Is it elite
To tweet
Or perverse
To do it in verse
My bitter
Little Twitter
Is a side splitter

©️ Jane Jago 2017

Hole Lotta Shakin’: The Tony Mandolin Mysteries: Short Story # 2

E.M. Swift-Hook‘s review

Hole Lotta Fun!

“You all know our esteemed Commander in Chief,” Roosevelt bowed his head as he fingered his chips. “Next to him is Ducky Smith, one of the few women in the new Secret Service, and next to her is Mister Eric Craig, the only scientist to beat Russia’s Tesla in chess. Watch out for him, he cheats.”

I feel guilty doing a review of this book. Guilty, because I star in it – well my namesake does. So I shall keep this short and sweet.

This is a wonderful and rip-roaring tale of derring-do by Tony and Frankie who find themselves plunged back in time to April 1906 – and they are still in San Fransisco.

It includes the finest game of poker in all fiction!

You will not regret reading it and if you have not met Tony Mandolin before, I am confident you will soon be back for more.

 

Holidazed: Tony Mandolin Mysteries short story #1 (The Tony Mandolin Mysteries) by Alara

Happy Holidays Tony!

“On floor 5 things changed, whether for good or bad is still up in the air.’

It is Thanksgiving and PI Tony Mandolin is enjoying the traditional meal and gathering of friends when another good friend, Police Captain Pat Monahan, turns up at the door with news of a strange disaster back at the police station. Ably assisted by those gathered for the celebratory meal, including his work partner, the ex-drag queen Frankie and his romantic partner Alcina, Tony sets out to deal with – well, no one is quite sure.But that is the way Tony rolls in his day job so a little paranormal overtime on Thanksgiving is not going to make him break a sweat – too much…

This is a short story that captures well all the essential elements of Tony Mandolin, from the humour to the good-heart, from the tough city to the strange and paranormal. It also introduces you to the significant people in his life and the nature of the world he inhabits and the strange investigations he gets asked to handle.

I liked that, unlike the other Tony Mandolin books, this is available through KU. If you already are a fan of the series you will want to read this special holiday story. If you have never heard of Tony Mandolin before, then this is your chance to meet him and maybe discover a new firm favourite urban fantasy hero – and author.

 

Tony Mandolin Mystery, Book 1: A Slight Case of Death

E.M. Swift-Hook‘s review – ‘It was amazing’

Harry Dresden had better look out!

“You are a smart man, Mr. Mandolin. That is why you have succeeded in your profession, in spite of your habit of styling yourself after a pulp novel character.”

Tony Mandolin is a private investigator in San Francisco and when a beautiful young woman hires him to find her twin sister, he is not so happy to take the case. Before long he finds he’s investigating a serial killer and some of the victims seem to have connections to the gangster community. Things get dangerous when Tony has to deal with the animosity of a corrupt police officer, the attention of gangland godfathers – and the supernatural.

Tony makes his own life that bit more difficult by refusing to carry a phone and he has to rely on the available phone booths to keep in touch with people. ‘People’ usually being Pat Monahan, the one police detective who has time for him. In addition Tony’s life is also made more colourful by the presence of Frankie, a drag-queen, who adores him and is always wanting to help out.

I loved this book for so many reasons – but one was the fact that all the time I was reading it I could hear it being narrated to me in a snippy, Philip Marlowe voice. Tony Mandolin is such a successful pastiche of the Marlowe-esque style that after the first chapter you could be forgiven for accusing Marlowe of being Mandolin-esque.

“Stay back! I have a jar of capers and I’m not afraid to use it!”

This book is very well written. The first person narrative flows along and the dialogue is snappy, snippy and witty. Sometimes the humour is groan out loud and sometimes it’s a definite chuckle – although I think I may have missed out on some of it not being a native. But even without any humour, this is rocking urban fantasy – and I mean rocking! The sense of an alternative San Francisco is very well set up, the characters come over as three-dimensional, totally developed individuals.

In urban fantasy it is vital that the supernatural elements fit seamlessly in to the world, and here they do. The gradual uncovering of them, leading Tony further and further in to this strange world in his own backyard, is undertaken with a graceful ease. The take on some supernaturals is awesome – I thought the vampire one of the most terrifying incarnations of the species I have come across to date. But even without the fantasy element you still have a really gritty PI noir backdrop with tough city life and gangsters. The struggle of a PI against the world with a handful of oddball friends, most of them fellow outcasts or tending that way and even the forces of law and order as his enemy.

Billy didn’t just run to fat. For him it was a full-fledged joyous race into obesity.

For me there were few faults I could find that were going to stop me really enjoying this. The only things that came close is what seemed to me to be the places where the humour brushed very close against a PC line and the point where stereotype took over. Sometimes this did grate on my sensibilities. I also decided the author really likes the name ‘Bambi’ as two passing characters in the book get given it, fortunately far enough apart in the plot for it not to confuse. I also struggled to place this in time. There seemed a lot to indicate it was set in the present, but the near absence of some obvious modern technology did make me wonder.

I did hesitate between 4 and 5 stars, but the ultimate test of a good book for me, that which cuts the top reads from the ones I just enjoy, is if I am reaching for the next book as soon as the first is finished – and let’s just say my reading list just grew by a few more volumes!

I would recommend this book to those who love urban fantasy and want to try it with a large helping of humour and gritty PI noir flavour sauce poured over the lot.

You can find out more about all Robert Lee Beer's books on his publisher's website.

Arise, the dawn is broken,
The sun’s new rays a token
As each bird’s call is spoken.
So now we greet the new day,
And seek to shape it our way,
To mould it as we might clay.
But yet still heed the calling,
Before the night is falling,
What will we find most galling?
As we now form our own fate,
There is none we may berate
When time unravels what we create….

Two people are watching a flickering black and white television in a room lit only by the flames of a roaring log fire. They are sitting on a comfortable settee with the remains of a fish and chip supper on the low table in front of them. The woman feeds the remnants of her fish to a collie dog with one blue eye and one brown eye before rolling up the newspaper parcels and throwing them into the back of the fire.

“There,” she says comfortably, “dishes done”.
Her companion laughs, then leans over to plant a kiss on her smiling mouth.
“I never knew how much fun life could be.”
She pats his face, but says nothing. The dog, however, appears to endorse his sentiments as it stands up and wags its plumy tail.
“You want out?” he asks and the tail wags harder.

Outside it is bitterly cold, and the moonlight picks out trees whose branches are laden with ice. The man waits on the wide porch as the dog quickly does whatever is necessary before dashing back to where there is a promise of warmth. He bends to stroke the silky head and they slip back indoors together. His companion has moved to the kitchen end of the big homely room and is heating something on top of the wood-burning stove.
“Hot chocolate.”
The man grins, and runs a hand down her ample buttocks in appreciation.
“If you are going to get touchy-feely.”
She removes the pan from the heat and turns into his embrace.

A goodish while later they are back in the comfortable embrace of the settee and the television is back on. They are idly watching the news, and contemplating bed, when a story catches their collective eye.
“Major General, Sir Sidney Wotheringham has now been missing for seven days, and concerns for his welfare are growing. Sir Sidney, who is believed to be suffering from a brain complaint similar to Alzheimer’s Disease, left the hospital where he has lived for the past five months on the morning of Monday last. Staff assumed he was going for his usual bicycle ride.” The newsreader lowers her voice and screws up her face to much the shape and texture of a prune. “He has not been seen since. His bicycle was found near junction twenty-five of the motorway. But Sir Sidney has vanished without a trace.” There is much more in this vein, as the missing man’s son speaks on camera about the family’s worry and their hope that his father is alive and well somewhere. The son looks into the eye of the camera with all the practised bonhomie of the career diplomat although he is as smooth and cold as marble, from his neatly clipped moustache to his gold cufflinks and his old school tie. He speaks of care and concern for his missing father but it looks to the two people watching the flickering screen as if he is only going through the motions for the look of things. The piece ends with a picture of an upright soldierly gentleman riding an equally upright bicycle.

The man on the settee snorts then grins and his companion takes his hand in both of hers.
“It’s an awful shame to think of that poor old soldier out there in the coldest winter we have had for a decade,” he says softly.
“Never mind, love, perhaps somebody has taken him in.”
The man kisses her hand and goes to stand in front of a mirror which hangs on the wall beside the fireplace. He studies his bearded reflection and thinks how different he already looks from the sad soldier on his bicycle…

© jane jago 2017

I don’t need sunscreen when you love me,
no sun can scorch me, no fire touch me.
I don’t need mirrors when you have me,
my eyes are yours, my self shouts loudly.
I don’t need time, these days you bite me,
the sheets that scream, the world around it.
I don’t need future when you leave me,
No use for arms, no use for writing.

P. F. Marún Oxenford

 

It was bitter winter when Father returned from the city with yet another painted whore on his arm. Bunyan and Bennifer eyed her shyly, but she was certainly not built of the ilk that notices a seven-year-old boy and even less his sister.

It was late morning when Father came into the warmth of the kitchen to find his son rolling out the dough for ginger biscuits. The man snarled, but before he had chance to do more than curl his lip Grandmother speared him with a glance.
“Do you perhaps wish to take your children and move elsewhere?” Her voice was sugar sweet but the threat was nonetheless explicit.
Father shuffled his booted feet, but he had imbibed some hot spiced wine and was feeling unusually brave. “Should he not be outside with the other boys?”
Grandmother made a clicking sound with her tongue against her teeth.
“Grow up, man. It’s beyond cold. Even the Sergeant at Arms is inside this morning.”
Father seemed to shrink into his cotte like an eel into the mud of the duckpond. Then he lifted a shoulder.
“I see I have been remiss, I shall shall have to ask after his progress with proper men’s tasks.”
“You just pop along and do that,” Grandmother sneered, “Bunyan is beyond his years in all the manly pursuits, as you would know if you stopped drinking and whoring long enough to take notice.”

For a moment Father eyed his own parent with something like dislike, then he lifted his shoulders in a gesture of defeat. To Bunyan’s great surprise, Grandmother stepped over to him and held out her arms. Father dropped his head on her bony shoulder and held on for a moment before stiffening his spine. Then he did something even more surprising, he reached out and ruffled his son’s chestnut curls.
“Never mind, boy,” he spoke with a rough kindness Bunyan had never heard before. “It’s none of your fault.”
Then he was gone, leaving a man-shaped hole in the kitchen air.

The children looked at Grandmother with their mouths agape. She smiled albeit grimly, and wiped a furtive tear.
“He was a fine man once. Before your lady mother died.” She made a visible effort to cheer up, but Bunyan felt that his father had a great deal to answer for.

Some hours later, with the baking done and the kitchen scoured. Bunyan and Bennifer sat at the table with mugs of foamy milk and gingerbread biscuits.
“Look Bun I made this one like Father,” Bennifer put one pink-tipped finger on a gingerbread man with a beard and fur-trimmed cotte iced on its brown body. Bunyan picked it up and stared, still feeling unsettled by the near row and Grandmother’s silent tear. He smiled before he snapped the head off the gingerbread man and thought, that’ll teach him.

© Jane Jago 2017

So why must they sing ‘Auld Lang Sine’
Whilst overindulging in wine?
And why when they’re built
for a suit, wear a kilt?
When jeans would be perfectly fine…

E.M. Swift-Hook

 

A few hundred miles south, on the downs outside Brighton, the Cracksman family was gathered around a much-scarred table in Grandma’s enormous kitchen. Everyone cradled a huge mug of viciously strong tea.

“So. What’s the plan?” Jim Cracksman senior dunked a ginger biscuit in his tea.

“Well. I ain’t happy with that school,” Jim junior growled. “How they can mislay a child and not notice…”

“We aren’t surprised,” Cy spoke for the twins. “It used to be a really good school, but the new head teacher don’t have any time for Pikeys. She wants them all out.”

“Even though more than half her roll are Cracksman kids?”

“Even though,” Matt shook his head. “She is that prejudiced, and that stupid. We was about to talk to you about finding some place else for the little men. Couldn’t you talk big school into classes for younger kids?”

“Probably could,” Jim senior scratched his armpit. “But is it that bad?”

Charlie raised his head from his tea mug.

“It is. It don’t bother me. But it has been getting to Bill. He tries to protect me, coz I’m little. But I’m tougher than him. Ask Dad.”

Jim cuffed him lovingly.

“Yeah. I had to get Charlie here to promise not to tell the head teacher to fuck off.’

“But what’s her problem with a five-year-old boy?” Grandma Cracksman sounded deeply annoyed.

“Oh. I expect it’s because he is so clever,” Patsy said. “It gets on my tits at times. And I’m his mother.”

“Even so. She has a duty of care. And she failed.”

“She did. She and the staff in charge of this exchange trip. Six staff and twelve kids. They should’ve noticed Bill was missing. And they should’ve checked.”

Matt frowned.

“But they never. Though we do have one question. How did the stupid little sod let himself get took? I mean, he knows better…”

“They didn’t entice him,” Jim said in a voice of deep disgust. “They used violence.”

But he’s only seven,” Cy expostulated. “The bastards.”

“Oh indeed,” Patsy agreed. “You may as well know. They treated him very roughly indeed, and it was about to get much worse. Fortunately, the cavalry arrived on time.”

There was a suspicious crack in her voice and one tear ran down her cheek.

Charlie reached over and touched his mother’s hand. His own, round, brown eyes filled with tears.

“Poor Bill. But he’s OK now, isn’t he?”

“Yes little man, he’s fine. He’s currently having a whale of a time with Uncle Rod.”

“He is,” Jim agreed. “But you lot will have to tread carefully with him. No taking the piss if he’s a bit wobbly.”

Four boys spoke as one. “We won’t.”

“Good. Now there are decisions to make. Doctor Sam recommends that we keep Bill out of school until September. By my reckoning, that means you all have the choice of what to do between now and September yourselves. Hands up anyone who wants to stay in school.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, nobody raised a hand.

“Right,” Patsy grinned at her brood. “That’s about what me and your Dad thought would happen. So. Jamie. Anna tells us you’d like to spend some time in Silicon Valley with a group of people who are designing the next generation of software. And she’s willing to arrange it if you want.”

Jamie didn’t say a word, but his eyes shone, and he nodded vigorously. His father laughed.

“Okay. That’s a goer. Now then Matt and Cy. You’ve been angling for the States too. The ranch in Montana. You want?”

Cy gulped, and Matt actually laid his head on the kitchen table. Their grandmother stroked Matt’s head and patted Cy on his cheek.

“If I get on to your aunt and uncle this afternoon, we can maybe get you away by the end of the week. Give you three months with the horses…”

Neither twin could find his voice, and little Charlie spoke for all the rest of the family when he looked aghast at his brothers.

“Bugger me,” he said reverently.

Patsy tapped him gently on the head.

“Language. But I do know what you mean. We’ve dealt with your brothers. Now tell us what you want to do with your free time?”

“What’s Bill doing?”

“Mostly being at home. I guess. Though Uncle Rod is taking him to Shetland to see twenty-four hour daylight. Apparently Bill is fascinated by the idea.”

“I am too. Do you think they’d take me along?”

“I’m sure they would.”

“I’d like that. And also I’d like to be at home with you and Daddy and Bill.”

“Then we’ll make it happen.”

Jim senior shared a look with his son.

“I think I’d better visit the little men’s head teacher. Today. I feel the fear of God coming up. Then we’ll go bully the other school into classes for smaller kids. Surely there’s enough of them at small school to make it worthwhile.”

“Only one problem,” Jamie said. “Big school is fee paying. How many of the extended family can afford school fees?”

Jim senior smiled.

“Not a problem. I think the company can afford an education fund. Remind me to ask Anna if it’s tax deductible.”

Grandma smiled at the assembled company.

“Right. Drink your tea you lot, there’s puppies need feeding, and arrangements need making.”

“Mine’s gone,” Charlie piped up. “I can do puppies if somebody gets the food down for me.”

“Good man,” Jamie grinned. “Shall we do it together?”

They went out and Patsy looked a question at her mother-in-law.

“They’ll be fine. Charlie helped me yesterday and he’ll remember exactly who had what.”

“I guess he will. That child’s brain is positively frightening. Where does it come from?”

“Oh. You and Jim are so thick ain’t you?” Jim senior laughed. “Just let him get on with his work, the rest of us have stuff to do don’t we?”

Jim junior’s phone rung.

“Geordie Jackson. That could be ominous. Hi Geordie. Oh? Well bugger me.” Then he listened for quite a long time. “Why’d she do that? Oh. I see. I guess. You’ll let me know? Right. Pass on my thanks.”

He ended the call, looking troubled.

“Twins. Would you mind buggering off? Go help with the puppies for a while.”

The twins got up without a word of argument, and left.

When they had shut the door behind them he opened and shut his mouth a couple of times.

“Out with it, boy,” his mother said firmly.

“The gentleman with the plans for Bill is currently enjoying a taste of his own medicine. Mairead MacDonald in Edinburgh got to hear what he was up to, and took exception. She intends sending him back to his boss in a body bag. But not until they find out how long he can survive the treatment he planned for Bill.”

“She is doing what?” Jim senior said. “Why? I mean… I know why. But. She could get herself in serious trouble.”

“She don’t care. It seems she has cancer. Inoperable and terminal. So…”

“So indeed. I can see why you didn’t want the gruesome twosome to listen. Even they could be traumatised by that.” Patsy took her husband’s hand and held it.

“What are you finding it impossible to spit out, Jim?”

He looked at her and then hid his face in her hair for a moment. He stood up and his face and voice hardened.

“They were going to rape him.”

For a moment nobody moved or spoke, then Jim senior’s mug shattered as he threw it viciously against the wall.

“Bastards,” he growled.

All the bones in Patsy’s face stood out against her fair skin, and she seemed to be struggling for breath. She pulled herself together with a visible effort.

“But it didn’t happen. The cavalry got there in time. Thank God. The cavalry got there in time.”

Jane Jago

 

Father Time his heavy scythe set down
Upon his face there was a weary frown
“This race of days and months and passing years
Is bringing less of laughter more of tears.”
Beside him stood a golden youthful lass,
She smiled and said “You know that all things pass.
From every tear that waters all those woes,
Comes Wisdom and ways to defeat life’s foes.
Each passing year and month and every day
Is building Hope and finding a new way.”
But Father Time his head he still held low.
“What use is that if all we love must go?
If every blessing deep within its core
Bears the curse that it will be no more?
How can we smile and laugh and dance and sing
When death and loss are all that Time will bring?”
The youthful maid did soothe his furrowed brow
“What matter time to come, when we live now?
The future may hold more than you yet see
And even Time’s own curse may one day cease.
Why weep what hours and days and years away
When you can fill with laughter each new day?”
Then Father Time did smile and with a sigh
Picked up once again his heavy scythe.
“You speak the truth, dear Hope, so as we walk
We’ll laugh and smile and jest and share and talk.”
So hand in hand did then they take the road
With Hope relieving Time’s so heavy load.
And in their footsteps, shy Wisdom did steer
To bring with joy this Happy New Year.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Dear Reader Who Writes,

I will admit to having sipped on a small soupcon of eggnog over the festivities and today I was less than delighted to find Mumsie glaring at me over the breakfast table with something between pity and incredulity. “Gods Moons! How can you get to be so old and not know how to deal with a hangover?” She pushed her glass over to me. its interesting aroma of bath salts and battery-acid curling the hairs on the inside of my nasal cavities. Mummy was without mercy. “Stop pulling a face and drink it. Hair of the dog.”

The flavour was indeed not unakin to canine fur, if it had been marinaded in fecal matter and turpentine. However, maternal wisdom won through and having consumed her panacea I am now sitting sprightly in my writing cave and able to share with you the hard-won fruits of my years as a writer-in-waiting. But now, dear RWW, it is you who are the bridesmaid and I the gushing bridegroom of the Muses.

So, to business. The new year is creeping fast upon us and it behoves us all to pay heed to the ancient traditions of this especial time. No, I do not mean carrying a black cat over your shoulder backwards across the threshold of your house, or hailing your neighbour with gibberish at midnight, or singing Scottish songs about those acquaintances from the past you most certainly do want to forget. No. I mean the important tradition of making a New Year’s Resolution for your literary year ahead.

It needs to be something that encapsulates in a single intention all your writing aspirations and plans for the forthcoming twelve months. When deciding what is fitting, be not modest or parsimonious about your talent. Set yourself the greatest goal you can imagine, scale the heights of ambition, unleash the inner yearning to follow your dreams and commit yourself to that and that alone.

I will keep to myself my own resolution for the coming year as it might undermine the determination you bring to your own or even lead you astray from your petty path in some vain attempt to mimic mine. But here are a few I consider might be fitting for you, my students.

• Resolve to study all of The Thinking Quill lessons.
• Begin writing a novella.
• Complete a haiku.
• Peruse A-G in a thesaurus.
• Purchase and read “Fatswhistle and Buchtooth” by Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.
• Buy some pens with glittery pastel-coloured ink so your writing looks like unicorn faeces. This will add magic to those moments when you look in blank incomprehension at the notes you wrote in the depths of the night.
• Start each morning with a free dance expressing the joy of being alive.
• Take up yoga or pilates – whichever you did not plan to do last year but never started.

Choose well and be sure to keep it, disciple, that way lies the path to true authorship.

Happy New Year!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

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