Sunday, April 30, 2023
Sunday's Safe Word Shelf: Body Parts and Mind Games by Jude Tresswell
County Durham Quad #4
Organ trafficking, different types of attraction and far-right nationalism are ingredients in this tale about Mike, Ross, Raith and Phil, a gay polyamorous quad who live in North-East England.
Phil is a surgeon at Warbridge Hospital. A patient's organs are harvested illegally. Are Phil's colleagues involved?
Detective Nick Seabrooke returns to Warbridge and asks Phil to aid the investigation. Agreeing endangers the quad in more ways than one. How will Nick, who is asexual, react to working with the quad again? How will they react to him?
This is the fourth story in the County Durham Quad series. Background information is provided for new readers.
Morning in ‘Cromarty’, a much-loved home in the Durham hills. Cooking odours drifted through the kitchen, up the stairs and out of the open windows. They reminded Phil of the smell from one of Warbridge’s less-inviting cafes and he wrinkled his nose in protest. He looked critically at the heap of greasy protein that Mike described as ‘a proper breakfast’ and sat down to a bowl of porridge and a thick slice of wholemeal toast, thinly spread with margarine. Low fat.
“I can see you lookin’ smug,” said Mike, “but you don’t have to sit with your bum on a bike for the next six hours. You said you’re not workin’ today or tomorrow.”
“Keep eating that stuff and you won’t be working tomorrow, either. You’ll be on a drip in one of the wards,” Phil retorted. He was a consultant surgeon at Warbridge General Hospital, a forty minutes’ drive away. Mike worked in Warbridge too, as an examiner for the Institute of Advanced Motorists—for short, the IAM. Mike laughed and began to tuck in.
A tall, heavily tattooed, bare-footed man entered the sunny kitchen: Raith, Phil’s husband.
“Oo! That looks tasty. Can I have a bit?”
Mike slapped the hand that was about to steal a slice of fried bread. “Get your own!” he said.
Before Raith could complain, the fourth member of the quad came into the room. It was Ross, Mike’s partner, and he was brandishing a letter.
“Finally!” he exclaimed. “McAllisters. They’ve agreed to sell us the quarry.”
Ross had plans for the quarry. For a long time, he had wanted to clean it up, install a ramp and steps, and erect an eco-friendly workshop and display area in the quarry bottom. There wasn’t much spare, flat land in Tunhead itself. The cobbled lane between the houses, known simply as The Street, rose steeply and beyond it were wild moors. Although neither Mike nor Phil nor Raith shared his enthusiasm, they knew the quarry was a danger. What’s more, they had their own reasons to see it cleared; the previous summer, Raith had nearly died there. They had plenty of money. They were willing to support Ross’s big ideas.
“So, as it’s celebration time,” said Raith, “can I have a mushroom?”
“One!”
Raith took two. Being greasy, they slipped out of his fingers and onto the floor.
“Are you intendin’ to pick them up?” asked Mike. “Cos if you’re not, I might strangle you with one of your ribbons.”
Raith’s hair was waist-length and often adorned with ribbons and bows. He ignored Mike’s threat and, for answer, swiped a tomato and asked, “What do you think we’ll find down there, Ross? Body parts?”
“Parts of my last bike, more likely,” growled Mike, smartly forking the remaining tomato. “Didn’t your mam tell you not to play with men with guns?”
“Didn’t yours tell you not to talk with your mouth full?”
Phil, who didn’t wish to be reminded of the previous autumn’s events—Raith, held at gunpoint in the quarry, Mike, racing to save him on his bike and wrecking it in the process—turned the conversation back to Ross’s letter.
“What exactly do McAllisters say?” he asked, so Ross poured himself a cup of coffee, and began to furnish the details.
But there are many types of body parts. Just a few weeks later, Raith was wondering if Phil still fancied his.
Sunday Safe Word Shelf
Monday Mysterious Mayhem
Jude Tresswell lives in south-east England but was born and raised in the north, and that’s where her heart is. She is ace, and has been married to the same man for many years. She feels that she understands compromise. She supports Liverpool FC, listens to a lot of blues music and loves to write dialogue.
Body Parts & Mind Games #4
Saturday, April 29, 2023
Saturday's Series Spotlight: Desires by EM Denning Part 2
Summary:
Everett Butcher is a successful vlogger with a secret. By day, he’s The Crock Cock, the internet’s hottest, gayest, and most naked chef. By night, he’s ConcealedandCuffed, a secret submissive who bends to the random whims that hit his inbox. To protect his identity and his career, Everett is careful to never show his face and to never play with the same guy twice. But Everett is tired of online submission. It only reminds him he has no one. When Puck1730 messages him, his world flips upside down.
Xavier Jeffries knows he’s playing a dangerous game, but when he discovered his big brother’s best friend’s secret submissive blog, his inner Dom reared his head and he knew he had to have him. He’s been in love with Everett for years and he feels like it’s now or never. But will Everett forgive him for the dubious way he initiated a relationship?
As the big, in person, reveal looms on the horizon, both men are on edge. Will their online playtime translate into real life chemistry and will Everett forgive Xavier when he discovers it was him the whole time?
Summary:
For years Andrew warred with himself; if he went so long without realizing he was bisexual, what other things are inside of him that he has yet to discover? When he lands in the arms of Nick Young, the hottest cop he’s ever seen and Andrew is determined not to let his fear hold him back anymore. But Nick is a complicated man and Andrew’s pursuit of happiness will change both their lives in ways he never dreamed possible.
Nick Young
Nick would love nothing more than to settle down with Rory, his Dom, but his need to switch has been in the way of that ever happening. When a lost, confused, and very drunk Andrew slams into his life, Nick’s inner Dom wants to help the lost soul and soon a friendship develops into something more. As a switch, Nick has always struggled to reconcile the two halves of himself, just like he struggles to reconcile his two different relationships. But Rory sees a solution through the added complication of Nick’s feelings for Andrew.
Rory Gallagher
Rory has loved Nick for years, and for years he's feared losing the man he loves. But solidifying a relationship with a switch wouldn’t be fair because Rory won’t give up top spot for anyone. When Nick confides in him about his feelings Andrew, his heart nearly breaks. He hates seeing Nick so conflicted. Rory would do anything for Nick, including enter into the most complicated relationship of his life.
Can a Dom, a switch, and a man who is just now discovering all the truths about himself find a way to make a relationship work, or will Rory's scheme make his greatest fear come true, costing him two men he cares about?
What He Hides #3
1
Everett
Everett Butcher angled the camera so it wouldn’t show anything above his collarbones. He double and triple checked the angle before hitting record. His newest task from…whatever the random username was, told him to strip down, put on the frilly panties the Dom sent him and jack-off on camera. He wanted Everett, or ConcealedAndCuffed as his followers knew him, to come in the panties and send them back. What the random Dom lacked in originality he made up for in sheer perversion.
The Dom all but begged Everett to show his face. They all did. But that was his first rule. No face shots. He had to be careful. If word got out about his secret submissive blog, he’d risked losing all the people who followed his other blog, The Crock Cock. Sure, he cooked in the nude, well, mostly. He wore an apron and nothing else. The cooking vlog paid the bills. Everett used the submissive blog to explore his kinks in a safe environment.
He had rules. No faces. No names. No subbing for the same Dom more than once. That one he couldn’t enforce. If someone went to the trouble of making another account each time they made a request of Everett that couldn’t be helped.
Everett slid the ridiculously silky panties up his slender legs. They fit like a dream, except they were very clearly women’s panties. The silky fabric held his dick tight against his body. Everett put his hands on his hips so his pelvis would jut out and show off his package, then he did a little turn. He knew how to work the camera and the Doms loved it when he put on a show.
All requests, once fulfilled, went up on his channel, but the Dom who submitted the request remained anonymous. Everett got lots of requests similar to this one. They often wanted him to wear specific things. He had a post office box so Doms could send him gifts and props they wanted to see him use. He’d amassed quite the sex toy collection. As for the pink panties, the Dom would have to do without them. Everett had a strict no returns policy.
Everett swivelled his hips and ran his hands down his smooth torso. He edged toward his crotch, then moved his hands back and cupped his ass cheeks as he turned his back to the camera. People liked it if he drew it out and made them crazy. People pretended to want instant gratification when they wanted to be teased. They wanted what they couldn’t have, and no one was more off limits than Everett.
Everett turned slowly. He rocked his hips and slid his hands all over his body. He turned to face the camera again and edged his fingers into the silk panties. He stroked his thick cock and pulled it out of the panties. A bead of pre-cum pooled on the end of his cock. Everett swiped at it with his thumb, then brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it off. Because the video would have sound, he made sure he moaned. He had to captivate his audience. After he posted a new video, his fans would decide if he did well or not. If he did well, he got a reward, but if they didn’t like it, he got a punishment. Sometimes, Everett thought they punished him for the fun of it and not because they didn’t enjoy the video.
Everett slid one hand into the panties and cupped his smooth balls. His other hand gripped his cock through the fabric and slowly stroked. He moaned and threw his head back even though that bit wouldn’t be caught on the video. He arched his back and pumped faster. His fingers slid past his balls and he gently stroked his perineum.
The silky fabric rubbed against his shaft. Pre-cum seeped out of his dick and created an impressive wet spot in the pink frilly panties. His fans would eat that up. Everett rubbed his cock with renewed fervour. He let his fingers wander back a little farther, and he gently teased his rim. Everett shoved the panties down a little and moaned as he stroked his cock. He moaned again. Everett loved to be vocal during sex, even sex with himself, and his followers ate it up.
He stroked his rim and jerked his cock. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He panted as he edged closer to his release. When he came he made a sound, half-whimper, half-moan. It was a desperate sound, in a higher pitch than his moans, but not quite a whine. Everett’s cock twitched, and the first shot of his release arched into the air and splattered against the wood floor. The rest dribbled down his cock and coated his fingers. Everett groaned. He stroked his still hard dick a few times, coating it with his cum. He made a show of tucking his wet cock back into the panties. Then, on a whim, he brought his hand to his mouth and licked his sticky release off his fingers.
The finger licking would remain off camera, so Everett teased them. "Mmm. Tastes good." Everett smoothed his hands down his torso. His fingers fluttered over his stomach, then ran down his bulge. He caressed his now half-hard cock through the silk panties.
"Thank you, Sir." Everett said. Then he sauntered across the room and stopped the recording.
Everett shimmied out of the panties and back into his regular clothing. A pair of boxer briefs under his holey, black, skinny jeans and a T-shirt a size too small. At twenty-eight, Everett was technically too old to be considered a twink, but he was still built like one. Five feet eight inches tall, slender form, couldn’t grow more than ten chest hairs at a time, so he shaved them off. But there was no word for aged-out twinks.
Everett tossed the soiled panties in the garbage, then shoved them down to hide them underneath last night’s take-out boxes. Everett’s phone vibrated in his pocket. His best friend from way back, Andrew, had moved his little brother, Xavier in with him. Everett didn’t remember much about the kid. The last time he’d seen Xavier had been at Christmas six years ago.
"Hey, Andy, what’s new?" Everett grinned at the sound of Andrew’s exasperated sigh.
"Don’t call me Andy."
Everett leaned against the counter. He could practically hear Andrew’s eyes rolling. "I could call you muffin."
"No. No food names. We’ve been over this. Buzz us in."
"You know the intercom thingy has a button you can press, and it lets me know you’re there. You don’t have to call."
"And touch that germy thing. No thanks."
Everett walked over to the wall phone that connected to the intercom and pressed the button. "There. Now get your lazy ass up here already." Everett ended the call and left his phone on the counter. He retreated to the bathroom where he decided his platinum hair was the perfect combination of stylish, yet messy. He adjusted his leather bracelets. They were leather bondage cuffs, but most people thought it was a fashion statement.
Everett liked the cuffs. Sure, he might not have a Master or a Sir and the only Doms he subbed for were random, faceless entities he met online, but the cuffs made him feel more himself.
Andrew pounded on the door and Everett hurried over to unlock it and let him in.
"Hey man, got any of those cookies left?" Andrew grinned at Everett.
Everett rolled his eyes, but stepped aside so Andrew could come in. "Yeah, they’re in the jar. I swear you only come here for the food."
"Damn right." Andrew called over his shoulder as he headed for the kitchen. "I’m a growing boy, I need my cookies."
Everett laughed. "You’ve been over six feet tall for the past ten years. The only direction you’re going to grow is out if you keep eating the way you do."
"It’s your fault. You make the food. I eat the food."
"You ate half a pie last night, dude. Everett is right."
Everett had almost forgotten Xavier, who waited outside his door. He turned his head to see a kid who was no longer a kid. The guy who stood with his arms crossed over his chest wasn’t the skinny, pimply, fourteen-year-old Everett remembered. He was still as tall as he was then though. Apparently, Andrew received all the height and bulk genes in the family.
Xavier stood, at most, five feet ten inches. He had a slender frame like Everett. His hair was a light brown with a lot of honey blond highlights. His dark rimmed glasses gave him a sexy geek vibe.
"Xavier. Long time no see. Come on in." Everett motioned for Xavier to come in as he mentally berated himself for thinking, even briefly, that his best friend’s little brother was hot. But the truth stood in front of him with green eyes, framed with dark glasses and a deep sexy voice that turned Everett’s name into the sexiest sound on the planet.
"Good to see you too, Everett."
"Your brother told me you finished culinary school."
"Yeah. I’ve been looking for work since I got here, but no luck so far."
"I’ll give you the address of a place that’s probably hiring. Craig told me the owner, Steve, is having some staffing issues." Everett brought Xavier to the living room. "Hey, you want some wine? Craig left me a bottle of red that’s to die for."
Andrew came into the room and passed Everett a glass of wine while he took a swig of the beer Everett kept in his fridge for him. "He’s not old enough."
Everett watched slashes of scarlet embarrassment appear on Xavier’s cheeks. "Screw you, Andy, I’m legal."
Andrew snorted. "Doesn’t look old enough."
"I didn’t plan on letting him get white-girl wasted, Drew. He’s not a kid. He can handle one little glass of wine."
"Please, Daddy?" Xavier stuck out his bottom lip and batted his eyelashes. And Everett was totally fucked. Xavier looked sweet and innocent and absolutely, deliciously corruptible.
Everett wanted to kick himself. Why couldn’t Xavier have grown into a brick wall the way his older brother had? If he had, maybe Everett wouldn’t be thinking idiotic things about his perfectly pouty lips. It wasn’t Everett’s fault that even when he had been a twink, he had a thing for other twinks. And now he was a former twink who apparently still liked the fun-sized guys. Guys like Xavier, who were slender and graceful, who weren’t big and imposing and smothering.
Andrew choked on his beer and pointed a finger at Xavier when he recovered. "Do not call me daddy, dude. That’s fucked up."
Everett stood. "I’ll get him a glass." He punched Andrew’s arm on the way by. "And don’t look at me like that. One glass of wine won’t kill him. He’s an adult, dude."
"Barely." Andrew scoffed.
"Fuck you, Drew. I’m not a kid."
Everett silently agreed with Xavier. He certainly wasn’t a kid anymore and Everett’s traitorous dick had taken note. Glass of wine in hand, and dick hopefully under control, Everett returned to the living room.
Xavier took the wine and smiled sweetly at Everett. "Thank you." He then shot a look of disgust at Andrew. "At least someone in this room treats me like an adult."
Andrew shrugged and took another drink of his beer. "You’re almost eight years younger than I am. You’re my baby brother. I get to treat you like a kid all I want."
Xavier flipped him off, but Andrew only laughed.
Andrew was a jackass because Xavier wasn’t a kid. Everett was also a jackass because he noticed his best friend’s little brother wasn’t a kid. With any luck, Xavier would get a job soon and they’d hardly ever cross paths.
Xavier looked at Everett. "I love your vlog, by the way."
Everett barely managed not to choke on his drink. His cheeks heated until he realized there was no way Xavier meant his ConcealedandCuffed blog. But knowing that Xavier had watched him cook in nothing more than an apron both disturbed and pleased him. "Thanks."
"Drew says you have a few sponsors in the works."
Everett nodded. "Nothing is set in stone yet, but it looks promising."
"Would you ever consider having a guest chef on?"
Everett made the mistake of looking at Xavier. His pink lips smiled sweetly at Everett. His eyes—they were green, and Everett didn’t remember them being so intense. Xavier looked serious. Everett felt torn. He could offer Xavier a guest spot. It might be fun to cook with someone who had the same passion for food than he did, and his fans would eat it up. But he hesitated because getting naked in a kitchen with your best friend’s little brother seemed as if it might be a line that shouldn’t be crossed.
"Let me shoot a guest spot, Everett."
"Okay." Everett wanted to take back his response. It had been a natural reaction to the sudden change in Xavier’s voice. The serious, no nonsense command went straight to Everett’s submissive, and he answered without thinking.
Xavier grinned. "Good."
Everett was unequivocally fucked.
What He Fears #4
1
Andrew
Andrew sat at the bar with his back to the room. He stared into his beer and watched the bubbles dance around. He’d already checked out every single person in the bar and no one stirred any interest. And that was the problem. No one interested him. Almost no one. He did have some pretty unfortunate feelings for his best friend, Everett, but he would never like Andrew like that. He was all wrong for Everett and he knew it. That didn’t lessen the sting when he found out his kid brother, Xavier, had fallen for Everett and Everett fell right back.
He should be happy for them. Somewhere down inside himself, he was happy for them. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be miserable for himself. Andrew finished his fourth beer and ordered a fifth. A pretty brunette with doe eyes tried to flirt with him, but he wasn’t interested. She did everything by the book, too. Stroked his arm, leaned in toward him. Flashed him her cleavage, but there wasn’t an atom in his entire body that took an interest in her.
He could count the number of women he’d been sexually attracted to on one hand. Four. In his twenty-eight years, he’d been with four women. Andrew wasn’t the kind of guy who liked to play the field. He liked being in relationships. He liked the process of getting to know another person. His preferred snail’s pace in relationships didn’t always sit well with his would-be partners. Those four women were the only ones who had stuck with him long enough to break through his frosty defenses as one of his exes had put it.
The first time he’d felt the stirrings of desire for his best friend, he’d freaked out. He’d never really thought much about men before that point. Sure, he could pick out a good-looking guy in a crowded room, but who couldn’t? The sudden interest his dick took in Everett had disarmed him. Andrew had never lusted after a guy before. It wasn’t long after that first inconvenient hard on he realized he’d fallen in love with his best friend.
From then on, he’d been doomed. He stopped pursuing relationships with women. He knew nothing would ever come of his stupid crush, but he couldn’t help it. He needed to be around Everett so he could analyze his reactions to his friend. Fat lot of good that did him.
There he sat, months later, with no answers and no friend because he had to go and be a jerk. Everett’s words still swirled around in his head and made his stomach lurch. Everett had been right. Andrew could be there for him after his attack, but he couldn’t be there for him now that he’d found some happiness. It was fucked up, but there it was. The bitter truth about falling in love with your best friend was that life wasn’t a romance novel and your best friend didn’t always fall in love right back.
The last time he’d seen Everett had been a week ago. He’d climbed out of bed that morning, late, with a fuzzy tongue, a bitching headache, and a bad memory. He remembered Xavier coming home late, and he remembered going to bed. When he saw Xavier’s key sitting on the counter next to a crumpled wad of cash, the memories flooded back. God, he’d been such a jerk to his brother and for no reason. No real reason other than a case of hurt feelings. Feelings Xavier hadn’t been responsible for hurting. He had no way of knowing about Andrew’s seemingly flexible sexuality, or his feelings for Everett.
What really hit Andrew had been seeing Everett. He saw the way Everett looked at Xavier. He saw the way they were with each other. Anyone with eyes could see that they were totally hooked on each other. It got Andrew thinking. How had Everett never realized Andrew was in love with him? Had he ever looked at Everett like that? If he had, how oblivious had Everett been to not have noticed?
That made Andrew question himself even more. Had he ever really loved Everett? Was his attraction to him a fluke? He rubbed his temples. He tried to stop thinking about it, knowing he’d thought about it too much and had only created more questions for himself. Answers were elusive. Especially after six or seven beers.
A warm body bumped into Andrew. He didn’t realize how drunk he’d gotten until he had to clutch the bar in an effort to stay seated on his stool. “Holy sshit.” He slurred. He turned his head to look around and his vision swam. How much had he drunk? Weren’t bartenders supposed to cut you off before you got shit-faced?
The warm body that crashed into him belonged to some middle-aged dude who looked just as drunk and twice as lost as Andrew felt.
“Sorry.” The red-rimmed eyes held his gaze as the sad-sack drunk helped Andrew steady himself. He almost offered to buy the guy a drink, misery did love company, after all, but the guy disappeared into the crowd before he could get his thick, drunk tongue to work.
Andrew ordered one more beer. He ordered one more beer one more time, maybe two. The room had tilted half an hour ago and he couldn’t feel his face. He gazed down at his feet. He somehow had to convince them to carry him to the bathroom.
The room swayed when Andrew turned his head to the bartender. “One more.” He shoved the empty glass toward the bartender who threatened to divide into two people right in front of him. Andrew rubbed his eyes until the double vision ceased. His empty glass was gone, and a new one had yet to take its place. The bartender—bartenders? Was there two of him?—gave him a sad look. “Sorry, pal. You’ve hit your limit. You need a cab? We’re closing soon.”
Andrew shoved to his feet. “I’ll walk. ‘S’not far.” That was a lie. He lived way too far to walk, especially with summer fading into autumn. Night time temperatures were unpredictable and tended to be either slightly too warm, or far too cold to be running around, drunk out of your head without a coat.
Andrew stumbled through the bar until he found the men’s room. Relieving his too-full bladder and not piss half way up the wall or on his shoes as he struggled to stay upright was a feat and a half, but he managed. After washing his hands and splashing some water on his face to try to sober himself up a little, two men, who were obviously en route to a hook up burst in. Andrew watched through his beer goggle eyes as they stumbled, groping and kissing, into the stall.
What would it feel like to be able to grab someone and lose himself in them? To drink in the feel of their skin under his hands and the sounds that caught in the back of their throats. What would it feel like to be pinned down and fucked within an inch of his sanity? Andrew tried not to think about Everett, but he couldn’t help it. He’d imagined Everett pinning him down and fucking him senseless. He snorted. That was never, ever, ever going to happen.
He had to stop thinking about Everett like that, because now, whenever he did, he imagined Xavier with him. The images disgusted and tortured him in equal measure as Andrew drunkenly ambled his way out of the bar and into the crisp night air.
Andrew inhaled through his nose and caught a whiff of stale beer. He reeled in disgust when he realized he was most certainly the source of the unpleasant smell. He cupped his hand in front of his face and exhaled into it, then breathed in through his nose. Bad idea. His stomach jolted and twisted. Andrew swallowed hard and dropped his hand. He’d walk home, he decided. There was no way he would get into a cab and risk the motion setting off his suddenly tender stomach. He might be drunk off his ass, but there was some scrap of humanity left in him. No one liked cleaning up some drunk asshole’s beer vomit.
Andrew staggered down the sidewalk, dodging light poles that danced in his way. He had a nasty run in with what he thought was a newspaper box and it nearly knocked him over. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he became vaguely aware of the red and blue strobe lights that pierced the night. But home was… somewhere. Maybe close. Maybe not. Andrew stopped, swayed, and squinted at the street sign.
“You okay there, buddy?”
Andrew heard the deep voice and tried to turn to see who it belonged to. But somehow his legs didn’t want to work properly, and when he turned, his feet tangled and he crashed into a solid wall of muscle. Strong arms grabbed onto him.
“Easy there, pal. How many have you had?”
There wasn’t a hint of reproach in the man’s voice, only gentle concern. Andrew forced his head to turn, and he looked up at the guy. The guy with a badge. The guy with the deep voice had a badge. A cop. His beer addled brain struggled to catch up. Shit. He’d drunkenly stumbled into a cop.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Andrew struggled to straighten up, but his feet stopped working entirely. That’s when he realized the cop still had his arms around Andrew. He was very possibly the only thing holding him up.
“You got a name?”
“Andrew.” He frowned as his stomach clenched. His stomach seemed to be the ringleader in a sudden, violent mutiny. He clutched onto the cop’s arm and turned his head. Bending over, he aimed his face away from the cop as best he could before what felt like gallons of foam and stomach acid erupted like a fizzy volcano and splattered the sidewalk. Andrew stared at the steaming liquid with tear-filled eyes. He always cried when he got sick. “Sorry.”
The cop patted Andrew on the shoulder with one hand and held Andrew’s bicep in a firm grip with the other. Andrew thought it was especially sweet that the cop wasn’t going to let him fall face first into his own vomit, which was a distinct possibility.
“If you’re done, Andrew, I’d like to sit you down in my squad car and get you some water. Think you can handle walking ten or fifteen feet if I help you?”
“If I can’t manage, you’ll have to carry me.” Andrew said as he straightened up. The world tilted and tried to throw him down, but hot cop held him up. He stared at the cop, which was probably rude, and decided that yes, even in his drunken state he could appreciate an attractive person. Hot Cop had dark hair, curly and cropped close to his head. His five o’clock shadow looked thick and coarse. He had an olive complexion that gave him a nice, permanently tanned look.
The cop opened the back of the car and helped him sit down. He put a hand on the back of Andrew’s head to keep him from smacking it on the car.
“Hang tight.” Hot Cop shut the door and Andrew leaned his head back and willed the world to stop spinning. The door opened, and a gust of cool air made Andrew snap his eyes open.
“Here.” Hot Cop twisted the cap off a bottle of water and handed it to Andrew. “Drink this.”
“What’s your name?” Andrew said as he took the water. He had to concentrate on getting the bottle to his mouth and tipping it without making a mess, but he managed.
“Nick. Nick Young.”
“Nice to meet you, Nick.”
“Are you going to be sick again, or do you think you’ll be okay to take a short ride with me?”
“Where are we going?” Andrew asked as he let Nick take the bottle of water from him.
“Down town.”
Andrew sighed and closed his eyes. “Shit.”
His night just got a whole lot worse.
Saturday's Series Spotlight
Desires
E. M. Denning is a writer from British Columbia. She loves her family and animals, and anything cute and fuzzy. She writes romance for the 18+ plus crowd because she's both a hopeless romantic and a dirty old woman.
You can find her on her website, Facebook or on her blog.
What He Hides #3
What He Fears #4
Desires Series
Desires: New Beginnings Series
What He Learns #1
What He Finds #2
Friday, April 28, 2023
📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: Death from a Top Hat by Clayton Rawson
The Great Merlini Mysteries #1
A clever magician tries to solve the case of a locked-room murder that only a talented escape artist could have committed.
Freelance scribe Ross Harte is working on an essay about the sad state of the modern mystery novel when a scream comes from the hallway: “There is death in that room!” Harte finds a trio of conjurers trying to get into the apartment of his neighbor, the mysterious Dr. Cesare Sabbat, famed occultist and, for the past few minutes, a corpse.
They break down the door to find Sabbat lying in a pentagram, face twisted from the agonies of strangulation, but with no bruises on his neck. All the doors were locked, and the windows drop straight down to the river below. Only an escape artist could get out of that room, and Sabbat knew quite a few. To make sense of this misdirected muddle, the police bring in the Great Merlini, an illusionist whose specialty is making mysteries disappear.
CHAPTER 1
The Voice in the Hall
But see, his face is black and full of blood, His eyeballs further out than when he liv'd, Staring full ghastly like a strangled man ...
Shakespeare: King Henry VI, Part 11
There were times during the investigation of the case of the Dead Magicians when the New York Police Department's official attitude toward the infernal arts of witchcraft and sorcery was damnably inconvenient. It had the annoying disadvantage of leaving us with no explanation at all.
Some of the evidence in the case would have seemed vastly more appropriate had it been reported from the forbidden interior of Tibet or from that other famous home of magic, mystery, and tall stories—India. A murderer who apparently leaves the scene of his crimes by walking straight through solid walls of brick and plaster and by floating in midair out of second story windows would, however, be uncanny enough even in Lhassa or Hyderabad. In modern Manhattan he becomes doubly incredible and rather more frightening.
As recently as two hundred and fifty years ago the authorities would have ended the matter by simply applying those bloody and infamous instruments for crime detection, the pincers and the rack, and obtained a confession of sorcerous activity from the nearest innocent bystander. But this easy technique was denied us, and we were left, armed with logic alone, to do battle with irrational dragon shapes....
Inspector Gavigan's ordinarily jovial and assured blue eyes held an angry worried look that stayed there until Merlini finally exorcised the demons and produced a solution that satisfied the Inspector except as to one thing: he couldn't understand why he hadn't seen it all along. I knew exactly how he felt. I was in the same boat. All we need have done, as Merlini pointed out, was to realize exactly what it was that all the suspects had in common and just what the two things were that one of them was able to do that no one else could possibly have done.
Except for a number of things the murderer had already accomplished, the action began on a Monday evening. I had worked all week-end and through Sunday night until five in the morning on a free-lance job of advertising copy at Blanton, Dunlop & Hartwick's, one of those madhouse advertising agencies in the Graybar Building. Their star client, after a full week of agonizing indecision, had made up his mind at 4:30 on Friday afternoon that the proposed national campaign for Sudzex Soap Flakes was lousy. He didn't know what was wrong with it—clients never do—but his wife said it wouldn't sell her any soap flakes, and his secretary didn't like the illustrations. So would B. D. & H. please show him a new set of comprehensives on Monday morning.
My phone rang as I was dressing for a dinner date, and Paul Dunlop had to jack his price twice before I said yes. Always after one of those incredibly hectic and sleepless jobs I promised myself it would be the last time, yet always, somehow, I managed to think of something I could do with that much money.
When I left the agency, a crew of bleary-eyed layout men and artists were still at it, putting a bit of everything into those damned ads, including, in this case, that usually excluded item, the kitchen sink. After toast and coffee at an all-night cafeteria I walked the few blocks to my apartment on East 40th Street, took a warm shower, drew the shade against the first gray streaks of dawn, and got into bed.
I awoke to see the alarm clock scowling at me reproachfully, the corners of its mouth turned down and indicating 5:40. Reaching out an arm, I flipped up the shade and then lay there for a moment enjoying the warmth of the bed, reluctant to face the cold air breezing in at the window. Warm squares of yellow light shone out from the dark face of the apartment house opposite. I heard the deep moan of a foghorn from the near-by river that moved, dark and silent, between Manhattan and the twinkling wilderness of Long Island. In the northwestern sky a faint blur of red glowed sullenly where low-lying clouds reflected the neon brilliance of Times Square.
Presently I got up, showered, shaved, dressed, and went to the corner restaurant where I ate leisurely with a book propped up against the sugar bowl. Returning to the apartment, I folded myself up in the big armchair and tried to enjoy having nothing to do but read. I soon found, however, that I couldn't relax comfortably so soon after the nervous, driving pace of the past few days. The book seemed pallid and dull. I dropped it, went to the kitchen and put together a Scotch and soda.
In the living room once more, I switched on the light at my desk, placed my glass on a coaster beside the typewriter, and tore open a new package of copy paper. I twisted a sheet into the machine and lit a cigarette. From the top drawer I took out a small loose-leaf notebook and removed the half dozen pages on which I had scribbled notes for a magazine article. Luncheon the week before with Dave Merton, editor of Greenbook, had resulted in a commission to do two thousand words on the state of the modern detective story. At the top of the sheet I typed off a tentative head, Death Takes a Holiday, x'd it out, and wrote two more, Murder Is Hackneyed and The Corpse on the Publisher's Hands. I left them to age a bit and began to click off a rough outline of my main argument, a listing of my reasons for not writing detective fiction.
The detective story is a unique literature form, a complicated species of jigsaw puzzle that is not so much written as constructed; and that, according to almost mathematical formulae. It is a mental contest between reader and author that has evolved its own private code duello; a set of rules now so familiar to every detective story fan that the sales of the authors next book suffer if he so much as infringes a minor ordinance.
These rules require that the story of detection be cast in a regulation mold, fashioned according to a standard pattern that once may have seemed capable of kaleidoscopic variation, but which is now sadly worn.
The essential jigsaw pieces are these: the detective, the murder device, the clues, and the surprise solution. These elements are few, and their individual permutations rather less than infinite. The detective story has been a gold mine for many writers, but the steady demand of the last decade or so has almost entirely depleted the mother lode. Why write a detective story when all the good plots have been used, all the changes rung, all the devices made trite?
Take the detective, for instance. Take, in more or less chronological order, such characters as Dupin, Inspector Buckett, Sergeant Cuff, Lecocq, Ebenezer Gryce, Sherlock Holmes, Martin Hewitt, Dr. Thorndyke, Violet Strange, Craig Kennedy, Prof. F. X. Van Dusen, Father Brown, Dr. Priestley, Dr. Reginald Fortune, Eugene Valmont, Hercule Poirot, Hanaud, Colonel Gore, Max Carrados, The Old Man in the Corner, Frank Spargo, Dawson, Rouletabille, Uncle Abner, Arsène Lupin, Philo Vance, Lord Peter Wimsey, Anthony Gillingham, Philip Trent, Pagglioli, Mr. Tolefree, Perry Mason, Mr. J. G. Reeder, Inspector French, Superintendent Wilson, Ellery Queen, Charlie Chan, Anthony Gethryn, Roger Sheringham, Dr. Fell, Thatcher Colt, Sam Spade, Lieutenant Valcour, Hildegarde Withers, Henry Merrivale, Mr. Pinkerton, Nero Wolfe, etc., etc. Now try to invent a detective whose personal idiosyncrasies (the formula says they are necessary) are unique without being fantastic, a sleuth whose manner of deduction is original and fresh.
I stopped for a moment and, drink in hand, reviewed my listing of detective talent. With a pencil I made several additions in the margin: Nick Charles, the Baron Maxmilian Von Kaz, and Drury Lane. Lighting a new cigarette, I continued.
Consider the murder device. All the garden varieties of homicide have been exploited: shooting, stabbing, bludgeoning, drowning, suffocating, gassing, strangling, poisoning, decapitating, pushing from high places. The variations on these basic methods of dealing death have reached fantastic heights: icicle stilettos, rock salt bullets, air bubbles injected into the veins, daggers fired from air guns, tetanus lurking in the toothpaste, and all that huge assortment of concealed automatic mechanisms, the mere description of some of which is enough to scare a person to death—which, incidentally, has also been done!
And the clue. The author can ring more changes with this element, since clues depend upon time, place and circumstance. The clues of the gas tap and the missing bustle have been superseded by the clue of the electric cigarette lighter and the stolen brassiere. The list of clues, however, that have served a useful life and should be allowed a peaceful retirement is a staggering one. The clue of the barking dog, the cigar ash in the fireplace, the lipstick on the cigarette, the burned documents, the cipher letter, the missing pants button, the (collect more examples) ...
Any writers ingenuity may be excused from balking when it surveys the depleted forest of clues, but the surprise solution—there's the big headache. The problem consists in achieving it without leaving the reader feeling as though he had just lost his roll in a three-shell game. You're allowed seven or eight suspects, not more, and at one time or another each and every one of them has committed the foul deed. The helpless looking baby-faced blonde; the curly haired, forthright young hero; the victim's strait-laced maiden aunt; the doctor; lawyer; merchant; chief; even Grandma, who has been a paralyzed invalid for time out of mind; not to mention little Ethelinda, age 9, nor her pet kitten with the poisoned claws.
They've all done it, separately and together, and the reader knows it. In trying to escape this dilemma of exhaustion, many authors have slyly ventured outside the ordinary list of suspects, and foisted off the dirty work on the detective and the prosecuting attorney, the judge, the foreman of the jury, and, finally, in the last desperate attempt at novelty, the story teller himself. After that, there seems to be little left, except—if you can do it—the publisher of the book—or the reader!
As I see it, all that remains to be done is ...
I broke off and glanced up from my typewriter with a frown. Someone out in the corridor was pounding on the door of the apartment across from mine; and now and then I could hear the low buzz of a doorbell. Two or three voices, fusing in a jumbled excited chatter, filtered through my door. I sat back helplessly to wait until they would decide to give it up and go away. Once, when I had worked on a newspaper, I had been able to write under all sorts of conditions, most of them noisy. There is something about the rhythmic clatter of a newsroom that is conducive to work, but this disturbance was merely aggravating.
Someone was evidently anxious to see the occupant of the apartment which shared the third floor with my own, though I couldn't quite understand why. The tenant was a crusty, antisocial old so-and-so who never seemed pleased to see anyone, as far as I knew. After a tentative "good morning" once that elicited a black scowl as its sole response, I gave up trying to be neighborly. New York isn't the town for that, anyhow. And this bird was probably as unneighborly a specimen as could be found in the whole metropolitan area.
He was tall and had Cassius' lean and hungry look. His slicked dark hair came forward to a sharp V above his high forehead, and his eyes, wet and shiny black like an insect's, peered coldly from a face that might have been carved from soap. In spite of all that, his erect carriage and the incisively hewn symmetry of his face made him almost handsome in a strange foreign way. He had an annoying habit of looking suspiciously back over his shoulder when I passed him in the dark hall that made me think of Count Dracula. He was, somehow, just a shade too fantastic; and his name, which I had noticed on a card at the bell push, was equally odd. It was Dr. Cesare Sabbat.
Suddenly I swung around in my chair. The voices outside took on a quickened tempo, a new throb of excitement—one of them, a woman's, lifted above the rest. It was a curiously flat voice, charged with hysteria, a slow hypnotic tenseness, and a touch of what, oddly enough, sounded like studied horror. Six words came wading through the silence that instantly ensued and hung trembling in the air over my desk.
"There is death in that room!"
It was too much. I got up, scowling, and jerked open my door.
"What is this?" I protested. "A game?"
CHAPTER 2
Death of a Necromancer
Facing to the northern clime,
Thrice he traced the Rhumic rhyme;
Thrice pronounced in accents dread,
The thrilling verse that wakes the dead ...
The Samundic Edda
In the dim light of the hall I saw three people. A man and a woman stood with their backs toward me, peering over the shoulder of another man who was down on one knee looking into the keyhole of Sabbat's door. When I spoke they pivoted together like precision dancers. A monocle tumbled out of the crouching man's right eye, bobbed twice at the end of its black cord, and was promptly replaced.
For a second no one spoke. The man with the monocle examined me closely, a cold scrutiny in his eyes that was vaguely disturbing. Finished with this leisurely, impudent survey, he turned a sudden disdainful back and again applied his eye to the keyhole.
"Scram!" he said. The acid in his voice made my annoyance boil over into anger.
"You took the word right out of my mouth," I replied with feeling. Before I could expand on that theme, there was a prefatory cough at my elbow, and the other man edged in front of me, hat in hand, an ambassadorial smile on his face.
"Excuse me," he said in a silky, oratorical voice. "I'm Col. Herbert Watrous. We have an appointment with Dr. Sabbat. Perhaps you know if he's in?"
Stepping back so that the light from my room caught his face, I took a good look at him. He was a small, gray-haired man whose short legs were oddly inconsistent with a wide-shouldered muscular torso. There was a cropped military mustache in the exact geographical center of his fat face. Pince-nez glasses perched astride the bridge of his nose and were fastened to a slight gold chain that looped back over one ear and swung in uneven time to his movements. His chin waggled above a white muffler which was tucked neatly into a sprucely fitted dark overcoat.
I stared with frank, ill-mannered curiosity at this unexpected personal appearance of a figure whom until now I had always half believed to be an invention of the Sunday Supplement feature writers. I began, with some interest, to wonder what "the foremost psychical scientist in America" could be doing here, pounding on Sabbat's door.
"How do you do," I returned, with minimum politeness. "I don't know if your friend Sabbat is in or out. Considering the racket you've been making, the latter seems indicated. And now, why don't you people be considerate and go away—quietly? I'm trying to work."
"I'm sorry if we've disturbed you," he said, his hands fiddling with the ivory top of his walking stick. "But we ... ah ... that is, Dr. Sabbat was expecting us, and it does seem a bit odd, I might even say ..." He hesitated, casting a nervous glance at the woman who stood beside him in what seemed to me an unnaturally rigid position.
"Alarming!" he finished abruptly. "Our host was quite insistent upon our arriving no later than 6:30." He turned to the other man as if for confirmation, got none, and continued: "It's not at all like him to ..."
The woman swayed stiffly, and Watrous, with a swift motion, caught her arm. He looked at her anxiously and seemed to have forgotten about completing his sentence. The woman remained trance-like and soundless.
Release Date: August 14, 1939
Release Time: 71 minutes
Director: Tod Browning
Cast:
Robert Young as Michael 'Mike' Morgan
Florence Rice as Judy Barclay
Frank Craven as Dad Morgan
Henry Hull as Dave Duvallo
Lee Bowman as Mr. Al La Claire
Cliff Clark as Police Inspector Marty Gavigan
Astrid Allwyn as Mrs. Zelma La Claire
Walter Kingsford as Colonel Herbert Watrous
Frederick Worlock as Dr. Sabbatt
Gloria Holden as Madame Rapport
William Demarest as Detective Quinn
Harold Minjir as Tauro
Clayton Rawson (1906 - 1971) was an American mystery writer, editor, and amateur magician. His four novels frequently invoke his great knowledge of stage magic and feature as their fictional detective The Great Merlini, a professional magician who runs a shop selling magic supplies. He also wrote four short stories in 1940 about a stage magician named Don Diavolo, who appears as a principal character in one of the novels featuring The Great Merlini. "Don Diavolo is a magician who perfects his tricks in a Greenwich Village basement where he is frequently visited by the harried Inspector Church of Homicide, either to arrest the Don for an impossible crime or to ask him to solve it.
GOOGLE PLAY / IMDB / KOBO
iTUNES / BOOKBUB / INDIE BOUND / B&N
Death from a Top Hat #1
Series
B&N / KOBO / GOOGLE PLAY / WIKI
Film
👀AMAZON US/UK & B&N Robert Young Double Feature👀
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)