come real in the zeal of this rookie ramblin' rounds of the ranks at Bouchercon, this year in Albany's state of NY crime-mind: 


What? You've seen these guys around?

    Lookin' mighty forward to meeting up (again and first times) with Authorfolk we all know 'round our reading pleasures and the wiles of WebTowne:

Oh yeah.
The BIG GUNS.
Those who gut-know how the words should do more than snap, crackle and pop in serial tales . . .


SURE SHOOTERS IN CRIME 







TAKING IT FROM THE TOP:'Best Bud' Kevin Michaels ~ 'Hero' Matt Hilton ~ Robert J 'Pally' Randisi ~ slinky lady Kate Laity ~ Noir-at-the-Bar star Eric Beetner ~ Moonlighter Vince Zandri ~ big lug o' tough Les Edgerton ~ secretly a Berlin, CT boy (shhh), now big West-coaster Joe Clifford ~ 'Uncle' Raymond Chandler ~ sharpest shooter of 'em all, who taught me and Nelle Callahan swell, Dorothy Parker ~ showman RapSheet schmoozer Ali Karim ~ new pal about New England'ville, ShotGun Honey's editor Chris Irvin ... and now me, Absolutely*Kate.    Uncle Ray Chandler and Miss Dorothy Parker will be there ... in how I shadow my spirit of intrigue.  

Yeah. Who hasn't read or read of these loaded luminaries?  

Watch for my hot commentary in the COMMENTARY, as this Lucky'13  BOUCHERCON  rolls its dice at what comes out naughty or nice from these luminaries I know I'll be hangin' with.




Will Rogers out-genre'd his genre, but I'm thinkin' he'd have plenty to say about this hot shot time up in Bouchercon as September slings herself. 

" If you want to be successful, it's just this simple. Know what you are doing. Love what you are doing. And believe in what you are doing." -- 

Me?  Them?

Gonna post some quips and quotes, cool shit and hot stuff at the end of each day at the bar -- er, a few panels -- where insider insights may prevail . . . swell. * C L I N K *

~ Absolutely*Kate, rookie makin' the rounds~ author / promoter / presenter of  ~ 
*AT THE BIJOU*"The Shadows of Our Noir" 
the new  THE SHADOW KNOWS  excerpt site
plus Authors Rising  and The Espresso Cafe
~ representing 
NOIR NATION as Brand Ambassador
to VegaWire Media and Bare Knuckles Press 
~ proudly promoting 
publisher Eddie Vega's Noir Nation 3 and Noir Nation 4,  our International Crime editions soon out the door
~ excited as all get out to come out this fallin Nelle Callahan's debut novelTHE DAMP FEDORA

Sure, watch for gal gumshoe with gumption, Nelle . . . 
but watch in the next few weeks for
 COMMENTS in the COMMENTARY
 of ~  "Who Said or Did What" at this brazen Bouchercon before me . . .
~ Gotta go pack, folks

~ Absolutely*Kate
( who damn well knows she shall meet and mingle with many more prominent authors, agents and publisher folks at this mystery / thriller / noir / crime scene bash )
. . . You'll see, oh yeah -- You'll See 

Author Chuck Wendig, in his terribleminds posting had a not so terrible idea --

Create your own 'punk' lit -- past the hem and haw and cranks and wheels of  steampunk and valvepunk and his new specialty ~ home grown 'cornpunk',
I entered into the array of his fray with my stream of conciousness ~

SeaPunk.

Hope you dig some treasure buried here, and get a good gander at the pile o' punkschuckin' up their stuff at Chuck's.
Oh yeah, *AT THE BIJOU* is back in town baby.
Gonna shine spots and kleigs on stories, glories, punks and shadows of our noirYou'll see  ~ ~ Oh yeah, you'll see.

~ Absolutely*Kate,'cause the best shows in WebTowne must go on




Now You Sea It~ By Absolutely*Kate
There’s flotsam. There’s jetsam, and never the twain shall meet – even when most folks don’t rightly know bad flotsam from good jetsam when they’re up to wading wet ankles in white kicky, salty foam brine. There’s knowing which cove on which semi-deserted beachwalk at which time of tides is ready, willing and able to yield up the conch catch o’ the day ‘neath the still pinch-your-nose stench o’ the big black creepy seaweed. Yep, there’s all that and a white soft slow-mo spiral of a seagull’s feather you catch in the palm of your hand and a scallop shell and the cobalt glass triangle that caught your eye on the last bendover. That’s the stuff of good pocket-fillings so’s your arms are open for the expected unexpected hunk of driftwood – beached when you weren’t here at this fine day’s mornin’ ebbtide.

     Crosscurrents and eddies that ain’t the name of your Uncle Ed’s son Ed, and tyin’ the cleat knot on the line thrown your way and barefooting the well worn pier at the hometown marina with that cool one waitin’ in the rusty red cooler ‘board ship is a simple pleasure high – kinda like the sky this time o’ getting’ ready for evenin’ sail. Blue skies, nuttin’ but blue skies, vast with peachy keen overlay -- and who really gives a flybridge of a damn when a cliché is actually worth embracing the stuff it got swirled out about. Yeah, this be the Life from mains’l to top gallant which is so friggin’ cool to say – but not quite as intensive as the boost your psyche gets when you boom out, “Come Aboarrrrrd!” as hearty response to that pal or bum who wanted to share a hunk o’ your day – any ol’ seafaring way.

Yeah man, watch those sandpipers skitter at the edge of the edge of true grit sandy wonder. This be livin’. Kinda full life grab you at every place worth being grabbable that ol’ Satchmo and Popeye sing chanties about.

This be seapunk.

Wave on, wave on.


Kerplunk.
~ Author Absolutely*Kate (c) 2013,bringin' a chanty to a challenge 


Oh yeah, 
*AT THE BIJOU* 
is back in town baby.Gonna shine spots and kleigs on stories, glories, punks and shadows of our noirYou'll see  ~ ~ Oh yeah, you'll see.
~ Absolutely*Kate,  'cause there's no biz like show biz like no biz I knows
( Everything about it is appealing )

Jazz ~ Cocktails ~ 

The Lush Life ~

* AT THE BIJOU *
Put on your high hats and your high heels. 
High ideals? Hell, they're optional.
But order a high ball.Or a Mickey Slim, a 1940's faveof all the swell high rollers.
You're gonna need a brazen belt for the New Year's "Cheers" lineup.

It is  Lucky*13  after all.
You'll see.
You'll see.

********************************************
c o m i n g    c i n e m a t i c a l l y    s o o n

*******************************************

   MICKEY SLIM sauntered in the upscale new cocktail lounge AT THE BIJOU joint and barked out, "The usual".

   The new girl, Evelyn, looked at Shirley who squinted at Doris (who knew nuttin' just comin' outta the chorus). They'd seen Mickey around, were even familiar with the swagger of his saunter, but just weren't up to snuff on how usual his usual was poured out. The guy had a crisp edge none of 'em wanted to see flip over. Somethin' sour must've sloshed the careen of his world. Put it this way - The guy wasn't whistlin' any happy tunes.

   Yikes. What to do? What to do?

   Life is perfect timing. Always is, always will be. Fortunately for the bevy o'beauts behind the bar AT THE BIJOU, Marjorie and Ruby shimmied in their own swish and saved the day. They knew where that maven mixologist Sugar Mae had hid her book o'tricks. "Peachy keen! Here it is - right next to the whiskey sour mix." 

   Shoogs had scrawled copious pink notes on both the regulars and the high rollers' choice of refreshment libations. Shoogs was always sweet to please:


The Mickey Slim for Mickey Slim is a cocktail drink that I predict will have a very short-lived popularity around town. It's a killer, I tell you, a risky killer ~ 

   First you jigger in the Gin
   Then 1 pinch DDT punch. 
   You heard me. Many countries ban this DDT ingredient, 'cause the effects, like absinthe, don't really make any hearts grow fonder. Could have something to do with what an insecticide is set up to do. Then again, Mickey's a dangerous man.
   I add a little ice cold water and plunk in one sugar cube.
   Girls, when you push it towards him on the counter, lean in with all the bouncy cleavage you gots and repeat after me ~ 
   "Here's your poison, Bub."
   Mickey loves drama with his drink. We are AT THE BIJOU after all. And Katie says our shows absolutely must go on!
   At his swanky corner table, Bogey chuckled, "The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind."

   He reminded the girls, and Mickey too, who had glassy eyes and a wide-ass grin, "Katie's looking to run some fine 40's film gems on the Lush Life. Cocktails and swells. Spread the word, will ya?"
   The feller who came in with Sugar plugged his 2-cents worth:
 "Yeah. Tell any Authors ya know worth their salt to spiel their best stuff. Don't order the Mickey Slim though. It ain't worth the gulp."
   Sugar Mae giggled, clung to the blue-eyed guy she came in with and took up her pink pen again. Wrote the submission guidelines: 

Friends of  AT THE BIJOU,
SUBMIT:  
Lush Life Stories to run through Oscar's Greatest Night under 1000 words
SEND TO:

Absolutely*Kate and Film Crew for AT THE BIJOU @RiverviewStudios@gmail.com

   Mickey raised high what was left of his green cocktail, matching a peculiar shade of his face. With good gusto, he mustered his mutter to all gathered at the swanky new cocktail lounge AT THE BIJOU, 
   "T'anks folks. Can't wait to see dese screen gem shows."

********************************************
c o m i n g    c i n e m a t i c a l l y    s o o n

*******************************************


You'll see.
You'll see.

It is  Lucky*13  after all.

~  Absolutely*Kate
( sipping scotch, single malt ~ with a splash )

Photo credits:
StepByStep.com  ~ Mickey Slim cocktailMaltese Falcon ~ Mr BogartSugar Wendy Staley - Mr Sinatra and SheJazz ~ Absolutely*Kate's collection

Dateline: Lucky*13,
a year to tender intrigue

rumble around WebTowne:

Absolutely*Kate wandered into the goodreads Lounge of Rhetoric and Repute. She spiffed here and seeked there. Here a spiff. There a seek. Authors and Books were rustled.

The world as we read it, may not be quite the same again.

Sick in the Head.By David Barber

Dad, it’s so late. What are you doing down hereYou look a stateHave you been hitting the beer  I’ve been waiting for you, sonDid you forget the curfewYou know, it’s not a lot of funWaiting and worrying about you   This is so lame, Dad,I’m not a kid anymore, I’m 21, no longer a ladI’ve got ‘the key to the door’  There’s a killer out thereAnd I don’t want you deadDo you think it’s fair I’m worried out of my head   As I’ve just saidI’m no longer a childI’ve got a good headI’m not foolish or wild  Age is immaterial To a hunter of the fleshBe it singular or serialBe it old or be it fresh  Dad, if you want the truthI went down the pubI met up with RuthI think we’re in love  Are you being seriousThat slag from The CrownThat’s fuckin’ hilarious She’s the bike of the town  You don’t have a clueYou’re so wrong about herI’m done talking to youThis chat is totally over  You could find anotherNot that dirty one You could do a lot betterGet rid of her, son  My ears are soreAnd your words are deadI’m not listening anymoreI’m going to my bed  Tomorrow you’re staying hereYou hear what I saidThere’s a maniac out there Who is sick in the head
The killer targets femalesIt said so on the newsAnd according to the detailsTakes away their shoes  A guy or a chickIt doesn’t matter, sonIf his mind clicksHe’ll strike: job done  Wait, how do you know That the killer’s a heThe news never said soIt could be a she  Just go to bed, sonYou’ll be safe up thereI’m staying down hereI’ll be sat in my chair  I walk up to my roomAnd close the doorMy Dad will be sleeping soonOf that I’m sure  I take out the bladeFrom my bedside drawerAnd walk over to my wardrobeSlowly opening the door  In there are my prizesOn the shelf behind my clothes All styles and sizesIn nice neat rows  Red ones, black onesNavy ones, tooAll expensive leather onesThe best kind of shoe  I leave my roomThe knife held in my handAnd walk through the gloom Not making a sound  I enter his bedroomMy dad’s still downstairsIn a world of dreamAsleep in his chair  I walk to his wardrobeAnd open the doorMoving aside a bathrobe And assess the score  I count up the shoesMy dad is one pair aheadIt obviously provesWe’re BOTH sick in the head
©2012 Author DAVID BARBERAnother original DEBUT ~ AT THE BIJOUfor ~ "The Shadows of Our NOIR"
 
Absolutely*Kate sails authors
in all their cross currents
David, David, David ~ You are a prince 'mongst mere mortals -- You've let ME pub this FIRST! What a gem - and what a beginning to  beguine a whole slew of variant scenes . . . You've a separate book in the making when each stanza-laden delight strings together what you said your head did not know from where  words hailed . . . Hmm, one wonders what could take over a madman so wise?
This is bountifully brill, but you felt that flow from the first to all the cross currents of stream-throughs ~ didn't you? Each stanza evokes both picture and mood and tucks in phrases all just right, just right, just right. Should I effuse any more you'll either get your noggin stuck in doorways or wonder what's in my coffee.[image error] 


DAVID BARBER, "NOIRETRY's" ~ STANZA-MAN ~ Kate,
  
Well, my head is huge now! You're way too kind! Thank you for enjoying my work, Kate. Poetry isn't normally my thing. Thanks again for the spotlight. It's great to be back submitting work.

Best,
David.


DAVID BARBER
MAN WITH PEN
needing no license

He knows how to use it.JUST THE FACTS, MA'AM David Barber was born and bred in Manchester, England, but after 39 years of city life decided to up sticks and move to  Crieff in Scotland with his wife, Lisa, and their two daughters, Imogen and Melissa.  Having written for a few years when he was younger, fatherhood took hold and, being self employed, earning money suddenly became more important so mindless scribbling had to take a back seat.It was after a visit back down to Manchester that his childhood friend and fellow writer, Col Bury, invited him to write something for a magazine he was assistant editor of – the award winning magazine Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers.  He rattled off a six sentence story called 'Sorry Love' and sent it off.  That piece then went off to win a 2nd place Bullet Award.  Since that day his writing has flowed from fingers to keyboard and onto magazines, such as A Twist of Noir, Near To The Knuckle, The New Flesh and Blink Ink.  He has also had the honour of having stories published in print and in e-book anthologies, True Brit Grit, Action: Pulse Pounding Tales, Off The Record and The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology.He has just ended an 18 month stint as editor of The Flash Fiction Offensive.  During that time his eye for detail has vastly improved and the editing side of the industry has helped his own writing enormously.He is currently working on a few projects including a novel and an e-book short story collection.  
David Barber can be found lurking at David Barber ~ Writer  On Amazon , on Twitter at @thetwoblokes and on Facebook

BUT ~ Be these murmuringsFACTS OR FICTION? 

HOT HAYES
"David moved to Scotland only because he's always want to root for the Dunfermline Athletic Football Club and secondly (maybe more importantly) of his (some say unnatural) attraction (and affection) to the famous Scottish Highland Cow. He's a woolly buggar our David is. "

~ AT THE BIJOU Author AJ Fedora Fella Hayes(scroll around - see him rough his stuff)




POUR ANOTHER, SMITH"Dave is a tiler who unwinds by going for a night on the tiles. Dave's beauty therapist wife gives him a makeover every Sunday night. "

~ AT THE BIJOU Author Graham Sensation Smith (scroll around -you'll find him)

LADY LAITY"Fact: David Barber once considered being a barber so he could have a business card that said “Barber, Barber” and planned to ply his trade in Sing Sing or else Walla Walla.
"Fiction: As a wee lad, David Barber starred in frightening public information films to warn children away from the dangers of the then popular sport of cat wheedling, but was found to be allergic to moggies and summarily fired. 

They might both be untrue... "
~ Author shady lady, Kate Laity, taking on all the spotlights she can unshadow for an AT THE BIJOU debut . . . as summer goes to a month of Julys.
MY GODFATHER,
GODWIN"David Barber used to model himself on Sweeney Todd before he was arrested for stealing pork pies."
~ Good God, it's Author Godwin, Richard Godwin -- yeah, that's him ~ Watch for The Godwin Show of Shows debuting on hot summer nights, AT THE BIJOU.RG: Kate your mischievousness will get you in trouble one day, I am fully prepared for my debut at the bijou, I am having my tux steamed. ~ Richard.
TWO SWINGING BOYS"David Barber's nickname as a spotty teen was 'Barbs' to some, and he had (still has?) an uncanny resemblance to Depeche Mode's lead singer, David Gahan. Also, our good friend is a Manchester United fan, BUT he was a ball boy for their/his bitter rivals (and my beloved blues) Manchester City back in the 80's, and I was on the front row behind the goal (slightly envious) as he scampered around the sacred grass collecting any stray balls (coughs) for my (his?) heroes. Is he really a closet Man. City fan...? ;-)" 
~ Author of true grit, cool COL BURY, likewise making his AT THE BIJOU Debut ... after novel gets to agent!
THIS JUST IN from our AUTHOR!"Kate,You're a star. It looks great and has taken me by surprise. I've been a tad busy this past week with my e-book, which is now available on Amazon. Here's the link if you could (by any chance) add to the post." ~ David
Kate (packing yet, packing yet, for 6'am flight to OuterBanks grand seaside all-the-family-in-the-family vacation) -- "GOTCHA COVERED PAL. But -- YOU are the shining star shootin' off all heights!"
Here ya go folks ~ 
BUY THE BRAND SPANKIN' NEW BARBER BOOK 
HOT OFF THE E-PRESSES!

Yep, you can find ~ David Barber's "The Stranger"Graham Smith's "Isaa's Island Prison"Kate Laity's "Chickens"Richard Godwin's "Savage Sun"Col Bury's "Gallance"and Absolutely*Kate's "Angel Tough"all pulsating in ~ MATT HILTON'S tumultuousACTION PULSE POUNDING TALES, natch at Amazon, US and UK.
Thanks David for takin' the heat under the spotlights and kleigs ~
* AT THE BIJOU *
~ Absolutely*Kate,inviting "Come one, come all!"
to ~ "THE SHADOWS OF OUR NOIR"
Sashay or Saunter in everysummer*weekend!
The popcorn's better buttery,
and the hits?Heck, they just keep comin'!
WHATTA LINEUP!
WHEN AN AUTHOR MEETS AN AUTHOR,
COMIN' THROUGH THE WRY,
you'll next spy ~
the thrill of PAUL BRAZILL
good God, it's GODWIN
shady lady, KATE LAITY
and more,
so very sure and shadowy more 




"Be there
or be square, Bub.

You too,
Toots.

Our Katie puts on
absolutely
killer shows."

WHATTA LINEUP!
WHEN AN AUTHOR MEETS AN AUTHOR,
COMIN' THROUGH THE WRY

Psssst ~  Word around WebTowne is  ~
"The Shadows of Our Noir"
are summer-sizzlin' 
~ with ~
DAVID BARBER
PAUL BRAZILL
RICHARD GODWIN
KATE LAITY
GRAHAM SMITH
and
ABSOLUTELY*KATE
from the 
MATT HILTON


ACTION: PULSE POUNDING TALES 
a u t h o r  c r e w   o f   r e n o w n
{ Psst ~ Click title above ~ Get the palpitating book yet? ~ You read my tough tale, "ANGEL TOUGH"? ~ Whatcha think? ~ You read Barber's & Brazill's & Godwin's & Laity's & Smith's & Hilton's of course in the course of your heightened awaresness that this book is so hot it *sizzzzzles*? After that, there's but 30 more in store . . . gonna go twist their elbow for an AT THE BIJOU show next. You'll see. }

* AT THE BIJOU *
Sashay or Saunter in every
summer*weekend!
The popcorn's better buttery,
and the hits?Heck, they just keep comin'.

The 17th of June ~ 


The Battle of Bunker Hill
The Watergate Break-In thrill
OJ Simpson's unglorified white Ford Bronco ride
  
~ And this year, once again,
my Birthday and Father's Day side by side by side.



In childhood days, Mom's mastery with aqua icing put a ripple right smack dab down the middle of our cake. Chocolate cake, buttercream white, piles of happy lovin' laughin' ~ sharing day and life with my hero, my Dad ~ THE ultimate delight.
My Dad is why my Spirit is undauntable.
My Dad is why I believe in believers,
and that those whose lives we touch or reach or jostle with jazz are the true enrichments of our Life's greater show.

Dad's my heaven on earth today.We'll share a cup of coffee, together, some way.
And having my cake and eating it too?Same cake, same aqua ripple ~ an act of love of the love o'my life . . . He knows ~ that what matters in the soul of how you got to be who/how you are should always matter.

Happy Celebrations to Dads and fellow Gemini charmers 

Such Thanks to all of you . . . *AT THE BIJOU*as our interactions shine through and true.
~ Absolutely*BirthdayKate, ~ sharing Father's Day . . . once againwith my Dad, the star in my firmaments,knowing great shows of Life always go on
( Cue music ~ Hit it Mr Berlin )


I love you Dad.
Thanks . . . for letting me know people who love people are theluckiest people in this here world.
~ Absolutely*Kate

Oh, you did so good Kid ----

She was beautiful. Tall and slender with dark-brown eyes, (the kind in which one can lose his soul); her light skin was perfect, her smile mesmerizing, and her taste in clothes impeccable. She was the kind of woman, we all dream of attracting, one that will be the envy of both genders; the women want to be like her, and men need her to love us.

It was November 1955, and I was still basking in the glow of the Dodger’s victory over the Yankees in the World Series. It was made even sweeter because the Dodgers did it with so many Negro players: Joe Black, Don Newcombe, Roy Campanella, Jim Gilliam, Sandy Amoros and the man, Jackie Robinson all played pivotal parts in helping the beloved team from Brooklyn win.

I was drinking Jack Daniels, in a little bar near my office, which I frequent, just to be sociable, and to keep up on what’s happening in the neighborhood. The combination of good reliable information, a quick right hand and a ready smile usually gets me what I want, I’m not bragging just laying out the facts.

She walked over to me, gliding as every eye in the place watched her.

“Mr. Gunn? Mr. Jacob Gunn?”

“Yeah, I’m Gunn. What can I do for you, Miss, ah?”

“Jones, Amanda Jones.”

“What can I do for you Miss Jones?”

“I’d like to talk to you in private Mr. Gunn. Can we move to that booth over there in the back?”

“You’re new here aren’t you?” I said smiling. “That booth belongs to Tommy Brown. He runs the numbers in this neighborhood. Nobody sits in Tommy’s booth, not even me. Lets go over there,” I say pointing to a booth next to Tommy’s, a little closer to the back door.

“It is quiet, and we can talk.” She led the way, and every head in the bar turned to watch.

She told me about her predicament: a former boyfriend was threatening her, and she was scared. All she wanted was to be left alone, and she asked if could I pay him a visit and convince him that the best course of action, for him, was to move on. She made it very plain, that it was all right with her, if he was slapped around a little in the process; after all, he slapped her around, more than a few times, over the three years they were together. I asked if she had a current boyfriend, and her answer was vague. I figured she did and he must have been white and married. He couldn’t get his hands dirty, or he didn’t know about the old boyfriend; however, the old boyfriend knew about the brand-new boyfriend, and he was threatening to louse up her new life. I told her that I’d talk to him. She slid an envelope across the table. In the envelope were three $50 bills and a card with a name and address along with a picture of the gentleman in question. She said there would be another couple of hundred in it for me when I completed the job. I told her I’d have something to tell her in a couple of days. She gave me her thanks, a smile and then disappeared into the night.~ ~ * ~ ~
The next morning I went to the address on the card. It was a prewar apartment building with black-and-white tiles in the lobby, high ceilings, ornate moldings, and grand archways; it was a beautiful building. I wondered if they had any vacancies, I would have liked to live there. Then I thought about the business I was about, and I decided it was only a pipe dream; I was going to kick the snot out of one of my perspective neighbors, not a good way to introduce yourself.

It was an elevator building without a doorman or front desk, so, once I got someone to buzz me in; I could go right up. I had a photo of the target, and as I walked by, a guy resembling my client’s former boyfriend came walking out the front door. He had a lunchbox and was wearing coveralls with his name on one side and “Quality Auto Repair” on the other.

While he was gone, I decided to go upstairs and make myself at home. The guy I wanted, lived on the third floor near the back. The front door was locked, but I knew from experience, with a little patience someone will let you in. It could be a teacher going off to work; or a factory worker dragging in after third shift; a kid off to school or a mom off to buy groceries. Sometimes it would take a nice smile and nod of the head, but someone will always let you in.

Today it was the teacher; she eyed me up and down, noticing how sharply I was dressed. I wore a fedora; brim pulled low; neatly pressed tan pants with a white dress shirt, light starch and a blue blazer with gold buttons and my shoes shone to a high gloss. I smiled; that confident, friendly, useful smile that has gotten me out of more scrapes than I could count.

“Thank-you ma’am.”

“That’s miss.”

“Oh, thank-you miss.”

“Gloria, Gloria Powell, from 4C. Are you new to the building?”

“I’m thinking of moving in. Do you know of any vacancies, Miss Gloria?”

“I think 2D is moving. But check with the super and don’t let him swindle you, he sometime tries to add $10 or $15 to the rent for new people.”

“Why, thank-you Miss Gloria, with that information, I’ll be ready for him.”

“Hope you get that apartment.”

“Me, too. Thank-you Miss Gloria, have a nice day.”

“Good-bye Mr.?”

“Gunn, Jacob Gunn.”

“Good-bye Mr. Gunn.”

I offer my hand, and she takes it.

“Please, Miss Gloria, call me Jacob.”

“All right, good-bye Jacob,” she pulls her hand away teasing my fingers. I hold open the door and watch her walk down the street and around the corner; she didn’t look back, but you could tell she knew I was watching.

I walked up to the third floor and tried the lock; it was open, amazing in this day an age, that people still left their front doors open. I looked around the apartment. Mr. Little lived simply; a small black-and-white TV was on a table in the corner, and the radio on the kitchen counter was tuned to a jazz station. The living room was furnished with a couch, and an easy chair placed in front of the TV; a cheap turquoise dinette for two was next to the counter separating the kitchen from the living room, no pictures, not of him, my client or his parents, he’s a loner or maybe an orphan. In the single bedroom, he had made his bed; he was most likely a military man, judging from the Spartan furnishings and the shoes shined and placed neatly in the closet; one, no two nice suits, they looked tailor made, no women’s clothes, no clothes that didn’t belong to him. He was a big guy 52 long; most of the clothes came from Macy’s, there was one suit with a fancy Italian label probably a gift, but from whom? The client dropped a hundred and fifty beans without batting an eye. Maybe she gave it to him; she was the kind of woman who would want her man to look good if she was going to be on his arm.

I found his checkbook and savings passbook; he has a balance of $318.76, really $328.76 in the checking, (he forgot to carry the one) and $1521 in savings. That seems like a lot of money for a mechanic, he could be saving for a car, he could almost buy a new Chevy, or Ford, but if he wanted a Pontiac, he was a few hundred short. I wondered if he earned it the old-fashioned way, or if it was a payoff to keep silent.

Well, I got the lay of the land, and it was time to go; I put everything back the way I found it, because I was going to come back tonight and have a talk with Mr. William Little. I checked the hallway; no one was around, and as I closed the door, I thought “Mr. Little it has been a pleasure getting to know you.”
~ ~ * ~ ~
He left for work around 8 am. So, I figured a half-hour on the subway, arriving at work about 8:30 am; eight hours working; a half-hour for lunch means he’d clock out at 5 pm; another half-hour on the subway home, arriving around 5:30 pm; add another hour to clean up and eat he should be ready for our little chat around 6:30 pm tonight.

I came back around 6 pm just in time to see him leaving. I admit I was curious how Mr. Little spent his evenings, so I followed him. He stopped at a payphone and made a call. It was a local call because he only put in one nickel. I was too far away to hear to whom he was talking or what was said, but I could see that he was very upset. A minute or two into the call he began to strike the side of the telephone, over and over, harder and harder, faster and faster; like he was beating out a message, suddenly he shouts something into the telephone and violently hangs up.

“I bet I know where he is headed next,” I say out loud.

The name of the bar was Kate’s, it was a nice neighborhood bar that served food, which looked and smelled good; it had my favorite beer on tap, Schlitz, and if you were of a different mind, Budweiser and Miller High Life. The prices were reasonable, Kate was friendly, and the other patrons were into minding their own business.

I took a seat near the back, ordered pastrami on rye and a beer, and watched Mr. Little drown his sorrows.

It seemed that Mr. Little preferred Budweiser, which was the only thing I found, so far, that wasn’t likeable, well, except that he likes to slap dames around. I couldn’t do much about the former but the latter I was going to address later tonight.

I finished my sandwich and left a healthy tip for Kate; and then I went to Mr. Little’s apartment and waited for him to return. Again, he left the door open, and I slipped inside. I sat in the living room chair with the lights off thinking I’d surprise him; he was a big guy and even after a few drinks, he could be hard to handle.

By the time he got home, he was tight, not drunk, but you could tell he was feeling it. Fumbling with the door, he managed to get it closed and was feeling around for the light switch when I spoke.

“Mr. Little?”

Startled he hit the light switch and spun around.

“Who are you and why the fuck are you in my living room?”

“Mr. Little I have been asked by a young woman, Miss Amanda Jones, that I believe you know, to ask you to stop bothering her. She feels that your time together, while somewhat amusing, is over and the smart thing to do would be to have no further contact with her.”

“What business is it of yours? That is between me and Amanda.”

“I was asked, by Miss Jones, to deliver this message to you.”

“Right, like I give a good God damn.”

“Mr. Little, you should give a damn. I’m here to deliver the message; and come to an equitable accommodation; so, I can overlook your unfortunate outburst, but understand I will protect my client's interest, vigorously.”

“Okay, what’ll she pay?”

“I’m not authorized to discuss that with you.”

“Then why am I wasting my time talking to you? It is like I told her on the phone tonight, she gives me what I want or I’ll tell her fine, married, white boy, not only she isn’t white but (here is the cherry on top): I was there first; big, black, me. I’d bet that little cracker will run for the hills or back to his wife’s bed, if she’ll have him, and Amanda will be left out in the cold.”

“Mr. Little, I‘m here to see that doesn’t happen.”

“Who’s going to stop me? You?"

”Yes.”

He was three inches taller and 35 or so pounds heaver and well muscled. I was a star football player in college, starting at fullback and linebacker, and I was the place kicker too. I never did mind a little scrap; I enjoyed it occasionally; it felt good besting another man with fist, knife, or gun, it didn’t matter to me.

Mr. Little charged me; I stood up and relied on a skill learned on the gridiron. I gave him my 35-yard field goal kick, right in the balls, which dropped him to his knees. A quick left, left, right, and he was done, curled up on the floor holding his nuts and trying to regain feeling in his face.

I sat back down in the chair and waited until he could talk. After a while, he spoke.

“You son-of-a-bitch! I’m going to rip your balls off.”

“Really? That was my 35-yard place kick; you know I made field goals from 40 and 45 yards, too. Would you like me to demonstrate? I usually don’t like to kick a guy in the nuts, (there is something unmanly about it), but for a guy who likes to slap dames around, I will make an exception. So, Mr. Little are you going to leave my client alone?”

“No way! She tossed me aside. I was saving up for a ring. We could have been happy, next month I start with the Transit Authority, that is a real good job; it pays well, and we would have had a good life. I just don’t understand, why wasn’t that good enough, why wasn’t I good enough?”

“Get off the floor, Mr. Little and sit over there,” I say pointing to the couch, he groans, rises and sits gingerly on the couch.

“You got a hell of a kick mister. I guess this is where you tell me that if I don’t stop you will come back and show me that 40-yard kick, huh?”

I nod.

“You won’t have to come back, I got the message. Mister, would you give her a message?”

“What is it?”

“If it don’t work out for her, she can come back. Tell her, I‘m sorry I hit her and it won’t happen again. You are right; I was listening to a man on the corner from the Nation who said, “If you berate and beat your women you damage yourself,” he was right. Tell her mister, please.”

“Alright Mr. Little, good-bye.”

As I closed the door, I looked back, at the broken man sitting with his head in his hands. Like I said before, she was the kind of woman we needed to have love us, so, imagine the heartbreaking pain, to have her, and her love, and then lose it.

©2012, Author Leon Jackson Davenportfor ~ "THE SHADOWS OF OUR NOIR"*AT THE BIJOU*

Photo Cred: Kate's Bar is really the Houndstooth Pub on 37th in NYC,but hey, Kate so dug Leon dubbing her a bar, she picked one she liked.


LEON JACKSON DAVENPORT ~

Crime time author and all around good guy, but don't let that ruin his tough image. Leon's an Emmy nominated TV editor, fine art photographer and one of the booming voices you'll recall aboard this season's sailing of HARBINGER*33, manifesting authors' destinies. He's a smooth, wry storyteller who's gonna bring you back for another shot of this Gunn character . . . Watch for him where shadows come out to have their say.

That Leon, he don't say nothin' he don't mean, huh? And our Katie sure knows how to pick'em -- Youse writer-guys are aces in a stacked deck here AT THE BIJOU.
The Shadows of Our Noir -- are runnin' fast as slick getaways on rainy nights you never saw comin'. 
Katie's gonna celebrate her national holiday, that birthday hoopla she does come Sunday, then she's cornered a bunch o'hoodlums that wrote with her in that crime-time book from hot shot Matt Hilton, you know, the bestseller, feller. What's it called again? Yeah, yeah ~ ACTION: PULSE POUNDING TALES. Catchy title Hilton. You're no slouch.
So Toots, brighten your peepers next for ~ Absolutely*Kate . . . Matt Hilton . . . Paul Brazill . . . Richard Godwin . . . with somethin' you never 'spected ~David Barber turnin' noir to poetry. {Hey, I can't make this stuff up - Katie absolutely writes my lines anyhow). 

Be there or be square ~ *AT THE BIJOU*"Where Writers' Raves are Readers' Faves"